The Shroud
The calls of the eagle echoed through the Dunmeth Pass as it continued its flight along the western edge of the Inner Sea. It wasn't there for the game, its keen eyes not caring for the small prey that flitted below, trying to hide themselves amongst the trees and scrub that made up the Northern Coast.
Feathers caught the early morning light as the sun rose above the gigantic wall of dust and ash which obscured any view of Vvardenfell. They called it the Shroud, those that clung to the tavern tables and told stories of the treasures that lay within. Some foolhardy enough to believe them had left, salivating over the untouched Dwemer stockpiles and lost ruins deep beneath the red storm. They never returned, either falling prey to the Dragons that now roosted along the Sea the Ghosts or the horrors that supposedly stalked the wastes within.
No one knew what had spawned the shroud, only the eruption that had torn Vvardenfell in two and plunged Tamriel into a month of darkness had spawned the cloud. It brought with it hordes of Dunmer, scarcely able to breathe within the clouds great walls. They all shared the same stories, that the dust choked the earth and killed all within. That the great storms that now wracked the place tore up the roads, warping the countryside into an ever changing form. That the winds were so strong that mountains moved, chasms opened up and the red eye of Red Mountain burned the heavens once more.
The white hawk shrieked in a brief flurry of feathers as a lizard, which had once been a small darting shape on the horizon, shot by. The storm was its goal, beady eyes covered with a hard boiled leather foil and net that kept its eyes and nose covered but still let its calls fill the air. For most unlearned, it was the spawn of dragons. For those who actually recognized the odd formation of wings and dorsal fin, the wicked hooked claws on the tips of its wings and the long neck, the cliffracer had once been a regular sight in the foothills of Vvardenfell, its whooping calls echoing through the lonely valleys and open plains.
It called now, as the shroud reached up to snatch it from the sky. The dust itself was ever moving, vast eyes opening up to give the glimpse of far more dust underneath. The maelstrom was such that even the dragons kept clear, keeping to their northern island home. It rose too, in columns of red and grey, reaching up to grasp at the sky but failing to every time.
The racer called once again, flitting between the columns with ease as they boiled upward. It rasped once before tucking in its wings and angled itself downwards, the ridge on its back folding down and sped down into the red. It cut through the dust like a blade, its neck extended, eyes forever on the dust that surrounded it. The rushing wind screamed, tearing at its wings as it descended. But the racer continued, even as the ground came roaring up to meet it.
Twisted trees, once the tall sentinels that dwarfed the swamps of the bitter-coast reached up to scratch desperately at the sky. Beyond that, the cliffracer's darting pattern of flight grew even more haphazard, winds beginning to howl upward from the newly formed holes and trenches that had been punched in the ash. Amongst the tall pointed rocks it flew, over abandoned towns and villages to where fences fell into the dust, their interiors full of bones. Only trama root grew in the fields now the rivers choked with black ichor as water and dust intermingled. It was only beneath the towering pylon of one of the three remaining ghost-gate pillars did it slow before with a screech it rapidly descended once again to a ramshackle selection of tents and ruins, the remains of old towers and long arcing domes which had once made the fortress called Ghostgate. For once, the Foyada in which it sat was quiet as the grave, the collapsed rubble of the fortress providing a near enough unbreakable barrier between them and the great red eye as most had come to call it. The flags still rose in the wind, a red scrib with its legs outstretched embellished on terracotta fabric, but they were scored, their fabric torn and patches missing.
A tower, the only high point was what called the Racer's attention as it rode the currents rising from the valley floor, as those below cooked meals, carried out sword drills in the open squares between tents and buildings or gathered around their campfires. The tower itself was now barrel topped. It had once been a tall slender spire; its roof had caved in forcing the builders to block the hole with guar hide and siltstrider chitin.
It came to rest, clinging bat-like to the exterior wall, keeping the tent between it and the red glow that covered most of the northern horizon. It raised its head as a hatch was pushed open and called in near happiness as gnarled hands scooped it from its resting place and it was gone into the incense smelling interior. The Racer whistled and clicked as the package attached to its leg was removed and its hood untied to let the beady eyes take in the room around it.
The Dunmer that held it was as gnarled as the tall rocks that punctured the wasteland floor. His lined face was etched and sharp with hooked nose, hooded eyes and a neatly cut beard that was full of beads and carved pieces of silver. The usual red of his eyes was gone, just the milky white of blindness that would've been more obvious had his eyes not as been so sunken.
