The Meaning of Life Options

[ShraX]

Hello.

Most likely don't know me but I have this habit where I write something, take a needlessly-long break, then come back and continue it, expecting everyone to still understand what's going on. Anyway, I wrote 3 fanfics about Gaenor that originated on the official TES forums, then migrated here for some reason. Now, having had my fill of annoying elf-related stories, I began something new that I want to continue, and the only way I'll do that is if I post it and people are interested enough to want more.

It might be in bad taste to request something from the potential readers of this new story, but it's only fair; if you read this and think that something doesn't flow or could be improved upon (not content, but structure), I would greatly appreciate any and all criticism you have.. please, don't hold back. If what you want to say seems like it shouldn't be displayed on this thread, send me a PM. I'll never get better if I don't get criticism, and I want to get better. Then again, you don't have to say anything at all.

Sorry for the long introduction. Here's to what I hope will be a fun fanfic for all!

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The Meaning of Life

There was no more to be said. I stood and took my leave of the Meeting tent, the heavy iron plating my legs disturbing awkwardly the peace of night in the encampment. We'd been discussing the threat from the Jeralls for hours after eating, and the sun's light crept above the mountainous horizon with foreboding quickness. I fixed my eyes to the dirt and felt my mouth droop to a frown. It had been decided and set for me to settle this restless darkness of yet-unknown depth, as I'd proven myself in years past as formidable with the axe and shield when confronted with those who would wish life torn from body for purpose of self gain. In six hours I would depart in fresh snow, and my destiny would arrive at last to the fruitful conclusion of its long hunt.

It was difficult sleeping, not with the cold but with thoughts my young mind failed to silence. I gave empty answers to questions no one could satisfy, and they all reminded me of how unprepared I truly was for the looming hardships yet to be crossed, patient in their undoubted fatality. My muscles tensed of their own will, perhaps reacting to the subtle worries building in my subconscious, for I tried with all concentration to banish them there so that I may have focused on less frightening prospects. I hushed the quiet candle beside me and remembered Grumir's words.

"I'll have these ready before ye set off, and leave 'em outside yer tent. I've worked overnight plenty before, and the clangin' don't seem to bother no one!"

I knew him long, since I was old enough to wield a weapon and bring it back to him for repair. I've never known his face without it tilting down, something he did both to playfully mock my considerably shorter stature and because he honestly was unable to see me unless he did so. Each time he did it, and it was every time he spoke to me, even when we sat and our eyes were level, I couldn't help but let out a short chuckle of mild disbelief. He never seemed to notice, which was not surprising. In his more drunken episodes in the evenings, he'd ramble on about his adventures in Elswyr when he was younger, and of the "filth-ridden coat-bags" he'd slain. I took no offense, largely because I could never figure out what exactly a "coat-bag" was and why it was an insult to my people, according to Grumir. In his sober heart however, he grew to appreciate my presence, as out-of-place as it always seemed to me.

Despite my physical appearance, the shear amount of time I spent with these people led them to accept me as one of their own, which I always was, in essence. I am unsure as to who my parents are, or were, but I am Khajiit for certain. I've seen others rarely during hunting raids and sojournings into the Imperial City for trade, and after comparing looks, I began to develop a mindset for my race. We are Khajiit, or at least they are. I am Khajiit to those who see me; those who know me would think twice. The Nords in my encampment knew me very well, and respected me as a warrior and friend. Although, the physical differences were impossible to ignore. Their armor had no ear holes, and my feet refused to stuff themselves into their thin-toed boots. Their chairs forced me to curl my tail into my lap in a most uncomfortable position, and I often contemplated eating on the floor, but always dismissed the idea as I feared being related to a house cat in the most humiliating way apart from relieving myself in a box of sand.

