"No. no, once more then, your dodge – it was faulty: you need not move fully to the left simply to avoid catching my dagger, my lord," Voryn said amusingly and a little out of breath, pushing away sweaty strands from his forehead that had fallen out of his . . . well, whatever the style was that Voryn had tied his hair in. If anything, it resembled the tail of a so-called mammal Nerevar had heard about from Vivec, as the latter often regaled many a tale about the Southwest, just outside of Deshaan. Past the borders of Resdayn, in fact. The tail, as part of this animal – not Voryn's hair – soft and, by definition, fuzzy and sleek, he had never seen, however, but Nerevar could imagine their affection for the more temperate climates.
But here in the Ashlands, no animal adorning such hide could be seen. Only enormous insects and scaled-skinned creatures roamed these lands – and it made sense: the heat would only be unbearable to the fur-lined. Sometimes, Nerevar thought that their absence could very well be a source of mild grievance; to never be able to experience these creatures – even if Nerevar had never laid eyes on the skin of fur and could therefore never truly wish for such a thing – and as a result, he wondered how sturdy of mind Voryn must be, to be able to live in a place where there was warmth, literally so, but not at all in its figure. To Nerevar, the warmth in one's heart was crucial to abundancy of comfort, and Nerevar imagined such soft animals likening to Vivec's crude drawings would perfectly suffice.
Here, Voryn had a playful glint in his eye; he was rather enjoying their little sparring session rather than studying the techniques they exchanged for once. Nerevar supposed the other mer was beside himself with mirth; after all, chance had finally found them a time in which they were both lacking in any immediate and dangerous business to attend to, and now here they were: crouching low in front of the other, daggers passing precariously between the surfaces of their skin with each swipe taken.
It was one of Voryn's many great ideas to spar together, near one of the boils behind the lands of Kogoruhn's geysers, which Nerevar had agreed to, although reluctantly, as it was incredibly warm – much too hot in any case to be exerting oneself – and Nerevar had considered shedding the last layer of his garb at least five times now. He was gradually growing tired, and the sweltering heat did nothing to dispel his fatigue, that much was true – so much that he, a very skilled fighter with a penchant for wielding sharp objects and dealing skilful swipes, was facing some difficulty challenging someone more inclined towards the magical arts. Granted, Voryn was taller than him, which made it hard to land a graceful attack or dodge sometimes, but otherwise they were equal opponents, something Nerevar could not say for many. He was grateful for it; grateful to have someone like Voryn.
To say he was having fun would be a vast understatement.
He peeled away the last layer of his tunic.
"Maybe I'm doing it on purpose," Nerevar said coyly, and found that, without the heavy burden of his outerwear, he could move around more freely. More like he was used to – could span both his arms and hands in a manner less mimicking a petrified snake: less clunky and static and more appealing to his strategic mind. He could flay elegantly if he wanted to, though this was not the case. Voryn scrutinized him; he knew Nerevar was not one for elegance – he was just trying to throw him off. Oh, but to think Voryn could not see through the bluff of battle! Voryn truly knew him – yet another matter which Nerevar was happy about.
"I'm sure. After all, why should you use every manner of strength against a magic wielder like me?" He answered in questioning, equally coy, haughtily like he would, and by consequence, even more infuriating – it was Voryn, after all, and he was prone to have a vexing quality about him. It drove Nerevar up the wall sometimes. Voryn himself was distracting enough as he was now; all aglow with joy. Nerevar took up his position again: he readied his dagger; with his right hand holding its hilt – the weapon was dulled, of course – and placed his feet on the ashen ground, finding grip within its mutability. At least the surface on which they sparred was relatively soothing to his soles, which made the fight, contrasting temperature hot and cold bordered only by the connection to the ash, all the more exciting. He was sure Voryn felt it, too.
And Nerevar could wax poetry about Voryn's form and how mesmerizing he looked if was his desire to do so in time of deliberation, but then a blade cut through loose air and sliced along his forearm, although lightly; in light of a realization that the blade had indeed struck something – and Voryn had not expected this, had he? He had assumed his dear friend to move out of the way, to perform a much more subtle dodge – much like the one Voryn had told him would be of value just a few moments before.
