Stories and confessions about ttRPG

The camp was small. She counted maybe twenty round tents erected around a smoothed plot of ashland, each scarcely adorned with hints of color in small tapestries and hanging rugs. A large silt strider shell, greyed from its many years of disuse, seemed to anchor the little village; a nearby small well surrounded by short black spires of igneous rock centered the huts around it. 

Ku-vastei realized she was being watched. A nearby Ashlander had stopped in his tracks, staring at her without expression. 

“Hail,” said Ku-vastei, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 

The Dunmer only grunted in response, his red eyes still trained on her scales.

Most other times, Ku-vastei might have taken offense. But way out here, in the middle of nowhere, she doubted this Dunmer had ever seen an Argonian in his life – maybe not even heard of such a person. She tried again. “Hail. I wish to speak to your…leader. Ashkhan. And your Wise Woman.”

The Ashlander scoffed. “And who are you,” he said, his voice somehow even more gravelly than the typical Vvardenfeller, “that you should ask for an audience with the great Sul-Matuul?” He spoke Dunmeris well enough, but it was clearly not his first language, judging by his intonation.

“I am Ku-vastei. I wish to learn about the Nerevarine prophecies.”

“You are an outlander,” corrected the Ashlander, “and not of the Velothi, much less our tribe. You will not receive audience.”

Ku-vastei’s tail swept through the ash behind her angrily. The Ashlander noticed, but didn’t seem to understand, his tired gaze unchanging. He began to turn around.

Ku-vastei took a deep breath to calm herself, and thought back to what Hassour had told her in Ald’ruhn about Ashlander customs. “Wait,” she said, calling back to the Ashlander as he started to walk away. He turned back. “Muthsera,” Ku-vastei said, “is there anything I can do for you? Is there something I could give to you, to earn your respect?”

The Ashlander cocked an eyebrow. “Hm. Maybe you do know our ways.” He paused to think for a moment. “Trama root. I need some for brewing Rising Force. I hunt in the foyada to the west for our tribe. It helps me to take flight to chase the racers when they flee.”

Ku-vastei reflected on her inventory, and begged for a moment from the Ashlander. She swung her pack from her shoulders, set it in the ash, and began to dig through her belongings. Eventually she pulled from it a nub of trama root, wrapped in paper to keep it from reacting with her other ingredients, and offered it to the hunter. “This will help you. I offer it freely, as a gift, muthsera.”

The hunter took the parcel and unfolded the paper to inspect the sample. “Yes, this will do. A large root, too. I can make several potions from just this.”

The camp was silent for a moment, its other denizens asleep, as the hunter quietly pocketed the trama root. Ku-vastei was unsure it had worked, and nearly spoke again, but the hunter cut her off. “Zabamund. You will speak with him, with my blessing. He is gulakhan, and the closest to Sul-Matuul. You can try to convince him to give you his blessing to speak with the ashkhan. Make sure to tell Zabamund that Shabinbael sent you. That is my name, and he will know it.”

“Where can I find Zabamund?”

“The ashkhan and gulakhan yurts are five yurts under one canopy, with Sul-Matuul’s at the center. The yurt to the right of his is Zabamund’s.”

Ku-vastei nodded, and said, “Thank you, muthsera.” Begrudgingly, she decided to add, “Blessings of Azura upon you.”

Never in the entire exchange did Shabinbael’s expression change, and it did not now. “Hmph,” he grumbled, before disappearing into a nearby tent.

Ku-vastei clasped her pack and returned it to her back, taking note of the nearby tents – “yurts,” Shabinbael called them – as she did. She took her small journal from a pocket in her robes, and jotted something down with her charcoal pencil about the layout of the camp before closing the book and pocketing it again. Then she headed for the largest complex of yurts, which housed the ashkhan and his gulakhans. Following Shabinbael’s directions, she cautiously entered the yurt right-of-center.

It was clearly the abode of a warrior. Chitin weapons and beast trophies hung from the kagouti-skin walls, leaning inwards towards the fire like individual threats. It put Ku-vastei’s tail on edge, as if she were personally under attack. 

Zabamund sat behind the fire, every inch of his body covered with chitin armor, his war-axe laying by his side inches from his resting hands. His eyes burned like burning coals, piercing the hearth’s flame, and Ku-vastei’s face.

“Outlander,” he spoke, his voice low and threatening. “Why do you think it proper to enter my home, during my time of rest?”

Ku-vastei set her jaw tight, the words barely passing through her teeth: “I am Ku-vastei, sent by Shabinbael. I wish to learn of the Nerevarine prophecies from your ashkhan and wise woman.”

Zabamund did not move; only the dancing of the flame, and the fluttering of the shadows of weapons and trophies on the walls. “And why should Sul-Matuul or Nibani Maesa speak with you on these things? Who are you, that they should trust you?”

Ku-vastei nearly rolled her eyes before catching herself. This old song and dance, again. She considered digging out her coinpurse, but she changed her mind with a glance at Zabamund’s war-axe, the only weapon in the room not flickering in the light. “I will fight you for the honor of Sul-Matuul’s ear. To the death, if need be, but I see you are an honorable man, of great accomplishment, and it would be a pity for your tribe to lose you.”