He didn't open the package, just set it down beside his desk. Instead he fed the racer, letting it take the meat from his hand before raising it up to perch on the back of his carved high-backed chair. It crawled on with the hiss of leathery wings, bead head ever up and looking for food as it whistled and chittered.
"The Era?" The old mer asked to the room as a whole.
The cliffracers in their cages looked up as the howl of the winds were shut away with a heavy thump.
"4th. 216st." Captain Arenim said, checking the door was sealed before pulling the heavy curtains closed. That would at least keep the dust out, even though he had come through a near tunnel of drapes and curtains to get here, dust still clung to every fibre of the brown cloak he had strewn across his body. He could still hear the wind, the howl of the ash that scoured the rocks clean and scratched at the walls of Ghostgate, cutting holes and odd shapes into every surface. In here at least, the wind which would usually force most to walk stooped was restricted to the clink of wind chimes hanging from a rafter.
He set his ebony sword and his crossbow down beside the door, the dark material failing to catch the dim light of the three bug shell lights that hung from the walls. He kept his dagger and his short sword however; the wicked black blade attached to his hip and the slim silletto blade at the base of his spine "Why do you constantly ask me that, Elder?"
"We stare into the red for so long, I do wonder if anybody remembers the day, the time or who are they are themselves. Lest we lose ourselves to the dust, I think it's worth keeping abreast of changes," the old dunmer slid an ornate silver box open and took several dried herbs from its interior. With a slight flourish of hand, he slipped the dust into an incense burner and sat back to enjoy the fumes for a minute. "A cliffracer came to me from Mournhold with news of the wider world and I thought you may wish to read its contents."
"I have little interest with anything beyond the Shroud, old man." Arenim said, placing his beaten and blackened faceplate on the desk before taking a seat with a cloud of red dust and the grind of chitinous plates. Remains of a once proud history, the bone and chitin armour of the Ordinator was now damaged, covered in a constant red film of dust. Not that anyone truly remembered that time, when Vivec had glowed in the sunlight, the lands of Vvardenfell teeming with life and the people had lived, worked and prayed under whatever banner they chose. But like the armour, it'd been all scoured away as Red Mountain had burst forth.
In here however it was painfully recognizable. If he hadn't just seen the ruined exterior, it could have been easily mistaken for an ashlanders tent; the amount of cloth hanging from the walls, the cushions on the floor in the far corner surrounding a merrily cracking fire in a bronze bowl. The Grandmaister would probably want this to be the case, to make sure the men and women remembered the land they once lived in.
"Then I have little to interest you then," the old mer replied, taking another herb from the box and worked it between his remaining teeth and chewed happily away to himself before remarking loudly; "So how goes the ward?"
Arenim stared at the message for a minute, almost wistfully, the worn ash grey skin of his face barely moving as his eyes moved from the parchment, to the other mer and back again with barely a sound.
It continued for some-time until the Grandmaester, losing the sharp taste of the Hack-lo leaf said "If you wish to read it, do. Instead of sitting there with a look of pure agony on your face. If I wanted see pain I would merely go downstairs into the rest chambers and watch Warden Manel trying to read."
Arenim gingerly did as he was ordered, snapping the leather strap open to get at the parchment within. The red eyes flashed across the scrib-scrall of text, the mer's lips moving.
"You are not Manel, Captain and do read it aloud. I have not yet focused my talents to deciphering what it says. Dwemer runes were never my strong-suit. I could feel them but I must admit the shapes are little difficult to separate from the metal they're written upon.
"Winter has come to Skyrim," Arenim said after clearing his throat "Scouts report the amassing of Thalmor forces along the Jerall Mountains. With the death of Titus Mede, the Colovian Lords have once more seceded the empire and are in open rebellion against whatever remains of Imperial control. Skyrim exists as the last bastion of any hope the empire has of surviving even though now the land descends into open war. The Jarl of Windhelm fell to an assassin's blade when Sun's Dusk reached an end and what remains of the Stormcloak army flock to many different banners," Arenim let the parchment roll closed and fixed the Grandmaester with a hard stare. "Why does the land of snow interest you so much?"
The Grandmaister sighed heavily and pulled the heavy cloak further around his frame. In their cages, the racers chittered and quieted as the old mer stirred the parchments on his desk, feeling his way across and taking care never to accidently move any too far. Too much, too far and it would take another to return it to its original once more. The Maestar may be still capable without his sight but there was a routine. They marked places that once were, places that had been lost and places where Captain Arenim and the Wardens would never go. The Grandmaester felt his gnarled hands curl around the parchment as he pushed it all to one side to get at the huge map beneath. The map was made up of the remains of guar hide covered with a thick black ink. It was hard to make out in this light; Arenim raised a beetle carapace lantern up onto a hook above the table, letting the blue sickly light fill the small space.
