The Wounds of Vvardenfell: A Morrowind Fanfic
Author's Note: I don't own this and I don't own these ideas. These are just expressions of my appreciation for the Elder Scrolls universe. All praise Bethesda *Worships*
This is a Morrowind fanfic, but I'll do my best to make it accessible to even those who haven't enjoyed that beautiful game. I always appreciate good criticism as well as praise, ego-maniac that I am. By criticism, I love any kind of criticism that I can get my hands on (so long as it's specific enough that I know what you're talking about)
Chapter 1: Blood-Smeared Stage
"Each event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the hero, there is no Event."
Sorasa Arstasu
The roar of the Deadroth made Sorasa Arstasu's armor rattle. Paradoxically, flashes of blinding light and crashes of thunder tore through the storming sky.
The rain pattered against her ritual bonemold armor, dripping through the narrow holes of her bronze helmet, down her face. Her heart beat like a hammer in the hands of a drunk Nord. Behind their army, loomed Vivec, the glorious capital city of Vvardenfell that was built out of the calm waters of the Inner Sea. It was the shining jewel of the Dunmer in their home province of Morrowind.
The city of Vivec consisted of a number of huge structures, connected by beautiful arched bridges. Sorasa was part of the army which defended the main bridge. In preparation of the Daedra attack, the other two bridges had been destroyed. The third and largest, bridge, however, was left standing. Sorasa and a battalion of Ordinators guarded that bridge in order to, as her commander had said, Draw the bastards onto our spears until there's none left. However, Sorasa felt some shameful doubts eating at her like a plague. She knew that if anything would get her people through this crisis it would be faith. Without faith, she was nothing.
"FOR AMSILVI!" shouted one of her dark elf comrades. A roar went up along the line. For the honor of my dishonored house. For my people. For Vivec! Sorasa, her eyes gleaming like steel, bashed her spear against her shield, adding to the clamor of her comrades.
The Daedra stampede thundered towards them, pouring over the hills like locusts. She could feel the ground shaking beneath her feet. The Ordinator line quieted, and for a moment before the enemy hit them, held it's breath. Golden-masked warriors braced their shields and brandished their ebony weapons with grim expectation.
The Daedra slammed into the Ordinator's shield wall with a thunderous crash, a crush of bodies pressing down on the faithful.
Ordinators were flung back with cries of panic as roaring Daedroth tore through them. A hissing Clanfear slamming it's head into her shield, Sorasa's armored boots slid through the slick mud, but the shield of the Ordinator behind her held her steady long enough for her to drop her shield and drive her ebony spearpoint through the creature's neck. "UUAHHH!" she cried, twisting the spear and pulling it out with a spray of blood.
Her racing heart had not even had a chance to beat before a flash of lightning revealed a Dremora's swinging a cruel mace. Sorasa blocked, feeling the crunch of her bonemold shield as the mace punched into the material. She felt the shock shoot up her arm. Lashing out, she struck at the beast with her shield. It stumbled back and gave Sorasa the moment of indecision she needed to find the weak point in his neck armor, driving her spear through it. The Dremora gurgled and blood splattered out. Sorasa felt it splatter on her helmet, the black blood of the monster dripping down her polished bronze helm like bloody tears.
She lashed out time and time again at the approaching enemies, piercing them with her long ebony talon. The bodies began to pile and her arm began to burn with effort. The screams, shrieks, and bangs of metal and armor roared around her, a twisted symphony of death. Her comrades on either side were spreading out. Their battle line was starting to break up, the demonic hordes began to push through their line. Ordinators in shining golden armor fell motionless to the ground, splashing in the growing red puddles.
As her comrades began to get pushed back, Sorasa struck out with her spear again, but her enemy was not deterred. The Daedroth roared, tore her spear from her hands and tossed it aside like a twig. Sorasa's arm was nearly dislocated as her weapon was torn away, stumbling with the force. She looked up to the beast that towered twice her size as she recovered her balance, but a flash of claws streaked past her. She felt a wet and numb sensation in her abdomen as her blood squirted from her destroyed armor. The Daedroth, a huge armored creature with a large snout and deadly claws like small swordpoints, let out a bone-shaking roar.
