Of A Dunmer & A Daedra

by FullmetalNyuu

A young Dunmer girl becomes alone in her own homeland, and is forced to find her own path with only an unusual note to provide her with a tangible goal. Her story takes her down a path of confusion and chaos, but also love and growth as her life becomes hopelessly intertwined with a uniquely inquisitive Dremora and the powerful Daedric Princes. Set after Morrowind-Oblivion.

OF A DUNMER AND A DAEDRA

CHAPTER ONE

25th of Mid-Year, 3E 214

Azura's Shrine, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Sitting with crossed legs on the lip of the Prince Azura's sacred shrine, I stare eastward over the expanse of water and small, coastal islets out towards the mainland of Morrowind as I write this memorandum. For centuries, this volcanic landmass has remained quiet, solemn, and has given me much time to contemplate what exactly it is that I exist for. This persistent, everlasting question is one not many of my kind dare to ask, and one that even fewer ponder for long. You see, I am a Daedra – a Dremora to be more precise. I have fought in innumerable battles, for several Princes and higher Daedra alike. Much blood has been spilt by my blade; much suffering has been wrought by my existence. As a servant of Lord Molag Bal, I thought little of the trifles of mortals. In fact, I spat on the very concept of mortality. Why should I, a creature that fears neither death nor pain, give a grain of consideration to such a frail being?

Of course, my tales would fill libraries. I will move on to what motivated me to put ink to paper on this particular day. I came into the service of the Prince you know as Azura a trifling amount of time ago to me, yet when I fell upon this path I did so with only a sliver of the knowledge I now possess. I had been bested in battle to the point of physical banishment, the details of which are irrelevant except that it was a dishonorable loss. The concept of defeat carries different meanings between Dremora of different masters, even of different clans, and my clan so happened to be one that viewed defeat as a sort of affront to all they are, a fault warranting spiritual banishment as well. As soon as my consciousness had become reformed I was spurned immediately, forced to wander the winds of Oblivion without a home, and without kin. Perhaps to a mortal this fate doesn't seem as loathsome, as your reality is finite. Your concern with life would drive you instinctually to others of your kind so that you might build new familial bonds, the very nature of your corporeal plane making true isolation a paradox. That is not the case for a metaphysical being such as a Daedra. While we may be perceived as having specific forms with specific lives in specific places, the truth is that we exist in a time and space existing both not at all and all at once. These pages can scarcely contain even the barest description of the intricacies of the planes which we inhabit, nor do I have the words to make you understand them even if there was ample space to explain.

To put it simply, I was cast adrift in a sea of uncertainty, with no place to use as a point of orientation. I could not speak, as I had none to speak with, and I could not kill, as I had none to kill. This was the time in which my existence was first called into question, as I hope you at least can understand. As I drifted in this space, it was with great struggle that after an amount of time both infinite and instant I came to rest on a surface of color so blinding it was as if I had stepped into light itself, yet at the same time being surrounded by a suffocating darkness. Sense by sense, I began to remember how to exist, and tens of hands began reaching into me, pulling my physical surface out into being yet again. I was being reformed. As I opened my eyes, I felt fear for the first time as a deep, harsh breath forced its way into my lungs, the air developing organs and bidding blood to fill my naked form all at once. Immediately, I cast my eyes up to see the forms of the Kyn to which the tens of hands belonged, some I recognized from my clan while others I did not. Among them was the impression of the one you know as Azura, and I knew where I was at once, and I despised it viciously.

"Stand, cursed flesh." The soft words bit into me like lashes, yet I did as I was asked, my brows contorting all the same.

"You belong to me…no other will have you. Be grateful, and patient." My entire face now contorted in horrid agony, I listened to her bidding and after some time balefully nodded. I knew her words to be true, as by then my reputation as one cast out of a clan would have circulated the planes and it would be an arduous process to be reaccepted by any clan as much more than a joke among scamps. Now, I felt Azura turn from me and I was able to observe my surroundings, and at once I began to realize that all Kyn here had brought dishonor upon themselves in some way, and Azura had seen fit to give them a new purpose. To give…us…a new purpose.

Over time, I became aware that Azura had gathered us together in order to have us consider ourselves. We were given no orders to kill, to ransack, or otherwise lay waste. I did not know what she intended us to do, but denying her gift was not what I intended to do.

