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]

Prologue
Part 3


When Herald woke up, he was surrounded by darkness and the growling of thunderstorm, which seemed to come from a distant world. He felt the scathing pain in his head from the strike, but soon it was taken over by the cold and damp that was persistently cutting into his body. It was like millions of needles piercing into his bones, yet the skin was too numb to feel the pain. He attempted to stretch his limbs, but none of them could move. At first Harold thought he was paralyzed; but when his strength had recovered a little, he realized that he was tied and had been put into a sack. As his sense returned gradually, he could smell the decayed grass and dead clams that the sack had formerly contained, reminding him that the sack could have belonged to a pearl diver. He felt a flat board under his body shaking and bouncing, which seemed to be a cart rolling on a muddy and stony road. Slowly the memory of his encounter with the slave traders returned to him, and it didn’t take long for Herald to recall their conversation: the slave traders were taking him to their cave and would probably sell him to “merchants”. Not much I can do now to escape, he thought, for the string that tied his feet and hands was damp from the rain, and cut into his flesh like sharp razors.

Only a short moment later the cart halted. Some vague conversation reached Herald’s ears through the storm.

“Hurry! Hurry Quaynd! Open the damned gate!”

“I’m trying! It’s too dark! I can’t find the key hole!”

Hurried by the other slave traders, it seemed Quaynd only became slower. Finally as the gate creak opened, the cart was moving again, and the rain seemed to have ceased. Apparently they were inside a cave.

“Get him out!” Said one man; the other two grabbed the bottom of the sack and lifted it up, and dumped Herald out upside-down. His head fell on the rock below, and he cried out at the crushing pain. He tried to reach the wound with his hand, but the wet string held it firmly behind his back.

The cave was dimly lit by a few torches fixed on the wall; Herald could barely discern the faces of the slave traders. Quaynd and Eshyo lifted him up from the ground.

“Do we have any spare room in the slaves’ quarter?” Asked Tedril; his green robe was steaming like being toasted. Herald watched in bewilderment. What is he doing? He thought, is his robe drying itself?
“I think we do…” Said Quaynd, “a few cells at the end of the row.”

“No, we don’t.” Eshyo argued, “Don’t you remember a thing? Just two days ago we caught three of those lizard men. And no, I’m not risking them to escape by putting two in a cell.”

“The merchant will be here tomorrow, and I’m sure he will take him away. Just lock him in the storage room. Eshyo, your task tonight is to watch him.”

“Watch him? I have been walking all day, Ted, I really need some rest! He’ll be fine in the storage by himself…”

“You dare arguing with me?”

“… No… I will take care of him.” Said Eshyo, staring at Herald as though he had killed his parents.

“Good.” Said Tedril, “Quaynd, free his feet, and escort him to the storage room with Eshyo. Make sure he’s incapacitated.”

Herald was glad to be on his feet again. When the string tied around the ankles was loosened, a stream of warmth rushed into his feet and melted the numbness. Very soon the warmth turned into thousands of needles piercing his skin; unprepared for the sudden pain, Herald fell to his knees.

“Get up! Are you waiting for someone to carry you?” Yelled Eshyo, and kicked Herald in the buttock.

The cave was not deep, but Herald’s hurting feet took them much time to reach the storage room. Along the narrow corridors, a few oil lamps were mounted on the wall to illuminate the darkness; mixed with fume, dust, and the odor from dead creatures, the air was almost unbearable to breathe. The only comfort for Herald was the nearly straight route, despite the two forks they encountered along the way. He quietly memorized the surroundings of each turn and break, though he had no clue how to escape from this living hell.

The storage room was no more than a barred area in a stone chamber. A wall built with intercrossing wood strips dissected the room from the middle, and turned the inner half of the room – the “storage room” – into a caged prison cell. A door was opened in the center of the wall, allowing a passage through the stocking area, which eased the extraction of goods. Though the other half of the chamber seemed to be excessive, it was a common arrangement among the merchants’ warehouses, and even Imperial strongholds. This part of the room was often used as a temporary storage for less valuable or durable, and frequently moved goods. When items were to stay longer or must be well secured, they were placed in the “prison cell”.

However, when Herald entered the storage room, escorted by Quaynd and Eshyo, he didn’t see the prosperity of fortunate merchants; only a few barrels and urns, covered by dirt, were sitting in the dark corner. In the inner cell, a large wooden crate seemed to be the only inventory.

“We need to move that box.” Said Quaynd, his eyes were fixed on the wooden crate.

“For Azura’s sake, Quaynd! I’m too exhausted to move anything, even my own legs! The crate is locked and this little creature has no way to open it once he’s locked up.”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!” Quaynd turned around and scanned the dim corridor behind him, then shut the door to the stone chamber. “You must stop mentioning the Prince, before we both get killed!”

Eshyo seemed to realize his mistake; unlike usual, he did not argue with Quaynd, and turned his anger to Herald.

“Hey, you!” He said, “Don’t even think about that crate! The merchant will come in just a few hours, and if you behave well, we’ll sell you first. Hehehehehaha!”

Quaynd walked towards one of the barrels in the corner, and opened it.

“Eshyo, are we out of bracers?”

“Perhaps. Ted probably forgot about the Argonian we caught yesterday, she’s wearing the last bracer.”

“But Ted wants us to incapacitate him!”

“Not a problem!” Said Eshyo, while walking towards Herald with a hideous smile; then he raised his fist.
“No, Eshyo, we can’t hurt him any more before the merchant has paid the price. It will be fine to leave him without the bracer; as long as you keep an eye on him, that is.”

“You mean I have to stay here and watch him, while YOU go take a damned rest? No way! For Azu…”

“Correct, this is indeed what Ted had told you to do; and I don’t think I will get any rest either, Ted probably has work for me too.” Said Quaynd, and left the stone chamber.

Doubtlessly, all the anger in Eshyo’s chest would be released onto Herald. He threw him into the storage room, slam shut the door, and hanged on it the biggest lock he could find in the barrel. But still he seemed to be nervous, pacing back and forth in front of the cell, as though Herald, who might appeared to him as a full barrel of Skooma, would escape from him right under his nose. Herald found himself a comfortable position on the wooden crate, and listened to Eshyo murmuring foul wishes for Quaynd and Tedril – apparently he was not worried about Herald escaping, but vexed by the maltreatment from his fellows.

This post has been edited by Deutschland: Mar 14 2008, 10:22 PM