The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: Vehk's Path Options

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When I awoke this morning, I was certainly feeling the effects of my fight with Gothren and the Clan Berne. Every single bone in my body seemed to ache and the fatigue I felt screamed in every fibre of my being. Wearily, I opened a portal to Sadrith Mora and translocated to the market square. Llunela took possession of the book eagerly, summoning one of her seemingly inexhaustible supply of messengers to take it to Baladas Demnevanni immediately. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so Sed Vahl,” she said, after examining me for a moment, “but you don’t seem to be very well.”

“It’s been a hard few days,” I responded. “The fight with Gothren wasn’t easy and somebody neglected to mention that Galom Daeus was crawling with vampires.”

She bit her lip and bowed her head, “I beg your forgiveness Arch-Magister,” she said contritely and formally, “I was unaware that vampires had made Galom Daeus their lair.”

“It’s of no consequence Llunela,” I told her firmly, “what is done is done, and there’s no need to make a fuss about it.”

“Thank you Sudhendra,” she said, relief coming off her like steam. “Have you used a large number of healing spells and potions recently?” she suddenly asked. When I confirmed that this was so, she nodded as if in understanding. “I thought as much. Scrolls, potions and spells can only repair so much damage and they consume a lot of the body’s resources to do so. Perhaps a visit to the Imperial Cult shrine up at Wolverine Hall is in order. Or, if you wish to avoid the Imperials, there are a number of very effective healers in Temple.”

“The Temple?” I asked, remembering the large structures in Balmora and Gnisis. “Do you really think that they can help?”

“I’m sure of it Sed Vahl,” she replied. She promised to keep me apprised of the progress on my stronghold while I made preparations to visit the Temple in Balmora.

It was with fairly mixed feelings that I mounted the sweeping stairs that led to the enclosed Balmoran Temple. On the whole, I tended to avoid religious organisations: mostly because the beating that my foster-father administered were so often given in the name of Stendarr, or Mara, to hammer the sin out of me. Don’t get me wrong, the Imperial Cults have done some sterling work but I was leery of them nonetheless. And this… foreign cult that seemed to dominate so much of Vvardenfell? I knew very little of it other than it controlled the Ordinators and wielded a great deal of power.

“Greetings traveller,” the soft voice of a robed and hooded priest sounded strangely harsh in the austere surrounding of the Temple building. Everybody knew about alien religions: the bizarre graven images, the strange behaviour, the wild chanting to unspeakable gods. Aside from a few wall-hangings and a strange circular pit set into the floor, the building was bereft of the trappings I’d expected. Indeed, the Temple was more austere than any Cult building I’d been in: the only oddity a triangular obelisk with engraved images on the front that stood in one corner. “How may we help you?” the priest continued.

I explained my situation in broad terms, leaving out my position as head of Great House Telvanni since I wasn’t certain what frictions might, or might not, exist between House and Temple. I really shouldn’t have bothered ~ I’d forgotten how gossipy the natives of this small island were, and just how quickly news can travel. “Of course we can help Sed Vahl,” the priest responded.

He led me over to the plinth I’d noticed earlier, asking me for a small donation to maintain the Temple. I handed over twenty-five Septims and, following his instructions, placed my hands on the cool stone and repeated his words, “May the blessings of ALMSIVI wash over me. May the strength of their power cleanse and heal me. May the light of their wisdom guide me now and in all things. The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.”

I gasped as a great power flooded into me, almost blinded by the brilliant sparks that swirled around me. I felt the bone-weariness fall away and the ache I’d woken with dissipate and vanish. Dropping my contact with the stone, I looked at the priest and smiled, “That was amazing.”

“Indeed,” the priest said. Then, in that soft accusative tone that priests seem to specialise in when speaking to their wayward flock, he added, “It has been many years since a member of Great House Telvanni saw fit to grace the Temple with their presence.” Pushing back the cowl of his robe to reveal a strong and handsome face, he added, “Their absence has often been noted by Temple hierarchy and commented upon. The poor grace with which missionaries are greeted in Telvanni lands, and the dearth of established Temples are also well known to us.”

Feeling as though I’d just stepped onto a very dangerous ledge, I said, “While I have the authority, I don’t have the power to compel my fellow Mage-Lords to do things they don’t wish to.”

