A/N: Heavy musical influence, "In Search Of The Lost Chord" by The Moody Blues + "Star Wars Jedi:Fallen Order" by The Hu
A/N: potty mouth again.
Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.
Chapter 26: Blackest Kingdom Reaches, p.3
It was six men of Indostan, to learning much inclined,
who went to see the elephant (Though all of them were blind),
that each by observation, might satisfy his mind.
The first approached the elephant, and, happening to fall,
against his broad and sturdy side, at once began to bawl:
'God bless me! but the elephant, is nothing but a wall!'
The second feeling of the tusk, cried: 'Ho! what have we here,
so very round and smooth and sharp? To me tis mighty clear,
this wonder of an elephant, is very like a spear!'
The third approached the animal, and, happening to take,
the squirming trunk within his hands, 'I see,' quoth he,
the elephant is very like a snake!'
The fourth reached out his eager hand, and felt about the knee:
'What most this wondrous beast is like, is mighty plain,' quoth he;
'Tis clear enough the elephant is very like a tree.'
The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said; 'E'en the blindest man
can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an elephant, is very like a fan!'
The sixth no sooner had begun, about the beast to grope,
than, seizing on the swinging tail, that fell within his scope,
'I see,' quothe he, 'the elephant is very like a rope!'
And so these men of Indostan, disputed loud and long,
each in his own opinion, exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right, and all were in the wrong!
So, oft in theologic wars, the disputants, I ween,
tread on in utter ignorance, of what each other mean,
and prate about the elephant, not one of them has seen! (1)
Curtis scowled as he finished reading the Songs of King Wulfharth and tossed the last book to join the other four books against the wall. The Fifth Song, the tale of Red Mountain, was wrong. It was Voryn who stabbed him. And "Vehk the Devil" killing Wulfharth? Stupid Nords couldn't tell Vivec from Alandro Sul; all yellow skins looking alike to them. The Chimer were nowhere in the vicinity except for Alandro and Nerevar. The Dwemer took the brunt; it was the Dwemer race that had been dragged away to somewhere beyond Oblivion.
Someone knocked to come in. Curtis went to the door. "Brother Salindil," he said, stepping back.
"I hope I am not disturbing you. May I come in?" the Altmer asked with a kind smile.
"Sure. I was just reading some history books. Buncha nonsense," he grumbled.
"Oh?"
"Songs of King Wulfharth. History from the Nord's point of view. What they believe went down at Red Mountain. Way different than the official version of the Almsivi."
Salindil nodded at the pile of books against the wall. "You disagree with their version?"
"No. It's mostly got the f***ing story down and sure as sh** more accurate than what's been taught to all the Dunmer by the ex-Tribunal. Just not happy all the same." He sighed and plastered on a wan, apologetic smile. "Sorry about the language. Tolfdir keeps telling me a wizard should always be in control of their expressions."
"So they should," agreed Salindil. "If I went around saying ##![! #] until your ~{+&%!] turns—"
"Goddammit! I got it, I got it!" Curtis yelped as something hot whipped down his buttcrack.
"Careless words are always a little extra dangerous in the mouths of those with power."
"Intent is a component," grumbled Curtis.
"True. But separation of intent and emotions is often unclear in the mind of the speaker, and so likely as unclear to the energies the mind has control of or influence over. This also warrants an additional reminder that casual blasphemies are dangerous. My impression from Colette is that you come from somewhere relatively godless, is that so?"
"Yeah."
"Do you need me to continue?"
"No, I got it."
"People often blaspheme so casually, certain that the gods have better things to do than to listen in on their little lives. But each blasphemy is an open invitation and one never knows who or what may happen to be listening. And once the invitation is made, it is almost impossible to rescind."
"I get it. Once the vampire has crossed the threshold, you're screwed."
Salindil frowned. "You have not, I hope, had dealings with that particular Prince of Oblivion?"
"Uh, no. There's a creature we call vampires where I come from, but they operate on different principles. They still suck blood, but they've got stricter restrictions. One of the big ones is that you've first got to give them permission to enter your life. Vampires here, I know, don't need any invitation."
Curtis frowned to himself. "I'm sorry, we seem to have gotten distracted. What did you want to see me about?"