All was silent save the crackling of flame for a scant moment. But then a surprising thing happened, which caught Ku-vastei off-guard: Zabamund smiled, his teeth shining through the rising fire. “You are not an unworthy opponent,” he said. “I hear honor in your words, and courage in your heart. I would regret killing you. But regret even more should you kill me.” He paused a moment, considering carefully. “Very well. Perhaps Sul-Matuul will be angry with me. But I think I can bear that. Go to the ashkhan's yurt and speak with Sul-Matuul. Ask him your questions, and tell him I have sent you.”

Ku-vastei bowed, and ducked out of the tent. The warm light from the gulakhan’s hearthfire flickered away to nothing with each rhythmic shutter of the door-flap until it fell closed completely.

She turned one yurt to the left, towards Sul-Matuul’s tent. She took a deep breath of the cold night air before pushing the door-flap aside to enter.

The ashkhan’s walls were not covered with weapons, nor hunting- and war-trophies. They seemed bare at first, but then Ku-vastei slowly noticed they were lined with hanging scrolls, their strange lettering faint in the dim candlelight. The space was warm despite the lack of a true fire. Sul-Matuul stood stoic facing one such scroll, his eyes racing down its lines of script.

Ku-vastei made to speak, but Sul-Matuul spoke first. “My champion Zabamund has sent you. This is good. You wish to speak with me about the Nerevarine prophecies.” He turned his head towards Ku-vastei, still standing in the open door-flap. “Come in…Argonian. We may discuss this only in private.”

Ku-vastei couldn’t tell through his Velothi accent whether the tone of “Argonian” betrayed bigotry, or merely neutral surprise. Nevertheless she finished entering, letting the flap fall closed behind her. “Sul-Matuul,” she said, “I am Ku-vastei. I come to you and your people to learn of these prophecies.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “I believe I may fulfill them.”

Sul-Matuul scoffed. “You are an outlander. You are not Urshilaku; you are not Velothi; you are not even Dunmer. You are a fool for believing this, and anyone would be a fool to believe you.”

Ku-vastei’s tail swung viciously, audibly hitting the yurt’s door-flap with a slap. Her jaw barely opening, she hissed, “Test me against the prophecies. Test me by truth, not by assumption. By my claws, not by my scales.”

A flash in Sul-Matuul’s eyes suggested both fury and laughter at the same time. “You are a bold fool, then. No outlander can join the Nerevarine cult.” He scratched under his chin. “But if one were adopted to the tribe as Clanfriend…”

“How must I do this?”

Sul-Matuul finally turned to face Ku-vastei directly. “I have an initiation rite in mind. A harrowing. In a harrowing, you will be judged by the spirits and ancestors to see if you are worthy.” He stepped towards Ku-vastei. “Go to the Urshilaku Burial Caverns. Fetch me Sul-Senipul’s Bonebiter Bow. Sul-Senipul was my father, and his spirit yet defends the caverns, and his bow. Enter deep within the caverns and seek out this artifact. Do not return to me without it.”

“How may I find this place?”

“Ask one of our hunters. Seek Shabinbael. He knows the region well.”

Ku-vastei nodded, and with nothing left to say, she left.

- - - 

By the same time the next evening, Ku-vastei had returned. Exhausted, she barged into Sul-Matuul’s yurt without caution. “Sul-Matuul,” she said. “I bring you your father’s bow.” She grasped its taut chitin length tightly in her claws.

(Sul-Senipul’s bow was not the only thing Ku-vastei claimed from the Burial Caverns to make the adventure worth all the trouble. Among the honored dead she found a staff she knew would prove beneficial to her career with the Mage’s Guild, an enchanted helm of the Telvanni Dust Adepts, a magical glass greatsword, and a poison-tipped silver spear. These she concealed in the ash nearby the Urshilaku camp to retrieve later; another item, a Dreugh-shell cuirass, she wore concealed under her robes.)

Sul-Matuul was sitting against one of the walls, his head lowered either in repose or meditation, she could not tell. He raised his bright red eyes to see. “You return, covered in bone dust and ectoplasm. Interesting. And with the Bonebiter. Bring it here.”

Ku-vastei did as bidden, stepping forward to offer the bow. As she extended her hands towards Sul-Matuul, she noticed some kind of resistance or friction, as if her arms were unwilling to give it away. A curse on the bow, as some kind of final challenge? No, she thought, as she focused her eyes. Sul-Matuul had a vague violet aura about him. Some kind of Shield, either freshly applied in suspicion of her intent, or else a paranoid perpetual one on his person.

Regardless, she forced the bow into Sul-Matuul’s hands and quickly retracted her arms from the Shield. The Ashkhan inspected the bow, his hands tenderly running down its length, fingers testing the tautness of the string. “Yes,” he said. “It is dusty, but in good shape. Sul-Senipul has maintained it, all these years, even in death.” He held it back out to Ku-vastei. “Here. Take it. I have no need for it.”

Ku-vastei struggled against the Shield again to retrieve the bow. “And as for your promise?”

“Yes. Somehow you completed the initiation rite.” He rose to his feet. “I name you Clanfriend of the Velothi. Respect fellow members of the Urshilaku, their health, safety, and property, and they shall respect you also.” 

