Authors note:Anyone who has read my profile already knows that I come to fanfic and computer games by way of RPGing. Because of this, however delightfully detailed the game's world setting, I envision it richer and more complicated and love to explore that. I've recently started a new character in Morrowind the game, and am having some problems with properly envisioning her. This story came out of trying to sort her out.
Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. I play with a number of mods, and when something specific appears in my story based on a mod, I will do my best to give the mod author credit.
She took shelter from the drizzling rain in the arched doorway. From here she had a view of the seashore. Even in the murky light and the rain, she could just make out the silvery flash of slaughterfish. She pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her face. Despite the warm climate she was chilled to the bone. The rats, the only flesh that she was certain was edible, had looked sickly.
Morrowind. An alien place. Nothing seemed familiar. Nothing smelled familiar. The fern trees weren't suitable for climbing. Wading through the swampy terrain brought vistas of glow-lit fauna, and clinging bloodsuckers the size of septims that left oozing wounds when pried off with the sharp edge of a blade.
She glanced down at her leggings, now much the worse for wear, having had many of the damnable things pried out of her flesh. Her blade had unfortunately left its mark on the fabric which had been none too fine to begin with. She was useless with a needle and thread anyway. Hang all the assumptions about elves being all about grace and beauty, she was much more comfortable with a blade than a needle, and while she wished for a decent pair of leggings, her greater desire was something in the way of armor.
Which would probably be chilled and cold if she were wearing it.
She huddled in on herself, wishing she dared to start a fire. Not a good idea, of course. Might just as well announce that the prey had arrived. You are the predator, not the prey. She could still hear Rugdush's gravelly voice.
Morrowind, she thought to herself again. As strange as it was, it had its own logic, and rather than fight it, she should be listening to it.
Leaning against the curved stone walls, grateful for shelter from the rain, she listened.
She could hear the play of waves back and forth along the coast. The soft patter of rain on leaf and more distantly on water. The occasional cry of what had looked like a bird, but she'd been assured had been more like a cross between an ill-tempered mountain wyvern and a manta from the shallow seas.
She considered the smells. The attractively bitter scent of the tree fungi. Bungler's Bane and Hypa Facia, the Altmer had called them. She'd trained long enough in alchemy to recognize their potency, even if she wasn't sure of all their potential. The sharp musk of Nix Hound meat; the creatures must have some sort of scent glands that released upon death. It was a surprisingly strong scent; not completely unlike the pungently scented hind legs of a deer. Used for territorial marking, perhaps?
Creatures that looked like sea beasts, or insects or maybe both. For that matter she'd been told that the pale little scribs were not only edible, but tasty in a sour way. Maybe she would try them, but not yet. How could you kill something that came right up to you and nuzzled so trustingly?
Through half-closed eyes, she noted the deepening dark. It was almost too dark to see the slaughterfish anymore, but now she could make out faint patches of light here and there in the water. As if there were some sea growing versions of the luminous fauna that grew so verdantly on land. She recalled the opening blossom she'd seen in the swamp. As she approached, the shimmer above the petals told her that the plant itself was releasing some kind of fume or scent. She wondered what it was, as the sour smell of rotting vegetation had obscured any perfume from the blossom.
Perhaps anyone raised in VVardenfell would already know the answer. Unfortunately in her short time here, she had already found that just being an outlander closed many doors. "Who could I ask a question like that?" She murmured half to herself, seeing the flower in her mind's eye with such clarity that she started to realize that she'd fallen asleep and was dreaming this categorizing of Morrowind.
"You may seek to ask me." The dark figure should have startled her, but with the weird logic of dreams, she was sure that not only had she been expecting him, but he had been waiting for her.
Suddenly she was standing. Or had she been standing? In response to his comment, she pointed to the graceful carved writing subtly worked into the innermost arch of the tomb. "Only the dead wait here, strange lord."
He chuckled, a low rumble that blended with the sound of storms. "And long have I stood beside the waiting door, hoping for a suitable student, fair bosmer."
"Cylsandra gra Rgdush." She gave him a half bow.
"Interesting. You wear a Bosmer shell, and claim kin with the Orisimer."
"And I thought you only spoke with family, and yet you are courteous to a traveler who has taken shelter on your doorstep."
She was starting to see features in the shadow; red eyes and high cheekbones. Hints of glitter here and there as if night hued gems had been worked into rich fabric. He stood taller than her, but then most did. She was small even for a wood elf. His hair matched her own, though, rich and red, gathered back by luminous green ornaments.
"I stay for duty, for what the living call love." The melodious voice sent tones of wistful reminiscence and sorrow into the air, as if what once had been love had now dried, leaving only the memory of loss.
She felt her heart heavy for his sadness. "I came here for duty, my lord, though in truth I know not where it leads."
"You must be true to that which drives you, and yet you will not long survive this place without guidance of some kind."
They stood together, girl and ghost, each lost in their own thoughts.
Finally the shadow lord extended a graceful hand. "Look closely." The darkness resolved and Cylsandra found herself looking not at the hand, but a ring it bore. At first she took it for silver, but the white was too pure. No, it was some kind of bone or ivory. Three stones adorned it, all the color of lighting heavy storm clouds. The central one was massive and rectangle cut, and below it were markings. At first she took them for a design, but as she looked closer she could see a double ring of tiny runes. The workmanship took her breath away.
"Yes it is lovely," He said in the dry voice of an instructor. "Now look with more than your eyes."
Her cheeks flushed as she opened herself to the magic she suspected was woven there. As she did so, the ring erupted in brilliant light.
Her first reaction was to flinch back, and raise a hand to ward off the glare. Aware of his gaze though, she concentrated further. Yes, obviously it was magical. Slowly she began to make out currents in the radiance. Focusing, supporting.
"It enhances." She murmured at last. "It would grant the wearer more concentration, more purpose."
He turned his hand, and closed his fist and the brilliance was gone leaving a silence so profound that her ears rang. "Come and take it." He said.
Her eyes widened. "Come into your tomb?"
He smiled, and it was both the encouragement of a mentor and the malice of a long-hungry predator. "If you survive to take it, you are worthy of it. If you do not," He paused. "It has been long since I had the sport of watching someone die."
He faded, and she could only barely make out the last thing he said to her. "Lord Brinne Samarys invites you into the waiting door."
A sudden gust of rainy wind blew back the hood from her cloak, and she woke abruptly. Wet, cold and cramped from sleeping who knows how long. Between the racing clouds she could make out the rising moons.
She slowly stood, working the kinks out of her muscles. She felt better now, more settled. She'd forgotten a part of herself in the slow miserable journey to Morrowind, and now it was time to remember who she was. It was time to claim what Lord Samarys had offered.
She faced the door of the tomb and twirled the blade she'd pocketed from the census and excise office. "You are not the only predator here my lord. I accept your challenge."
And of course it was coincidence that the echoes of rain and thunder sounded a little too much like laughter.