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]

Finally Eshyo sat down on a barrel, and soon started snoring. A day and night’s fatiguing travel had certainly exhausted him. Herald, though not less fatigued, had no interest in his possibly the last good night of sleep. He could hardly believe that he was going to be sold as a slave, while his new life as an honorable Imperial soldier had just begun. He knew exactly what Tedril meant by “incapacitating” him. It was the cursed bracer worn by Sanja, which drains all the strength from the wearer, leaving only enough to perform the works assigned by the master. Though the slave traders were out of bracers, the “merchant” coming to buy him would certainly not let him walk around without it. He must find a way out of there, before it was too late – only a few hours left.

He searched around the storage room; there was nothing firm enough to break the wall or the lock. He examined the wooden crate; it was secured by a strange lock mounted inside the crate, leaving only a lock hole on the lid. The edges were reinforced by rusty iron railing. At the corners of the crate where railings meet, the joints seemed very sharp. Herald felt the string tying his hands together with a finger; it seemed to be braided with grass. Might as well free my hands with it. After being soaked in water all day long, the string was very easy to cut. While caressing his injured wrists, Herald was looking for a way to get through the wooden fencing. He thought about breaking the door with brutal force, which was no difficult task for him, but the noise would certainly alarm Eshyo. Maybe I should wait till the merchant get here, he thought, then I can fight my way out; or even better, the merchant might forget to bring his bracers.

Sitting back on the crate, Herald managed to calm down with the breathing exercise taught by his father. “The voidness of the mind is the key. Our mind is always filled with thoughts and memories of trivial matters surrounding us; without clearing them, it cannot concentrate on the intended task, be it lifting a burden, swinging a sword, or casting a magic.” He wanted Herald to practice the breathing exercise every night, which he invented to help vacating his mind of trivial thoughts. However as a child, Herald had neither the patience nor the passion for the exercise, and often cheated through it, thinking about games he would play with friends. At this moment, though, Herald could only hope that the exercise would recover him faster from the exhaustion. He took a deep breath, relaxed every single muscle in his body, and imagined a golden sun suspending between his eyes, shining warmly on a peaceful ocean in his stomach. The sun would slowly heat up the ocean, which in turn formed warm streams flowing through his limbs. “Your smooth breath can help ridding the superfluous thoughts encumbering your mind.” He repeated his father’s words, and his breath was so slow and gentle, that even a feather hanging in front of his nostril would not be disturbed. Though everything he saw, the sun, the ocean, and the streams were all imagined in his mind, the effect was surprisingly strong: his legs were no longer sore, his hands were no longer shaking from fear and cold, and his mind had never been as free as it was.

After a while, Herald slowly opened his eyes. He no longer needed the projected image to keep his mind free, and intriguingly, the cave seemed a little different. Thought still dark and odorous, it was no longer depressing; though still as quiet as winter nights, Herald could hear every little noise made by the tiny creatures crawling beneath the ground. He felt his mind was expanding out of his body, dissolving into the world surrounding him, and became part of it. Eshyo was still half lying on the barrels, snoring as loud as the thunders outside the cave. Only if I could read his mind, thought Herald, trying to amuse himself, then I would know what he’s dreaming about. Suddenly, an object in Eshyo’s hand caught his eyes. It was a large key, dangling loosely on one of his relaxed fingers. Must be the key to the lock on the cage door! He thought. If I can get it then I’ll be free! Then something strange caught his eyes.

The key seemed to have moved a little.

There’s wind in the cave? Oh, that’s not possible; it must have been an illusion. Suddenly a word popped out into his mind: telekinesis! He remembered the spell Sanja had taught him:

“Fine, fine. Shut your eyes, and say ‘Dalaiá er avásh’. Then look at the stone, and concentrate your mind.”

Herald tried once again the trick which he failed innumerable times, at the key. It worked. Herald was in control of the key, and though only for a very brief moment, he managed to take it off from Eshyo’s finger. When the spell wore out, it fell on the ground with a happy clink.

Being a novice of any spell casting, Herald could only move the key for less than a foot, before he had to cast again; and as the spell drained his energy rapidly, it moved slower and slower. But eventually the key reached Herald’s hand, and in just a few minutes, he was no longer in the storage room.

Guided by his memory, Herald advanced quickly along the corridor leading out of the storage room. Every turn was familiar, and the forks could not be missed. From the training he received as a scout, jogging quietly was no challenge for him. Inspired by the night-walking creatures, the scouts believed that their bare feet could provide the best silence, for the force of each step was spread across every piece of muscle on their legs. However, many masters in stealth movement insisted that a well made pair of shoes would be more effective, while also protecting the wearer’s feet from ridged terrains. No matter who was correct, Herald had no choice at this moment about whether to walk with shoes on, as they were left in the farmhouse the night before.

It seems like the slave traders were not expecting his escape; there was nothing alive along the way. The escape seemed quite easy, so easy that he felt auspicious. Soon his fear was proved to be rational. A heavy iron door blocked a narrow corridor, but he could neither find a handle nor a key hole to open it – and nor could he open it at all. The villains were apparently cleverer than he expected: the entrance was meant to be an entrance only, so that escaping slaves would have to venture their way through the darkness and danger of unknown passages deeper in the cave. Such device was not unacquainted by Herald; the secret escapeways under the Imperial castles were often set up in a similar fashion so enemies could not sneak into the castles through them.

So be it, thought Herald. He turned around, and headed towards the forks. There were only two branch passages between the storage room and the iron door, and as Herald discovered, one of them led into another one-way iron door which he could not open, and the other, into a collapsed dead end. Where did Quaynd go, as there seems to be no way out of the corridor? Bewildered, Herald paced back and forth along the passages. Time was passing, and Eshyo could wake up and catch him at any moment. Could there be a trap door or a hidden entrance at the dead end? He returned to the collapsed rocks, examined every nook and cranny, and attempted to move every piece of stone, but nothing seemed interesting – except a few footprints on an oddly flat sandy area near the sparkling oil lamp on the wall. The footprints were fresh, though very shallow, and the fact that they did not have toes assured Herald that they were not his own. But most intriguingly, they were all pointed at the oil lamp! So, someone stopped at this dead end, and inspected the lamp. Thought Herald, and did the same thing. Was the person adding oil to it? Apparently not, the jar is almost empty. Then it must be some kind of gear to open a secret door! Herald was so proud of his discovery that he almost laughed loudly. Those pathetic slave traders are no match to an Imperial scout!

He grasped the lamp firmly and tried to move it. Just as he expected, the lamp was easily pull out from the wall, then made a snap and was again held in place. Herald turned and looked at the large rocks forming the dead end, where he expected the miracle to happen. Nothing seemed to be moving, but he heard a slight crackling noise above his head. Having yet a chance to think about what was happening, his well trained instinct had already force him to spring backwards with all the energy he could gather in a blink of time. A massive piece of rock fell from the ceiling, and with but a muffled punch, landed on the sand where Herald was standing.