We Dremora are not made to think of much but war. The majority of Princes we serve keep us chiefly as war dogs, and though we are capable of choosing who our weapons fall for, we seldom choose much else. Many Kyn belong to a particular caste and remain there. Of course, there are exceptions, yet these are few and far between. I began perching where I am today several decades ago, the sea breeze and fine vista giving way to fine thought as well. In the beginning, I abhorred Azura for bringing me here, I cursed her in every tongue I could care to imagine, but as time went on I came to realize things that so, so many of my kind never have a chance to. I came to see what mortals would call beauty in the barest of paths. I came to behold creatures that live and die in a new light, and despair. Why do mortals not understand the futility of their actions? Why do they not cry out every day of their lives, for fear of their last?

I have questions…I have many more questions that my Prince Azura bids me to answer for myself. I have gone to her and lamented for days, that there is some knowledge that a creature of my structure is not meant to comprehend. However, with the barest hints of a smile, she always sends me out with this message: "There are answers to all questions for those who look. Even a creature with no concept of dawn and dusk may yet find them."

This is why, as I sit on this ledge of Azura's shrine on the isle of Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind, on the 25th of Mid-Year, 3E 214, I write to you. I know your father, a Telvanni sorcerer of not much renown, who has come to this island as an outcast from his Great House. He will never own a Telvanni tower, and he will never appear in any text but this personal missive. He will die in obscurity. I met Faelon Syndaris as a pilgrim seeking answers to my questions, but though he never feared me, he refused to give them. He has agreed, however, to take these writings, translate them from my native tongue, and pass them on to you so that you might be the one to give me the answers that I seek. I look forward to conversing with you, one day.

-Veykiraes, of Azura

xxxXxxx

3rd of Rain's Hand, 3E 430

Overcast. Again. Looking up at the sky, I shake my head and trudge along the winding road from Suran to Molag Mar. Ever since I was old enough to pull my weight I've been signed on as a hand on a small caravan, and take it from me – this road doesn't get any easier. Putting up my hood, I clutch my cloak tighter around my body, preparing for the inevitable rainfall that comes with living this far south on Vvardenfell. Of course, the rain isn't so much rain as it is an inescapable haze. Days like these are what make me wish that I was out of this miserable place, but if my life has taught me anything, it's that my wishes are probably the last thing on my many masters' minds. Slave to this dreary caravan, slave to Vvardenfell, slave to my own father.

I sigh, and jerk my boot from the gooey ground my fellow caravaneers and I are slogging through, casting my eyes over to the pack guar every so often to make sure it's doing fine. As I gaze uninterestedly into its beady black eye, it seems to gaze uninterestedly back into mine. A chuckle rolls from my lips when I dance with the idea that it's as fed up with this place as I am.

"Syndaris, get down!"

Snapping out of my thoughts instantly at the urgent shout, I throw myself into the filth with a splat as several arrows whistle over me. Desperately, my arms fight to be free of the sucking coastal sludge and my eyes fly open, passing frenetically between my group and the guar. It only takes a moment of struggle more before I'm back on my feet, whipping an iron tanto from my belt and whirling around to face our attackers.

Before I can think more, I see two netch-leather clad Dunmer string more shots and dash out of the way in time to watch two of our crew spasm into the muck with bone-hewn arrows poking from their throats. Covering my mouth with a hand, my eyes widen at the carnage. My trembling form can hardly will itself to stand, but before I'm snuffed out a burly Nord among our caravaneers latches onto my neck, pushing me to the safe side of our guar. "Go to Molag Mar, gods damn it! GO!" He shouts firmly at me, brandishing his hefty steel hammer and swinging it in a mad rage, cracking the skull of one of the bandits like an egg.

Sucking in segmented breaths, I step back and watch the arrow-hewn guar fall to the ground with a wet thud, its absence revealing four more attacking archers as opposed to our two remaining caravan guards. Finally, my legs kick into gear and I run, stumbling for a moment until my feet are able to carry me far, far away.

That was the first time I'd ever seen a person die in combat. I've seen bad injuries, and of course everyone who isn't a noble has seen animals being slaughtered. It's different, though…watching someone's life end so short. As I arrive back in Molag Mar, I don't stop running until I'm well across the wide bridge, up each level and on hands-and-knees before my father's door. I can hear voices from inside, but it matters not to me now. It seems so hard to get the door open for some reason, a task which I've completed almost every day of my life now seeming so insurmountable. Hurling my whole body against it, it finally bursts open and I roll into my home, dragging myself across the floor with labored breaths and clutching at the closest figure's robe. "O-o...ur caravan…bandits…"

Narrowing my eyes, I look down and clench my teeth, a strange feeling unlike any I'd ever felt pulling my attention to the two arrows poking out of my stomach and lower chest. I'm only able to utter a short apology before my face falls onto the floor with a smack, my last thought one of pained confusion as my splotchy vision shows me someone very different from my father before it fades to black.

