Darkom
05-22-2010, 02:19 AM
Path of Justice
Part One: Song of Seryn
Chapter One- The Wings of Peace
The Arnesian War- Riot of Tear
During the Imperial Simulacrum of the fourth century, a radical band of Argonians nearly laid waste to the great Dunmer city of Tear. The group called themselves ‘The Way’, and by Rain’s Hand of the year 396 they had successfully infiltrated over two dozen agents into the Dres capital. Thoughts of glorious freedom slowly crept into the minds of the slaves there, the Way spreading their plan by word of mouth until nearly every Argonian prisoner eagerly awaited the fateful night.
-Daron Endret; 3E 431
Tear, Morrowind; 8th Rain’s Hand, 396 3E
The border city of Tear had erupted into pure anarchy, buildings burning despite the rain, blood swirling in puddles on the muddy streets. A relentless downpour beat down on the city, blue-white lightning forking through the night sky, thunderclaps drowning screams of pain and terror.
The white flashes offered brief glimpses into the wanton destruction of the southern side of Tear- home to the infamous slave pens and saltrice plantations. Large pits, which once held thousands of slaves, were now empty. Bits of broken chain littered the floors beside the usual scraps of rancid food and waste. Only a few of the high fences that ringed the pens still stood, most had been trampled in the first moments of destruction. And all around lay the bodies of the dead.
Scaled reptilian bodies, broken manacles still clinging to their wrists, crashed over guard posts like living waves. The few Dres left behind took their last stands with honor, shedding the blood of many a slave, but the tide would not be turned. The elves died, one by one, as would later be sung with pride by the battalions of Dunmer soldiers.
Further into the city, the Dunmer held a stronger resistance. Sandy walls, turned brown with rain, protected the slavers, fortress against their own supposed property. Restless red eyes, ever searching for the first assault, quested through the murky gloom. The elves gripped their bows with white knuckled fear. Each breath fell like their last, the air in those silent towers charged with more than the booming storm.
But the middle of the city, the gray between bleeding corpses and doomed sentinels, was strangely empty, quiet save the screams and thunder. The once lavish market stands stood vacant. The bustling crowds were all either dead or gone. Ominous dark buildings rose up on either side of the muddy streets, doors splintered where looters had taken full advantage of the riot.
A lone Dres guard sprinted down the empty market street. He gasped for breath as he passed shattered stalls, crimson bleeding through a large hole in his armor. His helm was long forgotten, dropped into the mud along with his sword as he fled the rioting slaves. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his face, dripping rain, dark red eyes alive with panic.
The elf stopped suddenly, doubling over at the end of the alley. He collapsed against the dark tan wall, sliding down to the muddy street. Numb hands pressed tight against the throb of pain in his chest. He tore the netch leather from his chest, worn buckles snapping, both hands pressed against the growing blot of red. His head fell back, another flash of white throwing the alley into sudden clarity. The Dunmer’s breath still rattled in shallow gasps, his mind still blank with terror. As the roll of the thunder died away, the splash of footsteps awoke him from his half conscious nightmare.
Another flash of light exposed the tailed silhouette standing at the far end of the alleyway, a jagged weapon raised in one scaled hand. The slave took one slow step forward. His face was obscured in darkness save for glittering black eyes, shining with bloodlust.
“Please,” the elf gasped, pleading, “Please, no-“
“Silence,” the shape hissed, his low voice thick with trembling fury, along with a barely contained excitement. “Time for words… over.”
“No,” the Dres cried weakly, slipping from the wall, crawling through the puddle towards the open street, “Almsivi, no!”
“Prayers uselesss now.” Another step. “Your kind done, Kai show uss Way.”
The Dunmer splashed helplessly, blood mixing into the grimy pool that surrounded him, fingers slipping uselessly over the slick muck. Tears joined his rain soaked face; his gasped mutterings sank into vain bawling. His descendents would praise him for dying in the name of Almsivi, in the name of the Great House Dres. No glorious thoughts of duty surfaced in the elf’s mind, only the all consuming fear of the shadowed figure, now just a few feet away.
“Silence, smooth skin. Be proud. You open the Way.”
"Song of Seryn"
Say, did you hear
Of the mess down in Tear
That rose this bloody war?