Voryn, after he let vanish his shocked expression, dashed forward towards Nerevar, chucking his dagger away, losing it in the ash. He took his partner's hands in his and called to restoration; now the slice looked a red, painful line no longer, now resembled more scar than skin. Such things had never swayed the Hortator, though; he liked such foolish notions – the ones that left stories on the body – just a vessel to Voryn, really – and trophies on the skin, lines as memories of times one ought to be proud of, presumably.
"The body is a temple, Voryn," Nerevar once said as he poured over the letters that lay before him, unimportant, fleeting orders that had his voice arching away, distracted – Nerevar took it all so seriously and Voryn couldn't help but admire his companion's determination as he reclined on the rugs near the hearth, the warmth of the fire licking at his back.
Ignoring the sentimentality of the statement, the subtle chide that lingered in the implication, Voryn observed Nerevar's complexion. Well. To say the body was a temple was perhaps not too far-fetched a metaphor when taken apart to its base meaning, yet, looking at the Hortator, he felt that the meaning was – though not for the lesson it implied, certainly – well-put and profound, if only because it described perfectly what Voryn couldn't normally explain about their eccentric relationship.
Nerevar, to Voryn, was indeed a temple, and he a mere apostle, coming to bring gifts and acts of sacrifice.
"Oh, my lord, whatever do you mean by that," Voryn drawled, not quite in questioning, and watched Nerevar dip his pen into the ink again. The latter paused, looked up. "Ah . . . well, you know, do you not?" All the while did flame bring out The Hortator's contours and Voryn thought him simply radiant. And then there was nothing else besides that very centerpoint of light.
Voryn did know but there was always something more held within that gaze, another question perhaps, one that required no response. Something for Voryn to concentrate on instead of answering, if it was what his lord was looking for; an answer. Now he heard him calling his name but could not determine the tone in which he spoke and the only answer he felt like he could give was how great the intensity of the tingles he felt on his skin were. Why, even though he had been laying near the fire, or so he had thought, his skin felt cold and numb, like the fire had gone out. It had not: Nerevar's face was still lit brightly. And when he thought he was looking again, so did the warmth claw at and cling to his skin. Everything felt warm now, from his feet dipped into soft, crumbling ash, scorching, to his hands, and then –
"Voryn – ah, you've come to," Nerevar murmured and brought his hand up to Voryn's shoulder, leaner closer towards him when he tried to look into the taller's downcast eyes.
"You stopped blinking for a while. You had me worried, my friend."
Like he always would be whenever such happenstance occurred.
Voryn's hands felt like lead – the sensation of added weight that remained invisible to all gave way to such a thought. He took care not to drag it down and instead let it go and, well, it did not fall or otherwise evaporate, for once. And though he had not meant to bruise, Nerevar's hand in his revealed to him the colors of purples and reds. Bruised. What had he been doing? Voryn could never recollect, and his thoughts always seemed so far away, too far to grasp and try to contemplate their meaning. He let his own hands drop to his sides, finding them dragging him down still, numbness clawing up, pulling him below the surface of the ash. His companion's other hand hovering over his.
This occurrence, however consistent, however much Nerevar felt he could learn from the circumstances and their reasons, never failed to make him concerned. Voryn, from an outside perspective, was collected, calm and rational – he was not one to show weakness; he never let anyone know if something had angered him. Instead, and this, Nerevar loathed to be reminded of again, instead, Voryn would plot in silent secrecy, which, indeed, on one hand, was a testament to his rightful position of House Dagoth's Grandmaster, as his intelligence and penchant for espionage remained unrivalled to this day. Granted, it was a double-edged sword, with how much it sometimes seemed to consume Voryn's spirit – he hadn't always been like this; prone to such happenstances where he would simply not react to anything that happened around him.
In retrospect, Nerevar could understand, now doused in calm, why exactly this Voryn Dagoth had peeved him during yesterday's Council. Though, in all honesty, when did the younger Dagoth not get under his skin? The mer in question carried himself proudly – both apparent in his body language as in his speech and so most of the time spoke to someone as if they were a half-wit. Voryn apparently thought no different of Nerevar the first time they had met, as the latter loathed to conclude.
