The Interim, Part One, A Morrowind Fanfic by BBQ Platypus Options

[bbqplatypus]

Author's Note, Five Years Later:

So yeah. This is a story I wrote quite some time ago about an idea that had long percolated in my head - what happened to the Nerevarine that caused him to bugger off between Morrowind and Oblivion. Not an inherently bad idea for a story - in fact, I still think it could make a pretty good one. This is not that story. In fact, looking back on it now, it's hard for me to imagine any sensible reaction to it other than OHMYGOD THIS IS SO FRUCKING FUCKBAD. Of course, everyone who's ever tried writing started out by writing ten thousand pages of crap. This right here constitutes five of my ten thousand.

I'm not gonna delete it - I'll leave it up, mostly because this forum doesn't seem to allow me to delete topics. But if you've come here by browsing the forums or through some random Google search, please hit the back button immediately and save yourself some time. This story isn't worth yours.






An Account of the Events of the Interim of Grignr the Nerevarine, Between the Fulfillment of the Bloodmoon Prophecy and His Departure to Akavir

Being An Anonymous Account Discovered, Compiled, and Edited by Bereditte Jastal


Editor’s Note: The non-academic nature of this account (its authorship is uncertain, and it is clearly written in prose form, with considerably more detail than one would expect from a typical “journal” or even a memoir) makes it a tome of questionable historical accuracy. The Nerevarine as portrayed in this account – a Nordic male named Grignr Star-Mane, married to an Imperial Legionnaire named Imsin the Dreamer, is b- [a blurry food stain blots out the next few words]-sistent with the details of Hasphat Antabolis’s authoritative (though not universally accepted) account, The Life and Times of the Nerevarine, which [Another food stain, this one with the general texture and coloration of kwama cuttle]

It should be noted that Antabolis’s account of the “interim” period (detailed in Volume IV) is rather sketchy compared to the immaculately detailed chronology of the first three volumes. Many of the events related in this text are [The rest of the page has been torn out, presumably used as a napkin].


Chapter I

The air was warm, heavy, and perplexing, draped like a thick, wet blanket upon the shoulders of the harsh, rocky coastline west of Gnisis. The dark, bloated clouds in the sky grew fat as they slowly drew in the oppressive moisture, accumulating and converging as one. A storm was coming, and we were miles away from cover.

We were one of several detachments that I myself had sent to seek out and clear smugglers caves along the coast of Vvardenfell. This particular group was assigned to investigate the drainage basin of the River Samsi (wherein many underground streams flowed). I led at my own insistence. As Hortator and Knight of the Imperial Dragon, no one dared to argue with me.

“Tread carefully, men,” I called back to the twelve Redoran soldiers who trudged miserably behind me. “We’re a long walk from Gnisis, and we only have so many Intervention scrolls to go around. We don’t want to have to carry anybody back to the Temple.”

“Understood, muthsera,” grunted Tedril Doren, the acting second-in-command of the detachment. His voice carried a ragged and weary tone to it – for he, like the rest of the men, had been marching now for several hours - in full bonemold armor - with very little rest. Even I was starting to feel a bit tired – enchanted armor can only do so much.

“We’ll keep marching until nightfall,” I said, turning my head toward the lieutenant, “and then we’ll head on home.”

The soldiers behind me grumbled a bit, but I could tell they were fairly content with knowing that the march would at least end sometime. For now, though, we would continue to plow ahead.

After a couple minutes of marching, Doren hastened his gait to move abreast with me. “May I speak with you privately for a moment, sera?” he inquired in a low voice.

“Fire away,” I replied quietly.

“Are all these men really necessary? Could you not have conducted this raid by yourself, sera? It seems an awful lot of trouble for us to have to go through.”

“You can never be too careful, Doren. We might catch them in the middle of restocking. Not to mention the amount of contraband we already have to carry back.”

I could tell that inwardly, we both knew the pointlessness of this mission. Even if we were to kill or arrest every man and mer in every cave, hideout, and abandoned fortress in the entire province, there would always be others to replace them. The drug trade is a horrid, unkillable beast, and we were both well aware of it. But I knew better than he did – I knew how to stop it.

It was all a matter of bribing the right person: Orvas Dren. If I could convince Orvas Dren to tell me the names and locations of the major members and safehouses of the Camonna Tong (an organization that I controlled in theory, but not in practice), I could send the full fury of the Dunmer and Imperial military after them, setting the drug trade back months – maybe even years. It only required the right application of bribery, blackmail, or brute force.

But I dared not do such a thing. It would shatter the uneasy peace I had forged with my fellow Hlaalu councilmen (most of whom I didn’t trust as it was), and would put myself, my family, and many of the people I had sworn to protect in danger. And so here we were, scrounging and combing through the caves of Vvardenfell, fighting a war that could not be won.

