Foreword:

Seventy one years after the Oblivion Crisis and nearly thirty years since the events of the Infernal City. A Dunmer from Cheydinhal's Fighters Guild departs in search of persons he'd believed long since gone. What remains of the homeland bears just passing resemblance to the Morrowind of old.

Authors note: With some artistic license, all reasonable effort made to maintain general parity with existing canon established in Morrowind, Oblivion, The Infernal City/Lord of Souls, and Skyrim.

Rated M for mild adult content.

Although it should go without needing to be stated, let it be said: Bethesda owns The Elder Scrolls and all related materials. I am merely contributing my own interpretations in a public forum and no profit is derived or intended from my work.

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Additional note: This story loosely follows on from my previous tales. However, effort has been made to allow this story to function as fully stand-alone.

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Winds of the Ashfall: An Elder Scrolls Tale

Greg J Miller

~O~

Chapter 1

Fredas the 26th of Last Seed 4E71 Dusk

After just a week in that particular place, the bleak aspect of that part of his former homeland had again begun to make him long for the dappled streets and lazy waterways of Cheydinhal. A restrained chuckle emerged as something more akin to a snort. Alaron Suvaris was again reminded that he'd long ago given up on the notion of thinking of any part of Morrowind as home. Added to that, it was fair to consider that much of the homeland had certainly become rather more dismal than the central Imperial province. Perhaps, it was more the case that he found it mildly surprising and oddly amusing that he'd come to think of Cheydinhal of home, rather than just a place where he'd been living.

Certainly, the city of Cheydinhal hosted a greater singular concentration of the eastern dark-elves than any other part of Cyrodiil or even any other province of Tamriel outside of Morrowind. Still, Cheydinhal was not truly the homeland of the Dunmer people. It was just a place where a great many of his people had come to make a new home.

Alaron Suvaris had still been a young Dunmer when he'd first left the homeland behind. Though perhaps just barely halfway through his likely lifespan, some days he felt far older. More than six decades had passed since those terrible matters far beyond his influence came to pass, leaving him on his own. He didn't like to often think about those things. At least not those specific details which had affected him directly.

Of course, all of Morrowind had been greatly affected by those circumstances. The tales of many Dunmer were not really so different from his own. Some tales might have seemed to have turned out somewhat better. Some, far worse. Many more did not live through those darker days of the past to tell their tales at all.

Without shifting from his wooden chair, Suvaris looked over toward the dirty windowpane. He could see that it was already dark outside. He couldn't tell whether the drizzle had fully ceased or otherwise.

Earlier in the day, the squally winds had still been driving the sporadic rainfall toward the other side of the building, much like the day before. However by late afternoon, it did look like the worst of it was just about over. At least, he hoped that it was the case.

He imagined that the weather must surely be more pleasant in other parts. Even so close to the northern Sea of Ghosts, he hadn't expected the last days of the summer to be quite so inclement. To his thinking, the past week had seemed far more like the end of autumn, about to give way to a grim winter.

Back in Cheydinhal, the annual Harvest's End festival would be taking place the next day. With all the local farmers coming to the city, there would be vibrant celebrations in the streets and the taverns would be offering free drinks all day. It would be much the same in all the major cities across Cyrodiil and many other places located further afield. However, things like that no longer appeared to be the case in the homeland. Even within the new capital of Morrowind, it seemed that festivals of that kind had fallen well by the wayside over the past years.

The noises coming from beneath his room momentarily drew his attention. The volume of those sounds emanating from the tavern area rose and fell like lazy waves rolling upon an open beach. He'd employed the foresight to take a meal a little earlier, before things grew busy downstairs. Even so, he could expect that he would still need to endure the din coming from below for a few hours before it might subside.

He looked over to the pile of books sitting upon the small table in the rented room. Of course by then, he'd already read through them all. Even those ones that he'd found of little interest. He supposed that a brief visit to that book store he'd noticed in the Blacklight marketplace might be a good idea. He resolved to try to make the time to do that before departing the city.