This time, however, the Council had the tidings all aligned, all well and even, until poison soured its currents – perhaps done unintentionally, but it had happened, nonetheless. The thing that had Nerevar's thoughts all askew was none other than duplicity within issued commands, forgery amidst the structured law – and when had it not? For all his months within, it seemed to him that every character was at least a little bit inclined to lie, for whatever reason deceitful or altruistic or what have you. For as long as Nerevar would be The Hortator, he would have to bear all that was politically charged, a weight he did not care for and would likely hand over to Almalexia whenever he was able. Nevertheless, he hoped to grow into it in the years to come, notwithstanding that some people were not at all helping him in the matter as they threw all kinds of conflicts at him – conflicts that seemed so trivial to him but apparently most urgent to the noble Houses.
Sotha Sil, a younger member of the Council, and someone who Nerevar had befriended very swiftly for his bold intelligence and grand inventions, had warned him of several key members that swum around the political hierarchy. House Dagoth was at the top, or at the very least reaching the limits a non-ruling House could attain.
But Nerevar was not so swayed in the way his fellows had stood, or on the cusp of falling, rather, when Voryn, House Dagoth's heir under his father's tutelage, addressed House Indoril's concerns. Nerevar prided himself in this – in his steadfastness, in his ability to stay grounded no matter which way the wind would blow. Voryn Dagoth was an intriguing anomaly in Azura's proceedings, but Nerevar guessed, as far as House Dagoth's ideals rang, that diplomacy and maintaining a nurturing attitude, rather than a dominating one, seemed to be a mutually conclusive goal. There was no doubt, however, that the current Grandmaster had some ulterior motive of sorts – as was expected, truthfully – though, having been bared to all kinds of intrigue already – which, to Nerevar, wasn't all that intriguing, was irritating at best – he knew how to handle it. He knew how to observe, and to do so with all eyes on him when it was his turn to voice his reasoning and display his authority as Hortator.
It was not like Nerevar hadn't expected it; Voryn was as tenacious as he was stubborn: had the rest of the nobles – the ones who weren't actively in disagreement with his father – complying meekly to whatever was being decided by the Grandmaster's lips alone. Though one mer was being particularly ostentatious, flaunting his charisma and his ability to gather crowds like a weapon – the only weapons he would ever wield, Nerevar thought absent-mindedly.
When Voryn spoke, he did so with little words, aiming, concise; promising an Ashstorm with the turn of a coin; and even more so when his predictions landed on the more favourable side – upon conclusions of future motions. The noble, Voryn's second-degree enemy at the time, did little to alleviate the problem at hand, as if he had expected it and had been enjoying arguing with the Grandmaster's son. Nerevar already knew it was a conflict that had to be dispersed by his own involvement. Though he had suspected Voryn would argue against whatever he'd do or say. And Voryn was just like that – he seemed to have no respect for Azura's chosen, why, he did not even seem to hold an ounce of reverence for the Three Good Daedra.
It was a dance, surely; like a scale that balanced the words and measured their every implication – how will their words affect the outcome? When he hadn't been engaged in a thousand-yard stare, all zoned-in on the more peculiar sights within Mournhold: the altar place, and the rather lack of embellishment – save for a small array of stones, Nerevar stood for a moment, feeling outlandish amidst the warring of foolish nobles within Mournhold'sCourt.
Thinking on it a little longer, perhaps, it had always been there, lingering under a thin veneer of calm, even now, though poorly disguised, hidden still from Nerevar – realization dawning that, within the time he had only known his dear friend as the son of the former Grandmaster, he had likely been suffering all the same. Though this he could not be sure of – Voryn had the tendency to brush him off whenever Nerevar would inquire about anything regarding the time in which Voryn hadn't yet been crowned as the head of his House, when Nerevar hadn't known him as well as he did today.
So instead they sparred, as was, again, Voryn's idea, and Nerevar knew why he'd decided on that, but he mercifully spared his dear friend the explanation.
