The Wounds of Vvardenfell
Chapter 2: Players and Power
Sorasa Astasu
The day started early for Sorasa. She swung her legs from her bunk in a swift motion, taking in her first breaths of the day. The room had no windows and was closed from the outside, but she could sense that it was the early morning. The rest of her comrades in the barracks around her were still asleep.
Outside, she knew, the first pale rays of the sun were glimmering over the dark horizon and playing upon the banners which hung from Vivec city's glorious cantons. Still, the banners had been brighter once. As with all things, the fabric of them faded from the weather and the rain. Sorasa swept a few lingering strands of black hair from her brow, willing her grogginess to pass.
As she made her bed, she noted that the orderly rows of candlelit bunks were hauntingly empty. Usually, when she woke, she could peer down the row of beds and see nineteen recognizable lumps within the blankets, but today there were only seven. In the other barracks, the situation was quite the same. For a city that once housed near a thousand Ordinators, only a few sparse hundred remained.
For an order as influential as the Ordinator's, their quarters were not very extravagant. While their weapons and armor were exquisite enough to buy some of the most beautiful manors of Vvardenfell, their food, clothes, and living spaces were as Spartan as the most humble of temple initiates.
It was best that way, Sorasa thought. One should not become an Ordinator for wealth or luxury. Our life is one of duty.
Only three of the seven lumps did Sorasa recognize; the other four were new recruits, Ordinators only in name. They hadn't yet earned their place here.
Sorasa had missed the funeral ceremony while she was being healed of her injuries. She couldn't help but feel a deep regret that she'd missed it.
Walking to the front of the long room, she approached a row of wicker baskets that were propped together against the wall. It was the duty of temple initiates to wash the clothes and set them into the baskets during the night.
She rummaged through the basket, looking for an unstained set of underclothes and a shirt that would fit her slender frame. The trick was to find the cleanest and softest of the clothes. She changed efficiently, shedding her soiled clothes, throwing them into the dirty basket.
For a moment, she stood naked, the curves and her toned muscles emphasized by the flickering candlelight. They had no changing area. Ordinators were not supposed to be modest-only faithful to their people and the duties they had sworn themselves to. Sorasa had felt wayward glances upon her body by her comrades before, but she did her best to not let it bother her. She was an oddity. There were few female Ordinators so she was bound to attract some looks. She pulled the shirt over her head and she knew she'd chosen well. The shirt must have been newly purchased-the fabric was soft and smooth like a warm embrace and it fit her body snugly.
Hearing a loud snore, Sorasa cast a contemptuous glance to one of the slumbering recruits . Is he mine? She strode over to his bedside, her narrowed red eyes focusing down to the childish-looking Dunmer man. No, mine has a softer looking face. This one is probably stronger than my weak one. As if he felt her malevolence, his sleeping face darkened. Sorasa did her best not to chuckle.
She couldn't help but feel that these soft children did not belong in her barracks, sleeping in the beds of better men. She was amazed that Commander Andas had ordered it, but it was not her place to disagree. There were times when she chafed against the core tenant of her order: Duty. Sorasa knew that it was a word that could bring both solace and frustration.
The barracks felt more like a natural home to her than any other place she'd lived; the new initiates felt like intruders in it. We have been decimated as it is. Now we are to be saddled with weaklings? Our order will be crippled. Our reputation will be ruined.
Sorasa huffed with frustration, leaning her back against the wall. Of our barracks who is left?
She looked from the beds, and noticed the three slumbering bodies that were familiar. She could tell each of them by the way they lay, or by what little of their bodies were showing beneath the shrouds of their blankets. Dras, Dalan, and Llandus. That makes four survivors out of twenty. She knew them well over many years.
It was essential for a warrior to know her comrades. It helped them fight as one. That said, she didn't really care for them, or anyone else, for that matter. Still, it was comforting to see that at least three of her comrades had survived the battle outside Vivec. She smiled sheepishly, but the smile evaporated. Smiles never lasted very long on her lips.
Last night, she had been the last to retire. The night was already mature when she'd gone to her bed. It had taken her hours of workout and sword practice to silence the turmoil within her and so she had trained well into the night.
Despite the sleep, her arms still ached from all the training, though it had been worth driving the emotions away. Emotions like those would only serve to distract her. Though, when she woke, she had felt an ache within her gut. Sometimes-especially during tragedies-dreams went to dark places and reveled in weakness.
Sorasa rapidly began to check beds, looking for the priest that she had to babysit.
There he is. She found him sleeping in Daras' old bunk with a smug smile on his silly face. Sorasa felt a flash of anger and slapped him.
Startled, his eyes shot open and he cradled his jaw. "What did-" He rasped softly, probably to avoid waking the others that slept beside him. How considerate, she thought contemptuously.
"Rise," she growled.
She left him to find a new set of clothes as she strapped on her armor. As she swept her black hair from her brow and drew her helm down upon her head, she felt a sense of peace and order settle into her. When the armor was pulled around her, she knew that she was strong.
She glanced towards her charge to see that he was still fumbling with the basket of clothes. Let him fumble. He has much to learn.
