The new introductory chapter of Tome Two's up! I hope you'll enjoy the new tome, and reviews are welcome.
Songs of Cinder, Book XI: Beyond Time
A Dunmer elder refrained from continuing the penultimate chapter of his favourite book when he heard the clang of plates behind the door of his study. He perched on his walking stick and stood up, placing a bookmark on page sixty-nine; the heavy footsteps were heard louder, and the Dunmer opened the door to see a shadow on the stone wall, someone was going upstairs.
"Didn't even knock the door," the elder thought.
A moderately muscular Imperial lad ascended and approached the Dunmer. He was in a full suit of ebony, the chestpiece sporting ages-old designs and ornaments, and a round shield was resting on his back alongside the bastard sword. This was no common pilgrim seeking guidance from the well-respected elder.
"Greetings," the Cyrodiilic started, "It's an honor to speak with the hero Gatharian himself. Yet I'm here with a purpose different from those who usually visit your manor, sir."
"That so?" the elder replied, lifting his brow, "Pull up a seat, lad."
"Thanks. I was sent by Hlormaren Redoran. Normally, such matters should be addressed to the captain of the guard, but master Hlormaren asked to seek you out personally. He was unable to compose a letter and send it instead, given Morrowind's current dangerous state. So, here I am."
"A courier, huh?"
"Hlormaren Redoran's trusted lieutenant."
"I'm listening."
"Master Hlormaren reports that Vvardenfell, despite its unfriendly climate, seems to be overrun by the Argonian reavers. Ships from Blacklight sent to scout the District's coast were wrecked. Most of the city's denizens fear that the Red Mountain might belch ash once more, and many keep leaving for Skyrim. Master Hlormaren is about to retire because of the new and younger captain."
"B'vek, that's not pretty. However, Vvardenfell must not be a major concern nowadays, as greater problems lie ahead. There's no need to recapture a mostly uninhabitable island," the elder stated, handing a bottle of sujamma to the Imperial, an offer the lieutenant politely declined, "I'm sorry to hear of his untimely retirement. But, I will direct him to Modyn, see if we can establish a new post for Hlormaren right here. As for now, you are free, sera..."
"Seguri. Seguri Gratius."
"I bet there is an extra chamber in the Bulwark for old Hlormaren, and we might build more houses for his soldiers. Raven Rock is in dire need of reinforcements at the moment."
"I have a few weapons to add to your armory, specially enchanted at master Hlormaren's behest. I'm leaving tomorrow, so is there anything I must do before I depart?"
"Speak with Modyn, he can be found patrolling the streets. He is in charge of the guard here, and can provide you with all the details Hlormaren might find necessary. Also, there is a more... personal request."
"Hmm?"
"Here," the elder opened his dresser and handed a strange amulet to Seguri, "Give this to Hlormaren, he knows what this locket is. Just tell him that it's a reminder of the old days, and "true friends are always near" - he'll understand. And don't try to play with the damn thing - unless you want an ugly Dremora running around."
The Imperial took the amulet - a black metal bit with Mehrunes Dagon's face carved on it. He made an odd sound in his throat and nodded.
As Seguri left, the Dunmer went downstairs and washed himself before taking a stew of ash yams and heading back to his study. He put a plate on his end table and opened the book.
"Ha, watch where you're going, friend. To be an advisor for the master from the House of Redoran! Quite a feat, Yen," he grinned, speaking to himself, "Yen Gatharian, the hero of Oblivion Crisis, Bane of the Daedra, now a powerful ally of a Great House with more coin than you can spend!"