“This is well known to us Sed Vahl,” he said softly, “we may be insular, but we are aware of Telvanni ways ~ even here in Balmora. That you are a stranger in a strange land and don’t know of our ways is also known to us. That Telvanni mores keep you doubly ignorant grieves us bitterly.”

“So, what would you suggest?” I asked.

“That you join the Temple,” he said simply, “openly and freely.”

“Um, what would that entail?” I asked, visions of being ordered to relinquish my hard-won position in Great House Telvanni floating through my mind.

“Nothing as drastic as giving up your current position Arch-Magister,” the priest said, causing me to shoot him a dark look. “A guess at your thoughts only,” he quickly assured me, reading my look as plainly as a book. “The duties would not be onerous,” he continued, “save that you would be required to undertake some pilgrimages to demonstrate your devotion, and some small tasks to demonstrate your piety. Such things, done without any surety of reward, would make a powerful statement from one in your position.”

And that is how I came to join the local Temple, guided by the subtle hand of that Power which had taken such interest in my dealings of late. Although that fact was not revealed to me until much, much later.

Feldrelo Sadri gave me a book entitled “The Pilgrim’s Path”. “It is the duty of all novices to complete the Pilgrimage of the Seven Graces,” he informed me, the capitals dropping almost audibly into place. “By following in the steps of the Lord Vehk, they demonstrate their devotion to the Temple and to the grace of ALMSIVI. When you have completed the pilgrimage, I will assess you and give you further tasks. Or, if you wish, you can visit Temples elsewhere on Vvardenfell and undertake duties for them.”

Bowing low, Feldrelo Sadri went deeper into the recess of the Temple, leaving me with a book and a pilgrimage to undertake. The book contained details of each of the seven shrines a novitiate needed to visit, along with details of what was required at each of the locations. Some, such as the shrine at the Fields of Kummu, had long and detailed descriptions ~ others, such as something called the Puzzle Shrine, had only the vaguest of instructions for getting to them and no detail at all about what was expected. One, called the Shrine of Red Mountain, was wreathed around with dire warnings about what dangers could be expected there.

Feeling that there was no time like the present, and being only a short distance from the first shrine detailed in the book, I caught the silt-strider to Suran: spending the time reading and re-reading the Pilgrim’s Path. One thing I knew for certain, the cowled, woollen robe I’d been given would take some getting used to after so long wearing fine clothing. Fortunately, the robe was big enough to fit over my armour, although Feldrelo Sadri had disapproved of me keeping it on. Which just went to show how little he really knew of Telvanni ways: the armour and the envenomed blade beneath my pillow were the only things between me and an ‘unfortunate, accidental stab in the dark.’ I’d also insisted on keeping the blade and axe with me, preferring to rely on them rather than the stout wooden staff I’d been given along with the robe.

As I crossed the bridge over the Nabia on my way towards the Fields of Kummu, I realised that the stout staff made an excellent walking aid. The road wended its way through the pleasant Ascadian countryside, the air redolent with the smell of late blooming flowers and the crisp tang of winter’s onset. It wasn’t too long before I’d arrived at the small triangular plinth that marked the shrine. Having had the foresight to purchase a small packet of Muck from the alchemist in Suran, I placed the glutinous substance in the bowl provided and read the stanza engraved on the shrine.

Grace of Humility: "Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec. I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world."

According to the Pilgrim’s Path, the next nearest shrines (three of them) are to be found in Vivec City. Accordingly, I shall make those my next priority. I returned to Balmora and sought shelter in the Temple, figuring that if the Camonna Tong wished to wreak bloody vengeance on me, the fact I was on hallowed ground might give them pause.

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Since Endryn Llethan had said he had no more duties for me to perform at the moment, I decided that I should go to the Temple at the Ghostgate and see if there were any duties that needed performing there. The Temple is in the middle of the building, built in a circular chamber directly above the gated tunnel that leads into the Red Mountain area. The Proctor was a tall Dunmeri woman with long, almost copper-coloured hair. She carried herself in a haughty manner and coldly introduced herself as Uvoo Llaren.

“Do not think that your previous visit here was unnoticed Ser Vahl,” she said. “Ralyn was a good friend, and his loss is sorely grievous. Now, duties: there is an Ashlander who’s set up camp just south of the Ghostgate. He has petitioned for healing and you are to be the instrument of the Temple. Go to the Hansar Camp and cure him. I suppose, in all fairness, I should warn you,” she added, sounding very much as though she didn’t want to, “Ashlanders are often very aggressive, even when they are extremely ill.”