Those elves did fear
That the beasts would break clear
And leave this country tore.
But did you know
Of an elf wrought with woe
From friends of tortured death?
His life did owe
More than loss to his foe
For true he betrayed breath.
Morrowind-Argonia border; 12th Rain’s Hand, 396 3E
A battered carriage bounced swiftly along the rough, marshy path, weaving past the gnarled trees and bubbling bog-pits of southern Morrowind. The pair of guar pulling the coach moved with a practiced sureness. The dark skinned driver was doing his best to hold on as the carriage was thrown about harshly, crimson red eyes flashing under his broad straw hat.
One of the hardy swamp crows gave its harsh shriek, taking to the sun drenched sky as the carriage approached. One black feather fell to the marshy earth, dancing through the humid spring air. It floated gently end over end until it came to rest on the coach’s trail. One heavy wagon wheel, golden paint flaking from the spokes, crushed the delicate feather as the carriage passed, indifferent to the swamp around it.
The coach’s sides still shone a bright red under their thick layer of mud, the golden wing of House Indoril emblazoned on the door. The window was covered by a rough red canvas, concealing the riders inside. The fabric was pulled away suddenly to reveal an angry red gaze, its owner poked his head out to better deride the poor driver.
“Useless s’wit! Watch where you’re going!” the bald Dunmer barked, gold hoop bouncing on his pointed ear. The aggravated elf retreated back into the musty heat of the coach; scowl still heavy on his rough face.
“Roris,” another Dunmer chuckled, “There’s no need for that, we’re lucky these roads are even here. Would you rather we paddle our way to Stormhold?” The second elf’s bright eyes smiled at his friend, ceremonial ponytail bobbing up and down with the coach. His amiable smile seemed to fit snugly with his stately appearance. His golden Ordinator armor held an air of reserved dignity.
“I don’t care, Seryn, I should be back in Vivec right now. These infernal swamps will be the death of me.” The elf named Roris gestured angrily out the open window, billowing sleeves swishing with the gesture.
“Oh, c’mon Rory, you were the one that requested this mission,” a third Dunmer, a tranquil woman with violet eyes, remarked teasingly. She too wore her ceremonial armor, an iridescent suit of lavender-red; the refined color of aged wine. It could be nothing but the special garb of the High Ordinators of Mournhold.
“Only because this f’lah made me, I never wanted anything to do with these lizards.” Roris pointed an accusative finger at Seryn. The wing tattoo beneath the fuming Dunmer’s eye jumped with the fresh glare.
“What’s done is done, Roris,” Seryn remarked casually, a small smile tracing his lips. “We’ll be back in Morrowind soon, don’t worry, just as soon as we finish the negotiations.”
“Negotiations my eye,” the bald Indoril spat. “They couldn’t lead a guar to water.”
“And you could make him drink?” the woman asked amusedly, thin eyebrow rising. Her dark silken hair fell freely about the pauldrons of her armor; her slender form seemed at home within the enchanted steel.
“Point is, Nina, that I don’t deal with savages. They all need to be locked up in Tear if you ask me.” Roris folded his wiry arms, dark sleeves sagging like the vines flashing past the window.
“Oh come now, even if you don’t like them you should at least respect them,” Nina scolded, thin face serious.
“Fetchers,” Roris muttered. “Can’t trust any of ‘em.”
“Well, you’re going to have to pretend to, else you might well get us killed,” Seryn joked, smiling fondly at the tattooed Dunmer. “The treaties are still secure in the other caravan, right?”
“Yes, signed by King Symmachus himself.” Nina responded, reciting with a tone both dutiful and professional. “The Archeins will continue to supply prisoners so long as the Dres stop raids on certain sanctioned villages. Likewise, tariffs on imported slaves are to be reduced, and the same for goods coming from Morrowind,”
“Good, good,” Seryn nodded. “Oh, and one last thing. Roris?”
“Yes?” the bald Dunmer asked impatiently.
“Try not to talk,” Seryn laughed, earning another scowl from his friend, and a bright smile from Nina.