He walked towards the opposite wall, littered with scrolls. “Now that you are Clanfriend, I will speak plainly. I find your claim hard to believe. You are an outlander. The Nerevarine is to drive the outlanders from Morrowind. How could an outlander be the incarnate?” He turned his head back swiftly. “The Great Houses have stolen everything from us, the true Velothi, and mock us with false gods. They steal our land, and our dignity. The Nerevarine is the last hope of the Velothi to survive. No outlander will steal this hope from us.”

Ku-vastei didn’t know what to say. She knew little of the ashlanders, but what Sul-Matuul said sounded familiar. “My own people have had everything stolen from them by the Houses,” she said. “The Saxhleel have had our lands stolen, our Hist trees burned, our bodies enslaved and beaten.” She sighed. “Once, I raised an army to take back what was ours, many years ago.”

“You live,” Sul-Matuul observed, “yet clearly you failed.”

Her grip tightened on the Bonebiter, her tail straightening rigid. “I have learned much in the last twenty years. I will not fail again.”

Sul-Matuul said nothing, but nodded after a moment. “Perhaps. Go. Speak with Nibani Maesa. She will put you to the true tests.”

- - -

The wise woman's hair was intricately braided and decorated with racer plumes and glass beads. Not just glass beads, Ku-vastei realized, but glass beads, the volcanic material smoothed into small milky-green pebbles. This valuable stuff, which could have been wrought into an axe or spear for a gulakhan, was instead lovingly crafted to beautify the wise woman. This reverence humbled Ku-vastei, who remembered bringing useless but pretty stones found at the bottom of saltrice paddies to her naheesh long ago. She would sit and listen to more stories from the Marsh as her elder drilled quiet holes into them.

The sharp click of a snap stole Ku from her reverie, and she came back to the wise woman’s yurt. Nibani Maesa studied her guest’s face. “Did you hear me, outlander? You are not the Nerevarine.”

Ku-vastei blinked away surprise and grounded herself by listening to the windchimes outside. “Okay,” she said.

Nibani frowned. “‘Okay’?”

“Am I supposed to feel like the Nerevarine?” Ku’s tail swished restlessly behind her in the ash as she sat on her knees atop the rug the wise woman had laid out for her.

“Ku-vastei. You come to us, to the great Urshilaku, to our great ashkhan Sul-Matuul, and claim to be the Nerevarine.” Nibani closed her eyes and shook her head. “You even go on his suicide-quest, and return triumphant.”

Ku-vastei’s eyes widened. “Suicide-quest?”

Nibani opened her eyes again. “Never mind that. You do all this, then you meet the slightest resistance from me, of all people, and you decide you have done enough? You will forfeit your claim so easily?”

“But I’m only doing what I was told.” Ku realized how this must sound, so quickly elaborated. “I mean, I’ve been told I might be the Nerevarine. But I don’t feel like it.”

“A hero never feels like a hero,” said Nibani Maesa, pointing at Ku-vastei’s heart. 

“I thought you said I wasn’t the Nerevarine?” Ku asked, her mouth not closing after the last syllable.

“Yes, I said you are not the Nerevarine. But you could yet become the Nerevarine.”

Ku-vastei clenched her jaw shut. “That makes no sense. I either am or I’m not.”

“Such is the way of prophecy. Azura rarely makes her intentions fully known all at once.”

“Azura,” Ku-vastei breathed, “Azura, Azura. I’ve had enough of Azura.”

Nibani either didn’t hear or pretended not to. “There are conditions you haven’t met. Some you have. You were born under the Steed, which is auspicious. So was Nerevar. Your parents are unknown. So were Nerevar’s.” Nibani took a sip of her trama root tea. “But as for the conditions you haven’t met, perhaps you still may. In time.”

Ku-vastei gulped down some of her own tea. Maybe this won’t have been a wasted effort after all. “What must I do to meet them?”

“Not all is known to me. Many things we Wise Women once knew have been lost. But surely, somewhere, they were written. Find the Lost Prophecies, if you can. Then I can be your guide. Until then, go. Reflect on what you have learned. And take these to study.” Nibani handed Ku-vastei the two scrolls of riddle-like prophecies she had been consulting. 

Ku-vastei carefully tucked the scrolls into her bag and stood to leave. “Thank you, naheesh.”

“Nibani.”

“Yes. Sorry.” Ku-vastei didn’t realize she’d called her “naheesh.” She felt an old sense of peace and comfort around this old woman that reminded her of the matronly elder on the plantation where she was born. 

“Go. Come back when you are ready.”

Malekaiah approached the shrine to Dibella. She gently placed a hand on one of its dull red wings, trying to feel for Dibella’s energies. Then she knelt, clasped her hands, bowed her head, and prayed.

Please, sweet Dibella, I beseech thee: grant me the power and wisdom to see thy love and beauty in every facet of this world, so that I may spread the knowing to those who know only sorrow and ugliness. Let thy kiss become my kiss, lips sweet enough to embrace the world.

Malekaiah couldn’t remember how the prayer was supposed to end, so awkwardly she cut it short there. Unclasping her hands, she rubbed her face, trying to bring some heat to her cheeks, and rub some wakefulness into her eyes. It was so cold here, in Skyrim, and she had barely slept on the long carriage ride from Anvil to Markarth. She had a long journey ahead of her, and she needed to be prepared.

