The Threads of Fate: A History of the Nerevarine Options

[gasbait]

Who was the Nerevarine?
To the Ashlanders, he was the messiah.
To the Tribunal, he was a heretic.
To the Imperial Legion, he was a revolutionist and a threat.
To me, however, he was much more than any of that.

He was a friend.

--- Saint Jiub

Chapter One: The Lost Memorandum

The rain mercilessly pounded down on our wooden roof as I continued my futile attempt to sleep. I could only cover my ears in frustration as the combination of wind, rain, and thunder created a synesthesia that gutted any attempt of Sleep entering my person.

"Cursed rain...art thou infinite in thy capacity?!" I quoted from my favorite prose.

Ignoring my dreadful curses, the weather continued its merciless assault on both my house and sanity. Realizing I would never find the solace I so desperately sought, I decided to waste my time in a different way.

I slowly got out of my small, wooden bed and headed towards the door. The door opened with a yielding "creek," and I slowly made my way down the long hallway. The wooden planks on the floor creaked and moaned as it took the full brunt of my weight; what else can you expect from a house as ancient as my own? I made my way down the stairs towards my destination, ignoring all of the portraits highlighting my family's rich and powerful roots. After going down the flight of stairs I finally reach my intended destination: Grandpa's room.

I knocked softly on the wooden door and waited patiently for him to acknowledge my presence. I heard a string of soft curses and the sound of the old man fumbling to light a candle. A few minutes later, I heard the sounds of him walking towards the door and finally opening it.

The dimly lit candle did a magnificent job in highlighting my grandfather's "modest" appearance. His build was that of a lanky peasant, someone too meek to work the fields, but too bulky to make it as a bard. His eyes contained permanent bags associated with someone who has suffered many sleep-less nights and terrors. His face showed deep wrinkles and craters that exemplified his old, and still growing age. His most notable quality, however, was the deep scar that ran down from his temple to his chin.

I saw that his eyes were widen in a combination of anger and restlessness. Did he somehow fall asleep despite this horrendous weather?

"Duran?! Why are you still up? Do you have any idea what time it is?!" He questioned in incredulity and anger.

"I couldn't sleep." I replied honestly. "I was hoping you could tell me a story.... to calm my nerves."

"What is it with you and stories?! You've already heard every single one I have over 10 times!" Grandfather retorted angrily. "You're shipping off to the Arcane University in a month, do you think your instructors will let you wake them up in the middle of the night for a story?!" He asked rhetorically.

"That is still a month away Grandpa. And besides...you haven't told me ALL of them." I answer bluntly.

My grandfather's eyes widened in shock as he realized what I was speaking about. He quickly shook his head, however, and erased that emotion from his face. In its place was a small smile.

"Heh, you still interested in that book? Doesn't the fact it was turned down by every respected publisher in Cyrodil say something about its quality?" Grandfather asked with a raised eyebrow.

"A story is a story grandpa." I replied with a shrug.

Grandpa gave a booming laugh at my answer, choking a bit in the process.

"Very well boy. Come inside, I'll go get the manuscripts."

____

I sat down at the foot of his bed, waiting patiently for Grandpa to fetch all of his notes, scripts, and documents.

In his old age, Grandpa has fashioned himself as an author. For the past 10 years, he has been trying desperately to publish one, ANY book. The subjects have been vast; from educational and instructional manuals, to fictional epics. His most recent project was a biography of perhaps the most famous hero in all of Morrowind: The Nerevarine.

Grandpa worked extensively on gathering material for his book. He personally traveled to Morrowind and interviewed countless peasents, merchants, lords, guild leaders....basically anyone who had some direct or second-handed testimony on this famous warrior.

Unfortunately, all his work was for naught. Every publisher in Cyrodil discounts his material as "subjective and flawed," as well as unappealing to traditional readers. Not only that, the recent censoring of books with "offensive and derogatory messages towards the Empire,"have made it so that no publisher would touch a book based on the Nerevarine with a 20-foot stick. It's a shame really, his lack of sucess is due more to chance than a deficiency in skill.

As I continued to lament on Grandpa's terrible luck, he finally reentered the room with a heavy box in his hand. He dropped the wooden box next to me, and began pulling out vasts amount of papers and documents. Abruptly, he stopped and looked at me straight in the eyes.

"You understand that this story will take the whole night to recount don't you?" Grandfather warned.

"I know." I replied honestly.

"Good...what you're about to hear is my life's work, and I wont allow you to leave in the middle of me recounting it!" Grandpa says authoritatively.

I nodded my head in acknowledgment.

"Very well. Let us start with the beginning of the Nervarine's life, before the threads of fate stitched him into the soul of Morrowind."

This post has been edited by gasbait: Feb 22 2011, 01:59 AM

[gasbait]

I finally met the Nerevarine in my waning years.
He stood before me with an aura of brilliance, the kind seen in only the greatest of Kings.
His magnificent Glass armor paled in comparison to the glow that gleamed in his eyes.
And yet, there was something odd about him...

He looked sad.