Making her way outside, Sorasa saw that the city of Vivec still had not woken from its slumber, and a heavy fog hung over the ocean as its waves peacefully lapped against the base many feet below.
From where she stood, the imposing cantons of St. Olms and St. Delyn loomed to the north, huge sandstone structures, pyramids with a domed top that rose from the waves. Ah Vivec, Sorasa thought, closing her eyes and feeling the moist air of the morning fill her lungs.
And even further north beyond them, she could see the other Cantons rising up hundreds of feet like mountains in the fog, each structure a wonder in of itself. The elegant arched bridges which connected the many them together hung gracefully, the banners beneath them waving in the morning air.
But Sorasa turned south. Making her way up a long walkway, she climbed to the top of the Temple Canton's courtyard. In the middle of the clearing stood the High Fane, the most glorious temple to Amsilvi that was built by the faithful, and the crowning jewel of the Temple Canton.
The beautiful temple rose as three tall pyramids, representing the trinity of the Amsilvi. As she stepped inside, she was pleased to see that the temple was mostly empty. The sound of her boots hitting the sandstone echoed up the magnificently tall ceilings of the High Fane. The shrines stood empty, free of sycophants and complainers, despairing about lack of money and food.
She was greeted by Endryn Llethan in his rich blue robes, a devoted monk and master of the temple. He was handsome, despite his age, and the fact that lines had begun to etch into her face. His position of power and her dignity both appealed to Sorasa. "Sorasa. May the day greet you warmly." Like most Dunmer, his voice was raspy, almost a growl. Still, there was warmth in it.
"And you as well, brother. How is the state of our temple?" she said, her voice muffled by her golden mask. Even though it was not new, she was still impressed by Endryn's ability to tell her apart from the other Ordinators. Most couldn't tell the Ordinators apart, even the rare females. She liked Endryn; he was faithful, and a capable master of the High Fane temple and he oversaw the temple matters in Vivec very well.
A grim look came over Endryn. "Each day we pray for the return of Vivec. With the gates to Oblivion, the withdrawal of the Imperial troops. . . these are dark times, We need his guidance more than ever," he muttered, speaking softly.
"We must have faith. Vivec will return," Sorasa assured. She smiled beneath her mask. "Brother, if you need our help, please just ask. I would be privileged to assist you myself."
Endryn smiled weakly. "I will keep praying." Sorasa's hidden smile faded away and she nodded curtly, passing him.
She knelt before the shrine to Vivec's Fury, placing a handful of coins respectfully in front of the shrine. Kneeling down until the horsehair plume of her golden helmet touched the shrine, Sorasa whispered her prayer softer than the shifting of air in a room.
When she'd finished, she left the temple to find that the sun had begun to illuminate the fog and that the heat of the light had begun to burn it away.
"I'm ready when you are, Serah."
Sorasa turned to find her initiate in a humble brown robe, arms folded across his chest with a warm smile on his lips.
He'd not yet earned the privilege of wearing the sacred armor or wielding the weapons of the order, she'd decided.
"How did you know I was here?" Sorasa demanded icily.
"Ahh-well I had morning duty in the High Fane when I was a low-ranked member of the temple," he replied with an apologetic smile. "I saw that you prayed every morning to the Shrine of Vivec's Fury, though you always spoke softly. I was always curious what the words to your prayer were."
Sorasa narrowed her eyes. "That's none of your concern."
"I'm sorry," he said with a carefree smile, "I didn't mean to offend you."
Sorasa's glare didn't waver. He didn't look sorry.
They set off to patrol the road that they'd been assigned from Vivec northeast to the coastal shanty town of Seyda Neen. They passed a few travelers who spoke of bandits.
Noon came and passed, the sun glinting off of Sorasa's golden armor and they still didn't see any highwaymen. She knew that there were countless caves and caverns in the hills and mountains on either side of the road and that many of those caverns hid criminals, outlanders, thieves, and murderers.
Her initiate made various attempts to talk to her, but mostly she met his words with terse replies or silence. Still, he told her that his name was Fadryl. It was a handsome Dunmer name, Sorasa thought; of course, she didn't say that. She'd just replied "Hn."
Eventually, a black object appeared by the side of the road near the junction of the Ebonheart road. When they approached they found a corpse with a few feathered arrows protruding from his back. Sorasa knelt beside it, and found an empty leather pouch resting in the road's dust. "Robbed," she said calmly, dropping the empty pouch from her hands.
They'd heard reports and complaints from citizens along the road, but this was the first physical evidence they'd found. Sorasa scanned the hilly landscape that surrounded them, as well as the steep hills and small mountains that were just a few hundred yards inland.
"They're watching us," Sorasa muttered angrily, her dispassionate golden helm scanning the hills. She couldn't see them, but still she knew.
After a few moments of silence Sorasa said "We'll need to use you as bait."
Fadryl guffawed. "Bait? I'm unarmored."
She ignored him, her gaze never leaving the hills. "We just need to capture one of the bandits. . ."
"Excuse me, Sorasa. Just to make sure we're thinking the same thing, we find a guy who's been killed by arrows and you want me to wait around until the killers return to kill me?"