Almost on instinct she quickly felt for the short steel hiding under her ochre robes. Yes, Da’s dagger was still there. Even in this foreign place, it brought her a strange sense of safety.

Malekaiah rose and walked out the temple door. She was immediately faced with the western mountain enclosing the city, waterfalls cascading down the cliff with a deafening roar, flowing into the waterways that ran down the city’s streets. Behind those falls stood proud and ancient the bizarre stone-and-brass architecture of the dwarves, yet as ordinary to the people here as timber and brick.

After a moment of awe, Malekaiah drifted left along the stone walkway, skirting south around the pillar which the temple of Dibella crowned. Down a level of the city, straddling one of the rivulets, was a small smithy, jarringly built of wood. Over the roar of the waterfalls rang out the sharp clang of hammer on metal, and a woman shouting at her apprentice with very colorful language. Turning her head to the left, Malekaiah saw the distant silver mines, crawling with hard-at-work miners, seeming from this far away like ants carrying their burdens of ore.

Malekaiah descended the stairs, making her way down from the temple. They led her closer to the smithy, where she caught a glimpse of the smith. She was an Orc, which stopped Malekaiah in her tracks. There were very few Orcs in Anvil; most had left for bustling Orsinium about a decade or two ago. Despite going to their homeland to proselytize, she didn’t know much about her race. She had read as much as she could about them and their history and ways before leaving, but most of the sources she was able to get her hands on were outdated and often very bigoted.

The smith must have felt Malekaiah’s gaze, and she looked up at her with a scowl. She waved her off with a hand holding an unfinished sword.

Malekaiah quickly turned to continue on her way, but in so doing she ran straight into one of the city guards. He reached for the sword on his hip. “Watch where you’re going, outsider!” he shouted.

“Sorry,” Malekaiah quickly mumbled. The guard, seemingly dissatisfied but uninterested in an actual confrontation, pushed Malekaiah aside and continued on his way.

Malekaiah rubbed her shoulder where the guard had pushed her and looked again at the smith, who had apparently seen the whole thing. She shook her head at Malekaiah and went back to her work.

A bit shaken, Malekaiah continued descending the stairs, following one of the rivulets. She reached for the talismans around her neck. First, the amulet of Dibella: she rubbed the violet stone in the center of the metal flower. It was cold, but it gave her some comfort, anyway. Her hand roamed across her neck to the other talisman, the strange icon left in her swaddling cloth when her parents abandoned her in Cyrodiil. She could feel its rageful face, teeth and tusks bared, and a fuming heat flooded her face. She let go, shook her head, and tried to forget about the encounter with the guard.

Malekaiah continued along the stone path through the city, hoping to find an inn where she could stay the night. Instead, she found herself at the front gate again, faced with the small market situated there.

The square was bustling with activity, a dense crowd - surely half the city - swarming from stall to stall, gawking at and haggling for the goods on display. The few children who could pry themselves from their mothers’ watchful eyes ran through the forest of legs, squealing like pigs.

Something caught Malekaiah’s eye. A gleam of silver, or steel. Her vision snapped to the stall on the far end of the market, selling jewelry. A woman was trying on a prospective purchase.

But there was something else, a man pushing through the crowd, the sun shining in his hand.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The woman removed the necklace. The man grabbed her mouth from behind. He raised his shining hand and jerked it across her neck, right where the necklace was a moment ago. Blood sprayed on the silver on the stall’s counter. The woman behind it, her face also spattered with red, covered her mouth and screamed.

Just as the crowd began to react to the shriek, the assassin turned around, still holding up the now-mute and struggling woman by her chin. Her head was nearly severed, so vicious and deep was the spurting gash.

“The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!”

The throng devolved into chaos, women and children screaming, men shouting and shoving to escape. There was only one guard nearby, somehow, and he was slow to react, ineffectually trying to push his way through the crowd.

Malekaiah was frozen, staring at the gore of the wound. The man dropped the woman after she stopped moving, and turned back to the stall. The jeweler had fallen to the ground in shock. The assassin vaulted the counter, sending rings and necklaces and torcs to the ground with a tinkling sound that Malekaiah shouldn’t have been able to hear over the din, but could have sworn she did.

He advanced upon the jeweler, dagger in hand, blade under fist. She extended an arm to protect herself, and the assassin’s blade pierced her hand, stabbing all the way through. Her pained scream pierced the sky. The assassin inverted his grip, blade over fist, and began slashing. The jeweler took a cut to the stomach before raising her arms to defend again. The steel tore through the sleeves of her dress as well as the flesh of her forearms.

A fire ignited in Malekaiah’s throat, melting her freeze and compelling her move. She hiked up her robes and withdrew her dagger from the sheath fastened around her thigh, and she advanced through the dissipating crowd. She vaulted over the counter, knocking off yet more jewelry, and approached the assassin’s back.

Firmly gripping the dagger’s hilt, in one simple motion, she thrust the blade deep into his back, sliding effortlessly between two ribs.

Poppies bloomed around the wound, soaking into his shirt.

The assassin exhaled sharply as his lung collapsed, and stopped attacking the jeweler. His weapon clattered to the ground, and he slowly turned to face Malekaiah. With shaky breath, and through bloody coughs, he mustered, “I die for my people,” and then collapsed, dead.

