The Tale Of Sudhendra Vahl: Mad Gods, Being the ninth chapter... Options

[BobV]

I am inclined to agree with the above poster.

[Neck' Thall]

Ditto.

[Lucidarius]

Good update. Now how did Sudhendra know that about Nerevar Indoril? /joking. I'm looking much forward to read her take on the rest of the main quest.

[OverrideB1]

He waited for my answer, but I just sat on his bed and stared at him. How in Azura’s name had I known that? When it was obvious that no answer was forthcoming, Cosades continued his briefing. “I’ve arranged some supplies for you at Fort Buckmoth, see Crulius Pontanian and Somitus Vunnis. It’s nothing too special I’m afraid, just some potions, scrolls, water, and food. As far as they are concerned, you’re heading into the Molag Amur to reconnoitre the area in preparation for Legion manoeuvres there.

“When you’ve done that,” he said, ignoring my continued silence, “I would head to Maar Gan. Nuleno Tedas is a scout who knows the Ashlander camps well and she’ll be able to give you directions on how to reach the Urshilaku Camp. Again, she knows nothing other than that you’re part of a prospective trade mission, looking to establish commercial links to the Ashlanders.”

I shook my head as I stood up. “No,” I said flatly, “I will not be a party to this madness.”

“Listen Finder… Sudhendra,” Cosades said softly, “I know this is all something of a shock and I appreciate that you’re feeling rather put upon at the moment. Look at it this way, if you’re not…” He held up a hand to forestall my vehement comment. “…the Nerevarine, this Maesa woman will be able to tell you. Then you can come back here and tell me ‘I told you so’ and tell me to stick the job where the sun doesn’t shine. On the other hand…

“House Telvanni is all about power: personal power and power for the House. Tell me Sudhendra, how powerful would the Telvanni be if they had the actual, living reincarnation of Nerevar living with them?”

“I’ll go,” I said softly, quietly. “And when this Wise-Woman tells me what I already know to be the truth, I’ll return here and tell you. Then I expect to never hear from you, the Blades, or any agent of the Empire ever again. If I do…” I left the threat unspoken, feeding magicka into the construct I’d envisioned, causing the temperature in the room to plummet. With a disdainful flick of the hand, I dismissed the cantrip and slammed out of the bed-and-basket Cosades called home.

I stormed into Fort Buckmoth and got the scrolls and potions ~ mostly cure common disease and cure blight ~ along with enough food and water to last a couple of days if I was frugal. Banging back out of the Fort, I opened a passageway to Ald’ruhn and void-walked to the dusty main square. From there I took the silt-strider up to Maar Gan.

By the time I arrived in Maar Gan, I’d simmered down enough to think rationally about what was going on and the part the Empire wanted me to play. The obvious conclusions that could be drawn were: one, the Emperor has gone completely stark-raving mad; two, this is all some plot to get me into trouble with the Temple and the Ashlanders; three, this is all some plot to cause civil strife in Morrowind, enabling the Empire to tighten it’s stranglehold; or four, there is something else going on to the Empire’s advantage that I’ve not yet figured out.

Even good, healthy Telvanni paranoia couldn’t convince me that the whole point of my arrest, trial, and subsequent exile here on Vvardenfell was just some plot to get me executed as a heretical troublemaker. Likewise, I couldn’t manage to convince myself that the Emperor had gone completely around the bend ~ that would surely have been noticed. I could, however, believe that this was some plot to gain advantage for the Empire in this notoriously troublesome Province, probably by inciting strife by some method I hadn’t yet guessed. There was, of course, a fifth option but that was even more ridiculous than the idea that this was just a plot to rid the Empire of one Sudhendra Vahl, and I refused to consider it for a moment.

The Tradehouse in Maar Gan provided food and lodgings so I booked a room for the night, as I didn’t fancy the idea of wandering around the ash wastes of the Molag Amur at night. The food was simple, plain and plentiful ~ all of which were exactly what I wanted. And the scout was perfectly willing to give me directions, having been paid by the East Empire Company to provide them.

“So you’re looking to establish a trade-route with the Ashlanders, eh?” Nuleno asked. I gave no answer so she shrugged and said, “you know the Foyada Bani-Dad?”

“So,” she continued when I said I’d travelled along it before, “travel right up the Bani-Dad until you reach the end, you’ll know you’ve reached it because you’ll have reached the northern coast of Vvardenfell. There’s a shipwreck just to the east, you’ll need to swim towards it, around the headland, and make for the beach. Head due east from there, past the ruins of the Assurnabitashpi Shrine. Just a little further to the east, almost in the Shrine’s shadow, is the Urshilaku Camp.”

[Neck' Thall]

Nice...I thought cassius would be missing a few limbs when Sudhendra left but i guess not...

[OverrideB1]

Yestere’s journey along the Foyada Bani-Dad had little of interest. Basically, if you’ve travelled along one Foyada, you might as well have travelled along them all. What had made the journey tiresome was the silence, silence in which one’s mind could turn over and sift everything that it has learned, and everything that it fears.

Still, the pair of sorceresses that I’d found in the caverns of Ibar-Dad had provided a more than welcome distraction and, after I’d dealt with them, Ibar-Dad made a suitable resting place for the night. Before departing the cosy hole this morning, I’d looted it of everything I considered valuable ~ a thousand Septims, an apprentice scroll that taught the spell Dedres’ Masterful Eye, a shield, and a helm. I say a shield and a helm in such an insouciant manner: they were both extremely unique artefacts.

The silver-coloured shield was decorated in such a manner as to appear to be a widely grinning face and it bore deep and ancient magics woven into its fabric. It had been hanging on a wall inside a crypt deep inside Ibar-Dad, the door bearing the simple inscription ‘ELEIDON’. In the same crypt I had found a Daedric helm: according to the tattered note that had been stuffed inside it was The Face of Inspiration. Quite what the helm was supposed to inspire was uncertain ~ unless it was nightmares.