Suvaris rubbed the side of his face. He noted that it still felt relatively smooth to the touch. Since idle time had been in abundance, he'd taken the opportunity to cleanly shave away the accumulation of bristles just the day before. Like many male Dunmer, he did prefer to maintain that cleaner look and feel. Given that the males of most of the elven peoples were not particular hairy, it was a rare individual who might cultivate a full beard or the like.

It was certainly true enough that some Dunmer and Bosmer could grow a respectable beard or moustache or something of the kind. However, Suvaris doubted that his wispy bristles could ever be groomed into anything that might be considered respectable. He found it far less trouble to just maintain a clean-shaven appearance.

Pausing to think about it, he suddenly realised that he had actually observed more than a few of his fellow Dunmer sporting beards of some description during the past weeks. Not necessarily anything like some of those boisterous Nords of the north, but still beards nonetheless. He wondered if it had recently become a matter of fashion across Morrowind.

Another idle thought came to mind. He recalled that it remained unusual to see an Altmer with any facial hair. Though he imagined that particular circumstance was more likely something related to a sustained contempt for the Nords, along with the Colovians and Nibenese of Imperial Cyrodiil. After all, it had been those bearded humans of the first era who they blamed for the fall of ancient elven rule. Suvaris did not really share that sentiment. Some of his nearest friends and comrades in arms were Nordic or Imperial.

Glancing again toward the window, he noticed how the soot on the outside of the glass pane made it appear something like a darkened mirror. By the lamplight, the reflection gazing back at him almost looked like someone else.

The colouring of the face gazing back at him appeared nearly as dark as the expensive ebony armour he wore. As did his neatly cropped head of hair. Of course like most Dunmer, his skin was clearly gray-toned. However, it was fair to note that his colouring was really far more on the paler shade of gray than some other dark-elves.

Instead of the normal blood red eyes typical of any Dunmer, those eyes staring back seemed almost black in the window's reflection. Of course, that aberration was nothing more than an odd trick of the light.

The imperfect reflection in the pane also slightly distorted his shape, making him seem somewhat more lean and wiry than he truly was. The points of his long ears even seemed just a little longer than he knew them to be. His long and narrow nose also appeared exaggerated, as did the slightly down-turned hook at the end. The light somehow caught that long faded scar marking his left cheek above the jaw line, making it seem more prominent than usual. Another odd shadow made it seem as though his arched brows were far more pronounced that they really were. Unlike some of his people, the ridges above his brows were hardly so pronounced or notable. Perhaps only slightly more prominent than those of a human.

Tuning out those noises coming from below, his mind again drifted to thoughts of how he'd come to be in that place at that time. By then, Suvaris had been back in Morrowind for several weeks and had travelled some distance during that time. He'd still yet to actually make it to the place he'd originally set out for. The vagaries of detail behind those circumstances that led him there did serve to diminish the urgency, but he'd originally expected the excursion to pass more quickly.

During his travels, he'd been sidetracked twice in aid of others in need and then managed to end up without that horse that served him so well for much longer than he ever expected. Of course, the story of that journey really began in Cheydinhal.

It had been during the summer months when he'd heard those surprising details from a travelling trader. He'd been taking a meal at the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn when a Dunmer merchant from the homeland had overheard the barkeep referring to him by name. That stranger interrupted, introducing himself as a trader by the name of Ralas and then mentioned that he'd recently met someone passing through Mournhold going by the name of Suvaris.

Given what Alaron Suvaris understood, that information really did come as something of a surprise to him. In fact, he remained rather sceptical. Suvaris was not a common family name at all. To the best of his recollection, he'd not heard of anyone else outside of his immediate family and as far as he knew, he was the last surviving member.

The trader suggested that he thought they might be related, since the younger lad he'd met had a similar look to him. He thought that his given name was either Talvon or Tralvon, or something similar.

Though Suvaris held no knowledge of such a person, that specific detail did pique his curiosity. His younger brother's name had been Travlon Suvaris. Of course, his brother would have been near to his own age, had he not perished fleeing from the family farmlands. Even his brother's son would have been in his late sixties, had he lived to that day. Not so old for a Dunmer, but hardly a younger lad. Still, as far as he reasonably knew, no one else had survived.