I didn’t think that any explanation I could give Uvoo Llaren about what had happened between me and Ralyn Othravel would suffice to make her any less unfriendly towards me so I just nodded my acceptance of the task and left the Temple. I had noticed the Ashlander camp when last I came here, to perform the Grace of Pride. I’ll admit, I hadn’t considered why such a camp would be set up.

“Peace and prosperity to you Muthsera,” I said, addressing the seated figure in the camp. The Ashlander looked up, sweat pouring down his face and a very unhealthy pallor to his skin.

“Greeting to you,” he replied, struggling to stand. I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and pushed him down onto the rock that served as a chair. He looked annoyed for a moment, and then started to cough weakly. Crouching beside him I examined his eyes and skin, finally deciding that he was afflicted with Droops.

“Muthsera,” I said, straightening up from my examination, “I would like your permission to cure you.”

He nodded and I stepped back. Hansar’s eyes widened as I concentrated and then spoke the words of a curative spell. Swirling motes of light enveloped the Ashlander and, when they cleared, the colour was already coming back to his cheeks and the filmy cast over his eyes was shrinking even as I watched.

“Thank you Outlander,” he said, rising to his feet and moving around. Looking at me, he narrowed his eyes and added, “You speak with a courtesy not common to the settled people. Tell me priest, have you had dealings with The People before?”

“I thought as much,” he said when I told him I’d had some dealings with the Zainab and the Ahemmusa. “It shows in your speech. A word of caution by way of repayment for your kind deed: it is unwise to lay hands on an Ashlander without his consent.”

Thanking him courteously for his words of wisdom, I left the Hansar Camp and returned to the Ghostgate Temple. Uvoo thanked me for curing the Ashlander and gave me two vials of cheap cure common disease potion, ‘just in case I’d contracted something nasty from that savage’ as she put it.

“While the Temple doesn’t promote a life of solitary contemplation,” she said as Nilvyn Drothan brought in a sack, “we do our best to provide for those that follow that path. One such hermit is Sendas Sathis and it is to him that we want you to deliver some supplies. Sathis can be found on Shuran Island, which is in the Sheogorad region near Dagon Fel. Here, let me show you on this map…” Uvoo pointed out Dagon Fel, and then tracked her hand down the island until she reached a point almost directly south. “Here is the Resdayni fort of Rotheran: Shuran Island is just west of the fort.”

Nilvyn handed me the sack, examination of the contents revealed several Kwama eggs, two flasks of Matze, a bundle of dried meat, and a stack of parchment. I wondered, idly, how frequently the hermit Sathis got deliveries. Either they came on a regular basis, or he was extremely frugal with his supplies. Taking a few steps back from Uvoo’s assistant, I concentrated and then said, “Ex hic absum, ut Dagon Fel”

There are very few Dunmer living in Dagon Fel, so I was intrigued to see one of them remonstrating with the caped Imperial guard. I wasn’t privy to their conversation, but it ended with a very emphatic “No” from the Cyrodiil. The woman looked most unhappy with the results and, out of curiosity, I approached her and asked what the problem was.

“See yonder tower,” she asked, pointing to the top of a Dwemer tower that rose above the steep cliffs to the east. I nodded, and she continued, “there’s a necromancer living in there. And we want him gone ~ his foul practices are a disgrace, and dishonour our ancestors.”

I knew that the Dunmer of Vvardenfell took a very dim view of the Blackest Art; it offended those that still worshipped their ancestors. In the West, necromancy is viewed slightly differently: not exactly benignly, but with a facade of tolerance. Personally, I found the whole concept repugnant and told the woman that I’d take a look at this Skorvild and see if I couldn’t persuade him to relocate elsewhere. Not that I thought I had much chance, but I was willing to give it a try.

The round metal door of the tower swung open under the slightest pressure and I stepped into the gloomy interior. The Man in Bonemold armour spotted me at exactly the same time as I spotted him. As he drew a heavy-looking mace and started to run towards the stairs, I withdrew the crescent-sword I’d taken from the fire elemental and dropped into a combat stance. He batted away my first strike and I had to sway to one side to avoid the crushing blow he aimed at me in retaliation. He wasn’t prepared for the speed with which I responded, the gleaming sword-blade crashing into the shoulder-joint of the Bonemold armour. His eyes glittered behind his helm and he backed off a step or two.