As I tramped across the barren and desolate beach, giving Assurnabitashpi a wide berth, I realised that bore no gift to present to the Ashlanders of the Urshilaku Camp. However, the spartan landscape gave me an idea. “My pardon,” I said to the warrior who’d been watching me slither down the ash-covered dune west of the camp, “but I would like to make you a gift.”

My heart pounded as the Ashlander looked at the large Kwama egg I was extending towards him. Then, with a brief flash of white teeth, he took the egg from my hands and said, “What do you do here, N’Wah?”

“I wish to speak to Sul-Matuul,” I replied, puzzled by his use of the word I had come to view as an insult. When the Ashlander had spoken the word, it had the ring of a title rather than a pejorative word. I had a couple of heartbeats to wonder if there was, perhaps, a different meaning to the word before the Ashlander replied.

“You will need to speak with Gulakhan Zabammund,” he said, “and he will decide if you are worthy to speak with Sul-Matuul.” With some ill-grace, obviously feeling he had discharged his obligation for the gift by giving me the information that he had, the warrior pointed out Zabammund’s yurt. My heart pounded as I walked towards the Gulakhan’s tent, I had little that would make a suitable gift for such a powerful figure.

“I have had dealings with N’Wah before,” Zabammund said when I confessed that I was uncertain what would make a suitable gift, “although few that are so polite. I usually accept a gift of gold from them; a… what do you call it? Ahh yes, a bribe.” Well, at least he was refreshingly forthright I thought as I gathered some of the heavy 100-Septim pieces from my purse and offered them to him as a gift.

“Please, be seated,” he said, indicating a low cushion. Gingerly lowering myself into it as he effortless folded his lanky frame into a sitting position on another, he asked the question that I had been dreading. “And what may the champion of the Sul-Matuul do for his gracious visitor?”

Deciding that beating around the Trama Bush would be a waste of time with this Mer, I stated, quite baldly, “I wish to be tested against the Nerevarine Prophesies.”

“You!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You wish me to believe that you are the Reborn?” His booming laughter masked my gasp of surprise; ‘Reborn’ was the title that Elvil Vidron had claimed for himself in Suran, a title that had set the whole weight of the Temple against him. The true nature of the stakes I was playing for suddenly became apparent to me ~ if even a whisper of this got back to the Temple my life expectancy would be that of a Mud Crab in boiling water.

“You are serious,” he said, leaning forward to stare at me. “These are matters that are too deep for a simple Mer such as myself. Go, speak to Sul-Matuul ~ tell him that Zabammund sent you. Leave now, N’Wah.”

I scrambled to my feet, unsure whether the Gulakhan was eager to get rid of me because the matter was too important for him or because I had offended him. As I quickly thanked him for his time and left his yurt, I heard him sigh, “That I should live in such times.”

Sul-Matuul was even less amused by my explanation of why I was there, scowling at me as his hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. I stood my ground, unmoving even when he stalked around behind me. Having circled me, he returned to the skin-strewn chair and sat in it. Still glowering at me, he said, “I am uncertain how to proceed. There is an air about you that I cannot identify, quite apart from the stench of the settled people. My heart says I should gut you where you stand for your effrontery, yet my spirit tells me that you may be more than… the others.

“I am unqualified,” he said, passing a hand over his face, “to test you against the prophecies N’Wah, only the Wise-Woman may do that. But one not of the People may not speak to the Wise-Woman. A quandary, to be sure.” I sat, quietly, awaiting whatever decision Sul-Matuul would make. Finally, he spoke again. “My father’s spirit haunts our burial place. Go there and return to me with the bow of Sul-Senipul, Bone-Biter. When you have done this thing, I will name you Clanfriend of the People. Then you may speak to the Wise-Woman of the Tribe and she may judge you.”

Sul-Matuul gave me directions to the Urshilaku Burial, which lay close to the camp but deeper into the trackless wastes of the Molag Amur. “Travel along the edge of the sea until you come to a cairn, raised by the People many generations ago. From there, strike south through the Ashland. There you will find the door to the Urshilaku Burial.”

The directions proved to be excellent. I followed the shoreline to the east until I discovered a moss-covered pile of stones. Turning south, I headed into the desert of the Molag Amur, eventually discovering the door to the burial site on the southern facing slope of a small hillock.

The nondescript door and the gently sloping tunnel that led down into the Urshilaku burial chamber didn’t prepare me for the sight that met my eyes when I got further inside. I couldn’t help but cast nervous glances at the mummified, armed, and armoured, figures that sat, ancient and dignified, atop the pillars that lined the entrance tunnel. I could feel it in my bones, this was a place of unquiet dead and the proximity of so many dead and preserved bodies was a reminder that, proof against all disease and ageless I might be, but there was no protection from the skilfully wielded blade, the dagger in the night, or the poisoned cup.

Up ahead, the passageway narrowed and, as I approached this bottleneck, I could hear the faint splash of water. Pausing, I looked around, noticing the two massive rocks that formed a natural bridge high overhead. The splash of water seemed to be coming from up there. Muttering the cantrip “Aer Amo Calx “, I rose up into the air, pirouetting as I arced over the stone bride and coming to rest of the solid stone just as the spell collapsed. I had been correct, directly in front and directly behind me were two pools of water, along with the entrances to two caverns. Eager to explore, I headed towards the cavern directly in front of me.

The rats were of no consequence, and I gazed at the chamber. Hewn from the grey rock, this almost-circular chamber was dominated by a large stone obelisk, the tool-marks still visible on the shaped and smoothed sides after the Gods alone knew how many centuries. Arranged around the rock was a series of small pools ~ over each pool was an ossified skull, presumably the last remains of various Urshilaku warriors. The stink guided me to the food the rats had been surviving on, the rotting remains of a female adventurer.

