Red-Eyed Raven Options

[Thomas Kaira]

All: It's been an extremely long time since I poked my nose in here, but I do so having (hopefully) triumphantly cured my writers block. I've decided that to do so, I would need to start from scratch and apply a few things I have learned, including:

1. Keep your story coherent, don't twist and turn for the sake of it.
2. Know what makes a good description and what is purple prose, one is good and the other is pretentious.
3. Backstory. Use it.
4. Make it your own, use your own imagination.

As for keeping up with everyone else, I pretty much need to start over. I will do my best, and hopefully get into commenting on everyone else's stories as time goes on. In the meantime, here is a brief taste of I am working on now.




Prologue: Cloaked in Ash

“Mommy, where are we going?” asked the young Dunmer girl.

“Wherever the road might take us, little Raven.” The mother replied.

Ash choked the midday air as the two journeyed westward. What little light could break through offered little solace to travelers; a gray, cheerless light that served more to remind them of the dangers ahead than to cloak them in warmth and comfort. Only barely visible ahead were the snowcapped peaks of the Velothi Mountains. Beyond them, the mother hoped, they could finally escape the hellish world they had come to live in.

The days of peaceful living in Morrowind were done. Gone were the times when the sun shone bright and the marshmerrow grew tall. Now there was only ash, and death, and more ash to bury the dead.

“Do we have to go, mommy?” The child continued, “Why can’t we stay at home?”

“There’s nothing left for us there, little Raven,” the mother replied, her soothing tone failing to hide her deep inner sadness. “It’s all we can do now to just find somewhere else we can make a life for ourselves.”

Little Raven, she thought. Such a shame she had to be born into a world like this. She was barely even five years old now and already she carried inside her a fire to rival the Red Mountain. How ironic it was that the great tempest that now turned her away from everything she ever had might instill itself in her only child. A stark reminder of how even a small bit of light can shine through the darkest curse.

She looked back at her home, the Ravenloth plantation. It was nowhere near as large and opulent as, say, the former Dren plantation (or so she was told), but it was enough to live comfortably. At least, until the recent flurry of constant ash storms sucked all the life away from her beloved mashmerrow and saltrice. Now, her fields cloaked beneath a solid foot of ash, which was seeping its way through every gap in her house’s walls it could find, there was no good to come of staying anymore. She couldn’t bear to watch the life choked out of her fields.

The child was overcome by a fit of coughing, she fell to her hands and knees, unable to move. Terror gripped the mother’s heart as she ran to her little Raven, tearing her cloak asunder.

“Here,” she said, wrapping a piece around her child’s head, covering her nose and mouth. “You can’t breathe this air, little one. This will keep the ash out.”

Covering her face with what remained of her cloak and grimacing as she felt the rough, gray snow pelt at her light inner tunic, she held her child as close to her as she could, praying to the ancestors that she it was not too late for her.

Ever since the ash storms came, her little Raven’s health had deteriorated quickly. She was much too young to survive like this. Every night before she slept, she’d hear her coughing, each rough crack piercing her skin like an ice-cold dagger. No matter how many windows she boarded, how many gaps she stuffed with old clothing, still the ash found a way to her little Raven, trying to choke the life out of her the way it did her livelihood. Last night was the worst she’d ever had. No matter what she tried, pans of water with flames lit beneath to fill her room with steam and help her breathe, fashioning masks to wear while she was awake, still the ash found its way to her. Last night, the coughing started and wouldn’t stop. She’d spent the entire night curled up beside her, holding her close, listening to her labored breathing as fresh tears rolled down her nose. It was then she said to herself, they had to leave.

The child’s breathing steadied. Slowly she got to her feet again, and her mother, smiling meekly, grabbed her hand, and they continued west.

“So where are we going, mommy?” The child asked again.

“Across the mountains, my little Raven,” the mother replied. “Away from here. Anywhere the air is clear.”

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: Mar 26 2014, 10:01 PM

[Thomas Kaira]

hautee: Interesting stuff. At that point I'm sure Diressi was just glad she knew enough about Skyrim that she could figure out which way was north.