4th of Rain's Hand, 3E 430

Opening my eyes as if for the first time, I gaze up at an unfamiliar ceiling and become gradually aware that I'm resting on a bed of higher quality than I've ever experienced. As smaller details begin to make themselves apparent, my cloudy memories slowly come into focus and I sit up perfectly straight in a sudden frenzy, uttering a short scream which instantly becomes a quiet squeak as deep, sharp pains of unique magnitude force my body back down with a groan. At that, the soft scuffling of one pair of feet kicks up around me and the sound of distant, incoherent whispers soon drifts to my ears. Closing my eyes tight, I try to focus on deciphering the conversation, but that comes to a halt when a more immediate, deliberate voice speaks to me.

"Ah…you're awake. Raellan Syndaris, right? Please try not to move much, sera." Opening an eye a slit, I catch sight of an older, motherly Dunmer clad in the robes of the Mage's Guild and my tensed muscles relax ever so slightly as I weakly nod. "You are in the city of Vivec, Mage's Guild. A friend of your father's was both unfortunate and fortunate enough to find you when he did. You see, he…well…I'll save it for when you rise. I ask you again, relax and try not to move until our magic can do its work." Before I can force out a reply, a question, or so much as a breath, the woman steals out of the room and I'm left alone with my thoughts.

Breathing out through my nose, I carefully lift my left arm and rest it over my eyes, twitching muscles here and there to feel for pain. I quickly came to the conclusion that twitching any muscle will lead me to pain, finally resigning myself to lying as still as possible, per the mage's instruction. Huffing, I furrow my brow 'neath my arm and let my thoughts drift back, attempting to piece together what is happening. The day had been going normally…I woke early in the morning in Suran, ate somewhat of a breakfast and set out not long before midday. Gods…it all happened in such a rush…

Reaching down, I let out a light breath and slip a hand under a soft linen shirt that's new to me, my fingers brushing gingerly over my stomach and feeling a raw, ellipsoidal dip in the flesh which no doubt is from...

Not daring to go searching for the other wound, I shake my head and draw my hand out, letting it lay by my side. I'm only left with my thoughts a moment more, as I can hear several hushed voices approaching.

"…have to tell her. It's what he'd want me to do." Stopping outside the door, the voice of a human man filters through the cracks before being gently cut off by the same woman who was tending to me earlier.

"She was nearly killed, and you mean to tell her this now?" Pausing a moment, the woman takes a breath before continuing, her tone showing steady concern. "We don't know how much she saw before going under. Let's give this some time, and let her heal."

After a short pause of his own, the man relents. "…Of course. Whatever you think is best for her."

Exchanging a few more brief words, footsteps begin moving away from the door as it opens and I'm met again with the Dunmer woman. "So, how do you feel?" She asks softly, shuffling in and closing the door with a click.

Shutting my eyes with a flutter, I drag my hand down my face and lay it to my side, tilting my head and letting out a light breath. "I've been better. Much better…"

She nods, and steps forward a few paces before fetching a chair and moving it close to my bed. Now tilting her head, she examines me superficially before settling into the chair and placing a hand over my face. "Hold steady a moment; I'm going to perform several readings. They may be a bit uncomfortable, but bear with me, sera." Cooing gently, she draws her hand down and spreads my eyelids one by one, observing their reactions to stimuli from her other hand. She mutters something under her breath before touching her chin lightly, lifting up my shirt just short of my breasts and taking stock of the damage. "It looks like your wounds should be healed before the day is out, Almsivi willing. No disease, no infection, nothing requiring more than a bit more internal restructuring."

Noticing the widening of my eyes, she lightly laughs off my trepidation and lays her hands on her knees. "That process is a lot less fearsome than it sounds. Watch." Leaning forward, she presses a palm firmly to the wound on my stomach and I wince, my eyes following the strings of light which begin steadily streaming from her palm and into my flesh. As she does her work, I lay my head back and close my eyes, the warmth of her magic digging deep into me and seeming to fill my entire body with a tingling energy. Just as she said, I could literally feel my broken internal workings tugging at each other, as if they were attempting to find their rightful place and sending waves of soothing warmth across my body as they do.

Tilting her head, the mage slightly twists her fingers as if working a puppet, coaxing my body into finding the right pattern. "You should be glad you were asleep for the first parts of this procedure…it's never pretty to fix grave wounds." Smirking and closing her eyes for a moment, she pats my stomach and raises her hand to the area between two of my lower ribs, where another arrow found its mark.