“If you would learn pride of race and tribe, follow Saint Roris the Martyr, Patron of Furnishers and Caravaners. Captured by Argonians just before the Arnesian War, Roris proudly refused to renounce the Tribunal faith, and withstood the cruel tortures of Argonian sorcerers. Vengeance and justice for the martyred Saint Roris was the rallying cry of the Arnesian War.”
Lives of the Saints
Morrowind-Argonia border; 12th Rain’s Hand, 396 3E
The Argonian’s mottled green hand rose, palm flat, signaling a stop to the small troop behind him. The swamp buzzed all around him, slime-coated water rising waist deep on the lizards, naked save for a motley assortment of weapons strapped to their backs. The leader’s moss green eyes shifted relentlessly, scaled face impassive. His breath came in slow rhythm through the dark pits of his nostrils. His leathery ears twitched slightly- the carriage’s noise was fast approaching, a clamor of whining axles and guar-steps.
The road stretched in either direction less than thirty yards from the band of Argonians, muddied from the recent rain. The path was barely keeping the swamp at bay. Questing branches and relentless undergrowth crept up on either side. The sun shone brightly in the blue of the sky above, casting long shadows on the malicious crew.
The leader’s hand swung forward in a small chopping motion. The Argonian waded silently through the murky pool, creeping closer to the dirt road. The others immediately sprang into action, four swimming rapidly down towards the sound of the carriages, four more following the leader as he approached the road.
Between the marshy pool and the muddy path was a small strip of trees, deeply shaded, where the group crouched in wait. The coach was close now, the driver’s crimson eyes flashing beneath his broad hat, the guar pulling on mindlessly. The lead-Argonian raised another signal, and the entire group seemed to tense, weapons held at the ready.
The Argonian allowed himself a small smile, pointed fangs flashing in the dark swamp. Their wait was nearly over, all their planning about to pay off, and a few more Dunmer would be dead come morning.
Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed my story thus far. I would like to give credit to BSparrow for the excellent proofreading she did for this chapter, I know it wouldn't be half as good without her help :)
Any constructive criticism is more than appreciated, as I am always looking to correct the mistakes in my writing style. Thanks again for reading, I'll post the second chapter soon (it is already written, but I didn't want to overload the first post ;)).
Part One: Song of Seryn
Chapter One- The Wings of Peace
The Arnesian War- Riot of Tear
During the Imperial Simulacrum of the fourth century, a radical band of Argonians nearly laid waste to the great Dunmer city of Tear. The group called themselves ‘The Way’, and by Rain’s Hand of the year 396 they had successfully infiltrated over two dozen agents into the Dres capital. Thoughts of glorious freedom slowly crept into the minds of the slaves there, the Way spreading their plan by word of mouth until nearly every Argonian prisoner eagerly awaited the fateful night.
-Daron Endret; 3E 431
Tear, Morrowind; 8th Rain’s Hand, 396 3E
The border city of Tear had erupted into pure anarchy, buildings burning despite the rain, blood swirling in puddles on the muddy streets. A relentless downpour beat down on the city, blue-white lightning forking through the night sky, thunderclaps drowning screams of pain and terror.
The white flashes offered brief glimpses into the wanton destruction of the southern side of Tear- home to the infamous slave pens and saltrice plantations. Large pits, which once held thousands of slaves, were now empty. Bits of broken chain littered the floors beside the usual scraps of rancid food and waste. Only a few of the high fences that ringed the pens still stood, most had been trampled in the first moments of destruction. And all around lay the bodies of the dead.
Scaled reptilian bodies, broken manacles still clinging to their wrists, crashed over guard posts like living waves. The few Dres left behind took their last stands with honor, shedding the blood of many a slave, but the tide would not be turned. The elves died, one by one, as would later be sung with pride by the battalions of Dunmer soldiers.
Further into the city, the Dunmer held a stronger resistance. Sandy walls, turned brown with rain, protected the slavers, fortress against their own supposed property. Restless red eyes, ever searching for the first assault, quested through the murky gloom. The elves gripped their bows with white knuckled fear. Each breath fell like their last, the air in those silent towers charged with more than the booming storm.
But the middle of the city, the gray between bleeding corpses and doomed sentinels, was strangely empty, quiet save the screams and thunder. The once lavish market stands stood vacant. The bustling crowds were all either dead or gone. Ominous dark buildings rose up on either side of the muddy streets, doors splintered where looters had taken full advantage of the riot.