Slowly, shakily, Malekaiah bent down to pull the dagger from the assassin’s back. Once the blade was free of his flesh, there was an upwelling of blood, painting his tunic a deeper black.

She looked across at the jeweler, who stared at her, frightened, tears streaking down her face. Malekaiah took a step forward, causing the jeweler to squirm backwards with a squeal.

“P-please…don’t…” mumbled the jeweler.

Malekaiah glanced at the bloody blade in her hand. Some portions were untouched, clean steel, and she could see her reflection clearly in it. But in the bloody bits, the wet gore reflected a demented distortion of her face. She screamed, too, and tried to wipe the blood from the blade with her cuff. But all she accomplished was staining her sleeve.

Malekaiah returned the dagger to its sheath on her thigh, struggling to keep her hand steady. She tried to approach the jeweler again, with open hands. “I won’t hurt you,” she assured. “I’m a healer.”

The jeweler hesitated, but nodded, letting Malekaiah come forward. Malekaiah knelt next to her and channeled Dibella’s grace to her hands, which glowed with a golden light. She began to hover them over the jeweler’s wounds, slowly bidding them close.

Suddenly, something cold and sharp lifted Malekaiah’s head by the chin. Forcibly she looked up to see one of Markarth’s guards pointing a sword at her throat.

“What are you doing, murderer?” the guard spat from beneath his helmet.

“I…” Malekaiah quavered, blinking rapidly.

“You idiot,” shouted the jeweler at the guard. “She saved my life!”

The guard seemed to finally take full stock of the situation, seeing the woman’s slit-throat corpse, the assassin’s face-down body, and his bloody blade discarded at his side.

In the meanwhile, Malekaiah continued healing the jeweler, starting with the slashes on her arms and the thankfully superficial cut on her abdomen. Malekaiah looked at the stab-wound through the jeweler’s hand with dismay. “I can’t heal this on my own,” she told the jeweler, who had mostly calmed down.

Malekaiah turned to the corpse and dagger behind her. She wiped as much blood from the blade as she could, and used it as a tool to cut a relatively clean strip of the assassin’s tunic. She turned back to the jeweler and apologized. “This will hurt.” The jeweler nodded and offered her injured hand. Malekaiah delicately wrapped the strip of cloth around her palm, tying it tightly. The jeweler groaned at the final tug but otherwise didn’t complain.

“She needs a more experienced healer for her hand,” Malekaiah said, looking up at the guard, who had withdrawn his sword to its sheath.

“I’ll take her to the temple,” the guard growled. Taking her unhurt hand, he helped the jeweler stand. As they began to walk off, he turned his head and said, “Keep your nose clean, orc.”

Malekaiah knelt there numbly for a moment. But eventually her close proximity to two corpses and so much blood became too much, and she forced herself to stand. She examined her robes, and found them surprisingly spared, save for the cuff she used to wipe the blades clean.

The market was almost completely empty now, save for a few late-arriving guards come to gather the bodies. But there was another man, fast approaching Malekaiah. His smile did nothing to disarm her anxiety after the preceding harrowing events, and she reached instinctively for the dagger through her robes.

“Easy there, friend,” said the stranger. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He glanced at the dead woman being carried off by a couple of guards. “Gods. A woman attacked, right in the streets.” He seemed to notice the blood on Malekaiah’s cuffs, and asked, “Are you alright? Did you see what happened?”

“I was right there,” Malekaiah answered. She ran her hand across her bare scalp and looked away. “He killed that woman, and then…tried to kill the jeweler.” Her words felt like lead dropping from her tongue, seeming to almost hang from her lips, not wishing to be said. Her voice didn’t feel her own. “So I…I…I killed him.” She covered her face so the stranger wouldn’t see the unbidden tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger said. “I hope the Nine give you more peace in the future.” Malekaiah lowered her hands to look at him, just as his expression suddenly changed. He quickly reached out his hand, shoving something into Malekaiah’s. “Oh, by the way, I think you dropped this.”

Malekaiah jumped at the sudden movement, but calmed a bit when she realized it was just a piece of folded paper. “Is this…yours?” she asked, confused.

“Mine? No, yours. Must have fallen out of your pocket in the commotion.” He offered a little wave and then turned to leave.

Malekaiah was positive she didn’t have any parchment on her before this man gave her this note. She unfolded and read the brief note scrawled in an uneven hand: “Meet me at the Shrine of Talos.”

Malekaiah looked back up at the man, who was now halfway across the square. “Shrine of Talos?” she hollered. “Where’s that?”

He stopped in his tracks and half turned towards her. “Huh?” He scratched his chin. “Not sure. I don’t worship Talos, myself. I think I heard someone mention it was underneath the Temple of Dibella, in the big crag in the center of the city.” Then he turned and walked away.

Malekaiah’s eyes followed him until he was out of sight. Then she glanced at the note again, and sighed. She folded the paper back up and slipped it into a pocket in her robes.

She looked up toward the center of town, at the crag where she had just come from the Temple. It truly was an enormous feature, dominating the city’s skyline.

She checked for her dagger again, and against her better judgment, she made her way towards the Shrine of Talos.

-----

It took some walking around the crag to find the correct path to the shrine, as well as walking past its unmarked doors on accident several times. The doors were large and notable: huge brass double doors twice her height, surrounded by ornate ancient masonry. But there was no indication they belonged to the shrine of a Cyrodiilic war god.

