Tales from Nirn, Various short stories and poems Options

[Colonel Mustard]

This is a small collection of short stories and poems that I'm writing intermittently when not working on a much larger writing project that's started taking up my time. Generally, they'll probably be one-off affairs, maybe with one or two mini serials here and there, but this is mainly going to be irregular side projects, probably in some different styles; expect documents, diary entries, traditional prose, poems and maybe one or two more out-there, experimental things.

First off, a documentation of Ashlander funerary rites, by the scholar Renitus Terrentier. Enjoy!


Ashlander Funeral Rites

Whilst staying with the Urshilaku tribe, one thing I had the good fortune to witness was a funeral for one of the clan members, something that is, as far as I can tell, unrecorded by Imperial scribes.

The death was of one of the Urshilaku’s karmaridae, hunter-warriors who both provide for and protect the tribe. The unfortunate man had been badly mauled by a kagouti he had been hunting, dragged back by his fellow karmaridae, and despite the best efforts of Nibani Maesa, the clan’s wise woman, he had passed after just a few hours of struggle.

To my surprise, preparations for the man’s funeral began immediately. The entire clan was gathered, and a large pyre was constructed. The karmaridae’s family were exempted from these duties and allowed to grieve, while the wise woman prepared the body for the funeral. Once the work was completed, the tribe waited for the sunset; not long before it was due, they began the funerary rites. As an outsider, it was decided that while I would not be allowed to participate, I would be permitted to observe and record all that happened.

The clan gathered in a semi-circle around the pyre, opposite the yurt where the dead man’s body was kept. It was obvious they were waiting for something, and in just a few moments, Nibani Maesa emerged from the yurt. She was wearing ceremonial dress, a headdress decorated with cliff racer feathers, along with woven ash-cotton bracelets and necklaces decorated with jewels. She carried a bunch of trama flowers, which she placed upon the pyre. Once that was complete, she stepped back, and fell to her hands and knees before the altar, touching her forehead to the ground, an action mirrored by the rest of the clan. They stayed kneeling as she stood, and began a chant:

“Our time upon Nirn is limited
Plants wither, livestock dies
We are born, and we age
Our birth is but precursor to our end
The flower that is the mortal shall wilt
Our joints shall seize, our hearts shall still
We shall leave this world of flesh to join our ancestors
From the lands of ash we come
To the lands of ash we shall be returned

The final line was repeated by the clan, who then stood. At this, as the sun was beginning to set, the dead karmaridae was carried forth from the tent on a bier, supported by four more karmaridae carrying torches in their free hands, two men and two women; I later learned that they were of the dead man’s Orikrae, an old Dunmeri word that translates into Cyrodiilic as “siblings not of blood”. The karmaridae wore a set of chitin armour, no doubt one that he had used in life, and had a bonemold-tipped spear lying across him in his hands. The head of the clan, Sul Matuul, went before them, wearing the ceremonial bonemold armour of an Ashkhan, and behind him were the karmaridae’s immediate family, his mother, wife and young son, all of whom were weeping and carrying trama flowers.

The Ashkhan stood one to one side of the pyre while the Orikrae placed the body on top of it, before taking up position behind Sul Matuul. The family placed the flowers on the deceased’s breast, and then stood on the other side of the pyre. Once again, Nibani Maesa stepped forwards, anointing the body with oils and beginning another chant. According to ashlander customs, their dead go to Azura’s realm of Moonshadow when they pass on, this chant calling on the favour of the ashlanders’ favoured daedra.

Ye of the dusk , ye of the dawn
Ye of the transitions, watch over this departing soul.
Ye who walks the silver pathways,
Ye who holds the twilit gates
Accept him into your realm
Where the argent rose never withers
Where we grow not sick, where we grow not old
Where we guide our descendents under your protection

At that cue, the Orikrae placed their torches upon the pyre and lit it. The mushroom-wood was soaked in oils, and its porous composition makes it very flammable, meaning that the fire was soon burning brightly in the twilight. Nibani Maesa began one final chant:

Carry him home
Carry him safe
Carry him through the silver thorns unharmed
Carry him to Moonshadow to live in the eternal twilight
Take him to the hallowed watchland

It was during this final prayer that I saw a most curious sight; for a few brief moments, it appeared as if a humanoid shape formed from the pyre’s smoke was rising up towards the sky, only to be embraced by another figure with webbed wings instead of arms. It may have just been illusion, but I know enough of daedra to know that Azura is served by the variant known as Winged Twilights, and I wondered if what I had just witnessed was a summoning of one of these daedra and a beseechment of it to protect the dead karmaridae’s soul as he journeyed to Moonshadow.

The clan was silent as the pyre burned to the ground, and once it had finally extinguished itself, darkness having completely fallen by this point, the Orikrae gathered up the dead man’s ashes; when I later quizzed Nibani Maesa about what they were to do with them, she informed me that before sunrise they would venture out into the ashlands and would scatter them as the dawn came.

