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]

After a refreshing lunch of crab meat, the travelers set out on their journey again. They had a few conversations, mainly with Sanja complaining about the wickedness of the Imperials. Herald kept Heidmir’s words in mind, so he replied with caution, and carefully hid his identity from Sanja. His weapons were wrapped up in clothes before leaving the fort, and they were now carried on Herald’s back like a bedroll. When the sky was painted red by the setting sun, they decided to find a resting place in the outskirts of the woods. They set up beds with grass and leaves, and had a brief supper with Herald’s preserved food. As the night grew old, the twin moons hanging on the tip of the trees glowed with a pale light. Even though the moons were larger than the sun in the eyes of mortal observers, they were no brighter than the glimmer of the thousands of the stars surrounding them. The surface of the moons was covered by the shadow of distant mountains, where, as said in the myths and folklores in Herald’s hometown, Gods of immeasurable power dwelt and amused themselves by steering the lives of the mortals. “We are not who we are.” once told by an old priest in the village, “we seem to have our own judgments, but we don’t. We are trapped in the plane of Nirn, surrounded by Oblivion and the planes of immortals. Whatever we do, we think, or perceive, are observed by the Gods of other worlds.” Herald was fascinated by the tales of Gods and demons that were beyond his everyday life, though in such a small island there was not much to learn.
Herald laid himself on his cozy bed, but a day of traveling on foot had made him too exhausted to fall asleep easily. His knees were sore and cold, which made him wishing for a bon fire. He turned around, and saw Sanja sitting upright in his bed, and playing with the soul gem. He decided to start a conversation.
“Sanja,” he said, “I remember you mentioned Elsweyr, what is that?”

“Elsweyr? It’s the heaven. All covered by jungles, rivers running through, and there’s moon sugar everywhere. That’s where we Khajiits live without the disturbance of a single Imperial, those annoying creatures. I say even the moons are brighter in Elsweyr.”

“So did you come from Elsweyr, or have you traveled there before?”

“No, no. I have never been to Elsweyr. It is not possible. Look at this.” He raised the sleeve of his shirt, and revealed a bracer on his left arm. Unlike other common iron bracers (or even the ones made with precious metal), it had a pearlescent appearance, and was shining with faint blue light despite the darkness of the night.

“That is beautiful!” Herald praised with surprise – he had never been anything that would shine in the dark. “Did you steal it too?”

“Steal it?!” Sanja suddenly rose upright, “how would anyone for God’s sake steal such a horrible curse?!”

“A curse?” Said Herald, he had no idea why Sanja become so angry, and why such a beautiful bracer would be a curse. He apologized, but couldn’t wait long to ask Sanja about the bracer’s curse.

“This bracer is from my master.” Said Sanja, “No, former master, because Sanja is now a free man! He’s the cruelest person in all Morrowind. He deserves that. Every slave in his household was forced to wear this bracer, cursed to put crushing weight on our body so we cannot escape.”

“But how did you get away while still wearing the bracer?”

“No, I did not get away. An adventurer wielding an oddly shaped katana broke into the plantation and killed the master, then found the bracer key and freed us. The key unlocked every bracer except mine. He searched every corner and dead body but didn’t find any other keys.”

“So how did you escape from the curse?”

“Well, the curse is still there. The adventurer taught me a way to make potions that can fortify my strength for a few days. But the major ingredient, Ash Yam, only grows under the ash storm of Red Mountain.”

“That is indeed rough luck,” said Herald, feeling sorry for Sanja. “But I think many other plants may strengthen you, too. I wish I knew anything about the secrets of Alchemy.”

Sanja suddenly turned away and looked at their pile of bags, as though something just caught his attention. Herald followed his sight, and saw a giant rat biting on his pack of food supply.

“Annoying creatures!” Murmured Sanja, and raised his right hand. Then much to Herald’s surprise, a piece of rock jumped from a few feet away right towards Sanja’s hand. He grabbed the rock from mid-air just like picking it up from the ground, and hurled towards the rat, crushing the creature’s skull.

“That’s splendid!” Cried Herald, “How did you do that?”

Delighted by Herald’s admire, Sanja played a few more tricks with the rock, and said: “Telekinesis, ya’ know? We Khajiits’ favorite spell.”

“Telekinesis?” Said Herald, “I heard that it was only a myth.”

“Nay, it’s a simple trick. Anyone can learn it if he desires. But he must be able to concentrate his mind, and his willpower must surpass the weight of the target.”

Herald was deeply intrigued by the “ease” of casting the spell. He chose the smallest stone nearby and attempted to lift it with his mind like the way Sanja did, but nothing happened.

“Come on!” said Sanja, “It’s a spell, you have to speak something. Are you taking yourself as the Archmage of the Mages’ Guild?”

“Of course not!” said Herald, “But you have never told me what to speak.”

“Fine, fine. Shut your eyes, and say ‘Dalaiá er avásh’. Then look at the stone, and concentrate your mind.”
Herald tried several times, but the stone, only the size of a Septim coin, was still sitting quietly on the dust. Apparently Sanja was far from a good trainer: he had soon got irritated by Herald’s “folly”, as he worded, and turned the interest to his warm bed.

The hell with telekinesis! Thought Herald, I’d rather chop the rat in half with my sword. He lay down on the bed again, and tried to gather his thoughts. There had been much odd events since the arrival. The deafening roar of the bald-headed man, the effortless admission into the Blades, the abrupt departure of his fellow soldiers, Sanja’s unpunished crime and the adept use of magic, all had brought him the impression of Vvardenfel as an uncanny and yet enchanted land of marvels. He did not know his goal. The task his father left him seemed impossible to complete, and in fact he did not really care about any family artifacts. To him, life ought to be mundane; there were more important problems to solve than those dreamy things. Like slavery. All shall be clear one day. He thought, and yielded himself to the sweet dreams of hometown.