Malekaiah pushed open the heavy doors with some effort, and stepped into the dark corridor, faintly candlelit and sloping downwards. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness, but her Orcish vision quickly acclimated. At the bottom of the slope she could make out two figures: one, surely a statue of Tiber Septim, stoically leaning on a sword; the other, a man kneeling before the altar, head bowed.

Malekaiah slowly descended the corridor towards the shrine’s sanctum. She tried to be quiet so as not to disturb the man’s prayer, but despite her best efforts he still somehow noticed her approach as she neared the end of the ramp.

The stranger from the market quickly stood and turned to face Malekaiah. “You came,” he whispered. “Thank you. I’m sorry to drag you into Markarth’s problems, but after that attack in the market, I’m running out of time.”

Malekaiah blinked rapidly. “What?”

Breathlessly, the stranger continued, “You want answers? Well, so do I. So does everyone in the city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he’s a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”

Unbidden, images flash into Malekaiah’s mind: a torn open throat, poppies, and a demon staring back at her in the bloody blade.

It was as if her head detached from her neck, and began to float away. She responded numbly to the stranger in an automatic process seemingly devoid of any conscious intention. Her conscious attention was no longer in the room.

The entire conversation grazed past her like a breeze. She may have agreed to something, but the memory of precisely what was slippery. She was vaguely aware that at some point, the man - suddenly she remembered he called himself Eltrys - left the shrine. But she remained, standing before the altar, invisible to herself.

Malekaiah returned to her body, and found herself kneeling at the altar, hands clasped, muttering an unintelligible half-prayer to - presumably - Talos. She stopped herself. She had never worshiped Talos; it struck her as odd that Skyrim had shrines at all, as he was chiefly a Cyrod’s god. She felt nothing stirring in her heart from the attempt. Oddly enough, though, she felt something stirring in her gut.

Oh. She was hungry. She stood, dusted off her knees, and left the shrine.

———

Not even the warmth of the inn could take the chill from Malekaiah’s bones. She shuffled into the threshold, and suddenly all of the many eyes of the crowded tavern were on her. Whispers accompanied them:

“Is that…”

“Did she really…”

“She really is a…”

Malekaiah pressed her thumb into her tusk hard as she shambled towards the bar. She vaguely recognized that she was falling into her old bad habit, but it seemed to keep her head screwed onto her neck, so she allowed it this time.

She clambered onto a stool at the far end of the bar. She knew she needed to order dinner, and rent a room for the night, but she was an immobile statue, unable to speak. So she folded her arms on the counter and buried her face in them.

After a moment, a gentle male voice reverberated, “Hey, lass.”

Malekaiah lifted her head to see the barkeep looking at her.

“You’re the Orc who killed Weylin, right? Saved Kerah’s life?” He didn’t look angry, but it felt like an accusation to Malekaiah nonetheless.

Without speaking, Malekaiah nodded slowly.

The barkeep reached underneath his side of the counter and placed something on top of it. Malekaiah recoiled immediately, but her alarm softened as she saw what it was: a tray filled with food. A bowl of steaming potato cabbage soup; a thick rye-bread trencher, topped with a hefty slice of goat cheese and an entire roasted goat shank; on the side, some kind of dark-berried pie, and a large mug of what smelled like mead.

“You did good, lass,” said the barkeep with a smile. “Food’s on the house. Bed too, if you need one for the night.”

A holler went up through the room, all the whispering mouths turned to joyous raucous. A nearby Nord reached over with his mug. It took a moment, but Malekaiah realized she needed to lift her own and clank it against his. Both cups overflowed, and the coolness of the splashed mead felt good on Malekaiah’s hand.

Malekaiah was afraid to eat at first, not sure her appetite would be up to the massive challenge. But she didn’t miss a bite. She even drank the whole mug of mead, despite never having had alcohol in her life. The barkeep, whose name was Kleppr, led her to her room after the festivities became too much for her. It wasn’t long after her head hit the pillow that she fell into a deep sleep.

-----

It was early morning, and the sun was yet to peek through the window into their home. All that lit the room was a small candle on the table between them. Its flame flickered across her father’s dark face, dancing across his features: his round spectacles and the dull brown eyes behind; his large, bulbous nose, a mountain dividing his face into two separate landmasses; and underneath, the thick mustache covering his upper lip completely, a dense dark broom of hair. His clean-shaven scalp even caught the light, casting vague orange smears across his head.

She admired his looks. He looked like a father ought, she thought. She pitied her childhood friends and their imperfectly paternal fathers.

Sometimes, at night when she couldn’t sleep, she tried to imagine what her “true” father looked like. Would he measure up at all? Surely he was greener, and with prominent tusks, but what of the mustache? The spectacles? It was usually at this stage that she began to feel intensely ashamed for considering it at all. Da was her father, and that was that…

Da slapped her hand away from her mouth – she had been pressing her fingertip into her tusk again. “Stop that,” he muttered sternly.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Lost in thought, again.”

Da huffed. “Don’t think so much.” Pivoting quickly, he said, “Don’t be afraid.” From the satchel leaning against the legs of his chair he pulled out two items. She squinted to make them out in the darkness: one seemed to be metal, gleaming in the candlelight; the other was some loose assemblage of leather strips.