"Your state of mind," answered Salindil. "There are questions about gods and souls and the mysteries of mysticism. The current Mysticism Master of this college is barely an Adept and quite aware he does not have the depth of knowledge to assist you as he learned his skill on the battlefield of the Oblivion Gates, and his concern then was primarily upon the martial aspects of the art. The other consultant, I understand, has no formal training as a shaman or mage and is operating on purely on instinct."
"Revyn Sadri of Windhelm," mumbled Curtis.
"Yes. A mer at the center of many many events. It was Sadri's command that my duty at the College was not to brew potions but to take up my original purpose as a hospitaler, and my first task was the reconciliation of kings."
"Huh?"
"You and Lord Timberwolf, or should I say, King Dumac and King Nerevar."
"Yeah, but . . . 'his command?' you say? You take orders from him?"
"Not as such. That order was issued through him when he was in a state of prophesy. I have no doubt it came from a higher power. Lord Timberwolf conveyed a copy of this command upon learning my name. He claims to have a number of such strange scripts in his purse to be delivered to recipients as he comes across them. I believe he is mildly annoyed at being used again as sort of holy messenger."
"Huh. So you and he talked already?"
"A little bit. I find it fascinating that in such a small area I find three reborn great souls of significance."
"Four, if you count the Dragonborn," Curtis quipped, a smile twitching a mouth upward. "Reborn dragon."
"Yes. But it isn't the Dragonborn who requires my services. You are in conflict. I wish to help you, and not just because of Sadri's command, although it did spur me to approach you now rather than hold back because we are so newly acquainted, and I wasn't sure if my intrusion upon your private life would be welcome."
Curtis founding himself blinking as his brain processed, making quick bytes and parsing out: "Oh, I see. Don't be a dumbass and hold out for a shining chariot."
"Pardon?"
"Old joke. A man finds himself stranded during a flood and prays to god to rescue him. A boat comes by and offers to take him to safety. He says, no, my faith will save me. This happens two more times and each times he refuses, saying his faith with save him. When he drowns and meets god, he asks why god didn't save him. God says, 'I sent a boat three times."
"Amusing."
"Yeah. Okay, I'll try not to be stupid, but I'm naturally suspicious when someone comes paddling salvation. I have to ask what's the fee for the ticket."
Salindil shrugged. "I'm cheap. I do it to feel good about myself because I'm thinking, I'm hoping I'm making a difference. Honest enough for you?"
"Okay. I'm on board. How do we start?"
"Speak your thoughts as they come. It doesn't matter if I don't always understand the words you use or the concepts you explore. You don't need to edit or explain or justify yourself. I'm not questioning, I'm not arguing, I'm not critiquing. Just talk to me."
"Oh? How is it suppose to help if you don't understand what I'm saying?"
"You're suppose to be a Dwemer. It's a call-out," Salindil said cryptically.
Curtis grinned tightly. "Should I lay down?"
"As you please," said Salindil, relaxing back in his chair, hands resting palms up on his lap.
Stupid lore was inconsistent as hell. It's what happens where different people of different cultures, different values, of different eras try to tell their version of truth. Or, in the Tribunal's case, spin the truth until its head is up its ass. There was no "one, true Bible" when it comes to religion, and not when it comes to subjective history.
Not that he was any great scholar of Elder Scrolls lore. He'd just wanted to play a couple of fun RPG games. A simple game where he was the hero and his primary objective was to either kill a trio of nutcase gods or a bad boy dragon and save the world.
He knew there was a whole fan culture around Skyrim. Heck, he considered himself a "Trekker" ("Trekker" not "Trekkie!" A Trekkie plays at being a character and pretending to live in that universe; the Trekker wants to know about the soil and atmospheric composition of an alien world and plans for colonization.) and went to as many Star Trek conventions as he had time for and could afford. Funny how he always went as a Vulcan. Black Vulcan. Guess it was the ears. The techno elf.
And the Vulcan mind meld. Guess that was like "the calling," the supposed mind-link talent of the Dwemer and maybe the Psijic Monks, although Gelebor hinted it was more like a "hearing." Like the Snowmer saw visions, the Dwemer "heard" things. Thoughts. The music of creation. The sounds of power.