"They probably only killed him once he ran. You just stand still, and give them whatever you have in your pockets. They probably won't kill you. I'll be shadowing you closely."
"Probably isn't very reassuring," Fardryl muttered.
She turned her helm to him. He could see the glow of her eyes beneath the shining mask. "You will do as I say."
Duke Vendam Dren
Vendam Dren gazed from the battlements upon the southern sea. It was just a small strip of water that separated the island of Vvardenfell from the rest of the province of Morrowind. So any goods from the Imperial trading centers had to be loaded onto ships to be sailed to the island of Vvardenfell. Ships, like little specs, streamed from the trade ports to the harbor of Ebonheart and Vivec.
He counted the specs that were heading to Ebonheart. For every ship that docked in Ebonheart, he got a duty from the ship's captain. It was one of the largest contributions to his coffers.
From the top of the ramparts of his Grand Council Chambers, his fortified island fortress connected to the bustling markets of Ebonheart city by a long bridge, Vendam could see Ebonheart's markets, and thousands of people scurrying below. It sometimes struck him a odd that he had dominion over so many.
The fortress he stood atop was built to withstand an attack of thousands. It was a small rocky island with walls standing over a hundred feet tall and a single narrow bridge by which to approach it. To invest this much money into the construction of their seat of governance, the Imperials must have anticipated trouble.
In his position as Duke of Vvardenfell, Vendam Dren wielded great influence, serving as a conduit between local and Imperial power. It was a delicate balancing act, but it could be played to great benefit, if the player knew the pieces and how to move them.
He sipped some of his brandy, spiced just as he liked it.
Finishing the cup, he held it out. "Top me off, Quintus," Vendam commanded. His Imperial squire clad in full steel obeyed, dipping the flask and filling Dren's cup. The boy's father was a wealthy councilman in Cyrodil and was grooming the boy for a career as a foreign adviser to the Empire. Quintus didn't speak often-a trait that Dren valued in him; when he did speak he sounded like a prideful little brat.
Dren provided for the boy's food and lodging from his own purse, but the deal wasn't without its benefits. So long as Quintus was by his side, he had the ear of one of the more prominent members of the Elder Council's inner circle-what little good that did him.
He'd tried to use the boy's influence to get the Empire to commit more Imperial troops to re-establish the garrisons in the interior forts, but apparently the new Chancellor, Ocato, oversaw the deployment of Imperial legions himself and, as far as Dren's correspondence with Quintus' father had gone on, Ocato proved himself very stubborn in not deploying any more legions to Vvardenfell. Ocato considers the threat of instability within Morrowind to be secondary to the threats posed by Black Marsh and Skyrim. I will do my best to convince him of Morrowind's need of additional soldiers, Quintus' father had wrote.
But your best isn't good enough, Vendam thought.
Vendam turned, hearing the click of steel boots upon the stone walkway. "Sir, your guest has arrived," a guard stated, bowing deeply.
"Send her up."
Vendam leaned against the ramparts, looking to the door that she'd climb up through. Around him stood a number of counselors, from both the Empire and influential Dunmer from Vvardenfell most chatting amongst themselves. Too many ears, he thought.
"Counselors, I'd prefer this meeting be more private. I'll see her with just my personal guards. Please, assemble in the main hall. I'll join you for dinner soon."
The counselors drifted away until only Vendam's closest guards were within earshot in their place atop the castle walls.
A dark elf woman ascended the stairwell. She was garbed in a worn-looking crimson gown. It was probably her best set of clothing, but it was underwhelming and the harshness of her eyes and roughness of her hands betrayed her low class. Still, there was a certain austere beauty to her.
She bowed, but her eyes waited for him to make the first move. She must have been surprised by my invitation. She wants to see what I know and is waiting for me to act first. Clever girl, he thought appreciatively.
"Do you know the punishment for serving the Camonna Tong?" he asked simply.
"I do not, Duke Dren," she responded carefully.
"There is no particular punishment," Vendam said with an melodramatic frown. "Fortunately, as Duke, I am allowed a certain liberty. I can make punishments up as I go." His crimson eyes sparkled with amusement. "Flaying, slavery, sodomizing, slowly crushing to death, pulling the offender apart with ropes, I could do any of those things, or anything more horrible that might come to my mind."
"I'm not-"
"But you are. You're a member of the Camonna Tong and you once served my brother. I'm sure you remember your old master?" Vendam paused, leaning back against the ramparts as the waves crashed behind him. "My brother tried to kill the Neravarine and it cost him his life-a foolish error" Vendam brought his cup to his lips, taking another soft sip from it.
"My brother kept records about your organization, sweet Llaynasa. I found that list, and now I know every little dirty secret of the Camonna Tong, which is why I knew to summon you here. I can have your entire organization exterminated." Vendam let those words hang in the air for a few moments before he proceeded. "That might even be the moral choice, considering some of the things your little band of misfits has been engaged in."
"But you haven't wiped us out," Llaynasa replied with a glare. "Why not?"
"Because the Camonna Tong belongs to me now," Vendam replied. "And I have a mission for you."