The chamber opposite was virtually identical, only lacking the decaying corpse and with a trio of aggressive skeletal guardians instead of a couple of rats. The crushing blows I dealt them shattered bone and broke them into pieces. Three I could just about deal with ~ these were obviously not Summonings but were some form of reanimated creature of the sort you often find in tombs.

Returning to the lower passageway, I pressed deeper into the caves, arriving at last at a large chamber that was partially filled with water. Opposite me was a simple doorway, blocked with a warped and slightly rotted wooden door. The large, open, water-filled gap between where I was standing and the lip of rock that led to the door was deceptively narrow. I quickly realised that, if you failed to make the jump, the sides of the water-filled pit were far too steep to clamber up. Without magic, or a potion, you would be condemned to a slow and lingering death, treading water until exhaustion set in, and then drowning. My admiration for the deviousness of the Urshilaku rose a notch.

Floating across the gap, I glanced down and saw that there were, indeed, several sets of rusting armour and bleached bones residing in the bottom of the pool. With a grin, I probed the door blocking my way with a great deal of care, nodding in satisfaction as I located the tiny, needle-sharp pins on the underside of the handle. No doubt they were coated with something decidedly unpleasant. Telekinetically pulling the door open, I entered the chamber beyond.

Another sloping tunnel, this time free of any watchful dead, sloped downwards. As I made my slow and careful way down it, I became aware of the soft lapping of water from up ahead. Slowly, the shape of the large chamber ahead of me became visible, the dancing flames of the torches set into the walls reflecting from the dark, still water that lapped at the brink of the passageway I was in.

Large stones, flat-topped, offered an inviting path across to the small rocky outcropping opposite me but I was not fool enough to believe that it would be so easy. Once more taking to the air, I floated effortless across the water, taking a moment above each stone to push the point of Chrysamere against the flat surface. My paranoia was soon rewarded ~ as I put the point of the blade on the edge of one stepping-stone, the whole stone flipped over. That would have put a serious crimp in anyone’s day.

From here, I had a choice of two directions. Once more casting the levitation cantrip, I floated to my right. Ahead, a row of round rocky stubs rose out of the water, bordering the entrance to another part of the cavern. Inside the bowl of this second chamber, there rose another of those stone plinths and, seated on top, was a mummified body. The glint of metal from the figure, plus the sweet song of powerful magic, drew me closer and I drifted across the water and upwards until I was level with the corpse.

Clasped between its withered hands was a long sword, the glittering blade undimmed by the passage of time. It was from this that the magic sang. Quickly I probed the blade, receiving back an odd sensation of nullity. As I examined it on the astral plane, I was scrutinising it on the physical level. There were runes etched into the blade, partially obscured by the clasped hands of the figure, runes that read “…GEBANE”. I realised what my magical probe had revealed, this was the Mage-Bane Blade, a sword imbued with a powerful spell of silence that would still any magic-user’s tongue. With trembling fingers I reached out to take it…

And stopped, my outstretched figures a hair’s breadth from contacting the blade. Skeletal guardians, the eerie sensation of being observed, the pit trap, the rotating stone, the poison needles… It was all too neat. I cast my mind back to the entrance, the silent figures with their armour and weapons ~ nothing too ostentatious, just enough to draw a greedy adventurer in with the promise of greater treasures. Then the traps, cunning and devious ~ but oh so obvious to any seasoned adventurer. And then this, the Mage-Bane, one of the most sought after blades of all time. Any mage would pay a fortune to possess it, secure that he would never be on the receiving end of its baleful spells and knowing that he could stop any rival dead in their tracks. And here it was, on display for any brave enough, or foolish enough, to venture so far. Ripe for the taking.

Floating back out of the chamber, I quickly tested a nearby rock for stability and ~ finding it safe ~ I touched down. I drew my bow and took careful aim. The first arrow missed its mark by several feet, the second by less than a foot. The third was the charm, flying straight and true and ricocheting off the hilt of the artefact. As the sword slipped from long dead fingers, there was a grinding noise as, almost faster than you could blink, the round stone stubs rose out of the water to become very effective prison bars. With a smirk, I reached out telekinetically and took the sword from the water where it had fallen. Whoever had designed this place had never anticipated that a Telvanni would venture inside.

The door at the end of the other chamber opened up onto the most astounding sight. I found myself at the edge of a steep drop; dozens of feet below me water foamed and surged against needle-sharp rocks. To my left, a narrow stone passageway wound up the outside of the chamber ~ in the centre of which was a massive stone spire. Water crashed from ledges and protruding rocks, roaring down into the churning foam at the base of the rock. Niches cut into the rock walls and the face of the massive stone mountain that, in defiance of all common sense, rose from the centre of the chaotic pool. More of the watching dead filled these alcoves and I fancied I could hear the Spirit-Tongues, a faint susurration of sound whispering and moaning, even over the roaring water.

Unnerved by the sight, I clambered up the water-slicked rocks to the first of what would prove to be a series of doors. The small series of interlinked stone chambers behind the door, known as ‘The Fragile Burial’, were eminently defensible and mercifully free of the dripping water that is present in so many of the other burial areas. In short, it would make an excellent place to spend the night.

This post has been edited by OverrideB1: Aug 21 2005, 10:16 PM

[Lucidarius]

Two great updates. It's very different to read about a main character who doesn't warm to Caius Cosades, as almost all of the others in fan fics do. In this and in other encounters Sudhendra doesn't seem to be the social type, quite the opposite.

You describe the Urshilaku Burial Caverns so good that I relive them in my mind. The added details about the various traps (at doors and at Magebane) heighten the suspense and I felt myself being keenly interested in how Sudhendra would proceed.

[Neck' Thall]

Ditto to him but with out all the words.