We marched silently for a minute or two. We were sloshing through the water to skirt a small cliff face when a voice suddenly emerged from the rear of the ranks.

“Come look, sera!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. “I think I see an opening! It’s…submerged, but there’s a door there.”

The rest of us doubled back to see what he had found. Sure enough, there was a weather-beaten, half-rotted door nestled into a small indentation in the cliff face.

“Yes, that’s a cave, alright,” I said. “And from the looks of it, there are or have been people in it. Doren, have one of your boys dive down and check it out.”

“Yes, sera.” He turned to a subordinate. “Arinith, I hope you can swim.”

“I can, sera,” the soldier answered. He dove into the frigid water, nudged the door open, and ducked under the low ceiling into the cave.

We waited what felt like an eternity for him to return. We waited for two minutes…three minutes…four minutes. Finally, after about half an hour, Doren spoke. “I do not know what is taking Arinith so long, but I think we should assume the worst.”

“I agree,” I said grimly. “Which is why I’m going in. I want you and everyone here who can swim to follow me.”

“We’ll be right behind you.”

I dove in and entered the cave.

This post has been edited by bbqplatypus: Mar 28 2013, 06:01 AM

[bbqplatypus]

” Boethiah and Azura are the principles of the universal plot, which is begetting, which is creation, and Mephala makes of it an art form.
For by the sword I mean the first night.
For by the word I mean the dead.
There will be a splendor in your name when it is said to be true.
Six are the guardians of Veloth, three before and they are born again, and they will test you until you have the proper tendencies of the hero.
There is a world that is sleeping and you must guard against it.
For by the sword I mean the dual nature.
For by the word I mean animal life.
For by the sword I mean preceded by a sigh.
For by the word I mean preceded by a wolf.”
- From The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec, Sermon Six

Chapter XI

I stepped off of the silt strider into the pouring rain, my head shielded by the hood of my peasant’s robe. Dusk was approaching, but the sun was not visible. The heavy rain and darkness suited me well. I did not wish my business to be noticed.

“Twenty-three drakes, f’lah,” the driver said, not recognizing me. I handed him the fare. “You’d better get inside quick,” he said.

"I intend to," I replied.

I trudged down the damp, muddy hill that led into town. The thick swamp air swirled around, chilling, yet light and gentle somehow; carrying with it the pungent smell of moss, salt water, and rotted wood. Leaning into the wind, I crossed over the bridge into the town itself.

There was not a soul outside on the streets, save for a single guardsman who seemed to be standing outside the tradehouse. The street lanterns flickered in the wind and rain, providing wavering, sputtering glimpses of the few plain Imperial buildings that stood at the center of town.

It all seemed so familiar...and yet so strange. So inviting, and yet so harsh. So beautiful, and yet so horrifying. The sights, the smell, the sound of the swamp. I was now back where it all started; where I first stepped off the prison boat and set about my long journey…a journey that had led me right back here. It had started here. Now it may end here.

I walked farther down the lonely main street of the little town. The rain seemed to be getting worse. The mud in some places was reduced to an ankle-deep mire. The lights grew even dimmer, and the night more hostile. The once pleasant air began to grow solid, heavy, and dark. I began to question my decision not to come in armor. Whatever closure I sought here, I would find it in the worst way possible. I should have come more prepared.

I tried to convince myself that I was being paranoid. I had nearly killed the King of Morrowind – I needed to keep a low profile, and marching in wearing full armor and wielding a legendary sword was not the way to do it. And I had come only to speak with Sellus Gravius, whom I suspected to be innocent and cooperative. This was not the time for a show of force.

But I had hidden Trueflame beneath my robes. Clearly I did not have full confidence in a diplomatic approach.

Cautiously, I approached the entrance to the Census and Excise Office. My fingertips touched the iron handle and – BOOM!

A deafening crash seemed to come from out of nowhere. Startled, I jumped back from the door. It took me a few moments to realize that what I had heard had been merely thunder.

I felt fear - a fear as deep as the one I felt when I entered Dagoth Ur's antechamber. I dreaded what I would find behind that door. Some part of me – a part that had lain dormant for a long time – wanted to do something I had never done since my earliest days on Vvardenfell. It wanted me to turn back.

I swallowed deeply and resolved to bury that feeling. Whatever fate lay ahead of me, I had to know. I had come too far and lost too much to give up now. I needed closure – I owed it to myself, to my wife, and to everything and everyone that I had ever cherished. With great trepidation, I brought my hand to the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

There I was greeted by the sight of two dead bodies.

To the left, propped up against a bookshelf in the far corner, lay Sellus Gravius, with his throat slit and his sword still in its scabbard. There was no sign of a struggle – no overturned tables, no trail of blood across the floor. He was killed before he had the chance to fight.