The Tones. The "15-and-1" Tones mentioned in the wall in Calcelmo's museum back in Markarth. The Tones that made up creation. The 16 Tones that only the sharpest of listeners, the Tonal Architects, could hear and manipulate. Like gods-damned Kagrenac who thought he had the skill to rewrite the opus of Magnus, the composition of Nirn; and who thought he could salvage the broken bits of a dead god to be the robot interface to manipulate time and space.
Like realities were things to be punched out on the robotic assembly line of some universal donut factory.
. . . And if Life is like a highway, then the soul is just a car . . . (2)
Like the Dragon Break, the A-U, the Alternate Universe split caused by the Unknown Blade Champion. The Warp In The West. The reel and jig of the six quarks and the seventh resolution quantum chord that snapped everything back together.
. . . Lifetimes chasing the Lost Chord. Built Angkor Wat, worshiping Indra, god of the east, god of storms and rain, then spent many human lifetimes thereafter as a humble monk meditating, dreaming, listening for that Tone heard when passing between realities. A 17th Tone . . .
. . . Be it sight, sound, the smell, the touch. There's something inside that we need so much. The sight of a touch, or the scent of a sound, or the strength of an Oak with roots deep in the ground. The wonder of flowers, to be covered, and then to burst up, thru tarmac, to the sun again. Or to fly to the sun without burning a wing. To lie in the meadow and hear the grass sing. To have all these things in our memories hoard, and to use them to help us to find God . . . (3)
. . . All he had was eight little notes, just eight little notes. But, oh, what Mr. B did with (Do + Re + Mi + Fa + So + La + Ti)Do, though . . . All he had was eight little notes, just eight little notes like these. Which goes to show that one man's scale is another man's symphonies . . . (4)
The strange euphoria had worn off and he was avoiding Severus Timberwolf. He couldn't stand those sad, hopeful looks that begged him to remember.
He didn't want to.
If he had been Dumac, then at some point he, Dumac, made the decision to forget. Forget he'd lost his world and his people, forget his biggest, colossal failure. Curtis could understand that. He had to respect Dumac's decision.
Too bad the gods didn't. Jhunal especially. That's right, you feather brained, plate-eyed, doom hooting Aedric bastard. Go drag a soul that had learned to be happy in its new home and make it clean up the toxic sludge the other kings did. Just rub it in deeper, would you?
Yeah, Kagrenac's actions, Dumac's ignorance, and then Dumac's assistance in the solution that doomed ALL the Dwemer. Can't deny that. So, was that then the justification to drag him back to clean up the absolute shit the other Dwemer kings did to the Falmer? That would be like the Empire executing Jarl Balgruuf because he didn't stop Jarl Ulfric from starting the rebellion. He had no input or part of that decision to enslave the Falmer. Yes, he knew it was going on, but aside from a formal protest and warning his brother kings that this act to enslave every Falmer was not a prudent course, and that they underestimated this strange vocal power of the Atmorans, he ultimately had no control over the actions of those kingdoms any more than he had any command over Clan Rourken once they'd left Vvardenfell. He couldn't do anything about the Falmer because he was too busy trying to keep peace with the Chimer. Nerevar wasn't the problem; Nerevar's wife and advisors were.
Of course, those kings were dead and beyond recall. He just happened to be still in reach. Damn his bad luck.
And, really, making slaves of the defeated was common practice. The Falmer had started a war with the Atmorans and their dragon overlords. They lost. Those they didn't kill, the Atmorans took as slaves to build their cities. Granted, the Atmoran later response of unrelenting genocide was excessive and ultimately dangerous to other mer, which had been the basis for Dumac's willingness to make alliance with the Chimer. And . . .
The heel of his right hand slammed just behind his ear. Focus, Curtis, focus. Old history.
It no longer mattered here and now. Concentrate on the fact that he was on Nirn. He was supposed to be the recycled and repurposed soul of Dwemer King Dumac, and he — somehow — had to dig up from archives the knowledge of Dumac and integrate it into his own understanding of physics. Something he'd already been doing since he'd landed, factory recalled, hijacked, whatever.
