A/N: This story of mine is an alternate telling of Morrowind's plot. This Nerevarine's journey will differ vastly from the story we know in the game, though I intend to maintain the spirit and mood of the original work. I hope you enjoy it all the same.
Balmora.
"Stare at the river too long, outlander, and you'll fall in. Stand aside."
Nilseth Valericus was jolted out of his thoughts as someone shoved roughly past him. Blinking, he saw a guard dressed in the characteristically Hlaalu bonemold armor hustling across a bridge to break up a fight between two shirtless men outside a cornerclub. More than likely on purpose, the strength at which the guard pushed Nils aside was enough to make him lose his balance and he nearly did fall into the River Odai running through Balmora. Unlike in Cyrodiil, the stone bridges here did not have hand rails to prevent such accidents. He pulled his sight away from the ever-flowing river and moved on, keeping his eyes down as he walked past the undoubtedly mazte-induced altercation between a Nord and a Dunmer.
Outlander. He had come to hear this word a lot, and he had only been in Vvardenfell four days.
You looking for a fight, outlander?
Out of the way, outlander.
Got my eye on you, outlander.
No touching the wares, outlander, unless you have the gold to buy it.
While Nils would be categorized a Dark Elf by the scribbling Imperials in the census, to the Dunmer he would always be a half-breed, an outlander. His lighter skin, the same grey as wood ash, was enough for him to be scorned. If one were to look closely they would see his eyes were not completely red but almost magenta, much resembling the color of blackberry wine.
Yes, in Cyrodiil he had to face jeers – "ashborn" was a popular epithet by the children in the schoolyard, but he was for the most part treated with decency. Most races were, provided they followed Imperial rules and customs. Yet here in Morrowind, though he looked more like a Dunmer than an Imperial, Nils faced an extreme form of racism that he had never experienced before.
It was a known fact that the Dunmer were distrustful of foreigners. But a Dunmer born outside of Morrowind, especially a Dunmer with traits of Men, would be even more despised than a full-blooded Imperial.
He had done as Cosades suggested and purchased a cuirass and pair of boots stitched from boiled Netch leather. They had a... unique smell. At least now he was out of his dirty prison rags and could pass at being something slightly less offensive than a blighted rat.
All he needed now was a better weapon than the dull iron shortsword he had found in an abandoned bandit cave knee-deep in swamp water. The sword was tiny; reminiscent of a practice blade he had once used as a child. Inappropriate for someone well into his thirties like him. No wonder the bandits left it behind.
After six years in prison though, he realized his swordsmanship may be even rustier than this blade. He had only used it once to threaten a young pickpocket on the road from Seyda Neen, but the urchin only dropped his meager coin purse and ran away. Anyone with an ounce of mettle would scoff at that sorry excuse for a sword.
Nils took a good look at his surroundings.
Balmora. Stone forest. An apt name for the city carved between two mountain ranges. On one side of the river were the book stores and blacksmiths, the multi-storied estates of the wealthy, the Guild of Mages and the Guild of Fighters. On the other side of the river stood the modest homes of the working class. Even further back were the slums, the seedy cornerclubs, the skinny unkempt children of their addict parents. Caius Cosades, that crafty Imperial agent, knew well to hide among paupers and moon-sugar fiends; if there was one thing the Dunmer loved to completely ignore, it was a poor foreigner. Nils didn't trust that man, but whatever task the Emperor had for him was better than wasting his life in prison. It was for this reason that his feet began to carry him towards Suran early that morning. Find the Argonian named Sees-Through-Dusk in Suran. That was his first task. It was simple enough, for now at least. What other choice did he have? The Emperor had granted him an official pardon, and he could take it away just as easily.
Fields of Kummu.
Nils must have taken a wrong turn somewhere after passing Fort Moonmoth, for he did not see any more signs. He wasn't certain he cared too much, for the area he presently found himself in was nothing short of beautiful after emerging from that ashen wasteland. Endless fields of wild heather spread a fragrant cerise blanket across the land. The sun sparkled on the waters of a nearby lake. He knelt beside the bank and cupped his hands to drink from the crystal clear water, taking a pause to fill his empty jug. Nils leaned against a large boulder, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
Freedom. Not long ago he was in an Imperial prison, unsure if he would see the sun again. Now he felt its warmth on his face and smiled for the first time in what must have been years.
Though he vaguely kept in the back of his mind that someone very powerful wanted him to speak immediately with an informant in Suran about some ancient Dunmer prophecies for reasons not yet divulged to him, the urgency of this task mellowed and he allowed some time to himself to savor the feeling of breathing outdoor air, wondering if the tinge of ash in each breath would eventually roughen his vocal cords enough to where he would sound like the locals.
Nils wondered if his mother was doing alright. Maybe she was still in Cheydinhal and had turned their old house into an Inn. She was always practical like that. He wanted to see her, or at least know that she was safe. But Nils could not show his face in Cyrodiil yet unless he wanted to go straight back to prison.
From his sack he pulled out a raw ash yam and began to peel it with a knife. He had heard about this curious crop that grew out of the volcano ash, and a nearby plantation had been almost completely razed to make way for new crops save for a few hardy plants, which Nils took the liberty of unearthing.
