Morndas, 20th of Rain's Hand. Year 202 of the Fourth Era.
An Empire is shattered to its core.
Emperor Titus Meade II is dead, as are all potential heirs to his dynasty, each slain by relentless assassins. After a brutal campaign, the proud land of Skyrim is brought under the rule of High King Ulfric Stormcloak, yet the conquering king cannot rest on his laurels, as he is now the ruler of a gravely troubled land.
Although Alduin the World-Eater has been defeated, the remaining dragons and the Dragonborn hero are now all conspicuously absent. In the wake of the war for Skyrim's independence, powerful vampires of the Volkihar clan now ravage across a weary land still licking its wounds from rebellion and dragonfire. In this confusion, King Madanach of the Forsworn is set loose upon the Reach once more, with all his vengeance and fury.
With the once mighty Cyrodiilic Empire all but disintegrated, and newly independent Skyrim in jeopardy, rulers and peoples of other lands are suddenly uncertain of what is to come next. All eyes across Tamriel now turn to High Rock: the 'last province' of a nonexistent empire, and a land which finds itself at a perilous crossroads.
The five kingdoms of High Rock are no stranger to turmoil: indeed, the courts of the five kingdoms are infamous for their mercurial politics and shifting allegiances. Even when the land was under the mantle of the Empire, the kingdoms of High Rock remained fiercely independent and largely self-sufficient. Now that the delicate balance of power across Tamriel has been utterly toppled and the future thrown into chaos, the kingdoms of High Rock must choose where to make their stand in the inevitable conflict to come.
However, little do the other rulers across Tamriel know that something else is brewing in the shadows of High Rock's royal courts: something to change the course of history itself. Deep within the rugged Wrothgarian mountains, in the dungeon of a long forgotten fortress, is where we begin this fateful tale.
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Prologue:
Nameless and Aimless
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Break free!
Rage: that was what she knew.
It was no mere tantrum, nor spat of anger, nor a sudden lapse of self-control. This was a visceral, primal rage, fueled by the need to unleash her newly found strength in all its glory, to make them feel such utter terror in her presence. Their fear was exhilarating: the greater their fear, the greater her need and the greater the thrill, right up to the final moment of satisfaction in the kill. That was when their fear hit one final, terrific peak before it was snuffed out with their life in a burst of blood and carnal mess. It felt so right to dominate, and brought her to such a livid sense of euphoria in the moment, but it faded fast. There was no way she could just stop at one, not when there were so was so much more fear to bask in, so much more of that dominant, predatory satisfaction to relish in.
The need pushed her on, fueled that powerful primal rage, and the fear from all those around her practically invited her to indulge: so indulge she so ravenously did.
The frenzy of rage, of fear, of death, and of blood felt like it would last forever, as she wanted it to. It was all she ever wanted, all she ever needed–
Then, all at once, there was only blackness.
Infinite, empty blackness, until it was cut through by words.
"Good morning," a kindly man's voice greeted.
The young woman jolted awake with a gasp. Her heart raced in her chest, and her vision still held lingering images of an uncertain bloody carnage. Her mind still rang with traces of the primal rage of her dream, soon supplanted by a confusion and disorientation. Though she was awake now, it seemed sleep had been far from kind to her.
She was a young Breton woman of charming, but otherwise regular build and stature. Her wavy dark blonde hair was unkempt from her restless sleep. She sat upright in a reasonably comfortable but plain bed, and wore a simple, tasteful nightgown. What was peculiar though was that the room around her was clearly a dungeon cell, with rough stones for walls and iron bars for the door and window. However, the cell had been lightly furnished with rudimentary comforts, such as the bed, a wardrobe, a few chairs and a table. It was likely in an effort to make the space feel a bit less like a prison.
There was an Altmer man sitting at the table in the cell with her. The elf sported a set of crisp black robes with golden highlights, and though the robes had a hood, he chose to leave the hood down, presenting his entire visage to the young lady. His long golden face bore a somber expression, and his slick stone gray hair was styled with neat braids behind his sharp pointed ears.
