Obligatory Disclaimer: I own nothing and am not getting paid.
There are places where the walls between realms are worn perilously thin, even to the point of breaches where things can leak through from one plane of reality to another. Vaermina, Daedric Prince (or possibly Princess) of Nightmares, Dreams, and Memory, was already taking advantage of one such tear in the fabric of space-time to reach in and caress the sleeping minds of the mortals of a place in Skyrim called Dawnstar, when he, she, or it noticed another. Not, in this case, from Quagmire, his/her/its own realm within Oblivion, to Nirn, but from Quagmire to…another place not unlike it. The Fade.
Quagmire: a constantly shifting nightmare realm, closely tied to the source of Magic, visited not only by mages but other mortals when they sleep. The Fade: a constantly shifting nightmare realm, closely tied to the source of Magic, visited by not only mages but other mortals when they sleep. There was very little to choose from between them, really. The lesser spirits, various demons of Desire, Rage, Sloth, Hunger, and Pride who inhabited it might not even have drawn Vaermina's attention, except that at that moment so many of them were clustered around one mortal dreamer, who might have escaped her notice as well. His/her/its interest piqued, Vaermina drove off the demons, who scattered like carrion birds frightened away by a lion, and had a look at the sleeper's mind.
And what a mind it was! A foolish, naïve little mortal who had invited in a spirit without realizing that liquid takes the shape of its container, and so found himself filled with Vengeance! Amusing, but what else was there? Hmmm. A very tasty, unusual flavor of Taint—where did that come from? Tracing back through the mortal's mind, Vaermina looked, through his eyes, at a whole world gone wrong even by Daedric standards, and in most cases Daedric standards were extremely lax about things such as 'right' and 'wrong'. Blights, Archdemons, Darkspawn, Abominations, the persecution of Mages…
'IDIOTS!' Vaermina snarled at the demons. 'You're using them up too quickly! When they're all gone, what will you do? Be bored throughout eternity? If you don't play by the rules, what is the point of the game?!'
Partly because Vaermina was offended, partly because of its ties to magic—he/she/it even chose to manifest in the mortal realms as a mage with a staff, and partly because this dreamer's mind truly was intriguing, he/she/it reached out through the Fade into the mortal realm on the other side and seized the dreamer bodily, drawing him into her own realm in physical form.
The Daedra were fond of playing games, using mortals both as playing pieces and as prizes. This one, who thought of himself as 'Anders', might potentially belong to any of them, having tendencies which made him fair game. As a mage, he was attractive to Vaermina, but his dual nature, thanks to Justice/Vengeance, appealed to the Father of Man Beasts, Hircine. He was a plotter, which made him one of Mephala, the Webspinner's get, and yet he had so much potential for deceit, treason and betrayal that Boethia was sure to want him too.
Half mad, he could as easily be Sheogorath's, bent on self-destruction—that was an aspect of Sanguine, tainted so that Namira and Peryite would surely fight over him—but then he had also fought the darkness and the undead, so Meridia, stick in the mud that she was, could call him hers, and that longing for a deep and abiding love would move Azura, the Lady of Dawn and Dusk… Malacath, god of the cursed and the outcast would offer him protection, while Clavicus Vile, the Prince of bad bargains would surely claim him. Hermaeus Mora, Mehrunes Dagon, Nocturnal, representing Forbidden Knowledge, Destruction, and Darkness respectively, had their own share in his psyche. Arguably, Molag Bal, god of rape, violation, and vampires mightn't have an interest in this Anders, but Molag was sure to want in on a game when everybody else was playing. Besides, vampirism was a form of blood magic, and one never knew when or where temptation would strike.
So: now to set him loose in the world of Nirn, but where? Skyrim, where the rent in the worlds was ready and waiting? Of course. They were already playing for the Dragonborn there anyhow…
With that, Vaermina thrust Anders, refugee from Denerim, apostate mage and runaway Grey Warden, host to a spirit a little more powerful than he could handle, out into the middle of the Pale on the coldest night so far that year.
Picking up the quill, I weighed the corners of the paper scroll down with a couple of tankards and a bowl of apples before I dipped the pen in ink. Pausing to look out over the water (Proudspire Manor's patio offered an excellent view of the sea), I composed my thoughts and began writing.
Skyrim: The Thedan Immigrants' Guide To Your New Home
By: Anders, Archmage of the College of Winterhold.
If you are reading this, you are a mage, an Elf, or a refugee from Fereldan, possibly all three, and you have made the decision to emigrate across the Bridge to this more hospitable realm. Yes, although you will have to contend with the locals, known as Nords, many of whom are somewhat suspicious of magic, Elves, and strangers in general, not to mention being overly fond of mead and weapons that take two hands to lift, it is still a hundred times better than Thedas.
Congratulations. You have made the right choice. However, it is for the best that you prepare as much as you can.
To begin with, Skyrim is uniformly much colder than the Free Marches or most of Fereldan, saving only the Frostback Mountains, and the weather is capricious, changing in minutes. Purchase or make the warmest clothing you can, for your life will depend on it. Then go out and get even warmer gear—a tent, bedrolls, and such. There is no telling exactly where you will emerge, and it may be miles from any settlement. While we will have people looking out for immigrants like yourselves, the cold is deadly and the landscape is sometimes barren of anything that will burn. I speak from personal experience.'
Pausing again, I remembered.