“A parting gift?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, Kaiah.” (She loved it when he called her that.) “Nine forbid you ever need to use this.” He delicately handed her the objects; as the metal one passed nearer to the flame, she recognized it as a dagger.

“What is this?” she asked, startled.

“I said don’t be afraid,” he rebuked. “It’s protection. You go alone into dangerous lands. Nine forbid you ever need it, but…just in case.”

She slowly reached for the blade’s grip, her hand shaking ever so slightly. As her fingers wrapped around the hilt, Da let go. She was surprised by the lightness of it; she had expected heavier.

“And this,” Da said, holding up the tied leather strips, “is your sheath. It will tie around your thigh. Keep it concealed beneath your robes.”

She nodded numbly as he gave her the sheath. The leather was soft under her fingertips.

“How will I know when to use it?” she asked.

“You’re a grown woman now, Kaiah,” answered Da. He began to rise from his chair. “I trust your judgment.”

She began to rise as well, expecting an embrace. But he turned his back to her, and approached the smoldering ashes of last night’s fire in the furnace. There he stood, quiet, hands clasped behind his back.

She wanted to hug Da, for him to tell her she was doing the right thing, that she would be okay. She started to slowly shuffle up behind him –

But the dagger was still in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it. She surged forward, blade first.

His lungs deflated with a sudden gasp, and poppies welled around the wound in his back, piercing right between his ribs.

She cried out, “Da!” She let go of the dagger and tried to back away from this murder.

But his hands unclasped themselves, and reached up to grab her arms – joints popped and bones cracked from the unnatural extension required. He began to turn his head back, further and further, vertebrae shattering as it swiveled to face her. But it wasn’t his face.

The candle on the table behind her seemed to roar into a conflagration, fully illuminating his hideous visage, a demented ashen demon, teeth glistening with gore, lips spread wide with malice and rage. It shouted, “Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer!”

-----

She woke up screaming, “I’m sorry!”

She grabbed the burning hot talisman hanging from her throat and, through her tears, saw Da’s twisted, angry face in the icon. She ripped it from her neck and threw it across the rented room, and wept.

-----

Blessedly, the ancient stone walls of the inn seemed to be thick enough to stifle her screaming and sobbing. At least, no one came knocking on her door to get her to shut up.

Malekaiah knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep; she was too afraid of further nightmares. She decided to get dressed and go for a walk.

Before she left the room, she glanced back at its dark corner. A faint gleam caught her eye; the demon talisman from her swaddling cloth. She approached it and retrieved it; it was still slightly warm. She reasoned she couldn’t blame it entirely for the dream, and after all, it could prove useful in Wrothgar - it could open some doors. She tied it back around her neck.

Malekaiah quietly left her room and passed through the stone corridor into the inn’s main chamber. Although packed and active last night, in these early hours before dawn it was dead. Everyone had retired to their beds, except for a single drunkard passed out in the corner.

In the lingering light from the fires, she caught a glimpse of the bloodstains on her cuffs. She decided on where her walk would take her.

The air outside was near freezing. Malekaiah wished she’d packed a pair of gloves. She pulled up the hood on her robes in an effort to protect her cheeks from the chill.

It seemed the guards of Markarth kept the streets lit overnight; she saw one a ways down who was tending to a brazier with her torch. Malekaiah considered asking the guard if she had a torch to spare, but she wasn’t brave enough. So she carried on by the occasional light of braziers, hoping she remembered her way back to her destination.

After some searching, Malekaiah arrived: the small stream by the blacksmith’s. (The old Orc woman didn’t seem to be there yet.) She wasted no time undoing the red sash around her waist, and then pulling her ochre robes off and over her head. All that remained was her woolen underclothes, but they still covered her neck-to-ankle.

“Pretty wiry for an Orc, aren’t you?”

Malekaiah jumped and dropped her robes into the stream. She tried to snatch them out, but the flow was too strong. She turned to try to make out who had addressed her in the dark.

“Sorry,” the voice said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t alone, so you didn’t strip all the way down.”

Malekaiah strained to focus her eyes. The woman a ways down the stream had a crate of objects that glimmered in the moonslight, and a bandage wrapped around her waving hand.

“Oh,” Malekaiah said. “You’re…”

“My name’s Kerah,” answered the woman in the darkness. “I figure the least I owe you for saving my life is my name.” She waved her hand again. “Can I have yours?”

“Malekaiah.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Kerah said. She reached out with her uninjured hand and grabbed Malekaiah’s robes as they passed by her in the stream. “Come here, Malekaiah. You might want these.”

Malekaiah slowly obliged, drawing closer to Kerah. As she did, she noticed the box was filled with blood-spattered silver jewelry.

“Cleaning the merchandise before we open,” smiled Kerah as she handed Malekaiah the robes. “It needs to be presentable, of course.

Malekaiah knelt beside Kerah and furrowed her brow. “Are you okay?”

Kerah tilted her head slightly. “Oh, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said with a light wave of her bandaged hand.

“No,” Malekaiah said, “I mean…” She gestured vaguely at her own shaved head.

Kerah’s face hardened a bit. “It’s fine. Such is life in Skyrim. Especially the Reach.” She pointed at the bloodstains on Malekaiah’s robes. “Not the first time blood’s been shed in this city, and it won’t be the last.”