"Ah, dear me . . ." And then, with his head raised so suddenly, he returned to Nerevar, looking down once more, now to stare into the shorter mer's eyes, surprised, yet no longer dazed. Nerevar smiled and took Voryn's left hand to raise it to his lips and kiss the palm of it, feeling a muscle in Voryn's wrist twitch from where he lightly held onto the arm, long, slender fingers twitching in his periphery. His actions must have come across as a surprise, as Voryn quickly averted his eyes, and if he was feeling embarrassed, Nerevar wasn't privy to it.
Voryn cleared his throat, looked toward the foothills of Red Mountain then up towards the volcano's very peak, something unidentifiable in his expression, and sighed. Not long did it linger; Voryn looked back towards his sparring partner and tugged up a gentle smile, previous concerns gone, as it seemed, along with everything else.
Indeed; Red Mountain, though sleeping at the time, burned a strange color that day. Known for its occasional outbursts – violent streams of both orange and yellow sprouting out of its crater – the inhabitants, namely House Dagoth and the other dwellers made sure the Mountain and its surroundings remained well-maintained. Once the volcano flared up, magma would glide down and glisten and gleam at the seams in which the drops were tied. Smoke would reach towards the skies like a statue of ash not taken shape yet, not yet sculpted, unrestricted and all-blinding. And although that day was not today, the eruption seemed nigh. Perhaps that's what Voryn was sensing: an end to a sleeping state – he did live at the very trenches, after all.
"I do wonder, what gave me away?"
Voryn paused, not in his movements of his fingers shuffling the cards, but in the expressions on his face that had previously only held a neutral expression, now fading to something dreadfully pained, like Voryn could smell the stench of rotting corpses, could see beyond the knots of the present and into the future and saw therein only the demise awaiting him at the end of it. He did not look up, though he did answer, and Nerevar found that he, perhaps understandably so, had pondered his friend in blind observation.
"The foolish wobbling of your mouth you continuously choose to express does nothing to hide your amusement. Surely by now, you've come to learn to stay your lips, my lord?" Voryn asked in a deadpan, not looking up from the cards he had brandished a ways away from the candle's fire, the thickness of the paper not giving away anything beyond the reflection of the flame – a yellow haze on a red, gleaming surface. His expression was calm – a perfectly indifferent expression that distracted Nerevar to no end, in turn forgetting his hand and the fact that luck didn't seem to be on his side this time.
But Nerevar heard not what was spilled from his dear friendfollowing that, for a chaste glance he had refocused on Voryn's own, trailing down from the curves of his eyebrows, to his slanting eyes, to his nose, to –
"You seek answers in my lips, Voryn?" Nerevar abandoned his hold on the cards, laid them down on the table, upturned, as if to challenge his partner to look down. Voryn didn't. Instead, he smirked; knowing what Nerevar was doing and laid his hand down, too.
"Shall we continue then, my lord?"
And when that same mountain erupted and the same ink painted Resdayn in darkness, nothing existed past the blinding of ash.Sometimes, a flock of cliffracers, though with weak, dying wings, held against the light of a fleeting red sun, spilled shadows on the span of former Resdayn and past the expanse of a grey sea – an immeasurable smokescreen of ash. It was a burial of bright colors: no more the green fields that stretched across the etches of the land; no more the abundance of their prosperity. The shrill of screecheswere all buried along the traces of a lost House, beneath the soot that brought only sickness and death.
Everything had come to ash that year, presented to the Chimer in red, but not only by the blood of the many fallen soldiers at Red Mountain that sullied the Ashlands. The mountain's name was now the rotten centrepiece of all that had occurred and all the things it had taken fromResdayn. Red was seen in the sky looming above the miserable fringes of what once was perceived glorious, over the dawn, and, as gradually as it came to every Chimeri family, so said the eyes of the young; opening wide in scarlet gazes.In bitterness they lived onwards, looking to those that claimed to have witnessed the truth on the last days of prosperity, the last days of Moon-and-Star's reign.
"Yes. Let's"
Oh, you Daedric Prince, you, Lady of Dusk and Dawn, why do you toy with my existence so?