A lone Dres guard sprinted down the empty market street. He gasped for breath as he passed shattered stalls, crimson bleeding through a large hole in his armor. His helm was long forgotten, dropped into the mud along with his sword as he fled the rioting slaves. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his face, dripping rain, dark red eyes alive with panic.
The elf stopped suddenly, doubling over at the end of the alley. He collapsed against the dark tan wall, sliding down to the muddy street. Numb hands pressed tight against the throb of pain in his chest. He tore the netch leather from his chest, worn buckles snapping, both hands pressed against the growing blot of red. His head fell back, another flash of white throwing the alley into sudden clarity. The Dunmer’s breath still rattled in shallow gasps, his mind still blank with terror. As the roll of the thunder died away, the splash of footsteps awoke him from his half conscious nightmare.
Another flash of light exposed the tailed silhouette standing at the far end of the alleyway, a jagged weapon raised in one scaled hand. The slave took one slow step forward. His face was obscured in darkness save for glittering black eyes, shining with bloodlust.
“Please,” the elf gasped, pleading, “Please, no-“
“Silence,” the shape hissed, his low voice thick with trembling fury, along with a barely contained excitement. “Time for words… over.”
“No,” the Dres cried weakly, slipping from the wall, crawling through the puddle towards the open street, “Almsivi, no!”
“Prayers uselesss now.” Another step. “Your kind done, Kai show uss Way.”
The Dunmer splashed helplessly, blood mixing into the grimy pool that surrounded him, fingers slipping uselessly over the slick muck. Tears joined his rain soaked face; his gasped mutterings sank into vain bawling. His descendents would praise him for dying in the name of Almsivi, in the name of the Great House Dres. No glorious thoughts of duty surfaced in the elf’s mind, only the all consuming fear of the shadowed figure, now just a few feet away.
“Silence, smooth skin. Be proud. You open the Way.”
"Song of Seryn"
Say, did you hear
Of the mess down in Tear
That rose this bloody war?
Those elves did fear
That the beasts would break clear
And leave this country tore.
But did you know
Of an elf wrought with woe
From friends of tortured death?
His life did owe
More than loss to his foe
For true he betrayed breath.
Morrowind-Argonia border; 12th Rain’s Hand, 396 3E
A battered carriage bounced swiftly along the rough, marshy path, weaving past the gnarled trees and bubbling bog-pits of southern Morrowind. The pair of guar pulling the coach moved with a practiced sureness. The dark skinned driver was doing his best to hold on as the carriage was thrown about harshly, crimson red eyes flashing under his broad straw hat.
One of the hardy swamp crows gave its harsh shriek, taking to the sun drenched sky as the carriage approached. One black feather fell to the marshy earth, dancing through the humid spring air. It floated gently end over end until it came to rest on the coach’s trail. One heavy wagon wheel, golden paint flaking from the spokes, crushed the delicate feather as the carriage passed, indifferent to the swamp around it.
The coach’s sides still shone a bright red under their thick layer of mud, the golden wing of House Indoril emblazoned on the door. The window was covered by a rough red canvas, concealing the riders inside. The fabric was pulled away suddenly to reveal an angry red gaze, its owner poked his head out to better deride the poor driver.
“Useless s’wit! Watch where you’re going!” the bald Dunmer barked, gold hoop bouncing on his pointed ear. The aggravated elf retreated back into the musty heat of the coach; scowl still heavy on his rough face.
“Roris,” another Dunmer chuckled, “There’s no need for that, we’re lucky these roads are even here. Would you rather we paddle our way to Stormhold?” The second elf’s bright eyes smiled at his friend, ceremonial ponytail bobbing up and down with the coach. His amiable smile seemed to fit snugly with his stately appearance. His golden Ordinator armor held an air of reserved dignity.
“I don’t care, Seryn, I should be back in Vivec right now. These infernal swamps will be the death of me.” The elf named Roris gestured angrily out the open window, billowing sleeves swishing with the gesture.
