The Story of Trey Chapter 10 Options

[treydog]

Thanks to the efforts of Stargelman and Alexander, Chapters 1-8 are available in the Fan Forge section of the main page. So rather than clutter things with reposting all that, I will start with the current "live" chapter.

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke

Chapter 10

Before I relate the next phase of my adventurers in Vvardenfell, I find it necessary to talk for a moment about time. As I have written it, this story seems to be a continuous description of events, one following swiftly on the heels of another. That is not completely accurate, for several reasons. First, there were periods of several weeks that I spent recovering from wounds or from the strain of the many missions I undertook. I have not felt the need to burden the reader with a recounting of all those “slack” periods. Second, certain things occurred during the time of this story that I am not yet ready to reveal. There may come I time when I feel able to relate those other stories, but that time is not now. When I left “home” and made my way to the Imperial City, I was 17. And I celebrated my 18th “birthday” in Vivec. So it may seem strange that such powerful figures as Athyn Sarethi and Sul-Matuul entrusted one so young with the difficult and dangerous tasks that they gave to me. The reason they did so is this- by the time I set my reluctant feet upon the Path of the Nerevarine, when I went into Kogoruhn and came out again, I was 23. Often, in those difficult days, I felt much older, despite the “immunity” to aging that corprus had granted me. Those years had given me a fair number of scars, physical and emotional, and the wisdom that went with them.

While I recovered from my exertions in the ancient House Dagoth stronghold and contemplated my quest to find the Cavern of the Incarnate, I decided that I needed to do two or three other things first. For one, I needed to find out as much as I could about the House Dagoth creatures I had encountered. If I was destined to fight those foul beasts, it would be well to understand the nature of my enemies. The best place to gain such knowledge would be the Ghostgate, where Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers daily fought against the creatures of the Blight. If they would share their wisdom, I might have a better chance of survival. The second task I wished to accomplish was the creation of a better weapon- a sword for preference. In my many battles, I had managed to soul-trap several fairly powerful creatures, and one those soul-gems could be used to enchant a long sword with useful spells. My struggle against Dagoth Uthol was fresh in my mind as I considered this. Because my own skill at enchanting was marginal, I would need to seek the services of a Mages Guild enchanter. The sort of enchantments I had in mind would cost considerably, so I would need to find a way to raise the necessary gold. Such were the mundane thoughts with which I occupied my mind- mostly to avoid thinking too deeply about what would happen when I found the Cavern of the Incarnate.

After frankly moping around Ald’ruhn for two or three days, I decided that it was time to put my plans into effect. My first task would be to have a sword enchanted by Galbedir in Balmora. Here I ran into my first problem- although I had appropriate soul-gems for the sort of enchantments I had in mind, I did not have a good enough sword to take the enchantments. It seemed that an item’s capacity for enchantment was related to the material from which it was made. The best weapons for enchantment were Daedric or ebony, followed by Imperial and Dwemer. Due to its nature, glass was among the worst materials for enchanting- Galbedir tried to explain the reasons, but I fear I quickly got lost in the arcana of her explanation. What it came down to was this- if I wished to have major enchantments placed on a weapon, it would have to be Daedric or ebony. And the best place to find a Daedric weapon was the sort of place I had scrupulously avoided- a Daedric shrine. The items were so rare and so difficult to find that no merchants carried them. Some ebony weapons were rumored to be stored in the Great House vaults in Vivec, but even I didn’t want to think about burglarizing those. And even if I did raid one or a dozen Daedric shrines, there was no guarantee of finding a long blade- it was merely a possibility. Even better, the likelihood of finding such a weapon was directly proportional to the likelihood that said weapon would be guarded or even wielded by some particularly powerful summoned creature. The irony was almost too much for me to bear- in order to create a weapon that would give me a decent chance against the creatures of Dagoth Ur, I would have to face the almost equally nasty summoned creatures of Oblivion. Unfortunately, there was nothing else for it- I simply HAD to have a better sword. And I knew of at least two Daedric shrines that were fairly close to Balmora- Shurinbaal, near Gnaar Mok and Ald Sotha, near Vivec. As I set off for Gnaar Mok, I wondered at the ultimate irony- the cruel twist of fate that had turned me from a thief into a crusader.

This post has been edited by treydog: Oct 22 2009, 05:43 PM

[treydog]

Carefully, I entered the room to make sure Hlireni was really dead- you can never be completely certain with Daedra priestesses, particularly when you are on their home ground. In this case, I had no need to worry- my arrows had transfixed her- one in the head and one in the heart, assuming she had one. The other occupants of the room, an Orc and a scamp, didn’t seem terribly concerned about the demise of their leader. The scamp merely offered to sell me some sujamma and the Orc rumbled, “Meow.” I shook my head. “Meow?” An Orc that said, “meow?” Perhaps I had taken a few more blows to the head than I realized. That was one disadvantage of my phobia about helmets. While a helmet might restrict hearing and sight, it also served the useful function of keeping one’s brains from getting scrambled. After feeling around to make sure I didn’t have any depressed skull fractures or new bumps on my head, I turned to the Orc and said,

“Excuse me, but did you just say ‘Meow’?”

