Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise Second Life mod creators, etc.
Chapter 3: Game Modders
There were now steady streams of pilgrims going to Azura's shrine. Trekking up to the shrine was marginally made safer by volunteer shrine guardians. The shrine guards only came to town once a week to escort pilgrims. One could, of course, choose to make the journey without them and plenty did without encountering bears, wolves, trolls, ice-wraiths, or bandits, or accidentally climbing up the wrong path and ending up at a dragon's feeding ground. And the snowstorms were survivable if one was prepared and well-armed in case the ghosts in the storms, the falmer, were out and about.
The shrine guards didn't charge for the service and Curtis counted the purse he handed over as a donation. The large lodge with smoke curling out of its chimney was new and a blessed sight after trudging through the snow. He'd seen the guards use the money he'd donated to buy the food and medical supplies that stocked the lodge and was available to pilgrims.
Two levels in the lodge. The open, upper level had rooms for the three attendant priests and their library. The lower floor was open design with storage shelves along the walls and large trunks bolted in place where pilgrims could store items during the time they were here, but they provided their own locks. No private rooms; just throw a sleeping pad on the floor. An open kitchen with basic cooking pots and utensils and food staples that stored well in the smaller, cold room in back. Privies were a separate room attached to the main building and kept warmer than the outside by magic heat runes. The guards had their own snug shacks on the slope below the lodge and near to the cement furnace that heated all the buildings.
After a communal dinner, Curtis strolled outside and to the base of the statue. Azura against the twilight sky was just as beautiful and awe-inspiring in reality as in game. The crimson light of the setting sun seemed to give her stern expression life as if the daedra was there and not just a shell. A play of shadows, but then, that was Azura, wasn't it? He knew a lot of ladies who only seemed to come alive when the sun went down. Night owls. He frowned, wondering if she had anything to do with this, but then shrugged it off. Didn't seem her game unless it involved Nerevar.
"You asked specifically to see me."
Her real voice from the game voice had a different timbre and was smoker tinged, the voice type he associated with Morrowind, but she looked the same. "Priestess Ienith," he said, half-bowing to her. "Curtis Johnson. Yeah. I figured since you used to talk directly with Azura you wouldn't automatically think me totally insane when I tell you my story."
"You presume my communications with our god grants me insight to bouts of insanity?"
"Aw, no, no, I didn't mean that," said Curtis, flushing. "Look, I know you talked to Azura until the Dragonborn found her Star and then the goddess dropped you 'cuz she didn't need you to speak for her anymore."
"The Archimage Dragonborn is the champion of Akatosh," said the priestess frostily. "The Champion of Azura is Helsette Faro of Cheydinhal and lately of Windhelm. But do go on with your story."
Oh, ok. Another confirmation that the Dragonborn was playing the double-life game of superhero versus regular hero, the non-Dragonborn being a spellsword named Helsette Faro Sadri, the wife of the dunmer steward of Windhelm. As a hero, the Missus Sadri had a good public image as a likable, cheerful adventurer. Everyone knew she was half Imperial — that same despicable Imperial Legion Legate who sired the Dragonborn and cast her and her mother off so they wouldn't embarrass his dunmer wife — herself a bastard child of, guess who, King Helseth of Morrowind — and who was also his superior officer in the Legion.
He bet the priestess knew the champions were one and the same, but was invested in the shell game. S'all good. He could play, too.
Curtis then realized just what other he'd said and he groaned, even more embarrassed. "Aw, shit. 'Scuse my language, ma'am. I didn't mean to make it sound like the goddess just dumped you because she had no use for you. But, you know, you did what she needed you to do — you led her people out of Vvardenfell to here so it was time for the next stage of her plans. And sometimes, at a new stage, a new project leader with different talents is needed."
After a moment the priestess gave him a small smile. "Thank you. I had not considered that."
"Yeah, well, er . . ." Curtis glanced over his shoulder up at Azura's face. "I know virtue, er, faith is suppose to be its own reward, but, y'know, sometimes even the most dedicated sometimes needs a 'thank you' and bosses too often forget that. Um, no offence, Prince Azura. Like, I'm not telling you your business. Just saying from a mortal perspective."
The priestess gave a small laugh of amusement. "Come, it's getting cold enough for even me now. Let up return inside and I would be glad to hear your problem and give what help I can."
She brought him to a small room next to her bedroom on the upper level that she used as her study, gave him a golden tea that tasted like a sweet dandelion tea, and sat quietly as he told his story of another world where her world, this Mundus, was a game; how he died from what he now believed was a brain aneurysm; and how the game was no longer an amusing pastime to a hijacked soul dropped into someone else's body. And why he came to this shrine with his problem was because, one, he'd been dropped into a dunmer body instead of, oh, say, a redguard or other human and, two, if this was a daedra's act then Azura seemed the safest one to approach for answers.
"Can you recall anything unusual in the hour or even the day before your death? Meet or interact with a new person who seemed unusually strange to you, even mad?" she asked.
"Nope. No one that stands out from the usual crazies."
"Hm, then any event, no matter how fleeting, that struck you as out of place or profound?"
Curtis nodded . "Yeah. An owl. You don't see them in the city outside of zoos. And it wasn't a spotted gray. This one was bigger than an eagle and white and gray with red eyes. It nearly hit me and then seconds later I had my aneurysm."
