The Threads of Fate: A History of the Nerevarine Options

[gasbait]

Who was the Nerevarine?
To the Ashlanders, he was the messiah.
To the Tribunal, he was a heretic.
To the Imperial Legion, he was a revolutionist and a threat.
To me, however, he was much more than any of that.

He was a friend.

--- Saint Jiub

Chapter One: The Lost Memorandum

The rain mercilessly pounded down on our wooden roof as I continued my futile attempt to sleep. I could only cover my ears in frustration as the combination of wind, rain, and thunder created a synesthesia that gutted any attempt of Sleep entering my person.

"Cursed rain...art thou infinite in thy capacity?!" I quoted from my favorite prose.

Ignoring my dreadful curses, the weather continued its merciless assault on both my house and sanity. Realizing I would never find the solace I so desperately sought, I decided to waste my time in a different way.

I slowly got out of my small, wooden bed and headed towards the door. The door opened with a yielding "creek," and I slowly made my way down the long hallway. The wooden planks on the floor creaked and moaned as it took the full brunt of my weight; what else can you expect from a house as ancient as my own? I made my way down the stairs towards my destination, ignoring all of the portraits highlighting my family's rich and powerful roots. After going down the flight of stairs I finally reach my intended destination: Grandpa's room.

I knocked softly on the wooden door and waited patiently for him to acknowledge my presence. I heard a string of soft curses and the sound of the old man fumbling to light a candle. A few minutes later, I heard the sounds of him walking towards the door and finally opening it.

The dimly lit candle did a magnificent job in highlighting my grandfather's "modest" appearance. His build was that of a lanky peasant, someone too meek to work the fields, but too bulky to make it as a bard. His eyes contained permanent bags associated with someone who has suffered many sleep-less nights and terrors. His face showed deep wrinkles and craters that exemplified his old, and still growing age. His most notable quality, however, was the deep scar that ran down from his temple to his chin.

I saw that his eyes were widen in a combination of anger and restlessness. Did he somehow fall asleep despite this horrendous weather?

"Duran?! Why are you still up? Do you have any idea what time it is?!" He questioned in incredulity and anger.

"I couldn't sleep." I replied honestly. "I was hoping you could tell me a story.... to calm my nerves."

"What is it with you and stories?! You've already heard every single one I have over 10 times!" Grandfather retorted angrily. "You're shipping off to the Arcane University in a month, do you think your instructors will let you wake them up in the middle of the night for a story?!" He asked rhetorically.

"That is still a month away Grandpa. And besides...you haven't told me ALL of them." I answer bluntly.

My grandfather's eyes widened in shock as he realized what I was speaking about. He quickly shook his head, however, and erased that emotion from his face. In its place was a small smile.

"Heh, you still interested in that book? Doesn't the fact it was turned down by every respected publisher in Cyrodil say something about its quality?" Grandfather asked with a raised eyebrow.

"A story is a story grandpa." I replied with a shrug.

Grandpa gave a booming laugh at my answer, choking a bit in the process.

"Very well boy. Come inside, I'll go get the manuscripts."

____

I sat down at the foot of his bed, waiting patiently for Grandpa to fetch all of his notes, scripts, and documents.

In his old age, Grandpa has fashioned himself as an author. For the past 10 years, he has been trying desperately to publish one, ANY book. The subjects have been vast; from educational and instructional manuals, to fictional epics. His most recent project was a biography of perhaps the most famous hero in all of Morrowind: The Nerevarine.

Grandpa worked extensively on gathering material for his book. He personally traveled to Morrowind and interviewed countless peasents, merchants, lords, guild leaders....basically anyone who had some direct or second-handed testimony on this famous warrior.

Unfortunately, all his work was for naught. Every publisher in Cyrodil discounts his material as "subjective and flawed," as well as unappealing to traditional readers. Not only that, the recent censoring of books with "offensive and derogatory messages towards the Empire,"have made it so that no publisher would touch a book based on the Nerevarine with a 20-foot stick. It's a shame really, his lack of sucess is due more to chance than a deficiency in skill.

As I continued to lament on Grandpa's terrible luck, he finally reentered the room with a heavy box in his hand. He dropped the wooden box next to me, and began pulling out vasts amount of papers and documents. Abruptly, he stopped and looked at me straight in the eyes.

"You understand that this story will take the whole night to recount don't you?" Grandfather warned.

"I know." I replied honestly.

"Good...what you're about to hear is my life's work, and I wont allow you to leave in the middle of me recounting it!" Grandpa says authoritatively.

I nodded my head in acknowledgment.

"Very well. Let us start with the beginning of the Nervarine's life, before the threads of fate stitched him into the soul of Morrowind."

This post has been edited by gasbait: Feb 22 2011, 01:59 AM