[OverrideB1]

The muted thunder of the waterfalls in the main chamber had meant that I spent a disturbed and restless night and, well before the sun rose and cast its light on the world outside these stygian chambers, I was awake, fed, and moving. A narrow stone bridge spanned the gap between the central spire and the ledge outside the Fragile Burial. Looking at the water-slicked surface, I sat and removed my boots. Then, slightly more securely, I walked ~ with infinite care ~ across the span and onto the ledge that ran around the monolithic central stone.

Following the ledge, I quickly came to another door: the cartouche identifying it as Kefka. Since Sul-Matuul had neglected to mention where in these labyrinthine chambers I would be likely to meet the shade of his father, I resigned myself to having to explore each and every passageway and chamber. Kefka turned out to be a long, winding passageway that led to a large chamber guarded by four powerful skeletal warriors. For a while things got very exciting, the clash of steel on silver echoing through the chamber as I struggled to disarm and destroy three of the skeletons whilst trying to avoid being skewered by the bow-wielding fourth.

There were several tempting items in Kefka but I was mindful of the traps I had encountered yestere, being careful to touch nothing. Leaving the heaped gold coins and glittering gems behind, I backtracked to the central chamber and cast a baleful glance at the slender path of stone that led from Kefka upwards around the rocky spire. There have been few moments in my long and eventful life that were as nerve-wracking as that ascent ~ often the stone pathway was barely as wide as my foot, and the glistening stone, slick with droplets of water from above, was unforgiving. Nearly as unforgiving as the milk-white foam that surged and swirled hundreds of feet below me.

So you can imagine my relief when, a long time later, I stood panting on the stone platform in front of the door marked Kakuna. I could, I suppose, have made the whole job a great deal easier by simply levitating from one rocky platform to the next. However, given the traps and trials that existed in the mausoleum, I had no intention of running the risk of being… caught wanting at a critical moment. It’s all very well having a nice selection of restore magicka potions but, when you have a trio of skeletal guardians hacking away at you is hardly the time to be going digging in your pack for a potion.

Kakuna was radically different to the other burial chambers I’d been inside; it was ankle-deep in water to start with. The thunder of the main waterfall was overpowered in this echoing void in the rock by the thunder of a smaller, but much closer, waterfall. The burials here were all atop a long rocky ledge that dominated one side of the chamber. Since I could detect no sign of any ghost up there, I didn’t bother levitating up. I did, however, get quite a nasty shock.

The cascading waterfall was ice-cold and the water rich with minerals. Quickly confirming that the water wasn’t rich in harmful salts, I went over to the waterfall to fill my canteens. What it was that made me duck and flinch backwards from the steel blade that suddenly scythed through the tumbling water, I have no idea. A premonition, the flicker of a shadow where there shouldn’t have been one? Whichever it was, it saved me from the worst of the blow, the blade crashing into the heavy Nordic armour rather than slitting my throat.

Back-pedalling quickly, I hurled a fireball at the skeletal figure that breached the waterfall ~ the detonation of the spell shockingly loud in this enclosed space. As dust sifted down from above, I followed this magical attack with a more direct approach. The steel of the skeleton’s blade clanged against the curved edge of the Wish. Lifting its blade, I hacked in a brutal blow, gaining the satisfaction of seeing the ribs of the guardian crack and fall to dust. The flat of the axe-blade smashed into the skull on the back-swing, making the hollow dome spin on the top of the skeleton’s spinal column.

Behind the waterfall was a dimly lit chamber, at the back of which was a raised platform. On top of this platform sat another of the mummified Urshilaku elders. Flanking the corpse were two urns, each containing a quantity of reeking mulch. These had, I guessed, contained flora of an alchemical nature but time had been as unkind to the contents of the urns as they had to the tattered and decaying mummy. Nearby lay a Telvanni Cephalopod Helm, of the sort worn by House Guards and a chest of gemstones. Leaving those, I reclaimed the guard helm and stuffed it in my pack before taking my leave of Kakuna.

There was but one door left and I knew that I would find the spirit of Sul-Senipul behind it. There was just the one problem ~ there was no physical means of reaching the last burial chamber. With a sigh, I became airborne once more, bridging the gap on the unsteady currents of air that rose from the waters so far below. The instant I touched down I dissolved the spell and took a restorative potion to replenish the levels of magicka I had at my command. The Juno Burial Chamber beckoned and I was under no illusions ~ I would need every ounce of guile, skill, and speed I could muster.

The winding passageways of Juno proved to be every bit as difficult as I’d feared. As with all of the burial chambers (with the exception of the Fragile Burial and the main chamber) there were skeletal guardians in here too. As I battled with them, smashing them to dust, I fancied I could hear the howl of Sul-Senipul’s spirit. With the mundane guardians vanquished, I pressed on ~ coming at last to a large chamber whose walls had been smoothed and painted.

And there, skeletal fingers extended towards me as the distorted face screamed its hatred of the living, was the ghost of Sul-Senipul. Eldritch fire swirled around the grasping fingers as it drifted towards me. Deadly whispers of razor-sharp silver hissed from the leather scabbards at my waist, their wickedly sharp edges cleaving the air with a keening sound. As the first blade passed though the spectral form I felt a slight tug and ectoplasmic material was torn from the shade. It screamed in my face, mouth opened wider than an Alit’s. Unfazed, I pressed home my advantage, keeping those clutching, fire-limned claws as far away from me as I could as I wove a net of metallic death. Slash after slash bit home, tearing the ectoplasmic form to ever more tattered shreds until, no longer able to manifest itself, it collapsed into a brilliant spark of light and winked out of existence.

As the otherworldly howl of Sul-Senipul’s spirit echoed around the chamber, there was a decidedly mundane clattering sound as a Bonemold longbow suddenly dropped from the sparkling motes of the shade’s dissolution and bounced off the nearby rocks before coming to a rest on the floor. Picking up Bone-Biter, I admired the workmanship that had gone into the bow, the delicate engraving and carvings that decorated it and the pale, almost golden colour that the Bonemold had assumed over the years. It was, truly, a handsome piece.

