*NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR!*
The Elder Scrolls is a copyrighted property of Bethesda Game Studios and Zenimax Online Studios. This story is not intended to be sold or make any profits in any way. Though it'd be nice to.
This is, in essence, a short story. A trial or a test run. I'm writing it because I want to become more well versed with the tools on this site before I begin writing my main story arc. I do not intend this to exceed five chapters, not counting this prologue. So, I hope you enjoy it, and please leave reviews so I can learn what I'm doing wrong and what to change. Also, if anyone would like to be a BETA reader, I would very much appreciate an IM. So, without further adieu, I present the short story "Tear the Sky".
Grondig White-Hair rarely found himself ever actually paying for his meal. So it wasn't too shocking of a surprise when the inn keeper opened the oaken door to room swallowed in darkness.
"Ah-Oh! I-I hope I'm... Not interrupting anything?" the black bearded Nordic man who very much resembled a rat stammered as he poked his head through the door. If the candles weren't extinguished Grondig would have seen the surprise on the man's face. The normal guest room now seemed anything but normal. No light from the fire pit or the many candles in the main hall of the inn illuminated the eerie dark, nor did any sound from the boisterous regulars seep through the thin wooden walls. Strangest of all was the smell, or maybe the lack thereof. The rich sent of fermented cabbage cooking along with cheap cuts of beef, cow fat, carrots and potatoes were utterly gone. The air instead smelled of dust, ash, and something that resembled musty paper.
But the black robed man breathed a faint whisper in a tongue the slight Nord wasn't at all familiar with, and with that he seemed to breathe life back into the room. The candles on the night stand and the end tables resumed their flickering and dancing with the air, the smell of a tavern found its way back into the room, and the loud cursing and laughs of the locals echoed from the main hall. The room returned to the plain of Mundus.
"Not at all my dear boy!" Grondig smiled his strange smile at the bar tender. Maybe it was strange due to the apparent lack of lips the man had, as age had seen them melt with the rest of his face into what seemed to be a pale, wrinkled and weathered shell. "Appologies, had I known you were coming in I would not have been in a deep meditation." He grunted as he rose from his chair.
The inn keep, who was holding a wooden plate with seared venison garnished with ground, peanut oil-soaked garlic, a side of mashed potato with melted butter that had been removed from the skin, and grilled asparagus in one hand, and a foaming cup of chilled ale in the other stood in the doorway looking rather dumb with his jaw trembling. "S-s-s-someone heard you were here and said they wanted to pay their respects." he looked down at what he was carrying and gestured to the food.
The strange not-smile stretched his face in a weird way again. "Ah! I'm honored to be in the presence and have the respect of such a fine people. Send them in if they wish to have words." Grondig had this line memorized, reciting it and modifying it to fit the situation whenever he received a gift from the citizens of Skyrim. Though the tone itself came across as blank, and the inn keeper began to feel as if Grondig wasn't all there. As if his mind and spirit were absent yet his body was going through the normal routines of life.
However, the black bearded Nord simply set the food and ale down on the table nearest the door and quickly turned his back to the aged monk and headed for the door. Before he exited the room, he gave Grondig a sheepish bow "I'll be sure to ask 'em, sir."
Nobody, however, interrupted the monk's meal. So he ate in peace, and after he sat cross legged on the bed with his back to the wall facing the door on the other side of the room. He reflected on the events of the day, his arrival in Haroldwatch after a week of journeying through the marshes of Hjaalmarch. Before that was Morthal, the infamous hold of the marshalnds. Before that was Pearl Docks. And before that it was Marshwood. Grondig had been touring the gloomy Hjaalmarch for fourteen years now. The people of Skyrim usually regarded the place as one of the lowest holds in Skyrim. But to Grondig, there was more there. Where anyone from a bard in Whiterun to a cutpurse in Ivarstead would tell you that the marshes were an undesirable place to venture, Grondig considered the gloomy wood to be much more then that to a sentimental man such as himself. The Hjaalmarch was his home.
Seventy-two years ago, he was born in Morthal, and now it would seem the city took that as a badge of honor. Even during his most active years, Grondig would make frequent visits home. Something his Order were not at all keen to. One of the many things his order frowned upon that Grondig practiced. But what did he care? he had asked himself many times throughout his life. There was no question he was enjoying life more then any of his brothers in the order were. Was that not the point of life? To live it as you would wish, achieving harmony wherever it could be struck? His Order casting him into exile had indeed brought him to a dark place, but Grondig walked his own path now. As he was always meant to do, he had come to realize throughout the years.
"But," his dry mouth croaked to the empty room as he gave voice to his thoughts "it would be nice to find somewhere to drop anchor and call home." He sighed a sigh that resembled more wheezing than anything else, giving a little cough. This place, this Haroldwatch, was where he spent most of his childhood. There was a beautiful parcel of land just north of the small community. No trees on a solid piece of land. The ground was sturdy enough to put the foundation of a house, unlike most of the grassy marshes which were normally so saturated with water your boots would be swallowed by the muddy ground if left in one place for too long. Yes... That would do, he thought to himself, his smile tugged at his lips. Now all he had to do was think of someone his age that he knew to take as a wife and live out the rest of his days with.
