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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There was an odd mood prevailing in the plaza of Saint Delyn when I arrived. Perhaps it’s a measure of my growing abilities and awareness that I noticed it: there seemed to be something forced about the small talk and smiles. Or perhaps it was just sensible Telvanni paranoia? Whichever it was, there seemed to be falseness in the air. When I made enquiries, all I got were variations on “Oh, there’s nothing wrong here Ser. Ha-ha-ha, whatever gives you that idea?”

More convinced than ever that there was something awry here, I stalked the plaza ~ eavesdropping on various conversations. It was while I was listening to the strained conversation between two merchants that there was a soft cough behind me. “Excuse me,” a voice said, “but are you a priest?”

I turned to address the speaker and got the shock of my life. Even though the voice had spoken from right behind me, there was no-one there. I narrowed my eyes and peered about, perhaps this was what was affecting the locals? “Oh,” an empty patch of air said from directly in front of me, “I forgot.”

While I was convincing my heart to keep pumping and trying to decide whether to hurl spells or imprecations at the fiend who was addressing me, a cup on a nearby vendor’s tray suddenly floated up into the air and made its way back towards me. “I’m Cassius Olcinius,” the cup said. Possibly for the very first time in my life I was completely at a loss for words.

“I’ve been cursed you see,” the cup complained. “A wizard by the name of Fevyn Ralen put this curse of invisibility on me and nothing seems to remove it. I’ve tried prayer, and potions, even a very expensive scroll, and I’m still see-through.” There was a tremble in the voice as it continued, as if the speaker was on the brink of tears. “I’m too embarrassed to speak to my father and I don’t want to go and speak to Ralen again ~ Mara knows what he might curse me with next. Please, can you help?”

Assuring the cup, erm, young Man that I’d look into the problem as soon as I could, I left the plaza and made my way down through Saint Delyn. The same mood of fake cheerfulness seemed to be even more pronounced in the lower levels of the Canton, and I was starting to recognise it. It was the same ‘If we ignore the problem, it’ll go away’ attitude my foster-father used to display when the farm’s yield was low, or the tax-man was coming and the household was short on funds because he’d drunk all the profits. Somehow I didn’t think that my newly acquired invisible friend could cause this much consternation.

The sewers beneath Saint Delyn were oddly quiet, only the soft lapping of the water making any sound. Where, I thought uneasily, were all the rats? As I explored the length of the water-channel I realised that rats weren’t the only thing lacking. There was a complete dearth of those little creepy-crawly creatures you always find in damp, dark places. It was almost as if they had been scared away by some… power. It was around then that I decided that Endryn hadn’t been exaggerating his concern about this shrine.

Having found nothing in the one sewer, I cut through the rounded tunnels and made my way to the secondary drainage system. The presence of a burly Nord was a sure clue that I was near Ihinipalit. “Here,” he said, blinking at me from behind the visor of his helm, “ye’re one o’ them priests ain’t you?”

It has often occurred to me that intelligence isn’t required for a guard; this hulking brute was a good example. I was about to answer when he suddenly realised that, yes I was a priest and no, I wasn’t supposed to be there. As he lunged forwards, I thought it was also a great pity that he had been thinking so hard he’d never noticed the Dwemer spike I was pointing at his chest. With a splash, the would be mental giant slid off the end of the blade and down into the sewer water below. I prepared for some more challenging combat, making sure the Last Wish was easily accessible, tucking a few scrolls into my belt. I didn’t expect that the other occupants of the shrine would be quite that stupid.

I entered the shrine of Ihinipalit in a storm of magic, the instant I opened the door I unleashed the power of the scroll I was holding. As the two occupants of the shrine screamed, bolts of lightning crashing down into them, I summoned a Storm Atronach and drew my axe. Endryn had said that he thought the other cultists would flee if their leader were killed ~ I’d decided that I wouldn’t take that risk.

As the one cultist tried to control his jittering limbs enough to deal with the demonic fiend that was ponderously making its way towards him, I vaulted over the edge of the shrine and hammered my axe into the unprotected chest of the Man there. There was a thick crunch as the blade bit home and, blood spraying in an arc from his wound, the Man reeled backwards. Pressing my advantage, I drove the handle of the Wish into his stomach.

As the breath whooshed out of his body, the Man doubled over ~ presenting me with the perfect target. Raising the axe, I brought it down in one smooth, hard blow. Beheaded, the Man collapsed as jets of blood pumped from his neck. As the head rolled away from the torso, I swear that I saw it blink, once.