Following this, the funerary feast commenced. This was a remarkably cheerful affair, and included dancing, music and telling of anecdotes from the dead karmaridae’s life, with the intent to celebrate his time in the mortal realm. The deceased’s family sat next to Sul Matuul in a position of honour, and were served food and drink without needing to rise to serve themselves from the communal table, as is the usual Ashlander custom.

It ended only as dawn approached, the Orikrae (now rather unsteady on their feet) departing from the camp to scatter the ashes. As I retired to my own tent, I felt privileged to be the first outlander to witness such an event, a unique experience of an unusual culture that, I am aware, many will not be able to ever see. I will continue this chronicle in good time, but for now I must rest; the time I have taken to record this event while my memory is as fresh as possible has left me tired, and I will have only a few hours for sleep before I am expected to rise and carry out the chores Sul Matuul has assigned me as a guest of Urshilaku. While I hope, the ashlanders’ sake, that the new day will bring no more funerals, I nonetheless pray to Julianos that I will have the good fortune to bear witness to something new in the fascinating lifestyle that the ashlanders lead.

[Colonel Mustard]

Thanks DE!

I've always liked the Ashlanders, and though they're a fairly minor faction in TES terms they're probably one of my favourite ones. I was going for something that might appear as an in-game book in style, and I'm pleased you found it an interesting read.

And, by a startling coincidence, I actually have the next part up here right now. If you wanted a quick reply, then your timing was damn-near perfect.


Mountaintop Contemplation

Wrapped in a cloak made from the white pelt of a sabre cat, the figure stood on the peak and watched the skies.

He was a big man, brawny from war, bulk enhanced by the daedra-forged plate that lay under the thick cloak. At his belt, a blade and an axe, on his back was slung a crossbow. A pack lay at his feet, shed for the moment as he watched the cloud for a few minutes more.

Satisfied for now, he tramped through the snow to the lee of an old, curved wall, out of the wind’s icicle fangs, and kicked away the thin layer of loose stone to the dry, frozen dirt beneath. Packing snow in a circular wall around the small clearing to form a wind break, and he knelt next to his pack and slacked the cord, pulling the mouth open. Small logs and dry branches were pulled free, and arranged in a small pyramid. With a gesture, arcane flames danced on the tip of his left finger, and he placed it at the heart of the fire. Within a few minutes, it was burning merrily.

Once it looked as if the wind would not extinguish the fire any time soon, the man walked to the centre of the mountaintop. He gathered breath into his lungs, ignoring the tearing sensation of the chilly, thin air, and exhaled.

“PAARTHURNAX!”

The shout boomed from the Throat of the World like thunder given voice, echoing across the tops of lesser mountains as it roared across the width of Skyrim, shaking Nirn. In Whiterun, the bustle of the market stopped for a few moments as the noise rushed over them, while a hunter near Riverwood cursed his luck as the noise startled the deer he had been stalking. A battle between patrolling soldiers and a group of bandits came to a sudden halt, both sides staring in the mountain’s direction in disbelief.

From his place on top of the mountain, it seemed as if the call of the Dragonborn would go unheeded. He waited, watching the skies, and the side of his mouth not sutured by scar tissue curled into a smile as he saw a faint winged speck approaching. He walked back to the fire, warming himself by the merry flames as the speck became something that could have been a bird, then grew too large.

Finally, it defined itself into the huge shape of a dragon. Even with dulled scales, tattered membranes in his wings and the marks of dozens of ancient scars, Paarthurnax was a magnificent sight, sweeping down from the skies to alight upon the half-fallen wall that made up part of the dragon’s mountaintop home, the gale-force wind from each wingbeat briefly driving the flame of the bonfire into its smouldering heart. The Dragonborn fell to his knee before the immense, majestic giant, head bowed.

“Greeting, Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax rumbled, voice deep and rich as the roots of mountains. “It has been some time.”

“Far too long, old friend,” the Dragonborn said as he stood. “It is good to see you well.”

“And I am just as glad to see you draw breath still,” Paarthurnax replied. “How fares the kein, the war?”

“All but won,” the Blood of Drakes replied. “It is the reason why I sought you out this day.”

“If that is the case, then surely the front lines would be on the shores of the Summerset Isles?” Paarthurnax asked. “How did you arrive here?”

“I have acquired means to travel swiftly,” the Dragonborn said. “The thu’um and a few old artefacts mean I can cover thousands of leagues in just a matter of hours, should the need arise. But you are correct; we have a fleet ready to sail into the Isles and crush the Aldmeri Dominion for good, and in response they are suing for peace. They wish to surrender and negotiate before the war is brought to their home.”

“And you wish not to?”

“Oh, I do. Unfortunately, there are more than a few factions within the Tamrielic Liberation Alliance who would like nothing more than for us to invade and burn the place to the ground.”

