Praan ko drem ahrk envok wah gosvern kolos hin sil flies voth dovah. Hin slen los zahraan qarah wah lot zii ahrk nii daal hofkiin wah ven do lein. Bo, kul, zeymah, bormah, fahdon, qoreyn. Ko laas, hi lost selor wah dovah, hi rel muz ahrk slaag, hi kept drem nix un sahrot rel ahrk mii lowly vukahmiin. Dukaan, mu pah braag hi vonok ahrk mu fen ni luvmah fah mu mindok tol hin sil daal wah ul.
The chant resounded and echoed in the burial crypt, mournful despite its words of salvation and redemption. Countless voices, both male and female, sang for the deceased highpriest Dukaan who was laid to rest in the open sarcophagus in his temple that now would serve as his final resting place. Early in the morning, hours before the actual procession and funeral rites, only two young men held vigil for the priest. Both were clad in dark ceremonial robes to express their grief over the death of someone who served as mentor and guide to both of them. After minutes of merely standing in front of the sacrophagus and listening to the funeral chant in one of the other chambers, the taller of the two moved forward to sit on the edge of the elaborate stone. His gloved hand reached out to adjust the mask of the dead.
Dukaan, we all bid you farewell and we will not cry for we know that your soul return to eternity," whispered the other man, repeating the words of the last line of the chant before they would start over again- until the time has come for everyone to proceed to the final rites of funeral. "Let it be so," the man sitting at the rim of the sarcophagus agreed and rose from his position. Tall and handsome, a nordman who probably approached his thirtieth year of life. Keen eyes, attentive and hinting at a mind that was in a constant state of restless thinking, analyzing and vivid imagining.
"Is it true that Relonikiv addressed you today?", the other Nord inquired incredulously once they left the burial chamber. With his head tilted curiously, he eyed his companion.
"Vahlok, do not look at me as if it was Odahviing or Sahloknir or someone else of real prominence who spoke to me. Yes. Relonikiv expressed is sympathies. I like him, he's more talkative than most dragons. I heard many of them never bothered addressing a mortal. Ever." His laugh seemed inappropriate given the fact that they both were supposed to be in mourning, but Miraak was of an excellent mood. Everyone knew that the High Council usually chose one of the apprentices of a High Priest as his successor: which meant that either he or his friend Vahlok would rise to the highest rank of the Dragoncult. Excited for the travel to Bromjunaar where the elections would be held by the high council and elated because he knew that there was no way they would choose Vahlok as the next Highpriest of Solstheim.
"Actually, Korsulhah once spoke to me too. You know, that's what's weirding me out about dragons. They know everything about everyone and are constantly judging others."
"Oh come on, Miraak, stop boasting. So what did he say?"
"He called me an avok kurahiv, an overachiever. Maybe I should set more ambitious goals than just becoming Highpriest. Then at least I have something to really work for once I have been elected... what about 'get Alduin to talk to me' ?" Miraak laughed, carelessly and louder than he should and without regard for Vahlok who equally desired the position of the Highpriest. They both had the same ambition and should be rivals- and yet a bond of friendship has grown between them. It was not always easy... especially now that they stood in each other's ways.
"You are very convinced that you will be elected," Vahlok just said, not without a certain grudgeful bitterness. It was moments like these that truly put their friendship on a harsh trial. Miraak the prodigy, spoiled with every gift one could dare asking for. Believed the world to be his already.
"Oh come on, not the old discussion. It's because I'm the better," the atmoran said with a wide grin, even if some would consider such a cheerful mood to be very indecent given the fact that both of them were mourning their mentor.
Vahlok's steps slowed down slightly while Miraak just went ahead, seemingly not noticing that his friend stood behind. Maybe he really did not notice. Or maybe he did not care.
"Monah?" The chapel was warmer than the cold outside of Solstheim. Although nothing in comparison to the lavish temples built in honour of the High Priests, this place felt like... home. The priestess Monah, too lowly in rank to have her own mast, already has been old when he had been but a boy. Miraak sometimes wondered how old she really was, impossible to tell.
"Yes, my boy?" At first, he did not even notice her in the shadows due to her black robes. She, too, was in mourning. The old priestess approached her with slow, slightly limping steps and gestured to the altar at the head of the chapel. Miraak understood and took Monah by the upper arm, helped her to kneel down safely. She was old indeed, after all. After a moment of hesitation he knelt down too.
However, neither of them prayed even though their arms were raised to the ceiling as if they meant to address the unmoving frescoes of dragons, wolves and other creatures they venerated.
"Something troubles you," Monah started, the gaze of her grey eyes directed at the dragon's head carved in stone which presided over their small carved pantheon. Some days, Miraak felt terribly irked by the fact that she always seemed to be able to read him like that. This day, however, he was nearly thankful for her bringing up this tedious topic first. An ugly truth.
"I had a terrible dream over and over again in the past few nights," Miraak confessed and finally turned his head to look at her directly. "I believe the Gods are warning me." Who else could he tell of not Monah who always listened to his woes, troubles and worries? She, who always had been old, understanding and very grandmotherly. Her wisdom... could be trusted, even if he spoke words that might get him executed as heretic if confessed to others. His bows furrowed in nervous agitation as she looked at him with those eyes he could never decipher.
"Tell me about them, Miraak"
Steel, fire and blood. The battlefield was in shambles, a bloody massacre that instilled terror in his hardened heart. Men fought men and perished in the fiery breath of their dragon masters. Nausea built up, everything smelt of burned flesh and blood as he stood in the middle of the carnage, bewildered by the spectacle he witnessed, unnoticed by the countless men and women who died with a blade in their chest, an arrow in their back, an axe splitting their head or who fell victims to the countless dragons who circled the area. Miraak was faintly aware of the fact that this must be a dream. Dragons were slain by the blades of men, some attacked each other, the noise was nauseating. He saw dragons dying, their bodies igniting, burning up to leave nothing but blank bones as if there had never been any flesh to them. Rays of light in orange, in golden and in blue, energy transferred from the slain dragons to a man who fought like possessed by a demon.
M̛ir̛a͢a͜k̢
His head turned slowly as he heard the voice from far away. Someone called him and he found himself obeying mindlessly, his steps guided by someone other than himself. Miraak merely observed everything with puzzled estrangement. He knew not a single one of the fighters, their faces blurred to him, their blood gushing in all directions without a single drop staining him. Out of his head, watched himself walk through the rows of combattants, past dead dragons, past severly wounded among corpses and scavengers who were out for an easy meal.
M͢i̧̛͜r̵̢a͜͟a̛k҉̷
The priest walked with numb, dull mind, thoughtless, unquestioning. Away from the battle and its noise into an unfamiliar environment. Massive trees far older than any that grew on Solstheim, blocking out the grey day of blood and salughter. Little daylight, pale and feeble as it fell through the dense leaves and branches of the trees around him. The voice called him, softly, such an allure, he felt tired and his head was empty. He had to keep walking, towards the green gleam at the end of the path. Thorny bushes and roots slowed him down, soon enough each step was accompanied by the sound of heavy boots in watery mud.
M̀͘͜ì̛͝r͘͜͢à͜҉a̴͘͢͡k̶̡͘͡͝
҉́̕͜͠ He was too slow. He would never find the green light. He couldn't see the path under so much mud and dead wood. He was scared. The voice was drumming in his head. Both allure and threat, his heart thudded against his ribcage in rising panic. Where was the green light? Where was it? The green light. He must reach the green light or he was lost.