Author's Note: Why do we have so many characters in ESO? Well from a strictly gaming or even power-gaming standpoint it's probably to make sure we can all have enough crafters to make all the stuff we want. Or adventure in all three "pacts" at once. Or have pack mule characters to store stuff. I came to computer gaming by way of RPG's so that's not how I think. I think that there are eight characters so I can have more members of a particular clan – or in-laws of that family, or friends of that clan (and possibly family of those folks). So when I roll up a new character he or she has to fit into these relationships somewhere, otherwise what would be the point of me playing them?
Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention
~~Once more Into the Breach~~
"Moths." Mol gro Durag muttered to himself.
At first he hadn't been sure what the fluttering little creatures were, that swarmed around the strange blind priest that Lyris Titanborn had insisted on rescuing. Moths, that's what they were, moths. Hundreds of tiny little moths. They weren't physically present. The orisimer's maul and then his arm had swept through the swirling mass of them as if through nothing more than a beam of sunlight. Hundreds of moths, made of nothing more than light and shadow.
And now this odd old man, with his fluttery retinue of teeny ghosts, told him to jump into empty space and trust that some Aedra that Mol wasn't even sure he actually believed in, was going to carry him off back to Nirn.
But. But Lyris had fought well at his side, and trusted this strange man enough to offer herself as prisoner in the old man's place. Mol gro Durag respected that kind of sacrifice.
The priest chanted confidently to Akotosh, and the moths swirled ever higher. Mol shifted his grip on his weapon and pressed a hand to his right temple, where he was still bleeding. The odd collection of bones and rotting flesh that he'd defeated hadn't gone down without a fight. Mol was fairly sure nothing was broken, but he couldn't seem to stop the trickle of blood from that temple, and his eyes seemed to be playing tricks on him. The moths were forming some sort of cloud, and the old man stepped forward onto it.
A cloud of moths shouldn't be able to hold up anything.
"Quickly!" The priest urged.
Ever since he'd woken in this strange place it seemed like everything had to be done 'quickly'. Well, what was the worse that could happen? After all, apparently he had already died? For some reason that struck him as funny, and he was chuckling as he stepped forward onto the firm platform of insubstantial moths.
He felt himself lifted, much more firmly than a cloud of moths ought to have done. He started laughing out loud.
~~And Then~~
He woke, cramped and uncomfortable, in a bed that was sized for men, not orisimer. He felt solid. Alive? Well he'd have to assume so. He tried to unfold himself and ended up landing on the floor with a loud thump.
"Ouch." He said softly.
Looking around, there was no one else in the room, but three other rumpled beds testified to the fact that someone had been. Or several someones. He thought back to the mocking comments of his sisters; they claimed his snores could frighten off a wolf pack.
Brushing himself off, he got up. The maul he'd claimed in … well in wherever he had come from, was resting against a small bedside dresser. It wasn't the double headed-hammer style of his own folk, but the more crown-shaped head that Breton smiths seemed to prefer. Still it had served him well. For that matter it was the only weapon he had right now.
Looking down at himself, he saw that he was still garbed in the mis-matched collection of armor that he'd claimed from the various feral shriven that he'd had to kill. How had he managed to sleep in armor? For that matter why a bosmer smith had made one of their leaf-style scale huabrek's sized to someone like him, he would never know. Perhaps that was one of the endless labors in Cold Harbor. Right, that's where he'd been. The realm of Molag Bal, lord of testing and the strength of disparate union. Or as some would have it lord of rapes and soul-stealer. He sighed. There was very little point in any mortal trying to define one of the Daedric Princes. He wasn't going to waste time thinking about it.
Instead he examined the strangely detailed haubrek. It didn't protect his neck much, and a great deal of the burn scarring he'd inadvertently earned in his early apprenticeship in the Order of the Dragon could easily be seen. He shrugged. Poorly designed or not, it was better than no armor.
Without much expectation that he would find anything, he looked in the pack he'd apparently kicked to the foot of the bed. Oddly enough the coins and food he'd gathered appeared to have traveled back to Nirn with him. The meat smelled edible, if not actually appetizing. He rummaged through the rest of the pack; a few lockpicks, a carefully corked vial of what looked and smelled like pure water, and a ring set with a small dark red stone.
He hefted the pack. Time to find out where he was.
He took a step toward the door, and a familiar aged voice called to him from a corner of the room. Out of the corner of his gaze, he could see the ghostly moths again. Inwardly he sighed. He'd been rescued. Now perhaps he would find out the price.
The price turned out to be much more vague than he'd expected. The prophet, as he now recalled Lyris calling the old man, had simply told him to find his way in the world. Apparently Mol would be contacted when he was needed. Or instructed.
Hefting the maul, he made his way out into the sunlight. He had time to note cobblestone streets and fair weather, when an attractive young redguard hailed him.
"So you are alive! And awake!" Her tone was pleased, and it made him wonder if this was a personal compliment or if she'd put money on the likelihood of his survival. As they spoke, he cautiously came slightly closer, carefully gauging her reactions as he made his way into her personal space.
A slight flush and a shy smile told him that it was at least partly personal.