The best analogy he could come up with — and it was a fuckin' clumsy one at best — was someone taking an old archival backup designed for an opsys several generations out of date, and shoving it onto a different platform. Slitter's soul was mercilessly wrenched about to be the games emulator shell so that Curtis could retain his memories, his Earth life's operational parameters. Fortunately, Slitter didn't fight him for dominance; he hadn't been an original thinker or an independent one. It was a miracle the setup worked as well as it did with both he and his host remaining relatively sane.
No. He didn't want to be Dumac Reborn. As Joric said of Gaulder, "he'd had his turn." It was time to let go. The world had to appreciate Curtis as he was, as he believed himself to be. But at least he knew now why getting those people out of Skytemple felt so urgent. So personal.
So . . . What was he? Ask him right now and he'd answer with every ounce of conviction, "some jackass from another world."
And this jackass had a god-dictated job that Jhunal, taking a page from Azura's playbook, wasn't going to let him neglect. Rescue the travelers in Skytemple. After that, then maybe he could go live his life as he pleased. Maybe talk Colette into marrying him and later having some kids and grandkids he could embarrass.
The Nerevarine, Severus Timberwolf, wasn't Indoril Nerevar Mora anymore than he, Curtis, was Dumac Dwarf-Orc. Maybe there were remnants, but they were different people now. Any friendship would have to be on these new terms. It was like that sometimes. Your best friend in kindergarten may not always be that. The people in your life when you got old may not be your circle of buddies in high school. That was true whether you lived the 60 to 90 years of a human, or the 300 to 400 years of a mer.
So, what did Brother Salindil think?
"You have . . . an interesting . . . life."
Well, fuck.
X—X—X—X—X—X—X
Both Salindil and Severus accompanied him to the Sleeper's Chamber of Skytemple. They were at the end of a long tour Curtis had led them on, explaining the different rooms, the machines, the work being done, and some of the discoveries being made. At the Sleeper Chamber, Curtis sung again the "Sound of Silence," the first time since his return from Raldbthar.
As usual, he sang it from his soul. This time, there was the undercurrent of magic that made Salindil and Severus lift their heads and look cautiously about the chamber.
The gem panels, the bio monitors of each Sleeper, flashed with renewed power.
The little spiders scuttled into the room and tinkered with the panels and with each bed, then scuttled away to other mysterious tasks.
"What's going on?" Arniel demanded as he had come running into the room, following the spiders. The two shushed him. Curtis sang, oblivious to events, in that unique language of his that only he spoke on Nirn. He'd confessed that even it was sounding alien to his own ears, but as long as he could associate music, he could still form the words.
Language shaped thoughts. He was always singing his alien songs. He fought to keep his way of thinking. He refused to let go. Nirn didn't have the concepts he needed, didn't have the phrasing, the coloratura of ideals developed in the halls of another world. Curtis refused to let go of his memories.
For an all too brief moment, the machines echoed his melody. By the time he'd opened his eyes, the sounds had gone back to normal.
"What did you do?" demanded Arniel.
"Just singing like I always do," Curtis said, looking puzzled.
"The machines sang with you! Didn't you hear them?"
Curtis looked to Severus and Salindil for confirmation. "They sang," Salindil affirmed.
Severus nodded and added, "We need to study this further. I know you don't like that you're a reborn Dwemer, but you're starting to manifest their nature, their intonation of power. They were attuned to the vibrations of power. Music was their quickest, most easily used tool."
"Dwemer heavy metal," muttered Curtis, louder he said, "Worth exploring, I guess. Okay, let's see if being a long-time choir boy pays off." He patted the nearest pod. "Installing magic spell-singing bard mod to this Game. "
All the heavily warded practice rooms in the Midden were booked so they set up a warding circle on top of the Attainment Hall. The summons area Conjurations Master Phinis often used. There was quite a crowd gathering to watch this experiment. It was something new and bound to be amusing since Curtis was involved.
"Don't these people have something better to do?" Curtis grumbled as he set up his various instruments inside the warding circle. For the first part, he'd go voice only, later, he'd try using the make-shift musical instruments. He'd also be trying different styles of music to see what happened. Administering the test was Adept Onmund, Tolfdir's secretary and teaching assistant.
He did some voice exercises. At the end of it he frowned.
"Is there something wrong, sir?" asked Onmund.