I had been crammed into the hold of the ship along with a hundred other refugees from the ravaged land of Fereldan, sailing for a more hopeful future in Kirkwall. On the run from both the Templars and my fellow Grey Wardens, I had not slept in days—indeed, I could not remember the last time I had properly slept, so once I was en route, small wonder that I succumbed so deeply that even getting shipwrecked had not roused me completely.
That was what I thought had happened, you see. One moment, I'm dreaming of darkspawn as usual, vaguely aware of the motions of the ship and the bodies huddled in around me, the next I was freezing cold, alone in a blasted wilderness on dry land—well, not dry exactly, because of all the snow and ice—and what was I to make of it? I thought we were shipwrecked and I was soaked and sinking. Except that I could breathe…well, perhaps I had only gotten doused with water, but that water was colder than the strongest frost spell and cut like a knife through my robes.
I was still dreaming, I was sure of it. How unfair. Still, this new dream was devoid of darkspawn, a nice change of pace, and there might yet be naked dancing girls and litters of kittens before a feast of roast ox. If only it would get warmer… I looked around. It was a clear night, at least, if windy, and the light cast by the moon—by the two moons—made it a very bright one.
I stamped around in the freezing cold until I could no longer feel my toes, my arms wrapped around my body and my hands in my armpits to keep my fingers warm. Mages, fortunately or unfortunately, can't feel their own magefire, or we would all burn up before we were twenty. There was no point in even trying to start a fire, as there was nothing but ice, snow, and rocks as far as I could see. Besides, if I successfully cast a spell in my sleep, I might damage the ship and then we really would be shipwrecked. What a boring dream this was. I decided to set off on foot, heading toward the sound of the waves.
It did not bother me then that I could not feel any connection to the Fade, for I believed I was still deep in it. Nor did it bother me that my…passenger was being terribly quiet, because he always was when I was dreaming, since he couldn't get back into the Fade. Mind you, Justice wasn't gone, but he was fully aware that we weren't where we should be and was lying low in the back of my head. I reached the shoreline, where several huge blubbery animals with tusks lay around making honking noises—I stayed well clear of them—and then I was attacked by an enormous white bear. Dream or no, the pain of its claws tearing into the meat of my leg was excruciating. That was when I learned that my staff was worthless unless I used it like a club, which I did, while at the same time trying to shoot fireballs at it. All I could manage was a mere gout of flame, and trying to cast that was like trying to wade sideways through mud, but it saved my life. Casting Heal on myself afterward was no trouble at all, at least, but what the hell kind of dream was this?
Leaving the beach, I ventured inland once more. Thus far the only signs of habitation I had seen were a couple of smashed barrels on the high-tide line. Perhaps I was alone in this dream world…I would be glad to wake up from it, and that couldn't happen too soon for me…
I walked. And walked. Then I trudged, slower and slower, and it seemed to me that I must be drying out, because I no longer felt so cold. All I felt was tired. So terribly tired. Well, I had been worn out, and what was wrong with sleeping within a dream? I could wake up from both sleeps at the same time, doubly rested.
What was really happening was that I was literally starting to freeze to death. Finding a spot in the lee of a rock, I sat down out of the wind, drew my knees up so I could slump my head on them, and dozed off.
How long I was like that, I cannot say, but suddenly, out of nowhere, someone said in a curiously accented voice, "M'aiq thinks this is a very strange place to take a nap, stranger. Especially since you do not have the beautiful thick pelt of a Khajit. It is very well for M'aiq to travel about in only a robe, because he does."
I opened up my eyes to gaze directly into the face of a tiger. "Oh, this is better," I said happily, or tried to say, because my face was unaccountably stiff and felt thick and faraway. Talking tiger men—now that was a proper dream!
"M'aiq does not believe it is healthy for you to stay here like this. Come," he helped me up—more like lifting me bodily onto my feet. "M'aiq takes you to someone who is very very good at helping, no?"
"If you like," I replied, foggily. "But where is M'aiq? There's only you and me here…"
"This one's name is M'aiq," He pointed a clawed finger at his own chest as he hoisted my arm about his shoulders. "Among the Khajit, one does not speak of oneself as 'I' except among family, you understand."
"Uh—no, I don't actually." We started to walk, with him half carrying me.
"It does not matter. M'aiq knows many things, but there are things he does not know. Such as where to find calipers. Do you happen to have such a thing as a pair of calipers about your person? M'aiq has sought for them everywhere, yet he finds none. It is very sad…"
Somehow or other he kept me shuffling along, over the tundra and into a small copse of evergreen trees where someone had pitched the simplest possible tent, a rectangle of skins draped over a rope stretched between trees, the sides weighted down with rocks to keep them apart, open to the air at both ends.
"Hello? M'aiq is very sorry to wake you, but he has brought you something." Unceremoniously, he slung me inside the tent, practically on top of the occupant, who yelped in protest. To me he said, "M'aiq bids you farewell now, stranger. If you by chance ever find calipers, he begs you to remember him."
Inside the tent, it was dark but not particularly cold. Not cold at all, in fact. "Sorry," I apologized to the person, who was fighting their way out of their bedroll.
"What is going on?" It was a reasonable question under the circumstances. The person was female and sounded youngish. A light flared, brilliantly white, and I looked into a face which changed from outraged to shocked to horrified in less than the blink of an eye. "Move off my pack! You need a healing potion, but I can't get to them while you're kneeling on them."
And that was how I met the Dragonborn….
TBC…