Finding a moment to interject, I narrow my eyes and wince. "Do…do you know what happened to the rest of the caravan?"

She pauses at my question, halting her magic for only a moment before smiling distantly down at me. "I'm afraid I don't know for sure...it's best that you try to focus your mind on getting well before trying to recall memories like that." Answering in a bit of a dodgy and unsatisfying way, she seems quick to get on with her work, pulling my shirt back and getting to her feet in one fluid movement. "Alright, I'm mostly done with you, sera. I would still recommend that you get a few hours' rest if possible, but you should be free of all pain but an ache from here on out. I'm afraid that magic can only do so much, as the scars and that ache will remain."

Stopping her before she can leave, I readjust myself so that I can regard her a bit better. "What do I owe you for this?" I ask her this in all seriousness, and am a bit puzzled when she gives me a short laugh and drifts towards the door.

"Worry not; someone else will pay me for this, yet. Rest up now, I'll be back later." And with that, she leaves with nothing but a short wave, a motherly smile, and many unanswered questions.

Settling back down onto the bed, I absentmindedly watch the flicker of several candles across the deep tan ceiling, threading my fingers together over my stomach. I have much to think about, but before I can stop to piece my thoughts together the steady march of sleep begins to overtake me.

5th of Rain's Hand, 3E 430

My eyes slowly fluttering open, I take a slow breath in and out as I stare up at the ceiling. So much has happened in the past day…I'm in a city I don't recognize, being treated by people I don't know, with no idea what the situation is back home. I'm utterly stuck.

Before I can think for much longer, a light knock sounds and an elderly Redguard man in a plain brown travelling robe steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind himself. "Raellan…how are you feeling?" He asks his question with a hint enough of genuine concern that my tensed muscles begin to relax.

"Well…I could be worse." Grunting out my response through the last waves of sleep, I press my elbows down into the bed and force myself to a half-sitting position, the deep pains notably duller. "…Ah…do I know you?"

Smiling warmly, he gives me a look which is confusingly complex and moves to sit in a chair near my bed. "You knew me as a child. I am Tavir, a friend of your father's. I have…quite a bit to tell you." Leaning forward, he places his elbows on his thighs and runs his hands across his short, kinky hair, one of them eventually coming to rest on the back of his neck as he regards me.

Tilting my head, I furrow my brow and use a hand to push myself further up, my other hand resting on my stomach. "Tavir…" Trying the name out for myself, I can't place it as hard as I try. I eventually settle back in bed and let out a light breath, blowing several locks of hair out of my eyes. "I would have never known he has friends."

At that, a little laugh rumbles from his core as he places his hands on his lap. "Well, how I met him's a long story indeed. I fear I was likely his only friend." Pausing to think for a moment, he sits up slightly straighter and takes a breath, ready to continue. "I won't bore you with the details. To put it simply, he saved my life. When I was a much younger man, I fled Hammerfell as a pirate, and in my travels I eventually ended up on the southeastern coast of Vvardenfell. Inexperience and overconfidence led to my ship crashing on the rocks, and I was the only survivor…your father happened by at just the right time to save me. If it hadn't been for him, I'd be nothing but a set of bones on the shore." Rubbing his hands together, he tips his head at me and purses his lips. "I haven't seen you since you were a girl. It feels like forever's come and gone since I'd set foot in Molag Mar."

Shaking his head, he lets out a deep breath and slouches a bit, tapping a finger on his knee and taking a moment before continuing. "I know this is a lot to put on you all of a sudden, but at this point there's just no other way of letting you know. I'd come back with a scout from the Mage's Guild here in Vivec in order to give your father a proposal to become a part of it. There was…nothing we could do, when we got there. My best guess is that he passed early that morning. It was a lucky thing that we were there when we were, as you arrived on the brink of death, yourself." Reaching up and scratching his stubbly chin, Tavir wears a face which tells very little outright, but betrays everything in the details.

It takes me a long while to fully process what that man had just told me. He is dead. My father is dead…

Furrowing my brow, I sit up and swallow, clenching some of the bed's fabric in my fists. Mouthing a Dunmeri curse, I hang my head and stare at the shadow beneath my curled body. Father treated me poorly. He never once told me that he loved me, nor did it feel like he ever made so much as proper eye contact with me. He'd never told me that he was proud of me, or that I'd done a good job, or that he was happy…with anything. I didn't like him, but…I loved him, despite that. Breathing out harshly through my nose, I close my eyes tight. Where am I? What am I doing here? He was the only family I had in this damned place…

"Raellan…after my associate transported you back to the guild for healing, I found a package laying on a table near the door. It had your name, and so I figured I would bring it to you when you were well." Fishing around in his robe for a brief moment, Tavir produces a small parcel wrapped in parchment and bundled with twine. "A long time ago, Faelon told me something that I'm sure he'd never uttered to another soul. He told me that when he died, I was to find a package much like this one among his things, wherever they might be, and deliver it to you." Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, he extends the package towards me. I wait a good many seconds before shifting my gaze to it through the mass of hair which had fallen over my face, still trying to comprehend what he had just told me.