Trivialities aside, I lived in their encampment all my life, since being left naked in the cold twenty years ago outside the ancient hut of our chieftan, who has now passed. They cared for me and trained me in the combat arts of Skyrim, and I adapted my agile form to master new techniques which set me apart from the other boys. I became most proficient with the axe, and later, learned to balance offense with the defense of a shield. Seven years littered with exploits deemed heroic by those they aimed to benefit have birthed a fine fighter, in my humble opinion, and I attempted to direct the memories of my greatest victories as a stampede over thoughts of the task that lay before me. It was pointless; even looking in the direction of the cave I was to enter discouraged my steps, and my knees weakened. All I could do now was tie the blindfold of courage around my eyes and pray the little sleep I did manage would be enough to carry me back there the next day in triumph.

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[ShraX]

"The creature thought guilty of ravaging your people has ceased to exist for approximately two hundred and forty-seven years. Its' undoer perished in the process and no proof of demise was returned to make certain its' death, and so, it has continued to live in assumption. What has been attacking your camp is she whose life must be ended.. the one of whom I previously spoke. She knows of your importance, and even now seeks your death. Lower your head." He remained emotionless in his words and I questioned to myself why I should have lowered my head.. it seemed a strange request, but this encounter was indeed the strangest I'd experienced. So, I ducked, and three poisoned arrows struck the cloaked being from behind me. My eyes widened and I spun around to catch the archer, almost losing my footing on the icy platform, but there was nothing. I looked back to the man, but not expecting a corpse. I didn't know why, but three poisoned arrows did not seem like enough to topple him. "Arrows," he said. "She thinks me human," and he waved them off into the cold darkness below with a gesture of his robed arm.

"What stopped them?" I asked, now finding comfort in his protective presence. "I've no body," he replied, "but you and the arrows share a consciousness. All things live.. they perceived a torso, and so their path laid through one." His way of speaking seemed confusing and deep, but I understood his insight. This being was one of immense wisdom, and perhaps a god. I knew he was able to read my thoughts and resist poisoned arrows. Either he was a great magician or something of celestial origin. "Nay, I was human once.. but enough of this. She has made her move, and we will react in kind. If you trust my cause, the cause of existence, you will repeat this word and await message from me in your encampment: <<^>^<^>^<>^<^>^<>^<^<>^<>><^<>," and as the final letter's sound escaped my cold lips, I found myself in the center of my camp, the storm having passed and the sun's glorious light warming my body, and the familiarity of my surroundings slowly calming my nerves.

I told the Elder of my encounter in private, figuring his counsel would prove more valuable than the questions my kin undoubtedly had for me. As I spoke he lit two candles at his side, and when I finished moments later, I noticed he'd been gazing at them throughout my report. Not a word was spoken for a short while, but I was familiar with his methods and allowed the candles to borrow my attention. At last he turned to me and replied, wisdom and experience showing in every wrinkle on his ancient face. "This man," he said in soothing quiet, "wore a black cloak and hood." I nodded, facing him now. "There are many dark cults of Tamriel, most of which are known to conceal their identities in such clothing. They believe that to be looked upon by those outside their group is an insult to their supposed superiority. Tell me, was there a symbol on his robe?" I shook my head remembering the solid black of his cloak and cowl. "Interesting," he said, and motioned politely for me to leave.

As I closed the flap to his tent, the cold of dusk reminded me of my dream. I forgot to mention it, and it would have been rude to interrupt him again so soon. There had to have been some relevance between it and my encounter in the cave; the events I saw in sleep matched so clearly to what had transpired earlier that day. The black hood was placed over my eyes, and the ring of light at my feet.. the hood was just as the man's, as was the cloak which dressed me. He turned pitch darkness to light so that I may have navigated the cavern. Perhaps the placing of a black cowl over my head was a symbol of friendship and alliance between myself and the man? The ring of light still was somewhat of a mystery to me, and I decided to explain my dream to the Elder the next day in the hopes of gaining more insight into its' full meaning.

The remainder of the night consisted mainly of re-enacting of my experience to my kin. They seemed disappointed that the beast had already been slain, and wondered aloud at what, then, had been plaguing the countryside we called home. I knew who was responsible, but telling them a nine-thousand-year old witch of some sort was their "monster" seemed it would have been too much for them to comprehend at the time, and so I joined in their hopeless pondering as we ate around the campfire. Eventually, however, the conversation had been abandoned in preference for the usual story-telling to which we were all comfortably accustomed.

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