She fell for a moment, letting out a cry of pain as warm blood seeped down her waist, but in a flash of anger and determination, she ran at the Daedroth, unsheathed her ebony shortsword and with a full leap, plunged her sword overhand into the beast's throat. As the beast tried to recover, her hands sizzled with electricity, and she sent smoldering lightning down the length of her sword into the animal's inner throat. The flashes of her electricity magic strobed along the faltering Ordinator battle line.
Her lumbering target shrieked in pain, smoke pouring from it's nostrils before it shuddered and tumbled backwards.
Sorasa fell back to her comrades, preparing for the next set of enemies. Those who saw her dispatch the Daedroth let out a cheer. But before she could kill her next enemy, Sorasa felt herself falling. Dizzy and feeling faint, she slumped into the mud, the rain and battle splashing around her. Warm red liquid warmed her stomach, spreading out from her torn armor. She could taste blood on her lips. I better not be dying, she thought defiantly. Another Ordinator fell to the ground beside her, his head separated cleanly from his body. I still haven't . . . still haven't. . .
When she woke, pale light splayed across her face. Her eyes fluttered sluggishly open. The sandstone ceiling flickered in a wavering battle between candlelight and darkness. She rubbed her head as if perhaps rubbing could drive the stiffness and pain from her aching head.
"Morning greet you, sister."
Who the hell? Sorasa pulled herself up, appraising her surroundings. No sooner did she pull herself up then she felt a sharp stab of pain pierce through her stomach like a molten blade. Sorasa fell back onto the bed and let out a hiss.
Sorasa sized up the man who spoke to her. He had the face of a highborn Dunmer, probably the weakling of his family. His red eyes glimmering in the candlelight, a sense of warmth radiated from him. Healer, undoubtedly. He wore robes of the temple, which meant that she was wounded worse than usual, and he'd had to administer magic to her over a long period to bring her back to consciousness.
"Don't worry, sister, the pain is just-"
Sorasa stopped the healer mid-sentence with a sharp glare. "I know shadow pain well enough, spare me the lecture." She'd had deep injuries healed before and she knew that often the pain of the wound remained for hours, sometimes even days, after the wound itself was tended to by a healer. But that was just pain.
Gritting her teeth, Sorasa sat up in her plain bed and tore the blankets that covered her aside, tossing them upon the carpeted floor. She'd been clothed in a generic cotton shirt and a pair of britches, both were loose fitting and she appeared to be wearing nothing beneath. The healer must have changed my clothes.
Smoldering, Sorasa looked around the room. Her shirt was sleeveless, her slender arms waist, and legs were covered in feminine muscle that she'd earned from many hours drilling, marching, and fighting. Her short black hair had grown in a bit since she'd last sheared it, and hung down to her brow. She was streamlined, but hard as a nail.
"Brother, a robe," she demanded, stretching out her arm.
"Ah, yes," he replied hurriedly, fumbling up from his chair. He checked a few wicker baskets, pulling out a pale, hooded robe and handed it to her, glimpsing her way with a look of mixed curiosity and caution.
Sorasa quickly robed herself, feeling the comforting press of a robe around her body. "You changed me from my clothes," Sorasa stated coldly, glancing sideways at the priest.
"Yes, Muthserah," he replied without apology.
"Were it not for your healing of me, I would break your jaw priest," she growled before flipping the hood of the temple robe over her head. She paused at the door. "Where is my armor?"
"The Hall of Justice in your barracks," the priest replied.
Sorasa huffed in annoyance and pushed her way through the room's door. Emerging into Vivec's temple, she saw robed priests gathered around various shrines, praying with their knees on the sandstone floor to the saints in unintelligible murmurs. The acrid smell of incense hit her nostrils and the smoke hung in the air like a fine mist. If these frightened old men learned how to pray with a sword, we'd have pushed the demons back a long time ago, Sorasa thought.
She left the High Fane, the famed temple of Vivec city and quickly made her way to the offices of the hall of Justice. When she approached the office, she could hear a heated debate raging behind the office's closed doors. Sorasa did her best to make out the words. "When Vvardenfell burns, you'll know you could have stopped it," an unfamiliar voice said, muffled by the closed door.