"However, I am sorry to say you did not sleep soundly," the Altmer said with a twinge of sympathy, adding, "perhaps a hearty meal will help you."
He motioned an invitation to the table, where two sets of place settings and a meal were present. It was a simple breakfast consisting mainly of bread, fresh fruit, grilled meat and tea. She couldn't help but notice how powerful the smell of the meat was, how inviting it felt.
As the Breton woman stepped out of the bed and took a seat at the table, she noticed two other Altmer outside the cell doors. Both were clad in gold-colored armor with weapons at their belts, and stood at silent attention.
"Thank you for the meal," she said as she started on the breakfast laid out for her, but still very uneasy.
"My pleasure," the Altmer replied in his silken voice, and kindly queried, "may I ask your name?"
Her name...
The Breton woman stopped as she tried to recall it, tried to wrest her identity from the swirling mass of confusion. It felt like it was right at the top of her mind, on the tip of her tongue, within such easy grasp. Try as she might though, for the time being, she could only say, "I... I'm sorry, but I don't seem to remember it,"
"You can speak, you know the Tamrielic language," the Altmer across from her stated, "surely you know your own name,"
"I swear I don't know," she replied, shaking her head.
"Where is your home?" the elf questioned in a more prying tone, "Under what sign were you born? Who are your parents, your siblings?"
"Why are you asking me?!" she snapped back, glaring at the Altmer with a sudden flare of fury, "I don't know the answers!"
"Many apologies, m'lady, I swear I didn't mean to upset you." he said, backing down to his kinder disposition with a smile, "perhaps I can answer some of your questions instead. You must have many."
"Where am I?" the Breton woman asked, her words just shy of a demand in their tone, "Why am I here? Who are you?"
"It pains me to say so, but you are very ill, with a grave sickness that has assaulted your mind and wiped your memories away," the Altmer answered in a calm voice, "my name is Songaran, and I was entrusted to take care of you, to help you through this frightful time as you recover."
"Is my 'sickness' why I'm locked here, with armed guards outside?" she asked, glancing to the two Altmer outside the cell.
"Yes, I'm sorry to say." Songaran confirmed with a nod, his voice smoothed over with sympathy, "It is for your own good, for your protection."
"I see..." the Breton woman replied, growing all the more uneasy. It wasn't merely the fact that she was locked away now, nor her lack of memory, but also that she may be a danger to others.
"May I ask another question?" the Altmer said politely after a few moments.
"I think you just did," she replied, but caught herself feeling that might have been rude, and simply said, "go ahead."
"It may be an uncomfortable topic, but I must ask it nonetheless: do you remember anything at all before I awoke you just now?" Songaran questioned, leaning in with intense interest and intent, "Do you have knowledge of the world or the past?"
At that question, images and memories from her fitful nightmare resurfaced. She recalled that rush of adrenaline, of primal, visceral rage, and of fear and of suffering. Worst of all, it came with a dreadful sense of guilt, that it was her doing, her responsibility. At that point, she wasn't sure if she wanted to remember what happened, not if it led to something so terrible.
"I..." she murmured, trying to find a way to explain.
"Yes?" Songaran said, encouraging her.
"I'm not sure–"
"Songaran!" a stern voice called out from outside the cell.
The Altmer winced with a moment of frustration at the sound of his name, but composed himself quickly as he stood up from the table, saying in polite brevity, "you must pardon this intrusion, m'lady."
As Songaran left the cell, the woman saw who had called him away. It was another Altmer guard, this one had more intricately decorated armor than the other guards, presumably to denote a higher status.
"What is it, Captain?" Songaran asked the newcomer, barely containing his annoyance at the situation.
"Forget about the girl for now," the Altmer Captain said in terse, measured speech, "the Khajiit we've just captured is of prime importance, and we'll need answers from him quickly. The Emissary insists."