Unfortunately, this put him at a disadvantage since I was now standing much higher up the stairs than he was. In fact, the disparity was sufficient for me to bring the sword around at waist height and neatly separate his head from his torso. As blood gushed out of the slowly toppling body, I gave it a hefty kick. With a series of echoing crashes, it bounced to the base of the stairs. As I hoped, the resounding echoes attracted the attention of the others I suspected were in the tower.

From the right hand corridor appeared a female Summoner, her hands already weaving in the complex patterns of conjuration. From the opposite corridor, a lightly armoured Bosmeri appeared, scrabbling at his hip to unfasten the crossbow that was hanging there. As the pinkish malformed shape of a Scamp appeared in response to the woman’s spell, I extended my gloved hand and concentrated on the runes Aryon had incorporated into the fabric. There was a flicker in my mind and I felt myself connect to the buzzing, fizzing, ever so slightly insane, mind of the summoned Scamp.

With a ferocious snarl, the summoned creature leapt on the Bosmer, gnashing fangs scratching at the Chitin at the Wood Elf’s neck. With a wail, the Bosmer dropped his crossbow and grabbed at the spitting, snarling imp. While he made a spirited attempt to dash what brains the Scamp had out by banging it against the wall, I rounded on the dismayed Summoner.

The blade lashed out in a singing arc, cutting her from hip to shoulder. The back-slash opened a wound across her throat and, gurgling slightly, she sank to the floor. That just left me with the Bosmer ~ now free of the Scamp since its anchor to the Grey Maybe was currently bleeding out the last few drops of her life on the cold metal floor. As he stooped to pick up the crossbow, I put an end to the battle by stepping in close and driving the blade of the sword down and through the middle of his shoulder blades.

I looked at the sword when I’d worked it free from the Wood Elf. The edge of the blade was already dull and there were several nicks in it ~ even though it had only cut through Chitin and Bonemold. So, while the blade was capable of taking a phenomenally sharp edge and was incredibly light and well balanced, it wasn’t particularly sturdy. Since I had neither the tools nor skill to repair and sharpen it here, I slung it from the makeshift hoops I’d attached to my pack and withdrew the Last Wish from the top of my pack.

The lower level of the ruin, which consisted of a corridor running around a central chamber, was mercifully free of any more practitioners of the Blackest Art. The main chamber contained several deformed Dwemeri chairs and tables ~ and it was on one of these I made a remarkable discovery. A large, bulbous flask sat on the table nearest the ladder that led up to an iron trapdoor. It was made of dark clay, expertly and skilfully shaped. Strange designs in dark enamel decorated the surface. Reverently, I picked it up. I had seen Limeware before, in the museum in Cyrodiil City. And this was a finer example than any they had there. I wondered if I could carry this safely ~ there was no problem with the weight, heavy though it was. No, what concerned me was the possibility of smashing this valuable antique. Deciding that the risk was worth it, I carefully wrapped the flask in several layers of cloth (cut from the Summoner’s robe) and placed it in my pack.

The only access to the tower was the metal trapdoor that sat flush with the ceiling of the chamber. Climbing the ladder wouldn’t be problematical and a quick check showed that the trapdoor was unlocked and unwarded ~ so opening it wasn’t going to be a hindrance. No, the problem was that I could see no way of gaining access to the tower that wouldn’t expose me to whatever attack Skorvild wanted to launch. Actually, I might have a way around that… Digging in my pack, I found the little leather sack I use to keep various trinkets I’ve picked up. There, inside, was the strange amulet I’d taken from the camouflaged assassin on the road to Ald Velothi. Dropping the chain around my neck, I clasped the amulet and concentrated on it.

When I opened my eyes, it was as though a thin green veil had been drawn across them ~ the world gone misty and insubstantial. Holding out my hand, I started straight thought the pale and wavering outline at the rivet-studded wall. Clambering to the top of the ladder, I threw open the trapdoor with a crash and waited. And waited while the heavily bearded Man peered down into the lower chamber, calling, “Hlora?”

As he turned away and moved into the chamber at the top of the ladder, I scrambled up and in ~ quickly moving to stand against a wall. The Man stopped and looked around, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. I held my breath as he walked within a few inches of me, his head turning from side to side as he sought the source of whatever was disturbing him. Having stalked the length of the chamber, Skorvild returned to the table and reached inside a drawer. “Infitialis veneficus,“ he yelled, throwing a handful of fine powder into the air.