Prologue

o

I was born some sixty years ago, in the pseudo-province known commonly as the Black Marsh, and to the Elves as Argonia. Our community was nothing like the grand cities and interlinked conurbations Morrowind has: It was nothing but a small, backwater village, consisting of a few wattle and treetop huts. By nearly all standards, we were a tribe of primitive savages.

We were reviled among the "civilised" people of the rest of the world. However, we were simply happy to live off the land and among the plants and animals of our homecountry. In our eyes, they were the savages, not us. After all, was it not they who made frequent expeditions into our territory to capture our friends and kin, who were never seen alive again?

o

It was a large day.

The wind was still in the leaves. The great sun was low in the sky, washing a wave of gold through the thick ferns and wise trees. Its fire was dimmed by its fall through the canopy, but its warmth flowed throughout. The cracked sky glimpsed through the thick foliage darkened as the sun fell in its arc, giving way to the lights of night.

The air. The air was heavy with scent, of sweet leaf-rot and of dark water. It was filled with sound - the cries of the small creatures of the world, the songs of birds, and the call of the prey in the far distance as the hunters stalked. Underfoot the creepers crept, overhead the leapers leapt. There was life in this green world.

Life.

Further on through the thick ferns and wise trees, difficult to see, was a low wattle home, nestled in the roots of a great tree. The shadow of the great one spread across the humble hut, enshrouding it protectively. From inside came croonings, cries of maternal pain; Life. The creatures of the world without stopped a moment, as if to listen. And then the womb was broken, a new birth! And then silence once again, and the swamp resumed its chorus.

Yes, this was a large day, indeed.

News of the birthing spread quickly, for this was no ordinary nestling.

The clanspeople came, one by one, to pay their tributes; they brought offerings of food, tanned leather, bark etchings, and wood carvings to the parents. Most chose to leave their gifts by the door of the hut. Some chose to deliver them in person, paying their respects to the mothre, Natun-Ei, the tribe shaman. She would accept their gifts graciously, blessing them for their courtesy, but would bid them to be on their way quickly, almost in curt fashion.

Ahahtahn, mate of Natun-Ei, was a hunter. Quick and silent in step and with a strong spear arm, he was widely regarded in the tribe as the most skilled stalker in the tribe's territory. But hunters such as he could sometimes be gone for days, even weeks in their excursions, and on the whole Natun-Ei saw little of him.

Two days after the nestling was birthed, Ahahtahn returned from his hunt.

'He is a strong child.' He remarked upon inspecting his offspring. 'You have borne me a fine son, sistre.'

'I am glad that you are pleased, brothre.' Natun-Ei replied, coming to stand close to her mate and looking down into the nest where their offspring lay. He was yet small, only a handspan in length, far smaller than a manchild of the same age. His scales, still soft and vulnerable, were like those of Natun-Ei, pale tan, but a streak of Ahahtahn's red ran from the tip of his tail to the tip of his snout. Ahahtahn crouched low, and ran the tip of his clawed finger over the youngling's head. He felt the tiny protrusions along the top of his head and his cheeks. At his touch, his son squirmed, crying out in his small voice.

'This one shall have a fine crest.' Ahahtahn announced proudly. His own horns were a sight to behold - Totaling thirty-two, they jutted out from his forehead, skull and cheeks in a fearsome display. The Argonian's crest was considered a mark of his prowess in all areas of life, and was one of his most prized possessions. 'We shall train him to be a great hunter.' He traced the child's tiny arms and legs, with something that was almost a human smile. 'How strong he will be!'

He rose from his haunches, and turned to his wife. 'While you were undergoing this exploit, the hunters and I earned success in our own.' He informed her. 'Tonight the tribe shall celebrate your deed.'

He touched her shoulder, and they gave each other a perfectly synchronous, grave nod. 'I shall see you this evening, sistre. I am proud.' They nuzzled briefly, then Ahahtahn stepped out of the hut, heading through the trees to the greater village nearby.

Natun-Ei watched him leave. Her child squirmed again and cried, this time in hunger. She retrieved a bird's egg from the floor of the hut where the other offerings had been piled, and cracked it open. Carefully separating the white from the yolk, she dripped the nutritious yellow substance into the open mouth of the youngling. He stopped squealing, opening and closing his tiny jaws in delight as it covered his face. With her claw, she scooped the spilled yolk up from his cheeks and dribbled it again into his mouth. Fully fed, the nestling stretched its limbs with a wide yawn, and was immediately asleep.

She took the other half of the eggshell, thoughtfully draining the eggwhite from it as she watched her child sleep. This was her first child, and she knew that she should feel glad for his life, but for some reason she felt... uneasy... when she looked upon him.

She rose and retrieved a wooden bowl from the floor of the hut. She deposited an assortment of bones, feathers and pebbles in the bowl, and spat into it. Then she turned it over, and bent to examine the pattern. What she saw troubled her.

She repeated the process again, with no change in the prediction. She looked over into the nest where her son slept. This one's life would be interesting, to be sure. Interesting, and eventful... but if what her shamanic magicks told her was true, it would also be a life of great strife, and suffering.

She looked down at the pattern on the floor again. She reached into its exact center, lifting a downy feather from the ground, and holding it up to inspect it. It was brilliant blue, of the fisher-marsh-bird, the kind that flew dove into the water to snatch fish from the depths, and which when evening fell would fill the air with its clear song.

And of triumph. She decided, almost reverently depositing the feather next to her sleeping son. His will be a life of triumph.

And, in the trees, the marsh-bird-song began.