“You return,” Sul-Matuul said with a mixture of surprise and pleasure on his face.

“More,” I said, “ bowing my head and extending the Bonemold bow, “I return to you the bow of your father, Sul-Senipul.”

With a bow, he accepted the longbow from me. “I name you now, Sudhendra Vahl, Clanfriend of the Urshilaku. Now, I think, you should speak with our Wise-Woman.”

“And you are the N’Wah who believes she is the Reborn?” the Wise-Woman said, looking me up and down critically after I had answered her questions.

“I believe… I believe I might be the Reborn,” I said.

“No you do not,” she snapped standing in front of me, her crimson eyes flashing with anger. “Your heart, your mind, your spirit ~ they all rebel at the thought. You are not Nerevar, War-leader of the Great Houses, and Clan Master of the People. You are not the Reborn.”

I gasped, a deep sigh of relief at being vindicated, at proving that Caius Cosades was wrong. Now all I had to do was return to Balmora and tell the spymaster what he could do with his job, in loving detail, with diagrams if necessary. And assistance for those things that were physically impossible for one person to do alone. Nibani Maesa’s next words, therefore, were like a dagger in my heart.

This post has been edited by OverrideB1: Aug 22 2005, 07:52 PM

[minque]

Ahhh cruelty thy name art Override....

You just had to huh? Even if we sort of "know" what Nibani Maesa´s words would be..we can´t be absolutely sure you haven´t changed anything.....just for the thrill....can we?


It´s a pleasure to read a story that well written.....so I hope you´ll update pretty soon..as you usually do...

Have a

[Neck' Thall]

kool...i dont think i got the water fall thing...now i gotta go back to getit...

[treydog]

To express my admiration and enjoyment of this story would take more words than I have. Now that Sudhendra has moved into areas that are "safe" for me to read, I do so with great pleasure. The fight with Vantinius was one of the best I have ever seen- anywhere. The rocky relationship with Caius is a breath of fresh air- Sudhendra is Arch-Magister and Knight of the Dragon- no surprise she has no interest in being a flunky. And particularly no surprise that she has no desire to further the Empire's interests.

[Lucidarius]

“No you do not,” she snapped standing in front of me, her crimson eyes flashing with anger. “Your heart, your mind, your spirit ~ they all rebel at the thought. You are not Nerevar, War-leader of the Great Houses, and Clan Master of the People. You are not the Reborn.”

Yes, I remember this part. It's good to follow Sudhendra's reasoning when she hears it. But no one escapes the Spanish Inquisition...ehm, the Empire.

[OverrideB1]

"What you are is someone with the potential to be the Nerevarine,” she said, not unkindly. “Your birth under the sign of the Apprentice and the uncertainty surrounding your real parents are clear enough signs that you have that potential. But those alone are not enough to prove that you are the Nerevarine. Indeed, many are those who have met these criteria and assumed the mantle of Nerevarine ~ all have failed. Your reluctance to claim the title may be the one thing that marks you out as the true heir to those ancient titles.”

“Great,” I groused, “damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“Such is often the way of the Mundus,” Nibani said with a smile. “Come, sit and listen and I will tell you what I can.”

I sat and listened as the Wise-Woman told me what the prophecies said. About how the Reborn would be immune to disease and old age; “even,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “beyond the talents of those you have aligned yourself with.” She went on to explain that the Reborn would bear the mark of Nerevar’s House ~ the Moon-And-Star device of House Indoril.

“The Wise-Women of the People,” Nibani said, “have kept alive the prophecies and tales of the Incarnate but, alas, many of the tales have been lost down the years. We know that those known as Dissident Priests study the Nerevarine Prophesies and record the words in books. Mayhap they will have answers I cannot give. You, who straddle both worlds, can go to the settled people and get them to show you these books. Then you can bring back the words you have learned.”

If anyone knows how to get in contact with these dissident priests, it would be Caius Cosades. When I returned to Balmora, I would have to ask him. I then spoke of the increased activity I had observed amongst what the Temple called ‘The Sixth House Cult’ and of my strange dreams. Nibani feels that there is some connection between the recent attacks by what she calls ‘sleepers’ and the Nerevarine Prophesies, although she wouldn’t discuss that with me. As to my dreams, she said that these are being sent to me by ‘The Sharmat Ur’ and are designed to tempt me from my course. I should resist them at all costs.

Her final words to me were accompanied by a gift, two ancient scrolls that the Wise-Woman said would help me understand. These were ‘The Seven Visions’ and ‘The Stranger’. I had no doubt that Cosades would be deeply interested in these scrolls. Thanking Nibani Maesa, I left her yurt and wandered a little way into the Ashland before opening a portal and crossing the void to Balmora.

Oddly, my conversation with Nibani Maesa had calmed my nerves somewhat. While Cosades’ belief that I may be the Nerevarine Reborn could be written off as his desire that I serve the Empire; even at my most cynical I couldn’t ascribe such motives to the Urshilaku Wise-Woman. She really and honestly believed that I had the potential to be this Dunmeri General, reborn after countless centuries. Not that I was, but that I might be. I could take certain satisfaction from the fact that there was an equal chance that I might not be.

“I will study these carefully,” Caius said, taking the two scrolls from me when I related what I had learned. “But first, I have a new task for you. Following up reports of cultists near Gnaar Mok, a patrol encountered a powerful force of cultists, deformed beasts, and something even worse. The survivor, the only one to make it out of Ilunibi, was unable to describe what it was they found deep in those caverns and he died, raving and diseased, before we could get much more out of him.”

“Diseased?” I asked.