“Who is the main dissenter?” Paarthurnax asked.

“Who do you think?” the Dragonborn said. There was a note of frustration and exasperation in his voice. “Stormcloak, of course. Others, as well, but he’s certainly the loudest voice.”

He shook his head.

“He’s too valuable an ally to afford alienating; I need his skill as a general and he has the loyalty of a lot of soldiers,” he said. “He’s been willing enough to submit to my authority so far, thanks to our goals aligning, but now that there’s the risk of him losing what he wants I’m worried about how far his loyalty to me will go.”

“How does Konahrik, General, Stormcloak regard you?” Paarthurnax asked.

“A valuable ally, though he doesn’t buy into that whole ‘Talos reborn’ nonsense that’s been flying around, which is certainly a relief,” answered Alduin’s Bane.

“Do you still deny your heritage?”

“I am not Talos reborn!” the Dragonborn snapped. “I am just a man. Maybe a man with a dragon’s soul, but apart from that, I am a mere mortal who got lucky. I will use that luck to help others but I will not use the power granted to me by the Thu’um to claim that I am a god. Nations ruled by those who think themselves gods are nations that suffer.”

Paarthurnax chortled.

“I could call you a fool for denying your heritage,” he said. “But then I could call you a wise man for the reasons you give for your denial.”

The Dragonborn shrugged, his white cloak shifting with the movement.

“We have become sidetracked,” he said. “The Dominion, that is what I wished to discuss this day.”

“If I may ask, if an attack were to be launched on the Summerset Isles, would krongrah, victory, be feasible?” Paarthurnax asked.

“All but guaranteed,” the Dragonborn said. “The Knights of the Nine and Odahviing’s dragons would spearhead the assault on their beaches, and if an order of elite knights riding drakes would not be enough to break the enemy’s defences then a combined fleet from the Stormcloaks, the Imperial Legion, Orc war clans and Ra’Gada would be more than enough to finish the job. I have the largest army in Tamrielic history ready to fall upon the Dominion; victory would be assured. But I do not wish to sell the lives of the men and women under my command when there is a possibility for peace.”

“And what are the Thalmor suggesting?”

“An end to the war,” the Dragonborn said. “We would disband their remaining armies and dismantle the fleets they have left, depose their leaders and make sure they can’t threaten the rest of Tamriel again. Neutralise the Aldmeri Dominion, but still give the Summerset Isles a chance to recover. Simply crippling the nation in its entirety will only make us more new enemies in the long run.”

“And yet that is what Stormcloak wants,” Paarthurnax observed.

“And a fair number of Legion commanders as well,” the Doom of Wyrms added. “And several of the Ra’Gada high-ups, too. There are lot of people who are fighting the Thalmor to settle old grudges, and most of them won’t be happy unless we invade. Unfortunately, the others think that we should accept the surrender. This entire issue is threatening to tear the alliance I’ve built into pieces when we’re on the verge of victory. What would you suggest?”

“Krii, eliminate, Stormcloak,” Paarthurnax said. “You have the Dark Brotherhood as your allies, they would be more than good enough for the task.”

“Hah, allies,” the Dovahkiin shook his head. “If you call strongarming them into compliance making friends, then yes, I suppose they are. But it would do no good; they’ve been an excellent tool for taking out Thalmor commanders, but there are rumours circling in the ranks of their involvement in the war. if Ulfric died at the hands of an assassin now there would be far too much suspicion cast in my direction. But he insists that there must be soldiers marching onto the Isles.”

“Then let him march soldiers onto the Isles,” Paarthurnax replied.

The Dragonborn was silent for a few moments, a look of confusion on his face as he sat by the fire he had built.

“Elaborate.”

“Stormcloak wishes to invade the Isles,” Paarthurnax said. “So you install him at the head of an occupying lahvu, army, as part of the peace agreement. He gets his soldiers marching on The Summerset Isles, you get to end this war without further bloodshed and your druunmihr, alliance remains intact. All benefit from this solution.”

The Dragonborn smiled.

“That would certainly be an elegant solution,” he said. “My thanks, Paarthurnax. I knew I could rely on your advice.”

“You are welcome, dov,” Paarthurnax rumbled. “I assume that you cannot linger.”

“Alas, no,” He Who Bore the Blood of Dragons said. “My absence will already prove problematic, and it will only grow worse if I stay.”

“I crumdaal, understand,” Paarthurnax said. “I wish you good fortune.”

“My thanks, old friend,” the Dragonborn said. “And I promise you, once this is over, once Tamriel is stable again, I will return and we can talk as long as we wish.”

“I look forward to that day very much,” the immense drake replied. He beat his wings, lifting into the air, circling around the peak of the Throat of the World. “Until the next time, dovahkiin.”

Another downstroke, and he was gone, already a speck in the distance. The dragonborn watched him go, lingered a few more moments, and shouldered his backpack in preparation for the journey back to the front.