Alaron Suvaris had pressed the trader for further detail and though he had been amiably forthcoming, he had little more to offer. He hadn't known exactly where that other Suvaris was from. He suspected that he must come to old Mournhold often enough, since he seemed perfectly familiar with the place. The lad had asked about the trader's wares, but purchased nothing, mentioning no more than his name in passed greeting. That had taken place about two months earlier. Other than that, the trader really knew nothing of value.

For a number of days afterward, Suvaris periodically pondered over what that travelling trader had told him. The mystery of why there might be a Dunmer by that particular name travelling the homeland had been gently nibbling away at his thoughts. He could imagine a few plausible explanations. He could even imagine just a few somewhat more unlikely possibilities. Of course, one reasonable conclusion would have been that there was indeed another branch of the Suvaris line, of which he held no knowledge.

However, another set of rationalisations provided him with a rather distinct sense of unease, or perhaps something of an odd blend of melancholy and restrained hopefulness. He'd been led to believe that neither his own children nor his nephew had survived all those years ago, just as everyone else of his family had perished. However, if any of those children had lived, he imagined that one of them might have named a son Travlon.

Of course, Suvaris had tried to expel those particular notions from his mind, treating them as no more than wishful folly. However like some kinds of hardy vines, once planted in fertile ground, there were certain ideas that just had a way of taking hold and then spreading in unwanted ways.

In due course, he'd finally decided that he really needed to know one way or the other, if it were at all possible. It was one thing to remain in complete ignorance, but if there was some possibility that someone of his immediate family lived still, then he really did feel the need to properly investigate that possibility.

After completing his current contract with the Cheydinhal Fighters Guild, Suvaris had a brief word with Drals Vedran, the long serving Guildhead of that Guildhall. He didn't go into specific detail with Vedran, speaking of no more than necessary.

Though both were fellow Dunmer of a similar age, background and skill-set, there had never been any warm feelings between those two. Even so, there had always been a measure of mutual respect between them.

During the many years that he'd served with the Guild in Cheydinhal, Suvaris had never demonstrated any interest in administrative leadership, even declining options when the position of second had been vacant. Still, though he'd never speak of it, Suvaris suspected that Vedran might have viewed him as a threat to his position with the Guild. Or perhaps, it was more that he viewed Suvaris' shunning of seeking seniority as an objection to his own position of authority. It might well have just been a clash of personalities. In any case, Suvaris had never allowed it to get in the way of his work.

Though Vedran appeared openly annoyed, he offered no vocal objection to Suvaris' intent to take an extended leave from the Guildhall to investigate a personal matter back in the homeland. He merely conceded that the other Guild Fighters would probably be sufficient to attend to any matters that arose and wished Suvaris luck with his task. Somehow, he still managed to make his words of courtesy sound insincere, but that was hardly out of character.

Before departing, Suvaris otherwise confided only with that younger Dunmer who he'd previously mentored at Cheydinhal's Guildhall. Arvon Aldreth was the son of one of the guards serving in Cheydinhal's city watch. By that time, Aldreth had become a skilled Guild Fighter in his own right. Though Suvaris was friendly enough with his other comrades at the Guildhall, Aldreth was perhaps the only one he truly considered as a close friend.

Arvon had actually offered to come along with him, partly since he'd never been to Morrowind before and also in part as an offer of friendly support. However, Suvaris politely declined, insisting that he'd very much preferred to see to his task on his own.

Accordingly, with some travelling supplies and an adequate cache of gold coin on hand, Suvaris quietly slipped away from the city on the following day.

A sense of growing discomfort rising from his belly suddenly interrupted his train of thought. He briefly considered that something he'd eaten earlier had proven more volatile than expected or was perhaps not quite as fresh as it seemed.

With a measure of annoyance, he rose from his chair. He was mostly annoyed because he'd decided that the chamber pot would likely be inadequate to the task and that meant that he was headed for the downstairs bathroom. That also meant navigating his way through the rowdy and likely inebriated crowd of patrons in the tavern.

~O~