McBadgere: Them rocket-propelled Dragons sure were a sight, weren't they?

Acadian: I'm sure Diressi will get her chance to see the stomping, trumpeting beasts some day.

SubRosa: Diressi is a highly traditional Dunmer, and you will learn more about her beliefs later. All I will say at this point is that she, like most others in Skyrim, has rejected the faith of the Tribunal and returned to worship of her ancestors. This will be very important later on as she learns more about herself.

Nit picked.

Grits: A mystery indeed. Let's just hope Diressi sees the day she'll be able to learn more about what inner power she might have.




1-3: Returning Home




Pull it together, Diressi tried to will herself. Don’t fall apart, you need to stay focused.

She did not know how much time had passed since her narrow escape from her undead attackers. All she did know was she was tired, hungry, in terrible pain, and feeling more helpless than she had ever in her life. Was there any point in going on? No one would help her, no one even knew where she was. A fresh stab of utter loneliness threatened to spill tears down her cheeks once again. She barely had the willpower to hold them back.

Mama wouldn’t let you die, she told herself. She never abandoned you, not for an instant.

But Mama was not here for her, what good did it do for her now?

She is here, right in your hands.

Diressi stared down at her raven doll. For all these years, she had held it close. To her, this little piece of roughly shaped linen was her dearest possession. More than the heirlooms passed down from her ancestors, more than the lives of what few friends she had, more even than her own life is how dearly she treasured it. When she pressed it to her heart, she would swear she could feel her mother’s beating atop her own.

She pressed the raven to her chest as she had done so many times before and closed her eyes, trying to remember those days long past. She remembered the Ravenloth plantation, a two day Guar ride from the city of Blacklight, seat of her Great House of Redoran and capital of Morrowind. She remembered the bright, sunny days she would spend frolicking in the fields, feasting on the yummy marshmerrow stalks, laughing as the grass tickled her feet. She remembered how she used to stare east towards the remains of Vvardenfell, entranced by the fury of Red Mountain as ash billowed and spewed from its peak every single day.

She remembered when the ash was carried west, blanketing her home. She remembered the marshmerrow dying, the ground being buried beneath the sharp, gray snow. She remembered the ash sickness, being curled up in bed, barely able to breathe, feeling the ash in her lungs, feeling her body desperately trying to cough it up but never succeeding. She would never forget what it felt like, trying to breathe in but feeling no air inside. She would never forget desperately gasping for life, all the while feeling it being sapped away by the lifeless cloud around her.

And she would never forget how Mama was always there, never once leaving her side, doing everything she could to keep life flowing into her little Raven.

She opened her eyes. The tears had stopped, and her vision had cleared. She took a deep breath, letting go of as much of her tension as she could. She couldn’t afford to lose herself to despair, not yet. However remote it might be, while she still drew breath she still had a chance to escape this madness; that much she knew. Any chance was better than none.

Something to her left caught her eye. Upon closer examination, her heart almost burst from excitement and relief.

The wreckage of a caravan was just a few steps away. Forgetting all pain and fatigue, she dashed to it. Ignoring the furry half-man half-cat Khajiit bodies on the ground, she found a storage chest and flung it open. What she found inside almost beyond what she had hoped.

She found several flasks of healing potion. It looked a bit old and cheap, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. She quickly unstopped one vial, tore her now soaked-through makeshift bandage from her arm, and poured the potion over the wound. The relief was immediate. The pain evaporated and the wound went from a gaping, bleeding gash to what looked to be a week-old scar. A second vial, and the skin and muscle mended and all she could see of the wound was the small line of a now month-old scar. After deciding that was as good as it needed to be, she pocketed the last vial and continued rummaging.

She found a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. She pocketed these too; as much as she needed food she didn’t want to eat them next to a bunch of decaying corpses (the smell was horrendous). She also found a small leather-bound book, probably belonging to the driver or one of the passengers, and a single steel dagger within a small leather sheath. She examined the blade: not terribly sharp, but the point was still vicious and blade itself felt balanced. She tied it to her makeshift belt, it wouldn’t be much help against bears or giants, but it would be of good use against the odd wolf or passing thug.