The second voice was familiar, the voice of her commander, Elam Andas. "Find me a mage who can conjure up replacements for all my men before you lecture me about my duties. We paid dearly to protect this city. I've heard your demands. Now it is time for you to leave."
Sorasa stepped to the side of the hallway in time for an angry Dunmer to storm from the offices, pacing indignantly past her. By the way he was dressed in imported imperial clothes, Sorasa guessed that he was a Hlaalu statesman. The Hlaalu were greedy, dishonorable, and served the Imperials like dogs. She had no love for their house. She shot him a sharp glare but he marched by without a glance. Scum.
Sorasa walked into the office, her bare feet barely making a noise upon the sandstone floor. Andas rubbed his temples in a sign of frustration and didn't notice her enter. Scrolls were piled upon his desk, and he sat in his Ordinator armor, albeit absent a helmet. To his left, a scribe scribbled furiously on a scroll. "Commander," she said stiffly, offering a half-bow. The commander regarded Sorasa and tilted his head in affirmation.
"Sorasa. It's good you're up. You're needed."
Sorasa dropped her eyes. "I was careless in the field. I apologize for my inadequacy."
Commander Andas face distorted into a grimace. "We took eighty percent casualties on the bridge that night, Sorasa. You survived and that's good enough for me."
"Eighty percent?" Sorasa exclaimed. "How is it the city hasn't been overrun?"
"The gates to Oblivion are closed."
"Praise Vivec," Sorsa said with a dark grin.
"No," Andas said, narrowing his eyes, "praise Cyrodill. A champion of Cyrodill closed the gates and saved Tamriel. It was announced yesterday."
Sorasa spat to show her disdain. "The Empire would stop at nothing to take credit for this. If we couldn't close the gates, how are we supposed to believe that an Outlander dog could manage it? Clearly this was the work of Lord Vivec. Perhaps the Neravarine."
"You know the grace of humility. Have you forgotten it?" Andas asked sternly.
"I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world," Sorasa muttered.
"You remember the words. See to it that you don't forget their meaning. We need to do the best we can with what we have. Vivec, the Neravarine, are gone and we have a responsibility to do all we can in their absence. It's up to us."
If the Neravarine were here. . . my comrades wouldn't have been slaughtered. "Yes sir."
"The Temple's Order of War was nearly wiped out, Sorasa. You are one of just a few surviving Ordinators. The Imperials have withdrawn their soldiers. Their forts stand empty. Bandits and criminals have begun to get bolder and we still have no word of Lord Vivec. The temple needs to impose order on Vvardenfell before bandits start overrunning cities. The Great Houses and clans are itching to settle their old feuds. If we don't re-establish order, there will be civil war. If we let Vvardenfell descend into chaos, our people will bleed. We must prevent that."
"Deploy me where you need, sir."
"We need to replenish our ranks. A healer from here in the High Fane tended to you for the past few days. He is to be admitted into the Ordinators. He will accompany you, and you will teach him."
That weakling? The last thing Sorasa wanted was to have a soft-skinned twittering fool following her around. "The training takes years! There are rituals. Rites. Trials," Sorasa protested.
"Tradition is too slow for our circumstances, Sorasa. Grumble if you wish, but train him as I've commanded, or I'll have you whipped."
Sorasa glowered, but nodded reluctantly. "Yes sir."
"Good. Patrol the road between Vivec and Seyda Neen. Do your best to suppress any bandits you find." Sorasa smiled. She liked the word suppress. It was such a pretty word for "kill them all".
Sorasa returned to her barracks first, retrieving her armor from her locked chest beneath her bed. When she pulled it out, she was glad to see that her shredded cuirass had been mended and polished, gleaming as if it were new. She held up the armor reverently, letting the golden surface glow in the candlelight. She brought it to her lips, kissing it gently. "Glory of my ancestors," Sorasa muttered in silent prayer.
As she strapped on each piece of her familiar armor, she felt more at home. Finally, she took her masked helm, engraved with the grimacing face of her ancestor, and, sweeping back her black hair, pulled it over her head.
The red of her eyes glowed from the holes in her helm as she strode into the hall. I might have to train you, runt, but I'm not letting you drag me down. I'd sooner leave you dead in a ditch, she thought.