“Oh, c’mon Rory, you were the one that requested this mission,” a third Dunmer, a tranquil woman with violet eyes, remarked teasingly. She too wore her ceremonial armor, an iridescent suit of lavender-red; the refined color of aged wine. It could be nothing but the special garb of the High Ordinators of Mournhold.
“Only because this f’lah made me, I never wanted anything to do with these lizards.” Roris pointed an accusative finger at Seryn. The wing tattoo beneath the fuming Dunmer’s eye jumped with the fresh glare.
“What’s done is done, Roris,” Seryn remarked casually, a small smile tracing his lips. “We’ll be back in Morrowind soon, don’t worry, just as soon as we finish the negotiations.”
“Negotiations my eye,” the bald Indoril spat. “They couldn’t lead a guar to water.”
“And you could make him drink?” the woman asked amusedly, thin eyebrow rising. Her dark silken hair fell freely about the pauldrons of her armor; her slender form seemed at home within the enchanted steel.
“Point is, Nina, that I don’t deal with savages. They all need to be locked up in Tear if you ask me.” Roris folded his wiry arms, dark sleeves sagging like the vines flashing past the window.
“Oh come now, even if you don’t like them you should at least respect them,” Nina scolded, thin face serious.
“Fetchers,” Roris muttered. “Can’t trust any of ‘em.”
“Well, you’re going to have to pretend to, else you might well get us killed,” Seryn joked, smiling fondly at the tattooed Dunmer. “The treaties are still secure in the other caravan, right?”
“Yes, signed by King Symmachus himself.” Nina responded, reciting with a tone both dutiful and professional. “The Archeins will continue to supply prisoners so long as the Dres stop raids on certain sanctioned villages. Likewise, tariffs on imported slaves are to be reduced, and the same for goods coming from Morrowind,”
“Good, good,” Seryn nodded. “Oh, and one last thing. Roris?”
“Yes?” the bald Dunmer asked impatiently.
“Try not to talk,” Seryn laughed, earning another scowl from his friend, and a bright smile from Nina.
“If you would learn pride of race and tribe, follow Saint Roris the Martyr, Patron of Furnishers and Caravaners. Captured by Argonians just before the Arnesian War, Roris proudly refused to renounce the Tribunal faith, and withstood the cruel tortures of Argonian sorcerers. Vengeance and justice for the martyred Saint Roris was the rallying cry of the Arnesian War.”
Lives of the Saints
Morrowind-Argonia border; 12th Rain’s Hand, 396 3E
The Argonian’s mottled green hand rose, palm flat, signaling a stop to the small troop behind him. The swamp buzzed all around him, slime-coated water rising waist deep on the lizards, naked save for a motley assortment of weapons strapped to their backs. The leader’s moss green eyes shifted relentlessly, scaled face impassive. His breath came in slow rhythm through the dark pits of his nostrils. His leathery ears twitched slightly- the carriage’s noise was fast approaching, a clamor of whining axles and guar-steps.
The road stretched in either direction less than thirty yards from the band of Argonians, muddied from the recent rain. The path was barely keeping the swamp at bay. Questing branches and relentless undergrowth crept up on either side. The sun shone brightly in the blue of the sky above, casting long shadows on the malicious crew.
The leader’s hand swung forward in a small chopping motion. The Argonian waded silently through the murky pool, creeping closer to the dirt road. The others immediately sprang into action, four swimming rapidly down towards the sound of the carriages, four more following the leader as he approached the road.
Between the marshy pool and the muddy path was a small strip of trees, deeply shaded, where the group crouched in wait. The coach was close now, the driver’s crimson eyes flashing beneath his broad hat, the guar pulling on mindlessly. The lead-Argonian raised another signal, and the entire group seemed to tense, weapons held at the ready.
The Argonian allowed himself a small smile, pointed fangs flashing in the dark swamp. Their wait was nearly over, all their planning about to pay off, and a few more Dunmer would be dead come morning.
Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed my story thus far. I would like to give credit to BSparrow for the excellent proofreading she did for this chapter, I know it wouldn't be half as good without her help :)
Any constructive criticism is more than appreciated, as I am always looking to correct the mistakes in my writing style. Thanks again for reading, I'll post the second chapter soon (it is already written, but I didn't want to overload the first post ;)).