Rather than becoming offended the 6-and-half foot tall green creature replied with a sort of low growl that might have approximated a purr- in a nightmare- and introduced himself as “Ra’Gruzgob the Khajiit.” Clearly, one of us was crazy, and I was beginning to have a glimmer of an idea which it was.

“Ra’Gruzgob the Khajiit?” I repeated, trying to keep the disbelief from my voice.

“Yes, Khajiit. How do you like my tail?”

Now that is one of those questions I have never known how to answer, particularly not when it is asked by another male of whatever species. Not that I have been asked that question very often, mind you. In fact, that was the only time. Finally, I decided that it never hurts to humor a crazy Orc, and anyway, if things got out of hand, I still had my sword.

“Fine. Very… nice.” I mumbled, carefully not catching the eye of the smirking scamp. A part of me wondered why I was doing this- after all, Ra’Gruzgob was almost certainly a Daedra-worshipper, whether he was crazy or not. But my curiosity has gotten in the way of my better judgment before, and it was hard to seriously contemplate cutting down an Orc that simply stood there “purring” and stroking non-existent whiskers. Apparently, my half-hearted compliment was successful, as the Orc offered to tell me a “little secret,” provided I gave him some moon-sugar. Now it became clear- this fellow wasn’t simply addled by the influence of the Mad God, he had been receiving a little chemical help. Noticing some crystals of the addictive substance atop a nearby stone block, I palmed them and offered them to Ra’Gruzgob. His “purring” redoubled in strength and seemed to shake the very stones of Ald Daedroth. He thanked me and then said that he had hidden “something special” under his pillow “for the sugar-fairy.” I almost didn’t want to think about what kind of “something special” an Orc might hide under his pillow- particularly an Orc that thought he was a Khajiit. Back when I had lived in the stable, I had been the recipient of the sort of “gift” the barn cats thought appropriate and endearing. Even though my bed had been an old horse blanket over a pile of straw, finding part of a mouse in it was not pleasant. Nevertheless, it seemed worth checking out, so I made my way over to a couple of pallets that had been set up in one corner of the chamber. Using the tip of my blade, I shifted the first pillow and found- nothing. Steeling myself, I turned to the other pallet, shifted the pillow, and saw an extravagantly embroidered glove, which glowed with enchantment. The power of the spell on the item fairly sang, and I knew that I was in the presence of a very special artifact. Careful not to touch the glove, I bent closer to read the Aldmeris script which was formed by the stitching. As near as I could determine, it spelled out “Gambolpuddy.” Wondering if sleeping with this item under his head had anything to do with Ra’Gruzgob’s delusions, I extended my magical senses to try to “read” the enchantment. My original feeling that the spell was powerful proved to be correct. The wearer could cast a spell that would provide major enhancements of agility, intelligence, personality, and luck. However, at the same time the spell would lower strength, speed, wisdom, and endurance. I was hard-pressed to think of a circumstance in which that exchange would be worthwhile, but I nevertheless packed the glove away. After all, it was likely a unique item, and might be valuable as a curiosity.

And now there seemed nothing else to do but report back to Sinnammu Mirpal. Leaving the Orc crooning “sweet moon-sugar” and batting at a ball of yarn, I worked my way back outside, passing the glowering Ordinators without a word. Considering the way the Ashlanders felt about the Temple, I wondered if the Ahemmusa wise woman would feel that the shrine was safe with the Temple soldiers wandering around. On the other hand, with Hlireni and her followers dead, maybe the Ordinators would go somewhere else to bother people. Back in the camp, Sinnammu listened as I explained that the sorceress was dead. She then stated that I must escort her to the great statue of the inner shrine. If we could get there without being attacked, that would show her that Ald Daedroth was safe enough for her people. I needn’t have worried about the wise woman’s ability to reach the island- she water-walked as well as I. We made our way to the inner shrine, where Sinnammu agreed that I had fulfilled my part of our bargain. Then she drew an amulet out from her pack and formally intoned,

“And so I name you Ahemmusa Nerevarine, War Leader of the Ahemmusa, and Protector of the People. I also give you the Madstone of the Ahemmusa, which shall be a sign to all Dunmer, that you are the Nerevarine, and that the Ahemmusa shall follow you, in all things, even unto death, until the Enemy is defeated, or until you are dead.”

With that she handed me the amulet and explained that it was useful against spell casters, for if I could invoke its power and touch a wizard, it would set up the echoing of the voices of the ancestors inside his head, making it impossible to concentrate on magicka. Unfortunately, the voices would also echo in MY head, thus explaining why the amulet was called the “madstone.” I thanked the Ahemmusa wise woman and took my leave of her. All my recent encounters with madness caused me to wonder- was there some hidden message in all this? Perhaps I myself had gone mad from the effects of corprus and was even now shuffling around in the corprusarium of Tel Fyr, imagining all of this. That seemed as plausible as the idea that I was the reincarnation of a Dunmer general.