The endless ash drifts. They've been serving as barrows for the unlucky wanderers for hundreds of years, and now they are the only thing one can come across on the ill-fated District. Several ruins were intact enough to add to the overall miserable view of Vvardenfell, some debris still burning with a flame as alive as the day of the eruption. Near one of those debris was a row of charred pillars and a slanting tower that once used to be part of the Ghostfence. The cracks that formed on the bitter ground near the landmark were soon filled by an unnatural black liquid, as if the Red Mountain was crying tears of molten ebony. The burned path led to a crater of sorts, and upon closer inspection, one could safely state that this particular crater was not caused by perpetual ashfall. Someone lay in the very center, in the pose of an embryo, the apparels smeary and stained in ash and black spots. The slumbering stranger stretched and attempted to stand up, opening his glowing white eyes. Urjorahn looked more confused than ever, slowly rising up and looking around, terrified and lost. He touched his face and his dirty armor, fearing that he wanders through Vaermina's domain of bad dreams, but what he discovered was even more bloodcurdling than he imagined: the nightmare was real.
Urjorahn took a good look around: nothing except the ashmires and dying flames. He stepped on the rocks carefully, holding the pillars, giving the impression of a child that makes his first attempts at walking or a drunkard after the wildest of nights. He felt like both. Drenched in sweat and coughing ash, Urjorahn maundered about the pathway, murmuring something to himself. His tiredness was cast away when he stumbled upon the very tavern he left a while ago. Why the building was damaged so little might remain a mystery, but the Khajiit could care less. He was just about to push the front door when it collapsed by itself, revealing the inn's destroyed interior and the perforated walls. Urjorahn proceeded carefully, but then rolled towards the bar, opening every sideboard. Bloody lucky, he opened the last one to see what was nearly a miracle to him: a handful of raw ash yams and a loaf of stale bread. The Khajiit sprang upon food, and once he was done, he let loose the belts of his armor, exhaled and fell on the floor.
Once Urjorahn closed his eyes, he heard the quiet squeaking of the wooden stairs and the opening door behind him, followed by a female whisper:
"What the heck is that?"
The presence of someone other than him surprised Urjorahn more than the slow click of an unfamiliar mechanism. The Khajiit carefully turned around to see a Breton red-headed girl aiming an exquisite steel crossbow at him.
"Who in Oblivion are you?" the Breton asked, loading her weapon.
"My my, Rahn wants to ask the same question..." Urjorahn replied, "Perhaps the little cutie mortal would lower her weapon, so that we'd speak like civilized folk, eh?"
"Gods, you've been grave-digging? What's up with your armor?" the Breton glanced at the open cupboards behind the bar counter, and raised her crossbow once more, "Where's my damn food? I-"
"Shh," Urjorahn shut the girl's mouth before she could react.
"Hey! Don't shush me!"
The Khajiit did not reply, he sneaked outside and turned to the Red Mountain instead. He pulled his ears and ran back inside, pushing the shocked Breton on the floor moments before a heated wave of ash won through the wall, setting it aflame and blowing it out of its way. The bar counter the two crouched behind was able to withstand the fiery stream, but soon was burned and dilapidated.
Luckily for the two, the heated planks that fell on them preserved them, and no burns were inflicted upon the survivors. Once the wave passed, the lass searched for her crossbow in haste, and once it was found, she aimed it at Urjorahn yet again.
"Damn, this is not how the game is played. Rahn just saved the foolish mortal from the anger of the Ash King that would surely send you to a place the Khajiit came from. It ain't pretty, just so you know."
"Okay, but I'll keep an eye on you. And, thanks. My name is Clemence, and you must be..."
"Rahn needs to know how long he's been sleeping."
"What?"
The two exited the destroyed tavern and headed in an unknown direction. Everything felt the same, the same ashen wastelands, little variety in them. It was not difficult to get lost.
"Time is an unforgiving thing. Poor Rahn doesn't know what's going on. Where that Twin Lamp might be." Urjorahn cast a thoughful glance.
"Twin Lamp?" Clemence laughed, "You nuts? It's quite tall tale!"
"What does this one mean, tall tale?" Urjorahn exhaled.
"What, the legend of them noble Those-Who-End-Slavery? Forgotten, like the rest of the Third Era."
"What does this one mean, rest of the Third Era?"
