Inheritance Chapter Three Options

[Zarrexaij]

I'll get some more comin' soon. Y'all just sit here and wait as I post more stuff. I won't edit this post to add more, though. I'll just post it.

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Inheritance
Chapter Three: Bark and Bite

Zarrexaij had just entered the famed meadhall of Thirsk when he had heard the guttural, accent-rich voice of a Nord barbarian.

“I heard from Isralla th’ other day there’s a werewolf runnin’ ‘round here. She said the wolf was unusual. He had jet black fuir and was ‘bout twice the size of a normal werwolf. She saw its shadow at the highest peak of Moesring Mountain barkin’ and howlin’ at the full moon. Somehow, the unholy beast saw her, and slid down the mountain sides t’wards her. Isralla reported that it seemed unusually intelligent... and, well... insane. Said it made strange sounds that sounded like laughter. Then, it disappeared into the night. That’s a bad sign. If it’s any smarter than the average werewolf, we have trouble on our hands.”

Zarrexaij was tempted to flee the place. He was a newcomer, and suspected they would find him a bit suspicious. Afterall, he was pretty damn tall, and his scales were darker than ebony. But... they couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t ever know the truth. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly closed the meadhall’s doors and stepped towards the group of Nords. They turned towards him, and were shocked to see such an unusual creature so far up north.

“What are ye, an overgrown Argonian?” the first one, a tubby, dirty blond headed male Nord interrogated him, cocking his broad head at the half-Rapthyr. Zarrexaij calmly, too calmly, answered, “No. I am a half-Black Rapthyr.” A second Nord, a tall strawberry blond with a little bit of facial hair, lifted an eyebrow.

“Ne’er heard of such a thing.” Zarrexaij laughed. He wasn’t surprised at all. Not that he thought they were completely incompetant, it was just that Black Rapthyrs were a dying breed. With an offended look on his face, the second Nord then riposted, “What’s so funny, eh?” Zarrexaij looked at him square in his blue-gray eyes. “I’m not surprised that you have not heard of the Black Rapthyrs before,” Zarrexaij replied ,“I just find it amusing. I apologize.” The Nord gave him a slow, pensive nod. The Nord’s eyes darted around for a few minutes before asking the bundled-up Rapthyr, or, rather, half-Rapthyr, another question. “What brings ye up this far, half... Rapthyr?” Zarrexaij thought for a second. Why was he here? Oh, that’s right. “I’m up here because,” Zarrexaij paused, gathering his scattered thoughts together in an organized way, “I like the forests and snow. It’s a bit of a ‘vacation’ for me. This place reminds me of Blacklight with the snow and all.” He chuckled heartedly, smiling at the memories that were more than five hundred years old.

“Oh, ye are from mainland Morrowind? Interestin’,” the Nord said it sincerely, swallowing saliva in his throat and causing his larynx to bob a little. The half-Rapthyr obsessively smoothed out his thick robe he bought from a trader in Khuul. Supposedly, it was made from furs of wolves. He thought the robe was a little... soft to be wolf fur. “I take it you don’t get much action up here? You Nords seem a bit bored,” Zarrexaij spoke loudly. His oddly beautiful voice jingled in the room as bells. The Nord gave him a half smile, “Not much. We drink. We be merry. Occasionally, we get a werewolf sightin’ or two back near the Moestring Mountains. I think it has to due with the Bloodmoon. So many bad omens have appeared here and there. It’s worryin’. Now, all we need is some damned witches and we’ll be complete.” The Nord chortled nervously. It was almost as if they were suffering greatly. They probably needed a good laugh.

This all happened a few weeks later when Zarrexaij had noticed something odd about the moons. It just so happened he was, unbeknowst to himself, about to be a part of something important again

[Zarrexaij]

"Muthsera, I am deeply sorry for our late arrival," one of the guards uttered to Zarrexaij. It was now late morning. Zarrexaij laid his head in his right hand, with the elbow propped on the table they were sitting at. In front of the half-Rapthyr was a bottle of opened flin. The Redoran noble had been sipping at it for quite a while. It had eased the pain of his now-healed injury, but the pain was still there. He sighed, looking into the young, dark face of the Dunmeri lad. "Don't worry about it, Lloaren," he replied sullenly, staring at his bottle. He picked it up gingerly and held it up to his dry lips. The Rapthyr coughed as the warm liquid flooded his throat.

He grimaced as he swallowed the only bits of the liquid that stayed in his mouth. Zarrexaij stood up, grabbing a hankerchef to clean it up. Lloaren held him back. "I'll do it for you," the dark elf declared, using the hankerchef to clean up the flin. Both of them sat down. "Thanks," Zarrexaij mumbled. Lloaren gave Zarrexaij a nod. Ever since the noble had been bitten, he had seemed... well... dampered. He wasn't acting like himself. He wasn't his tenacious, boisterious-yet-quiet-self. It was hard to tell if it was the disease itself. Zarrexaij was a very sensitive... man-thing. His high-horse was easily bucked off its position.

"Guards, please return to your posts," he ordered in a weary voice. The guards were reluctant to obey. Zarrexaij was hardly stable. In this condition, he was even more precarious. They left, shutting the door to the main building of Bal Isra behind them. Unbeknownst to them, things were about to change.

Zarrexaij went back into his bedroom, flin in hand. Slowly, he moved the bed with the elaborate canopy. Beneath it was a trapdoor. Smiling feebly, he opened it. Before he headed down, he looked the door to his room from the inside. Then, he slid down the ladder smoothly. This was his safe haven. There was a deep pool of water right across from him, to the west. The room was large, and well-lit by torches that never went out. He had manipulated magical fire to create that effect. Overall, this place had a great atmosphere.

But that wasn't the glory of the room. Oh no. The north side of the room had a large statue, an altar, and multiple offerings of Daedra hearts, emeralds, pearls, ebony, raw glass, vampire dust, rubies, diamonds, ebony weapons, Daedric weapons, and Dwemer weapons. This statue was carved by himself to perfection. He had spent a month or so carving the unhewn stone. Its level of detail was almost surreal. Every crease in the clothing, every eyelash, every strand of hair had been carved with the most careful, caring precision and accuracy. He could do no less. This was the statue of his one love. This was the statue of his one lord. This was the one statue of his Uncle.

This was a statue of Sheogorath. It was eerie how the half-Rapthyr dedicated himself to the Mad One. Because of Him and Zarrexaij's own origins, he often spent hours in here at the nearby desk, reading and writting about the Daedra, the Daedric Princes, and Oblivion. It was an obsession. It was an addiction. Zarrexaij could not help but eventually revere something that played with him like a meek little puppet. It didn't matter if Sheogorath had turned him insane. It didn't matter at all. In Zarrexaij's mind, the Mad God was beautiful. An unearthly beauty, indeed.

He sat there in front of the statue, his glazed over, dull-looking white eyes gazing at it with such an outlandish passion. Under his breath, a mere whisper, he chanted with his eyes closed, repeatedly. This was no Summoning. This time, he was binding the Daedroth to the mortal plane. It required concentration. The half-Rapthyr rocking back and forth gently, his words growing in power and volume. A gust of wind had entered the room, and abruptly the torches went out. Involuntarily, he shuddered as it grew cold and as he heard thunder crackle wildly. The enchantation grew louder and louder, and the room surged with power.

Finally, the air grew still, and there was temporary silence.