He swallowed and stepped slightly back. While the idea was sort of flattering, after all she was pretty for a female man and he was a relatively young, relatively healthy male mer – but experience and a large family with many sisters had taught him to be wary with any female, most especially one from a different culture. Don't presume, he chided himself.
"You might want to speak with Captain Kaleen," Her voice had a hint of shyness still. "She's really the one responsible for saving you."
"Yet here you are watching over me. I thank you for that kindness."
She grinned, and her eyes sparkled. "Can I help you with anything?"
This time there was no mistaking the ... interest ... in her voice. He recalled the same tone in the voices of his sisters Lash and Urgash when they were discussing their plans for some hapless male. And while he was male, and relatively young, and healthy and ... potentially cautiously interested, it didn't seem like a good idea. He'd spent most of his life either among the clan of his youth, which meant most of the local females were related to him, and not really appropriate for romance. The other part had been with the Dragon Order, and things had been much more focused on combat and survival. Not much time for the gentler arts.
Add to that he really wasn't all that sure what a man, specifically a female redgard man, would consider acceptable. Best not to risk it.
All this went through his mind in a moment, and he said. "I do have two questions, if you would be so kind. Could you tell me where I might find Captain Kaleen. And where I might find a branch of the Guild of Personal and Family Finances."
She looked blank for a moment, and then suddenly grinned again. "You mean the nearest bank. Come, I'll show you." Without waiting for him to actually answer, she took off at a quick jog.
He followed her, trying to distract himself from watching the rather nice view of her from behind by taking note of the peaked architecture and patterned cobblestones of the city. He didn't think he'd ever been here before, but he wasn't sure. Uneasily he recalled the prophet's comment about being a vestige of his former self. Did that mean he should remember this place?
For that matter what had the female redgard called it 'the bank'? Did men shorten the names of everything?
"Just so you know-" The pretty redgard paused to gesture at a nearby building. He only avoided running into her because he had been watching her backside. "That's the Rosy Lion. Best Inn in Daggerfall, or at least the one with the best ale." Shooting him an encouraging grin, she started off again.
That definitely seemed like an invitation. But to what and how much of it.
His speculations were interrupted as he caught sight of a purple banner on a smallish building. The registered insignia of Guild of Personal and Family Finances. Or as his escort would have it; a bank. He'd recognized it in the moment before she cheerfully pointed it out. Something about the stairs up to it seemed to be familiar, and he slowly turned around, trying to find anything that would jog his memory. Across the way, he could see an open-sided structure. The glimpses of heat waves and coals, along with the ringing of metal on metal told him it was a public forge.
Standing in one of the entryways to the forge was a green clad tiny mer. A breton, he rather thought. A bit overdressed to be interested in metalsmithing, but that wasn't really his concern was it? Slowly he turned away; something was familiar, but it was too vague for him to pin it down. He went up the stone steps into the building, and was immediately lost in the crush of people.
He was taller than most of them; Bretons and Redgards. The few Orisimer like him stood out. There were at least two clerks, hastily checking scrolls that kept popping into and out of existence, directing the attentions of various customers to temporary magical portals that were keyed to recognize the customer. The nearest clerk was a Breton. Dark blonde.
As he let himself move slowly along the line, he mused that something was familiar here. Blonde. Breton. Blacksmithing. He sighed, and let his mind wander where it would. He knew he had sisters. A large clan ... from where? Try something else, who was his father? That brought a wave of sorrow, and something worse. Something bad had happened.
Bad things happening; well he'd obviously been killed, had that something to do with his father? He thought not. So how long had he been in Cold Harbor anyway? What year was it? He had glimpses of memories of labors, complaints that the least fit for a given task was assigned to it. Frustrated laughter that somehow made him think of the ridiculous hauberk he was wearing.
Then he came to the front of the line, and for a moment his eyes and maybe his memory were playing trickster. A blonde Breton, hammering away at an over sized forge, twitting him about how the slender man was smithing iron and the mighty mer was cooking. A name. He knew the name, almost.
"Welcome to the bank of Daggerfall, I am Angier-"
He felt rooted to the spot. The aquiline little nose, the slender hands; even the hair was the same. This close he could even identify that her scent had a familiar note. "Stower." He finished. Still caught up in the piece of memory, he added without thinking. "I think I knew your brother."
Her eyes went to his right elbow, where the barest glimpse of the tattoo that identified him as an order member was just visible. What bits of the tattoo had survived his burns, anyway.
'Alard' she didn't say it aloud, but her lips formed the name.
He knew that name. Knew it - and Alard had been as much a brother to him in the order as any of his blood kin. But there were blanks; he couldn't seem to recall the details, but a sudden clenching in his gut told him that something very bad had happened.
This wasn't about his father, it was different. Worse. Something to do with the order.
Before he could say anything, Angier's expression darkened, and she looked warily in the direction of the offices. "Would you care to make a deposit?" Her voice was overly loud, and she bit her lip as if to stop herself from adding anything else.
He nodded. This was not the time or the place for such a conversation. "Yes," He said firmly. "I'd like access to my account."