The Atronach seemed to be having fun with the remaining cultist; it was unclear whether the Oblivion-fiend was fighting or torturing the Man. Whichever it was, I left them to their own devices and rounded on the Man who’d just stepped from the chamber at the back of the shrine. “Obscurum successio,” I shouted, extending a hand towards the cultist. With a curse, he dived out of the way, the spell dissipating harmlessly against the back wall. Still, it did give me time to draw my bow and notch an arrow.

As he stepped back into view, hands raised and lips already moving in some esoteric chant, I unleashed the arrow. Grinning in satisfaction as the Man grunted and looked down in surprise at the shaft that now protruded from his stomach, I dropped the bow and raced towards him ~ already constructing the spell in my mind. “Vomica cruor,” I said, gripping his arm. He jerked away from me, reaching for the glass dagger that hung from his belt. His eyes widened as the spell’s effects made themselves known.

Leaving him to thrash out his life on the floor, I turned to the shrine and checked the situation there. Of the Atronach, there was no sign. The third cultist wasn’t difficult to locate either. Blood pattered down into the small basin set into the wall, the waters already turning crimson. Following the sanguine rain upwards, I finally saw the third cultist ~ his body jammed into the impossibly tight space between the broad pillar and the wall just behind it. With a grimace, I turned from the grisly sight and searched the shrine.

Some madness came over me as I searched the shrine. I found my eyes drawn again and again to the golden statue of Sheogorath that stood on a raised plinth in the centre of the chamber. The feeling of being watched was almost unbearable. Finally, unable to endure it any longer, I stood in front of the statue and yelled, “Stop watching me!”

“[b][size=18]Brave little Mortal,

“[b][size=18]Remain still, for I shall not harm thee,

“[b][size=18]With this artefact, thou shall kill the giant Bull Netch that has its residence near my servant taken. Do this and I shall favour thee with a gift of great power. Fail, and thou and I shall speak again”

Fleeing the shrine, mad laughter echoing in my head, I was violently ill. When the spasms had stopped, I rested wearily against the cool stone of the sewer wall and thought about what I had experienced. Surely there were long rituals of summoning required to gain an audience with the Daedric Princes? I had vague recollections of reading that somewhere. It seemed impossible to me that they should just, well, answer like that. Shivering slightly, I made my way up into Saint Delyn and across to Saint Olms.

“I understand your husband has gone missing?” I said to the petite woman in the Brewers and Fishmonger’s Hall. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance in finding him?”

“Mayhap,” the woman said, tearfully. “But I fear he has come to harm. He and his cronies often take themselves down into the Underworks. There they indulge themselves in their addiction.” Careful questioning of the woman revealed that her husband was a Skooma addict and, according to her, she feared that he’d contracted some disease whilst wandering around in a drug-induced trance. I agreed that I would try and find Danar and cure him before sending him home.

Descending into the sewers, where I seemed to be spending an uncomfortable amount of time recently, I started to explore. The shambling wreck that lurched out of the side passage as I approached certainly was diseased but I feared, far beyond any aid I could provide. The Dunmer, his skin already splitting and bleeding from the effects of the disease, turned towards me, hands outstretched. The bulge of malformed skull that protruded from above his left eye confirmed my initial diagnosis. Danar, if indeed this was he, was far beyond any help but the final assistance one can render to a victim of Corprus.

With a deep sigh, I drew the Ebony blade from its scabbard and rendered that aid as quickly and dispassionately as I could. Hard it was, no less harrowing than the poor misshapen creature in Tel Mora. The glint of metal around one deformed finger drew my attention to the wedding-band there and, carefully removing it, I read the inscription that confirmed that this was, or had been, Danar Uvelas.

The servants of Malacath that served in the shrine of Assernerairan stood little chance. Like vengeance of old, a wolf in the fold, I descended upon them in a fury. The corruption of Danar, the words of the Mad One, all fuelled my anger and hate. Like a dervish, some whirling spirit of death out of a Redguard tale, I span among them ~ the hiss of the Wish and the kiss of magic the only sounds I brought with me as I brought them the long, final silence of the grave.

Gore-spattered and panting, I stood in the centre of the shrine, by equal measure appalled and exultant at the devastation I’d wrought. I had, this time, been in full control of my faculties and knew precisely what I done. Part of me was dismayed at the insouciant ease with which I had butchered, for there was no kinder word for it, the cultists of Malacath. The other part of me rejoiced at my own developing skill. It was not so long ago that a simple rogue, who’d never done anyone more harm that ‘borrowing’ some items they probably didn’t need, had stepped off the boat in Seyda Neen. Somewhere along the way I had become this fell-handed mage-warrior, seeped in the Telvanni mindset of power and authority. The question was: am I happy with that which I’ve become?

It was a question I was to ponder much over the next few days although I didn’t realise it as I gathered the shrine’s treasures and stuffed them into my pack.