With almost perfect timing, a loud, angry bark tore her attention away from her trove. Her eyes quickly found the source: a pack of wolves, which looked hungry and quite ready to tear her throat out.

They probably just want the carcasses, she told herself, trying to calm her nerves, just back away and they’ll leave you be.

Slowly, she backed away. The wolves raised their hackles and growled their displeasure, but made no attempt to charge her down, instead moving as slow as she to where the bodies of the Khajiit caravan laid. At that point they moved no further, and Diressi broke into a backward jog. The growling slowly ceased and she watched the wolves with both mild interest and not-so-mild disgust as they began to tear into the bodies of the former travelers. Turning away from the macabre sight, she put a small boulder between them and her and continued taking stock of her dilemma.

The good news was that she now had a bit of food, some medicine, and a weapon. The bad news, she still had no idea where exactly she was or how to get back home. Still, the wolves had a point. She hadn’t eaten for a full day now and her stomach was growling in protest. Old cheese and stale bread, they did not make for a very good dinner. Gone were the days of rich Kwama eggs and savory Scuttle, though she barely remembered them now. She quickly tore the bread to pieces, trying and failing to savor each bite. Now all she needed was to find a way home.

She didn’t have to look far; just a short ways away was a weathered cobblestone road. She recognized it as the main road between Riften and Windhelm; the very road she had been traveling before she was ambushed. At the sight, Diressi burst into laughter. She had found the way back. Every last ounce of her tension flooded out of her body as she let out a cry to the heavens, celebrating her triumph.

“Who’s there?” came a voice just out of sight.

The voice startled Diressi. She had already forgotten there would be other people around. She stepped out from behind the rock. The sight she met quickly destroyed her joyfulness.

Three men stood before her, all clad in leather armor padded with bear fur, painted blue across the chest, and emblazoned with a symbol of a roaring bear. Each wore a helmet that concealed their faces, and each had drawn their weapons. Diressi didn’t need to think twice; these men were Stormcloaks, soldiers in the service of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm.

“Where did you come from, Dark-Elf?” one Stormcloak inquired sharply in a gruff voice as he sheathed his blade.

“Probably a border-jumper,” another replied, his voice higher and more nasally. He kept his axe ready, though.

“No!” Diressi cried out in response, “I’m not a border-jumper; I’ve been lost for almost two days now.”

“Likely tale,” the gruff one replied, cocking his head and crossing his arms. “Dark Elves ‘lost in the wilderness.’ Phah, like you could survive out here in our land.” He placed great emphasis on “our land” as he spoke. Diressi sighed, so typical of the Nords, especially the Stormcloaks.

“Looks like a vagrant to me,” the third Stormcloak said.

“We’ll let the city guard decide,” the first one replied, unsheathing his blade once again and stepping forward. “Give us your hands, Dark Elf.”

“Wha…” Diressi, started, but was cut off by a sharp blow to the stomach.

“I didn’t say to speak, ash-skin,” the Stormcloak said, “I said give me your hands.”

Fuming at both the S’wit who had winded her and the rest now guffawing their approval, she extended her hands. The Stormcloak produced a length of rope and bound them together.

“Search her,” he then ordered the other two.

“Don’t you touch me!” Diressi cried out in protest. This earned her a knee in the stomach.

“You will speak when spoken to, Elf.”

Barely able to breathe, Diressi had no choice but to bear the indignity of having an unknown man’s hands feeling her body up and down. She wanted to scream so badly, but knew to do so would just egg them on, and she did not want things to get any worse.

One of the soldiers took the dagger she just found and passed it up to their leader. The other took her potions and what was left of her bread.

“So, back to Windhelm then?” The nasally soldier asked. “Didn’t sound like you want to cart this one all the way down to the Helgen camp.”

“And it’s only a day’s walk from here.” The gruff soldier replied. “Less time you spend with these ash-skins the better.”

“Get moving,” the third soldier ordered Diressi, nudging her sharply with the tip of his axe. Diressi broke into a reluctant march behind the other two soldiers.