In the center of the room was the body of Orvas Dren. His entrails lay beside him. In his dead hands he was still clutching an ornate Daedric dagger, which he held facing inward. In his mouth was a scroll, protected by a small brass sleeve.

The fireplace was still burning. These two had not been dead for more than an hour.

I felt a numbness inside me as I bent over to pick up the scroll from the dead kingpin’s mouth. I slipped it out of the sleeve, cracked the seal, and began to read.



Grandmaster –

It is for no selfish purpose that I have returned to you. For I come in the name of the Holy Matron (Praised be Her Sacred Name), whose Black Hand now guides me in all things.

For I was powerless, stripped of all I had valued, with no means of retaliation. And She granted me vengeance.

I was without hope; surrounded on all sides by obstacles and those who would deny me. And She showed me how to circumvent them.

It was on my sixty-first day in exile that She revealed herself to me. For eight weeks, I had prayed that I might obtain revenge for being shipped “voluntarily” to this thrice-forsaken wasteland. And She granted my wish – on three conditions:

First, that you would live. Second, that I would die. And finally, that I would serve Her will above all others.

This I agreed to, so boundless was my hatred of you.

I did all that was instructed of me. She showed me the herbs with which I could drug your spies working in the mines that they might sleep long and do little when awake. Her soundless Voice commanded me as I intimidated and blackmailed the chef, who placed them in their food.

She sent me visions of the beleaguered priest in the Imperial Fortress, who hated you as I did. She covered us in Her dark shroud as we raided the commander’s office and stole his Imperial letter mark, keeping us hidden from the watchful eye of the Captain.

My dreams guided everything I wrote. From the false charges, to the documents, to the name and location of that filthy beast you call a spy…all of it, divinely inspired. The Webspinner sent me these dreams, and then made me to put them to parchment in a hand that was not my own. The false report was shipped across the Inner Sea to the Mourning Hold, where the paranoid King was none the wiser. And from there, he did the rest. Then, because of your anger, he led you here to me.

While I know for certain that you believe every word I have said (for I know that She has spoken to you as well), I do not think you truly understand. Do not make the mistake of thinking this to be merely retaliation for the dissolution of a business. I once thought that way. But I now see the error of my ways. Her love and grace have caused me to see the light.

Every action I have taken, every agony I have arranged for you, has been another thread of the Webspinner. I have played my part in her Great Game. Only one task remains for me: to inform you of yours.

As you know, your presence in Morrowind has become a destabilizing factor. With your recent assassination attempt on the King, the threat of civil war grows for every minute you are alive and on this island. If you stay, you and thousands of my countrymen will die.

Normally, this would please my Prince greatly, but She does not wish to see Morrowind in chaos just yet. The time for that will come soon enough. She has a far more important task for you – one that She has instructed me to write down in the following words:

“In the East, the armies of the Dragon Emperor march and conquer all they encounter. Soon, he shall finish his conquest and turn his greedy eyes westward. If you value your people and wish him to be stopped, heed My words.

“Long ago, in Nerevar’s first lifetime, he visited the shores of Akavir. There he and his companions gained notoriety among the Tsaesci, and admiration among the Ka’Po’Tun. The tiger-men granted him sanctuary among their cities in exchange for some of the knowledge he stole from the snake people. It is from a Ka’Po’Tun port that Nerevar and his Tribunal left, under a promise that he one day would return.

“History mutated into legend, and then, into prophecy. It is now said by some that Lord Nerevar shall return to defeat the Tsaesci once and for all. This prophecy is now known only to those who preserve tradition, be it in their hearts or in their minds.

“Use the prophecy and your status as Nerevarine to your advantage, mortal. Gain the trust of the Dragon Emperor and then kill him. Topple the empire he has built. This alone shall please Me. Seek the historian living in the land once known as Ionith. He shall assist you. Do not fail, mortal.”

These are the words of the Webspinner. You have heard Her voice. You have seen Her in motion. You know now what you must do. It would be unwise not to heed Her call.

My duties are complete. I now march boldly into death. By now, the men shadowing me know I have left the island. It would only be a matter of time before they trace this plot back to me. I will not allow you or any of your hirelings the satisfaction of killing me. My time is finished. My role has been played. The thread has been cut.

All Glory to the Dark Matron!

~D



I stood in front of the dying fireplace for a long time, contemplating the words of Orvas Dren.

I did not want to leave. Mephala's story was insane, and no doubt full of falsehoods. If I left for Akavir I would risk death for myself and everyone who came with me. But staying would be even worse. And Helseth’s enemies would no doubt make a martyr of me if I were to commit suicide or turn myself in.

I sighed. There was but one course of action left for me.

I threw the crumpled scroll into the fire and watched it burn.

This post has been edited by bbqplatypus: Feb 5 2012, 01:46 PM