Morndas, 27th of Last Seed
...Oh, father! What has become of me? My heart speaks nothing but truth, yet my mind whispers sweet lies of seduction, thwarting my attempts of good will and good measure. I share your younger form of crisp, red hair and handsome features, as I am sure you would know - after all, I am your son of old, mer and eldest. However, I am well below the standards of a modern and honest civilian - I have killed a man, father, and I am extremely disturbed. The priests of Vvardenfell shunned me, begging the general authority to hunt me down and lay me upon a stake to burn in unbearable agony. I ran, as I am sure anyone, including you father, would. Who would want to die, father, writhing in pain? Certainly not I.
And so I ran.
I am fairly sure that you have already separated me from the family due to my disgrace long ago, yet I felt that you deserved an explanation for my abrupt disappearance from the hunting party. I strayed from the path, yes, and found myself within the Velothi Mountains, far from the marshes just outside Balmora. I do not believe that announcing that I had become 'lost' would account for this. However, I did cross that valley of sea to arrive within the main continent.
My memory during that period of time is well beyond reckoning. I do not remember, thus I shall not elaborate...
Ashern halted his rather pathetic excuse of a pen as a beggar shuffled by the opening just a few yards ahead of him, calling out her routine phrases of pity and self-sacrifice. The beggar was a somewhat older woman known as Franny, a Breton who Ashern could call mother due to his time on the streets of the Imperial City. The man felt an urge to call out her name for comfort, as the Dark Elf was drowsy and was in need of a place to rest. Of course, the money for the Inn was not in his pocket (though he was quite capable of borrowing a bit), but a flimsy bedroll was a bit better than his recent home - a rather tight alley between two pleasant houses. True, Ashern could move about, but his shoulders were just a tad bit too broad and his furniture, a bucket and woven basket, too large to fit under him. They were stacked behind him up against the gray stone wall while Ashern was bundled up with a piece of parchment and his inarguably shoddy quill.
Poor fellow.
The man sighed and placed his ink well upon the turned bucket before reaching under the basket to draw out his knife, a small blade discolored with rust, and a rather large sack. Placing the knife to the side, Ashern removed the thread binding the brown sack's opening and placed his arm inside, which then rummaged for a bit as he collected a few golden coins. He pulled the small bit of money out and poked the septims, turning them over as he did so to count each individual piece.
Seven bloody septims.
Ashern sighed and shoved the empty sack behind him once again after placing the coins in the large pocket of his rotting pants. He took up his knife and placed it in the other pocket so it would not clang against the currency as he shopped for a loaf of expired bread. To finish up his preparations, Ashern ran a hand through his red hair for an attempt to look presentable before exiting his humble home. His stomach called for some kind of food, thus the letter to his father could wait a while.
Looking to his right, Ashern moved his head about to glance around the various people walking around the Market district. Franny was a few yards ahead harassing a middle-class citizen for spare change, thus Ashern took his time to approach her. After all, the woman might just acquire a few coins that would be shared among Ashern and herself.
"Please, sir! Me child is sick with fever! An' I ca' tell you, sir, they say tha' I need special tre'tment!"
"And why, my dear lady, can you not present your kidney to her?"
"Well, I need the money to buy the op'ration, sir."
"Ah, right. Well, perhaps you should find another man to bother. This city doesn't need another child born into poverty."
Franny opened her mouth to shoot another plea, but the noble quickly hurried off with a smug expression. Dumbfounded, the old woman shook her head and watched as Ashern drew closer with a frown on his face. She smiled and exposed what little was left of her teeth as she placed her hand out towards Ashern. The Dunmer took her hand and helped her along the sidewalk so that they were not shoved out into the streets.
"Franny, it seems to me that you become harder to understand with every passing week."
"Oh? Well, I have to put on an act, you know. I'm a beggar, my boy. I need to act like a woman in poverty, just as I must speak like one."
Ashern sighed and shook his head with a grin. His expression turned somber as he looked Franny over and noticed signs of malnutrition. However, the Dunmer remained quiet about such things; after all, he doubted that he seemed any better.
"Mother, I still don't quite understand why you were thrown out here in the streets."
"Yet you understand that the Mages' Guild banned Necromancy. What's the problem, boy? It's logic!" Franny took her hand from Ashern's and twirled around a bit, her arms open wide and reaching up to the heavens. "If anything, I am happy to be alive and not some Lich organizing a party of Necromancers to burn the Guild. I enjoyed my work there, but my time was done."
Franny frowned and scratched at her graying head.
"However, it makes me wonder why the Guild banned it."
"Maybe they grew a conscience."
The old woman glared at the young Dunmer, her eyes flaring up with a violent temperament.
"Necromancy was an art, Ashern. Not all of us were horrible people that set our creations out to attack innocents. It's the damn loonies that ruined us."
Ashern raised his hands as if he had been accused of a vile crime.
"I know, Franny, I know! But still...the whole ordeal seems a bit...morbid. Raising the dead-"
"Enough," replied the old woman. "I'm your elder and you shall respect my wishes. I don't expect you to understand anything about us - you were born in Vvardenfell, the country of fools and psychosis. Let us eat."
Ashern, now silent and blushing from being verbally attacked, nodded and brought his hand to Franny's in an attempt to guide her. The woman took hold and they both began to weave around the bustling traders and nobles toward the Merchants Inn. Though the building was only halfway down the street, Ashern and his companion had a difficult time reaching the inn due to a man shouting out the local news in the midsection. However, both beggars halted with the other civilians as he began to recite the most shocking news in all of Tamriel -
"Uriel Steptim VII has been murdered!"
And with the death of an Emperor, the fall of the Third Era began.