We sit in this silence for quite some time, his hand patiently held out towards me with only my scathing eyes as confirmation that I understand. "I…can't believe this." I say lightly under my breath, receiving little more than a nod from him as I finally reach out and relieve him of the package, placing it on my lap and hanging my head once more.

Taking this as his cue to leave, Tavir carefully gets to his feet, standing still a moment to stretch his old joints. "I'll be in the guild hall for a few more days. If you need a thing, I'd be happy to help if I can. Please, don't be afraid to rely on me." With that, he gives me another nod and stalks over to the door, exiting the room with a look as if an ancient weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Heaving a shaking, heavy sigh I open my eyes a slit and lightly press a hand to the package, drawing it closer. After all he'd said…this was the one thing I had to tie myself to Faelon Syndaris. This was what my father had left me.

Sucking in a hitching breath, I let my fingers curl around its edge and lay it in my lap, looking down at its crinkled parchment. Digging downward, I rip away layer after layer until my fingernail hits leather, and I pull a small collection of papers bound in a strange leather pressed with Daedric script from the scraps of old parchment. Holding it in my hands, I purse my lips and grip it tightly, hotly debating on whether or not I should actually open my father's parting gift.

Eventually, my desperation for something else, something tangible causes me to allow the front cover to flop open, and I begin to read.

xxxXxxx

Raellan Syndaris.

My daughter. I write this because I can feel in my soul that this is my last day. By now you will be on your way to Suran, but I know I will not see you again on the mortal plane. In my youth, my work with the great warlocks of the Telvanni led me to do abhorrent things, even for the standards of a necromantic lich. I participated in experiments that were meant to stretch the limits of mortality, to put it plainly, and when I finally made a breakthrough, my work was stolen by a rival of mine and I was banished to Vvardenfell as an outcast. I wandered everywhere, from the marshes in the south to the snowy ash-plains of the north. I looted burial ground after burial ground, searching for a way to complete my own work, and show the scholars of the mainland what I was truly capable of…yet my efforts were in vain. I worked my entire life, even today, to complete my theories, but I could simply never achieve the power I once sought. I write this because I wish to make amends with those I have spurned, and I fear I have spurned my own blood the most. Daughter, attached is a scroll which will bestow upon you all the knowledge I would dare share with you, and the words of an old friend of mine who would very much like to make your acquaintance, another whom I have spurned in my reckless pursuit of knowledge. I thirsted after it so much that I deprived her of a simple piece I could have so easily given her. Before my energy fails, I would have you know two things. The most important thing to remember long after I am gone is that knowledge is a device that can bring great prosperity, yet just as easily rain despair upon you. Be careful how you gain it, and use it…do not let pursuits of knowledge inhibit your growth of wisdom. I know you are capable of much, and this is why I know that out of all my research, out of every one of my many years of life, you are the only thing I am proud of creating. Please, Raellan, treat your name with care, that it will be remembered for your great deeds rather than fade to nothing due to my frivolity.

xxxXxxx

A shaking hand covering my mouth, I lay the papers down on my lap before my whole body begins to tremble, a sob coming up in my throat. I know deep down that I should be doing anything but mourning that foul man, but more of me knows that those words were perhaps the most genuine thing he's written in all his life. Reaching up, I flick rogue tears away from my eyes and look back down at the collection of information with an almost stubborn sort of insistence, carefully thumbing through the pages. As he said, there are several slightly curled pages here which at one point must have belonged to scrolls. As my fingers brush across them, it seems almost as if the papers react to my touch with a glow and a hum, and I can nearly make out words inscribing themselves. Deciding to examine these later, I thumb further, happening upon several pages of Daedric text. Narrowing my eyes, I flip past them and come upon pages bearing my father's own sharp hand – a clear translation – and once again begin to read with a sick curiosity bordering on desperation.

xxxXxxx

25th of Mid-Year, 3E 214

Azura's Shrine, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Sitting with crossed legs on the lip of the Prince Azura's sacred shrine, I stare eastward over the expanse of water and small, coastal islets out towards the mainland of Morrowind as I write this memorandum…