“Yes, some disease none of our healers have encountered before,” the spymaster said. “Although I suspect you may know of it… the locals call it Corprus.” He nodded as I gasped, almost as though he was expecting the response. “I want you to go to Fort Buckmoth and speak to the Champion there, Raesa Pullia. She knows what you are, not who, and is under orders to tell you whatever she can about the patrol. Find out what you can, find out where this base is located, and wipe them all out Finder, every last one of them. It’s a filthy job, I know, but someone’s got to do it.”

Raesa Pullia was distraught, to put it mildly. Clad in a black robe with a black cloth covering my face and the hood pulled as far forward as it would go, and bearing no trace of Legion armour whatsoever, I questioned her in the gruff accent of the Skaal. “Of the patrol, tell me,” I demanded.

“A patrol up near Gnaar Mok,” she said, carefully not looking at me directly. “Sent to investigate reports of cultist activities there. Six of my best men,” she added sadly. Then, pulling herself together, she continued. “They found a cavern ~ Ilunibi ~ and entered. They fought their way through the cavern; the survivor said that they fought mad cultists and terrible monsters. He described them as man-beasts. They came to something else, deep under the rock. The survivor said only two words about whatever it was they faced, just before he died.”

“Those words, what?” I growled.

“Dagoth Gares,” she replied.

“The survivor,” I pressed, “of him, tell me.”

“He turned up the day before yestere,” she said with a shudder, “after being missing for a week. We scarcely recognised him, so disfigured was he. It was only by his… his uniform…” Pullia paused for a while, obviously mastering her emotions. I didn’t press, I had seen the hideous results of Corprus-infection and could imagine, all too vividly, what the poor damned soul must have looked like. “We only recognised him because of his uniform,” Pullia continued after a while. “He was raving, something about dreamers and sleepers awakening and the time of the lost ones.”

That gave me another nasty start, the Dunmeri woman in the sewers beneath Vivec City, the one who’d killed seven people two months ago, she had been raving about ‘the time of the lost ones’. And, my memory prompted, she’d been toting a dagger with Sixth House sigils all over it. “Ilunibi,” I snapped, “where?”

“We don’t know,” Pullia said. “All we know is that they were patrolling north of Gnaar Mok. Tell me,” she pleaded as I turned to go, “is it true that the survivor had Corprus?”

I glanced over my shoulder and nodded curtly, leaving as she gasped in horror. Donning the ring, I returned to Tel Vahl. To be honest, part of me wanted nothing further to do with Cosades, Nerevarine Prophesies, or disfigured horrors raving about ‘Sleepers’ and ‘Dreamers’. The more civilised portion of me realised that the Sixth House Cult was becoming a problem. They’re obviously the source of the foulness known as Corprus and, if they’ve established a base near a population centre, even one as small as Gnaar Mok, then they have grown very bold indeed. Ignoring the problem wouldn’t make it go away ~ in fact, ignoring the problem meant that, sooner or later, disfigured monsters would be knocking on the door of Tel Vahl.

As to the Nerevarine Prophesies themselves? I was uncertain whether or not I believed in them but I was pretty certain that they weren’t about me. The whole idea was laughable, a no-name Dunmer born thousands of miles away, beaten daily and kept in abject poverty by adopted parents, a petty thief, an exile from her own land and reviled by the inhabitants of her ancestral home ~ this, this was supposed to be the life of some great battle-leader born anew? Please, don’t make me laugh.

[minque]

Ahhh just wonderfully described here.......I just love it......no need for more words....just some

[Neck' Thall]

Ooooooooooooooh!! i like...Hey, u haven't mention what has changed at Tel Vahl...I mean she was gone a long time.

[Lucidarius]

Good links back to the 'Dunmer woman clad in netch leather' from two months ago and Sudhendra's recollection of how corprus affects the body from seeing other diseased victims. Those two links make her patience with Pullia and her reasoning about the prophecies fit in well. And the disguise? Great detail.

Like Neck' Thall, I'd like to hear about Tel Vahl, too. You portray your retainers and the running of your stronghold really well.

[OverrideB1]

The Skaal chainmail, repaired and polished by the blacksmith Kalortod, was ready for me this morning after I broke my fast. As were Chrysamere, the Last Wish, my crossbows, and the matched pair of ornate silver blades ~ all freshly sharpened. Once I was clad appropriately, and armed, I packed my backpack with restorative and curative potions and a selection of deadly spells inscribed on parchment. A bundle of faggots strapped to the underside of the pack completed my preparations and I opened the way to Balmora and stepped through the portal. Setting a brisk, but not punishing pace, I trotted along the road to the Odai Plateau and, skirting the now overgrown ruins of Rethan Manor, I crossed the line of hills and descended into the Bitter Coast.

The road towards Hla Oad, little more than a pathway, eased my passage and I made good time to the small fishing village. To my dismay, all the vessels were out on the water so I had no choice other than to continue on foot up to Gnaar Mok. Despite having to take a rest after fighting off a couple of hungry Guar, I arrived in the Redoran Township not long after the Twelfth Hour. I have to admit, my rest along the way seemed to have done wonders for my stamina, on arriving at the wooden planks that span the marshes around Gnaar Mok I was barely winded, even though I’d picked up the pace a little.

My general demeanour, admirably aided by the profusion of weapons that festooned my glistening armour, was sufficient to overcome any reticence the Redoran guards might have had in speaking to me and I quickly learned that Ilunibi was a cave system on the coast, up near Kartag Point. The guards pointed out the landmark ~ a huge spire of rock ~ on my map and I quickly left the town and headed north.

The door to Ilunibi was on the edge of a noisome slime-pool, and accessing it required wading through the stagnant water or edging around the pool on the narrow margin of crumbly soil. Of course, as a Telvanni, I had a third avenue of approach and I simply used the levitation amulet to float serenely a good foot above the stinking pool until I reached the door. Under the cartouche that identified the caverns, another hand had crudely carved the legend: Carcass of The Saint.