To most, the map would be a scrawl, a mess of black lines, dwemer symbols and odd black spots that seemed to change colour as Arenim looked on, moving from black to green with each movement of the head. The ink had been filled with a thick resin which made it rough beneath the fingers. A blind man's map most called it, but every warden, even those that could see had a copy of this stowed in their packs as they walked.
"You never did tell me; how goes the Ward, Arenim?" the elder said as he inspected the map's surface with his fingers. .
"The ruins of Aldruhn have been quiet, though they say the Bone King is making a push for the Foyada that connects Maar Gan though I have yet to hear anything of that." Arenim pointed to a jumble of spots that covered the south west section of the inner map. "Arvadias seems unable to find corpses to return to undeath and musters his forces in the remains of Khuul. Racers from Maar Gan bring letter after letter that there having been sightings of Scavengers along the Foyada linking our path to Sha-Adnius. The Eastern Rangers," he slid his fingers along the left side of a squiggle of ink along the eastern edge of the map, "report little movement though I have had word that the Valley of the Wind has been exceedingly busy of late."
The elder didn't respond, merely keeping his hands pressed against the table. He seemed to be inspecting the western plains, namely the West Gash Regions "The Northern Rangers…" Arenim said, remembering the note that had arrived earlier that morning. It'd been a close thing, the remains of the racer coming to rest by the northern camp where a guard had slit its throat to end its misery. It'd been torn apart, the remains of its wings mere shreds, the broken bones tearing aside the scales to reveal blood and muscle. "…they say that dragons have begun to roost along Dagon Fel. They seem unable to pass beyond the Shroud and seem quite happy picking off any scavenger tacks that try to make their way to the ruins of Sadrith Mora."
The elder sighed as by his elbow the incense burner ran out of fuel. In the absence of fragrance, the smell of the ash and blood began to burn the back of his nose uncomfortably. Arenim spotted the grimace and with quick meticulous movements, slid several leaves from his own pocket into the burner. It was normal for most of the men that guarded the remains of the Red Mountain to stuff the inside of their masks with scented herbs to ward off the choking dust and stench of sulphur, death and Nine know what else that permeated the land.
"That cliffracer…the one that'd been torn to pieces, where exactly had it flown across? And don't give me that look, boy," he snapped as the dunmer looked faintly shocked "I know you weren't willing to inform me of the animal's plight."
"From Valenvaryon it would've passed through the Red Mountain Crater,"
"The racers along the northern craters edge have been more aggressive of late. It was expected that they would be highly territorial. Weighted down, they would easily see a threat in one of our racers and attack. It matters not, however."
"Maester." Arenim said curtly as the elder sank back into his chair and reached for another sprig of Hackle-Lo. There was something in the Maester's expression which radiated the smallest amount of fear, though Arenim felt the need to say something, the duty he'd sworn to follow stayed his lips "Then if my report is complete, may I return to my Ward?"
"Dralas," the elder said, Arenim pausing, the helmet tucked under one arm. "Where is she?"
"The Ald'ruhn Northern camp...the Racers Nest. They say she went North with the Rangers however."
"She will make Captain one day."
"She will make a fine death if she continues."
"She is eighty years of age. She has had the red with her for sixty of those years." The Grandmaester replied wryly.
Ald'ruhn was a tricky outpost if there ever was one. A Group of tents essentially tucked into a rock formation that only surrounded two sides. Coupled with a creaking, ramshackle contraption made out of wood that hung from one of the old guard towers, which with a small crew watched the Northern roads, ungainly was a possible way to describe the whole affair. It was usually occupied by rangers heading north, cliff racers flying between the camps and outposts and Wardens deemed close but not enough to join the ranks of the Rangers.
Arenim knew he shouldn't ask as the Maester settled back in his chair, enjoying the smell of incense and reaching for the spiced tea by his elbow. It'd now gone cold, but he sipped it anyway.
"Why?" he said far too plainly and loudly for his own good. Redran Dralas was interesting to say the least and that wasn't just because she was female and actually volunteered to be a Red Warden. It was for a range of reasons, namely being overly dangerous without being a complete bastard about it.
There wasn't an answer.