He blinked, and realized he was staring at a dark figure. He blinked again in surprise and trained his old eyes on it. Before him stood a tall man, wrapped in a gray, weather tattered cloak. He wore thin gloves of an unfamiliar kind of leather, his right arm crossed over his stomach and Grondig noticed his hand was resting on the pummel of a sheathed sword. Piercing red eyes glowed with a bright hatred from under the cowl, which cast a shadow of a magical nature over the wearer's face.
Grondig continued to sit on his bead, his mouth still shut, staring blankly at the man. How long had he been standing there for? What did he want? Did he know who Grondig was? The monk broke the silence after it was past being drawn out "If there is something I can do for you or help you with please state it. Otherwise, I appreciate if you leave an old man to his peace."
The man stood there as a statue, frozen in time. Bright red unblinking eyes seemed to burn so bright under the shadowy veil that there almost seemed to be no pupils at all. His chest barely moved as it heaved in and out as he took lengthy breaths. Nothing else moved on him. Both irritation and anxiety burned into Grondig's old Nordic bones as he felt himself being studied. "Well, out with it!" he puffed as his eyebrows furrowed and his normally bland voice began to take a demanding tone. "Be warned, if you wish to inflict harm upon this old man I will bring down the unbrideled wrath of the Gods down upon your head!"
Still, silence. No noise from the rest of the inn and its patrons, and certainly no noise from the ominous figure standing in front of Grondig's door. "Grondig..." a hoarse, scratchy voice that sounded something like a whisper from an ancient throat came from the hooded man. "You were born in Morthal, grew up here in Haroldwatch." The man's hands rose up to his hood as he spoke in an odd accent, pronouncing Morthal in a funny way. "You joined the Order of Jurgen Windcaller, or Jurgen the Calm at age 35. You spent your time with the Graybeards mastering your Voice and breaking their rules and traditions more then you spent honoring the Gods and achieving peace." He removed the cowl of his hood to reveal his ash colored skin and his shoulder length mane of hair that was whiter then Grondig's. He stood just outside of the range of the soft, dying candle light that barely held a flame to it anymore.
The blood in Grondig's veins ran ice cold, and his heart seemed to feel as though there was an anvil tied to it, dragging it down into his stomach. Surely he could deal with this petty assassin; killing him would be as easy as saying hello was. But had he truly upset the other Graybeards so that they wanted him dead? Such a thing was outside of the possibility of thought in the Order of Jurgen Windcaller he thought. It was one of the very reasons that contributed to his suspension from the Order. He was seen as too firey and violent to be one of the cult, and so he was cast out. So why would the hypocrites use such a means to be rid of him?
"I would know why the Order sent you, before I turn you to naught but an outline of ashes on the wall." Grondig asked as he slowly made his old body rise from his bed.
"My presence here has nothing to do with that Order." The deep rasp in his voice sounded like he needed to cough, but such was how ancient Dunmer like him sounded.
"Then whose hand sent you here?"
"I am not an extension of anyone's reach but my own... And... Well him I suppose."
A cautious but puzzled look found its way into Grondig's eyes. "Who is 'him'?"
The red fire in the Dunmer's eyes seem to intensify, burning a cold flame. "Some call him Trinimac." he husked.
"Malacath?" Grondig asked, disdain evident in his voice. "The Deadra of the Orcs?" He began to shake his head, his thin curly hair began to mat to his head as he felt himself starting to sweat. "I don't want anything to do with him."
"I am not an agent of Him," the Dunmer breathed "He merely takes interest in me."
"Well I despise the Deadra and those that traffic with them." Grondig waved off the dark skinned man and continued shaking his head, irritation and anxiety now crawled through his body and seeped into his voice. "I ask you to leave. I will not help you with whatever your intent is or whatever you have in mind."
Grondig wasn't sure if his visitor had cast some sort of spell, but the Dunmer seemed to grow in front of him as the air not only became cold, but it outright became dead. "You will aid me." The Dark Elf growled as he barred his teeth. An unnatural bluish green light that was brighter then all of the candles in the room illuminated the Elf, revealing his black weathered skin which itself could have passed as leather, and the many bumps under the Dunmer's cloak that were obviously belt straps with daggers and all matters of knives strapped to it, and a bow that was slung over his shoulder. The air itself seemed to crackle a bit, then Grondig saw flashes coming from the corner of his room. A small ball of white lightening flashed a few times before completely disappearing in a great clap of thunder.
A great, ancient voice more terrible then anything Grondig had ever known spoke to him within the refines of his own mind then. "You... Grondig. You are a failed monk. Your very existence means nothing but a hindrance to me. In the overall scheme of things, your life, your weak body, your ignorant little mind and the stuff of your soul is all... Moot." The awful voice quaked inside of Grondig's mind and he began to know fear like anything he had ever imagined feeling. "If you refuse to entertain me - if you refuse to help my... Play thing... I will let him kill you. Then I will revive you and bring you here. Then I will kill you again. Then I will revive you. Then I will torture you and fillet your soul in the most awful way a Deadra can imagine." Grondig surpassed mere horror and was feeling something that could not be described by mere words or descriptions. He involuntarily fell, first onto his feather bed, then slumping to the floor with his mouth agape and eyes so wide they look like they were about to roll out of the old man's sockets and onto the cobblestone floor.
After a few moments, the old monk found himself again. Clutching his chest and breathing short, neutered breaths he found himself to his chair. There he gasped for air a little while longer then swallowed hard. "Okay." he had difficulties surpassing the lump in his throat, and found himself merely mouthing the words instead of using his actual voice. "You will have my help. Tell me your tale."