The flickering red candles I could see in the tunnel opposite me, across the deep and water-filled pit, were cause for alarm. I’d know that Ilunibi was a Sixth House base but the reality of it hadn’t sunk in until I saw those. I could just make out a route down into the pit, which was being fed by thundering waterfalls, but the slippery-looking rocks promised that the slightest misstep would result in a great deal of pain. I had taken to keeping a few trinkets in a pouch at my waist, and from there I took out the levitation amulet that Talanian had given me. Focussing my will, I activated the charm and floated down into the pit and to the tunnel entrance.

I soon came to a junction, with tunnels leading off east, west, and south. Since straight ahead was as good a direction as any that was the way I headed. And, my Gods, I wished I hadn’t. I was moving as silently and as carefully as I could, intent on the flickering light that was coming from between two stone pylons that constricted the passageway ahead. From the dancing light and the roseate glow, my guess is that it was a fire. And where there are fires in a Sixth House base, there are usually postulants ~ the naked and half–insane adherents that are new to the cult.

With a cry of disgust that attracted the attention of the naked Dunmeri in the chamber, I drew back my hand and screamed “Na Awyra? Ad 'u anadl ddyfrha.” Instantly, the cavern was lit up with the first threatening flickers of the lightning-storm I’d conjured. Teeth clenched, I fed the construct with magical-energy, watching the thick, roiling clouds grow darker and more chaotic as titanic bolts of lightning arced from the underside of the hovering cloud to slam repeatedly into the cultist. When I was certain that he was dead, I entered the cave and, kicking the remnants of his last meal over to join the pitiful remains of its owner, I cremated the half-eaten remains.

Fuelled by revulsion and hate, I drew the Clanbringer and hefted it carefully until I was once more accustomed to the weight of the heavy sword. I would bring fire and destruction upon these foul creatures and cleanse these caverns of their abominable taint. Such were my thoughts as I stalked back along the passage and turned to the east, all pretence at stealth abandoned in my towering rage.

The blind and faceless ‘zombie’ at the end of the tunnel had no chance. As I drew back its hands to cast, I descended upon it, the Clanbringer already moving in a flat and smooth trajectory as I rushed in to do battle. The heavy Nordic blade tore through the creature in a welter of blood and other, less identifiable, gore. The legs and lower torso, neatly cauterised by the awesome power of the blade, remaining standing for several seconds after the upper torso and head had toppled backwards. The door it had been guarding exploded under the impact of the sword ~ I cared not if it had been locked or trapped, or neither.

I now found myself in an area known as ‘The Tainted Marrow’, facing another irate adherent of this disgusting cult. As he rushed from the niche he used as a home, I dug the point of Clanbringer deep into the loose soil and hurled a fireball at him. He screamed as the flesh melted from his bones, the dancing flames that licked and consumed his threshing form providing enough illumination for me to see the other naked Dunmeri inside the small hollow. They seemed oddly reluctant to attack, but I showed no such restraint, focussing on their fire and turning it into an instrument of death ~ the noxious fumes the spell created causing them to claw at their throats as they threshed and jerked their miserable existence away on the dirt floor where they belonged.

Faint whispered voices echoed through the caverns as I stalked towards the door at the end of the short western passageway. Slamming open the door, I descended into Marowak’s Spine. These dark and gloomy caverns were filled with flitting shadows, and I knew I was drawing closer to the black foulness that corrupted this place. Without deviation, I followed the tunnel straight ahead of me, dealing death by magic to the inhabitants, the filth that infested these caves. There were fewer of the postulants here: as I raged through the caves, hacking and slashing, mystic fire splashing the walls, I found that I was facing more and more of the hideously deformed creatures I knew as ‘Slaves’ and ‘Zombies’. Not that I cared ~ all of them deserved death. And that was what I came with.

Panting, I rested against the cool stone and took stock, my boiling rage leeching away. My travelling robe was tattered and torn, smeared with blood and ichors from the creatures I had decimated to reach this point. Not all the blood that stained me belonged to the dead monstrosities behind me; in my fury I hadn’t noticed the wounds I’d picked up along the way. And the dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes bespoke the fact that I was running on my last few reserves of magical energy. Knowing that there were creatures still behind me that had escaped my wrath ~ I could still hear their whispering voices ~ and even more ahead of me in ‘The Blackened Heart’, I took a few moments to recuperate.

Shedding the robe was the first priority; the stink of sweat and blood that rose from it was nauseating. Not wishing to handle the sodden fabric, I used my boot-dagger to slit the front and simply shrugged it off. Now, with the armour of the Skaal exposed, I dug in my pack for three items. The restorative potions soon did their work, the tiny cuts and deep wounds I’d accumulated itching as flesh knitted itself back together. Simultaneously, the restore magicka potion dealt with the dull ache in my head, replenishing the arcane forces I’d need for what lay ahead. Replenished and restored, I tied back my hair and placed the Nordic helm atop my head.

The Blackened Heart was a labyrinth of tunnels, inhabited by the most distorted and disfigured of the Sixth House cultists. My heart pounded, the bitter tang of fear in my mouth. The creatures seemed unwilling to attack, melting back into the shadows as if under orders not to stay my progress. And that thought terrified me ~ what power ordered these creatures, and why would such a power stay their attacks? There had been no such reticence in the outer tunnels of this diseased place so why was there now? Somehow I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being led, like a Guar to the slaughter, to whatever hideous secret this place held.

‘Soul’s Rattle’ did little to disabuse me of that notion; the reeking caves that opened off the main passageway littered with evidence of recent occupation. From ahead I could hear a faint chanting, a solitary voice that rose and fell, chanting words I couldn’t understand. Following the echoes of the voice, I made my way deeper into the squalid gloom until I came, at last, to a large chamber. This room, a natural hollow in the rocks, was arrayed with the trappings and ornaments of the Sixth House cult. Here, at last, was the corrupted heart of the Ilunibi caverns.