He supposed it would be alright to eat it raw. It was just like a potato, right? Eating it raw might not taste good, but he needed to keep his strength up and he had nothing else.
The first bite made his eyes water. Yes, like a potato, if a potato were filled with ash on the inside. The smell of sulfur made the experience even more unpleasant, and he swallowed chunks down after hardly chewing. How the Dunmer of the Red Mountain region managed to live on a diet based on ash yams was beyond him. He would take the mystery stew and stale bread they fed him in the Imperial City's prison over this, gladly. But Nils forced himself to eat the rest of the ash yam and washed it down with some water. If only he had some brandy to rid himself of that dusty aftertaste still in his mouth...
It was something he would have to get used to. Hopefully he would be able to tolerate the taste when they were boiled.
Nils closed his eyes again, feeling slightly sick to his stomach after that ash yam. Perhaps they weren't meant to be consumed raw. Oh, well. At least he wouldn't be hungry, if he could manage to keep it down.
At the sound of quiet footsteps on the grass Nils opened one eye. He kept a hand on that shortsword, for whatever good it might do him.
Upon looking up he saw a tall, slim figure in a hooded dark green robe. Female by the look of it, but the hood obscured her face. Her boots were worn, and the only thing close to a weapon that she held was a gnarled oak staff, which appeared to be more useful for traversing slopes than warding off attackers. Nils stared, nearly mystified. He slung his pack over his shoulder and followed her. Upon hearing his footsteps the woman stopped in her tracks and turned around.
She was just as tall as he was, though Nils admitted to being a few inches shorter than the average Dunmer male due to his mixed heritage.
Her dark skin was smooth as obsidian and her features symmetrical on her oval face. Her almond-shaped red eyes examined the stranger in front of her; without judgment, yet still with impassivity. She had all the graces and beauty of a woman of the nobility, yet she wore the simple robes of a pilgrim.
"Greetings, miss. I could not help but notice you walking by, and perhaps thought you would be able to help another traveler? I've lost my way, you see..."
Nils trailed off. Another thing that prison had dulled were his social abilities, and his awkwardness was apparent.
But the woman smiled and bowed her head, gaze flickering humbly downwards as she turned around and headed back in her original direction. Nils took this as an invitation to follow.
"Not one for conversation, are you? That's fine. I am Nilseth, son of – well, that doesn't matter anymore. Just call me Nils. Do you have a name?"
Again, he was met with silence. The Dunmer woman only looked down as she continued to walk, though she did not quicken her pace or give any indication that his presence was unwelcome. In a short while they were facing a small, unassuming shrine with an inscription. Temple shrines. Nils had been given a brief history of the Tribunal Temple's influence, but he knew little about the tenets of their religion other than from history books with a clear Imperial bias.
As he knelt to read the inscription the Dunmer woman headed in the direction of the lake. Nils watched her reach in to pull out two handfuls of muck. She handed one of the handfuls to Nils, who accepted the muck without question, not wishing to offend. The silent pilgrim knelt beside Nils in front of the shrine, her lips mouthing the words on the shrine. She placed the muck at its base. Nils followed suit. Without thinking, he began to read the inscription out loud.
"Here Lord Vivec met a poor farmer whose guar had died."
But Nils paused when he realized that the woman's silence might have been something that held meaning. Embarrassed, he looked down at his lap, clearing his throat and shaking his head.
But then the woman did a startling thing by placing a dark hand on his arm. She looked up at him and nodded, something close to amusement in her eyes, as if she were encouraging him to continue reading aloud. He obliged, learning about how the god Vivec taught the lesson of humility by toiling in the muck fields like a beast of burden. He thought upon this inscription for a moment, wondering if the Nine Divines would turn away from him for this. Nils had been taught by his father to respect the Divines, and though he had never been completely devout, he still accepted their divinity. But to revere this Almsivi... these god-kings who were once mortals... it seemed almost profane.
Yet Nils could not deny the power he suddenly felt flowing through his veins after reading the inscription. He felt lighter, featherweight, and his shoulders no longer strained from the pack over his shoulders. The hard leather armor now felt light as silk.
As his reverie faded and he became aware again of his ill-fitted Netch armor and toy sword Nils felt almost embarrassed to be sitting beside such a beautiful woman with such a regal presence. But she seemed to enjoy his company for reasons unknown to him, even if she did not speak it, and they both stood up in unison, making fleeting eye contact with each other.
"Could you possibly point me in the direction of Suran?" he asked.
The woman only smiled automatically, though in a way it seemed artificial. The same type of mechanical, obligatory kindness he recognized from certain members of the clergy of the Divines. She bowed at the waist, so graceful that she never moved her head or neck. Nils followed after her. Indeed, they only walked a short while until they reached a bridge. In the distance he saw the distinct Hlaalu banner and that familiar architecture: rows of stone-block structures with sharp corners like the ones he had seen in Balmora. He could even hear the moan of the Silt Strider. And while he had stopped only a moment to examine the scenery, his silent companion had already vanished past the arches into Suran.