"I really wish we could have snagged one of the underground rooms. It just doesn't feel right," said Curtis. "Performing open air is not the same as doing it in an enclosed space. No echoes, no reverb, no bounce to the sound waves and vibrations."
"Are you saying you want to delay this until a room can be secured?"
"The Dwemer wouldn't be the Dwemer if they didn't like being underground. But, no, we'll go ahead," said Curtis. "We're just testing for power potential, not effectiveness."
Various items the wizards had set within the summoning circle, crystals, bowls of chemicals, or other specially enchanted items that reacted to types of magic or frequencies of power stimulated by magical forms. Most did nothing more than light up by glowing or sending up colorful little sparks.
He started with vocals only and then vocals with guitar. It wasn't unpleasant though the words were alien and the styles unfamiliar; he was decent a singer and player. However, the point of the performance was for him to summon any form of power he could. Curtis noted that the tunes which got no reactions were ones he didn't like or felt no emotional attachment.
Power was most evident when he lost himself in a set of buckets and bowls of different sizes and materials, or with a rack of pipes likewise of different sizes and materials. Eyes closed, body swaying to music he only heard in his mind. For most of his listeners, they'd never heard the voice of drums flexed in such a way as to have tones, where the beat was the melody.
Mage Taliesin stepped up the reactions by taking out his musical instrument and playing fast dance music while standing outside the warding circle. Curtis matched his rhythm and added his own percussive flare, and they created multiple sparkly rainbows.
Curtis concluded the experiment by reprising that "Kiss From A Rose" song, but in his own language and this time directing his words to the distant statue of Azura. Maybe it was a unique meteorological coincidence or maybe it was deliberate, but the star in her hand flashed sunlight back.
Storm clouds on the horizon hid Red Mountain from view. Yet a bolt from the blue left a charred circle just above the door into the Hall of Attainment. After a moment of shocked silence, Curtis grinned and began a defiant drumming. He went into a fit, flinging his head and hair around. And he screamed.
He caught fire. Literally. Dunmer Ancestors Wrath. The warding circle turned into a curtain of fire.
The sky rumbled. The clouds darkened and loomed closer. Prudent observers went inside or fled across the roof to a covered section.
At the height of drumming, Curtis stood, kicking the buckets aside, and held up his crossed drumsticks. Light thickened at the perimeter of the warding circle, domed to gather in his sticks then boomed upward, from earth to sky, a tree of lightning and fire to Aetherius. The merest wisp of a shadow of the explosion of Red Mountain.
Blindness gradually left the eyes of the observers faster than the ringing in their ears or the stench of ozone from their noses. They expected to see a blackened circle. No one challenged Sheogorath or the gods like that.
They saw then heard Curtis laughing like a madman.
Adept Onmund called a halt to the experiment and signaled for Taliesin and J'zargo to escort the giddy Dunmer back inside.
It took Curtis the rest of the day to come down from that absolute high. He babbled incoherently in a mix of ancient and alien languges.
Brother Salindil and Illusions Master Drevin were certain possession was not likely. They suspected an epiphany. But until Curtis could calm down, they would have to wait to find out the results.
{–}_{–} . . . {0}_{–} . . . {0}_{0} . . . {0}o{0}
He ignored the pain and concentrated. It was his turn to listen for the Voice. Instead, he heard the wild beat of drums. Unfamiliar, but a deliberate voice that was not chaotic to Dwemer ears. His were the most sensitive ears. He nudged the eyes to verify. She was the strongest seer. She searched for the black heart of calm darkness.
Instead, she glimpsed the faintest flare of the beacon they'd lost so long ago. Now, all eyes were open, all ears straining, all minds awake.
They were no longer just drifting and tacking the currents of creatia. For the first time in ages, the controls and engines were fully live.
(1) "The Blind Men and the Elephant" by John Godfrey Saxe
(2) "Objects In The Rearview Mirror" by Meatloaf
(3) "Departure" by The Moody Blues
(4) "Eight Little Notes," Muppet Show, Rolf the Dog's ode to Beethoven
GalacticHalfling: A Dragon Break at Red Mountain would help to explain why there are so many versions, wouldn't it? Theory of The Towers (Elder Scrolls Wiki) and Red Mountain being a tower/pillar of creation, breaking that tower and the fallout of that amount of Aedric power is reason enough for Dragon Break.