---Unnamed Peasant

Chapter 2: Marianne

They say "The love of money is the root of all evil." In a sense, I believe that too. Perhaps, however, the quotation can be factored down even more? Perhaps it is not "the love of money," but "love" itself? I was warned by many not to chase after her, but how could I take any of their advice seriously? The road to love is littered with the defeated corpses of the rejected, how could I have known that they weren't one of the many?

Such cynical views were not an integral part of my psyche until the day I felt Love's cruel jaws devour my frail heart. Taking from a line of my favorite poem, "I brought a heart into the room, But from the room I carried none with me."

Still, such views are incomprehensible unless the full story is told. It all started...with a woman.



____


My upbringing is perhaps the most striking contrast from most rags-to-riches heroes. To put it bluntly, I was a Prince.

My father was a Duke; a trusted friend of Tiber Septim himself. He was married to a beautiful Breton whose cunning and wit rivaled his own. Unfortunately, she was infertile, and tradition dictated that the Duke have an heir.

That was where I came in.

Supposedly, the Duke adopted me from-in spite of better words- a brothel. My mother was a harlot who died shortly after birthing me, and my father could be Tiber Septim himself for all I know.

I guess the Duke saw something in me that no one else did, because he took me home to his palace, and treated me as if I was his own birth-son.

He showered me with luxurious material goods, and the best education in the civilized world. Tutors from every corner of the Empire lectured me on the most esoteric of subjects. As a result, my intellectual capacity began to reveal itself.

By the time I was five, I could already read and write exceptionally. I was fluent in three different languages, and my knowledge of history rivaled that of a person five times my age. And as I grew older, few would doubt that I had a bright future ahead of me.

I wonder how they would've reacted to who I am now.

___


My fated encounter would occur on a day like any other. Father had prematurely ended my time with one of my many esteemed tutors.

"Son. The Count of Cheydinhal is almost here. I need you to entertain his daughter while I discuss important matters, can you do this for me?" He asked earnestly

"Of course dad." I replied obediently.

Father gave a smile before patting me on the back and walking away. I gave a small sigh at my mundane task before sitting down on my desk and pulling out a book. A few minutes later, there was a loud knocking at our door. The servants quickly answered the door, and ushered our two esteemed guests inside our manor.

"Magnificent place isn't it dear?" I heard a raspy voice ask.

"Very! Can we please decorate our house like this once we get back home?" I heard a clear, innocent voice reply back.

"Haha! We will see." The voice said. "Now go on, I hear the Duke's son is waiting for you over there."

"Okay Daddie!" I heard her shrill before running towards my vicinity.

It wasn't until I reached the age of 16 that I saw the eyes of Beauty itself. She carried herself with a grace and elegance that rivaled a Queen. Her pale, flawless skin perfectly complimented her long blond hair, and large green eyes. Her voluptuous figure was the very essence of Desire; she was an angel cast out of heaven itself.

She was Marianne, the daughter of a rich, and powerful Count.

Her beauty immediately made my tongue turn mute. I could do nothing, but relish at her pleasing sight....much to her annoyance.

"Umm...are you Ardal Ryan?" She asked uncomfortably.

I had to shake my head to regain my ability to speak.

"Yes! That's me." I answered embarrassingly.

"Oh...I'm Marianne. Nice to meet you." She said politely before extending a hand.

I quickly took her hand and gave it a kiss, as decorum mandates. She took this action as well as anyone could expect, and quietly sat down near the fireplace. She looked at me for a few moments, as if expecting me to speak. I tried to start a conversation with her....but I simply couldn't. As a result, the boredom and fatigue from her travel gently brushed her to sleep.

I silently observed her from afar as she slept. The glow from the fireplace made her skin glow a brilliant yellow....I couldn't take it anymore!

I....did something horrendous. An action that would be both my greatest regret and the beginning of my new life.

Her eyes widened in fear as she realized what I was doing, she tried to resist, but my lust would not be denied. Her desperate screams for help was muffled by my strength and sin. Eventually, she passed out from pure shock and incredulity. I wasn't proud of what I had done.

"WHAT IS YOUR SON DOING?!" I suddenly heard the Count yell from behind me.

I frantically glanced behind me and saw both my father and Count witnessing me during my sinful act. Their eyes were both wide in shock and outrage.

"Ardal...." Father said in pure shock.

"YOUR SON IS A DEMON. LOOK AT WHAT HE HAS DONE TO MY POOR LITTLE GIRL!" The Count yelled in fury. "I WANT HIS HEAD FOR THIS! GUARDS ARREST HIM! THE EMPEROR HIMSELF WILL BE NOTIFIED OF THIS MOST GRIEVOUS OF ACTS!" He ordered to his bodyguards.

Both the guards looked hesitantly at my father at first. If they arrested me without his acknowledgment, it would be a clear overstepping of their power.

My father looked at me sadly, his eyes burning with shame that I still have nightmares about. He said nothing, but motioned for the guards to carry-on with the order.

The guards nodded before running up to me and wresting me away from Marianne. They handcuffed me and escorted me out of the room, towards the Count's chariot.

"YOU WILL DIE FOR THIS BOY! I SWEAR IT ON MY LIFE!" The Count cursed to me as I was escorted out of my own home.


Who would've known my greatest sin would be the exposition towards something greater? Towards who I was destined to become.

This post has been edited by gasbait: Feb 22 2011, 03:30 AM