At this, Songaran released a heavy sigh and grumbled back, "very well."
Then the dark robed Altmer turned into the cell where he replaced his disgust with kindness as he addressed the woman, "I'm truly sorry m'lady, but I must cut our time short. There is urgent business I must attend to."
"Of course," the Breton replied with a nod. Though she had no specific memory of it, she still felt an understanding of the weight of responsibility on Songaran's shoulders, and could not fault him for his obligations to duty.
"Guards, bring the new prisoner around!" the Captain ordered.
Two more guards entered the dungeon with the aforementioned prisoner: a gray furred Khajiit man with hands bound and mouth gagged. For a moment, she caught the eye of the prisoner as he was dragged out. There was no fear in his eyes, but a stark determination and disgust, no doubt directed at his captors. Seeing this, a sudden pang of worry and sorrow went through the woman; what had this Khajiit done to earn such ire? Why did the guards treat him with such disdain compared to her?
"Bring him to my quarters," Songaran directed to the guards as he quickly looked over the new prisoner, "I will begin the procedure there promptly."
"It will be done," the two Altmer guards chanted in response, and hauled the hapless Khajiit away according to their instructions.
As soon as the guards were away, the Captain continued his report, saying tersely, "I also have some troubling reports from our scouts in the area. I suggest we send for reinforcements from Balfiera to bolster our defenses here–"
"Please Captain, guard your speech and actions near the lady," Songaran interrupted, chastising the soldier, "this is a highly delicate process, and I will not have my meticulous work dashed by your impropriety."
"What's going on?" the Breton woman asked, "Is there something wrong?"
"Nothing you need to worry about, m'lady," Songaran assured as he turned to the cell. Then he raised his hands, in which magic began to materialize, emitting a pale green light and a sound like hundreds of whispers, "Don't be alarmed, I am casting a spell of protection, for your safety while I am away."
With a wide wave of his hands, the Altmer mage dispersed the magic throughout the cell, settling all around the Breton woman. As the green light and ceaseless whispers of the magic faded, so too did her consciousness. Completely exhausted, her final thoughts were of confusion, and of outrage: how does this protect her?
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Out of the darkness, a wispy image of a white rabbit darted into her view. It sat up on its hind legs, twitching its nose and flicking its ears as it looked around. When its eyes met the curious gaze of the woman, the rabbit darted away as quickly as its spectral legs would take it. Seeing this, a need to pursue rabbit surged within the woman's mind, drawing on both the primal urge to hunt, and the desperate need for answers.
Break free!
Yes, this was it! She was gaining on the flighty rabbit now, closing in swiftly. As she neared, she could feel the thrill of the chase fill her, the pride of rising to the challenge. Yet the still fleeting chances of success urged her on, to finish it, to complete the task, to bring this hunt to its natural conclusion. She was so close now, that with one final pounce, she would catch her quarry.
"What is your name, huntress?" a powerful voice asked, seemingly through her mind, through her very being, "Remember it!"
Break free!
"My name is Roslyn!"
chaos_Leader presents:
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SHATTERED
an Elder Scrolls Story
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Notes:
Well, I'm going to have another go at writing for this setting.
The concept of this story has been simmering on the back-burner of my mind for quite some time. In truth, the basic premise and setting were something I originally put together for an adaptation of a tabletop RPG game I DMed for a while. When I considered adapting my premise into narrative, I was surprised at how comparatively few stories here on consider what happens after the events of Skyrim and its DLC, that looks at how the setting of Tamriel reacts after an endgame scenario. Most of the basic facts of the setting for this story were laid out in the introduction earlier, but I will say that I have taken some minor however not implausible liberties with events that would have played out in the game Skyrim. Overall though, as was the case when I first adapted this idea as a tabletop RPG, I hope that the setting decisions I've made contribute to an interesting, intriguing read.'
As always, your feedback is most welcome.