"You've said that word before, 'aneurysm.' What is that?" the priestess asked.
"Oh, that. That's a medical condition where a blood vessel get weak points and may eventually burst under pressure. Internal bleeding. In my case, somewhere in my brain. Can leave you permanently crippled or, like in my case, dead."
"Ah. And so you think this owl may have caused your aneurysm then?"
"No. To be fair, I've been having medical problems for a while. Things hadn't been going well in my life and I'd gained too much weight, got the triple-curse of diabetes, high blood pressure, and cholesterol from stress and bad eating habits. My doctors have been ragging on me to find ways to relax and get my bad habits under control or I'd never make it to my 50's.
"On the previous 'relax-or-die' weekend I took my nieces to the Daybreak Star Center to where some native northwest indian art was being displayed and traditional storytellers were visiting. Ate some good fried food, which I shouldn't have because diet restrictions to lose weight, you know, and we listened to stories about tribal spirits. My nieces went for the owls because of all the spotted owl hype and illegal killings. Generally, to the natives, the owls were the souls of the deceased ancestors and were bringers of wisdom, intuition and prophecies and sacred knowledge. 'Course, mostly seen as bogeymen. You know, tell the kiddies to get to sleep and no crying or the owl will hear them and carry them away. Also, that hearing the owl hooting in your dreams means that you will die soon.
"Although, if I could choose a totem animal, it would be the otter 'cuz they stand for intelligence and resourcefulness and doing all that while having fun. If you ain't laughing, then you ain't living. And I hadn't been laughing for a long time now." He fell silent and drank his tea while thinking of his last months of life. How fucked up and out of balance it was that even trying to relax seemed a tiresome burden and only added pressure to fix "what ain't right."
"So Savos lives again," said the priestess surprising Curtis who scrambled to make the connection to his life and that of the retired Archimage of Winterhold.
"Uh, Archimage Savos Aren? I heard he retired," he said uncertainly.
"Yes. And died recently on the island of Solstheim as the Champion fought the First Dragonborn in Apocrypha. The sacrifice of his life opened the way for the owl god to fly from Aetherius into Oblivion to fight his ancient enemy, Hermaeus Mora."
"The First what? First Dragonborn? Not a Skyrim story I know of. May have been an expansion game or a fan mod. And in game his death was senseless and served only as a plot device that cleared the way for the Dragonborn to become archimage. And—what'd you say—the owl god?" Curtis fell silent, thinking. "What owl god? I don't recall one in the game."
The priestess nodded thoughtfully and said, "I have been told this owl god is an ancient god of Atmora and is named Jhunal. When the alessian empire worked to integrate their allies of the nord empire, it's only natural they try to align their respective gods. That atmoran god was thought but another name for Julianos, but they are, in fact, separate entities."
"Yeah, I get that. Christianity did that too, renamed a lot of native gods as christianized saints to pacify the locals. But they had the same function, right? Enlightenment? Wisdom?"
"So I am told. Different approaches to wisdom, but the end goal appears to be the same."
"S'all good. People have different ways of learning. Me, I'm less theory, more hands-on type of guy."
"Then Jhunal would suit you more."
"Yeah? God of the trade schools then." He sighed deeply and stared into his tea as if looking for the future in the bits of leaf swirling at the bottom. "You think Jhunal or Savos might have something to do with me being here? Why?"
"Were it the Mad God, I would say amusement. Were it Hermaeus Mora, I would say sabotage. But Jhunal? I don't know. No one yet knows the characteristics of this divine who has usurped a daedra's throne. And if he is responsible, what does it mean when a divine meddles directly in the world as a daedra does?" Priestess Ienith frowned. "You say you are, were, a crafter in your world?"
"Engineer. Mostly electrical, but I've done plumbing, welding, heavy machine operation, forging."
The priestess nodded and twisted to the table at her left where she plucked paper, quill and inkpot from its drawers. "Have you talked to anyone at the college?"
"I left a message at their front desk asking to consult with Master Urag, or anyone interested in talking with a mad dunmer with delusions of coming from another world," he answered, drily.
"Ah." She penned a note, sanded it off, folded it, and then extended it to him. "Present this to them. My recommendation that your situation is a serious matter. That should guarantee they will see you."
"Thank you, ma'am. I really appreciate this."
The priestess stood up. "It is time to rest," she announced. "You, too. Dawn service is in five marks. Azura guide your steps.
"And keep you safe until you can learn your destiny."
"Thanks again," said Curtis, standing and turning to leave.
However, the priestess held a hand up, halting him. "The one whose body you now possess, I saw him in Raven Rock. A lost soul without the guidance of the one who had ordered most of his life. Simple minded in that he was not given to original or complex thought, yet was a deadly fighter. His name was Slitter. His master had many enemies and Slitter protected him. His master is dead but his many enemies may continue to see you as a target for their vengeance. For now you would do best to wear some sort of armor and to be cautious around anyone from Raven Rock."
"Oh, fucking great. That explains my sudden obsession with big swords and scary homicidal notions. I know that's not me. Thanks anyway. Gives me something to work with. Nothing like inheriting someone else's baggage, especially when it's full of severed heads."
"So long as you are aware then, sera. Sleep well."