The robed and distorted figure that stepped away from the squat and hideous idol was instantly recognisable. The deformities that had been wrought on the Man/Mer in front of me were identical to the monstrosity I’d faced in Hassour. “Hold,” it said in an oddly whistling voice, “stay thy hand. For thou art come to Ilunibi, the least of our refuges where we may share the sacraments of flesh and blood.”

[minque]

Wooahhh........I remembered how I felt playing that part.....so long ago.....Amazingly described..so utterly vivid as if I was actually playing it ..

Amazing..just amazing...

[OverrideB1]

There was something lascivious in the way the figure piped the words ‘flesh and blood’ that made me shudder. “What do you mean, the least of your refuges?”

“Other lesser shrines art hidden throughout the land,” it whistled, “but beneath Red Mountain lie the citadels of our Lord and his kin. We are but poor servants: Sleepers and Dreamers newly awoken to worship Him, for we are the least of His servants ~ although the Children of His Flesh are deep in the heart of His mysteries. The Poets, Ascended Sleepers, and the Ash-Vampire Lords are blessed, living as they do in the heart of His power.”

“Who is this ‘he’ you speak of?” I asked, my horror growing with every alien syllable the Dagoth uttered.

“Lord Voryn Ur, Dagoth, Master,” it shrieked in ecstasy. “Thou would be as friend received if thou would travel to Red Mountain and lay down your arms. Until that time, His servants will thou treat as an enemy. Dagoth Ur wishes to renew friendships long forgotten Nerevar,” the priest continued, false sincerity oozing from every word it spoke. “To Red Mountain, the path is long and the dangers are many, but there He will grant thee wisdom, wisdom and power so that thou may order the Mundus to thine own liking.”

“To my own liking?” I asked.

“Aye Nerevar,” was the response, “Join with Dagoth Ur and together shrive Morrowind of the greedy thieves and false friends who wouldst bleed us dry. Thou shall water the wastelands with the blood of the outlanders and there, the children of Veloth will build anew the garden of plenty.

“Thrice He was betrayed by you and yours,” the Dagoth hissed softly, “but He doth forgive thee. My Lord commands that I relay this message: ‘Ever we were friends Indoril Nerevar and trusted I was to guard thy treasure. Yet I was struck down protecting that I had sworn to thee I would protect. Yet I forgive thee Nerevar and would raise thee high in mine service. Come to Red Mountain and swear oaths of kinship and we shall sweep all before us. Lay down thy arms and I shall give thee power beyond mortal ken’. These are the words of my Lord and Master; to thee He extends a hand of friendship. How say thee?”

“Here’s my answer,” I said, whipping the ten-pointed star I’d been concealing in my hand at the dark priest. There was a burbling scream as the spark-enhanced shuriken slammed into the Dagoth, flickers of lightning flickering up and down the creature’s form. I was already in motion, closing the distance between us as the silver blades sang their deadly song. The left blade hammered into the beast’s upper arm, blood jetting out as the blade bit deep. The other blade slashed up and across in a Geth-strike cutting a deep furrow across the Dagoth’s chest, the return slash severing the tendril that grew from the centre of its face. Merciless, I pounded home another strike ~ this one cutting short the rising wail from the Dagoth and slicing open its throat.

I grinned, I doubted that this Ur would receive the message but the silence from Ilunibi would be message enough for the Sharmat. Wiping my blades on the priest’s tattered robe, I returned them to their scabbards and looked around the chamber. Apart from the inevitable plinth with its shelves of aberrant statues and the squat and hideous idol, there was little of interest in the chamber. I did find a pair of chitin gauntlets, heavily enchanted with some enhancing spell ~ but this was neither the time nor the place to be investigating the magic woven into the armour.

“Nerevar,” a weak voice said, on the very edge of hearing. Spinning around I watched the bloodied shape of Dagoth Gares raise itself up on an elbow. “My Lord wishes you to go to Red Mountain, if thou will not go voluntarily, then thou shall go in His flesh…”

I screamed as black fire coursed through me, the agony driving me to my knees. Every cell was afire…

I must have passed out for; when next I took note of my surroundings I was laying on the floor several paces from the stinking ruin of Dagoth Gares. Groaning, every join aching, I rose to my feet. I seemed unaccountably weary, far more exhausted than fighting my way through Ilunibi and cutting down Dagoth Gares could account for. I remembered the Dagoth’s final words and my heart skipped a beat.

“Stand right there and do not move,” Cosades said, peering at me closely when I entered his dwelling. Skirting around me, he rushed out of the building, returning a few minutes later with the Blades’ healer Tyermaillin. “Tell me that isn’t what I think it is,” he said.

Tyermaillin came close and peered at me, suddenly recoiling ~ the horror written large on his face all the confirmation of my fears that I needed. “Corprus,” I whispered. The Altmeri nodded before turning to Cosades and spreading his hands in a gesture that summed up his helplessness.

As the Healer took his leave, Cosades stood and looked at me. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Listen, I have some contacts I can speak to, come back in the morning and I’ll see what I can do in the meantime.”

“Why bother?” I said, fighting back the tears. “We both know that I’m as good as dead ~ or worse. Promise me that you’ll kill me before it gets too bad, please…”

“We’ll have none of that,” he said gruffly, “I got you into this and I’ll get you out of it. Now go and get some rest.”

Wrapping a cloak around me, I made my way through the streets of Balmora to Dura gra-Bol’s house. That would do for the night and I no longer cared if the Camonna Tong knew where I was or not. Sleep, as you can imagine, was a long time coming and when I finally fell into a fitful doze, I was plagued by dreams.