"Are you crazy or what? There are no Twin Lamps! Look around, there is no Vvardenfell! Heck, it's two hundred and second year of the Fourth Era!" Clemence exclaimed.
"Fourth Era?"
"Err, who are you? Where have you been all that time? A lunatic?"
"Cat-folk from the sky. Rahn was away for just... a few minutes. When Dro-m'Athra watched the mortals spill blood in the midst of battle with the opening jaws of Oblivion, that's when I left... The Dro-m'Athra are... no longer watching."
"Pity. If it's the Oblivion Crisis you're talking about, then you've been "away" for two hundred years, lad," Clemence replied, "Wait, wait, wait a minute, I don't believe you! You're too young to live this long!"
"Who am I? Sheggorath? Rahn is incredibly sane. A simple Khajiit. Simple Khajiit never lie. Rahn only did it once, when Balmora's very stones sung the song of deception. In the shadows, then boom, a doorway to domain of Merrunz, then blood and death and-"
"What song?"
"Didn't you hear that? Clean your ears, mortal, a new verse echoes but is still silent. The refrain was written, now... Ah, now the next verse will purge the old ways and let the world be born anew... After the most dangerous mountain will tremble and Morrowind's very bones will shriek in fear, the... Wait... It already did..."
"I don't understand a thing."
"When did it happen, hmm? When?"
"You mean the Red Mountain?" Clemence shrugged.
"Of course Urjorahn means it."
"Oh, that was in the fifth year. I'm only 23, you know, don't expect me to retell the history of Morrowind, please."
Urjorahn did not say a word.
"What? Another ashfall?" Clemence said.
The Khajiit shoved her and pointed at the hill. Like the rest of Vvardenfell's landscape, it was no different from the ash dunes around. Yet something uncommon could be seen beyond the hill, a plank resembling a ship's mast. The two climbed up the hill to witness the strangest of sights: a shipwreck in the middle of the island.
"I can't believe it..." Clemence rubbed her eyes, "What could it be?"
"One of the secrets the Dwemer kept from the lessers, within an Imperial brigantine. A ship that was given wings, the blessing of flight conferred upon the wooden carcass... Sadly, the damn thing's broken."
"Hmm, perhaps we could... Fix it, huh?"
"Rahn wishes you good luck."
"Aw, come on, you furry bastard! We could at least try! I wonder what amazing experience we'll get once airborne!" Clemence punched Urjorahn's shoulder, and the Khajiit inhaled and nodded reluctantly.
Fixing a ship is no easy task. Especially when it is an airship. Nevertheless, Clemence's ambition and crafting skills soon encouraged Urjorahn, and the two then got their hands on the wondrous device. Countless days were spent on work, and the adventurers used to hide among the ship's cargo when the ashfall was getting exceptionally unrelenting. The same cargo provided them with much needed materials, and soon, the carcass was complete. There was neither time nor possibility for furnishings, and the airship was looking like a half-burned stack of wooden planks, barely capable of sailing, let alone flight. Clemence did not give up, and the ship was becoming more decent with every passing day. When it was finally finished, and the two were exhausted, with Urjorahn being tired to the point where he couldn't lift his finger without great effort, the only problem standing before the adventurers was how to make the thing fly.
"Maybe... umm... we must use some mythic magics to go up?" Clemence asked Urjorahn, whom she saw as more magically gifted.
She sat on an old rotten lever, accidentally pushing it, and the whole device started to tremble before the six giant paddle-wings on the airship's rear began to move, digging through the ash, and then the airship ascended, knocking the two off their feet with a horrific sound.
"It works! It works!" Clemence raised her hands and grappled the steering wheel, trying to cope with the airship, "Where will we go?"
"Refuge of the cursed people," Urjorahn replied, "Ash-covered like the rest. Where is it?"
"You mean, Solstheim?"
"Solstheim?"
"That's where most of the Dark Elves fled. So?"
Urjorahn nodded.