“Oh,” Malekaiah said. Attention having been drawn to the bloodstains, she began to scrub futilely at them in the stream.

Kerah idly watched Malekaiah’s attempts to clean her robes while fiddling with a necklace from her crate. Finally she said, “That’s not going to work. Here.” She reached beside her and offered Malekaiah a small round object.

Malekaiah took it gently, and her fingers brushed against Kerah’s. She had expected them to be soft, but the tips were rough and calloused. Malekaiah realized Kerah wasn’t just a jeweler - she was a silversmith. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine.

It took a moment for Malekaiah to return to her senses. She examined the smooth object in her hand. It was yellowish-white, with darker flecks throughout. “What is -”

“Soap,” Kerah interjected. “Goat tallow, potash, and a little lavender imported from Whiterun for the scent.” She waved towards the robes. “Give it a try.”

Malekaiah gave the bar of soap a sniff - it did smell faintly of lavender. She began to scrub at the blood stains with it, and gradually they began to fade until all that was left were patches of slightly darker ochre.

“Thank you,” Malekaiah whispered when she was done. She tried to hand back the soap, but Kerah pushed it away.

“No, keep it,” Kerah said. “I have plenty. Margret taught me how to make it a while back.”

“Margret?” Malekaiah asked.

Kerah winced. “She is…was…a customer of mine. She was…the one at my stall this morning. When you were there.”

It took Malekaiah a moment to piece it together. Then the image of the woman’s bleeding throat flashed before her eyes, and she quickly shut them tight. But it didn’t help.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

Kerah wiped a moonslit tear from her eye. “It’s okay.” She sighed, her entire body shuddering. “I don’t know about where you’re from, but in Skyrim, we celebrate our dead. Even when they’re taken from us.”

“Anvil,” whispered Malekaiah.

“Hm?” replied Kerah, tilting her head.

“I’m from Anvil. In Cyrodiil.”

“Oh. So was Margret. From Cyrodiil, I mean. Not Anvil.” Kerah smiled. “She was here to buy a pendant for her sister in the Imperial City. Have you ever been there?”

Malekaiah shook her head. “Never left Anvil county. Not until I came here.”

Kerah reached out her hands. Malekaiah accepted the offer with some hesitation, placing her hands in Kerah’s. They certainly weren’t the pampered hands of a merchant; this woman worked a forge. And judging by the quality of her wares, she was good at it.

“So what brings you to Markarth, Malekaiah?” asked Kerah.

“I’m an acolyte of Dibella,” Malekaiah answered. “I’m on my way to Orsinium to proselytize.”

“Hm,” Kerah said. “That must be a tough crowd.” Malekaiah’s face fell a bit, so Kerah added, “But maybe they’ll listen to you, since you’re an Orc and all.”

Malekaiah smiled slightly. “Maybe.”

The sun was beginning to rise now, Kerah’s crate of silver dazzling in the early dawn light. “Damn,” she blurted, pulling her hands away from Malekaiah’s and burying them in the assorted jewelry. “Sorry, I really need to finish this and get ready to open.” She smiled again, wide and sparkling in the sun’s golden glow. “It was lovely getting to know you, Malekaiah. Be safe in your travels, and good luck.”

Without the warmth of Kerah’s hands, Malekaiah’s fingers felt lonely in the cold Skyrim air. “Thank you for the soap,” Malekaiah said as she gathered her wet robes and began to stand.

“You saved my life,” Kerah said as she scraped hard blood from a sapphire. “It’s the least I can do.”

Malekaiah waved awkwardly with the hand holding the soap, but Kerah was now fully engrossed in cleaning her merchandise. Malekaiah nodded and walked away.

The robes tucked under Malekaiah’s arm were dripping wet. Looking up the stream, she saw the blacksmith’s forge again, situated on an island in the center of the flow. She squinted at it in the dull morning light, and could just make out a couple of aprons hanging from a line strung between two of the hut’s posts. She still didn’t see the Orc there, so she approached.

Malekaiah had to ascend a level of the tiered city to find the stone bridge crossing the stream. At the smithy, she glanced around. On a table near the anvil she found a pair of small iron clamps. She took them and used them to hang up her robes on the line with the aprons.

Exhausted from her short sleep that night, she sat at the stool by the table. She pulled her hands in her sleeves to keep them warm, and laid down her head on the table…

-----

Malekaiah was pulled awake by a firm hand wrapping around the back of her neck and yanking up her head. She yelped and reached up her hands, but her assailant slapped them down.

“What are you doing in my workshop, whelp?”

Malekaiah was just barely able to turn her head to see the fuming Orc smith gripping her nape. “I…I…I…” Malekaiah’s sudden rip from sleep kept her from forming a sentence.

“Not thieving, I hope?” continued the Orc woman. “You know what we do to thieves in the strongholds? We take their hands, whelp.” Suddenly, Malekaiah noticed a flash of light on the steel axe in the woman’s other hand.

“Uh, Ghorza?” It was a man’s voice, albeit a timid one, coming from behind the furious woman.

“Not the time, Tacitus,” growled the woman, presumably Ghorza.

“Look,” Tacitus continued anyway. He must have pointed, because Ghorza turned. She moved her whole body to look, letting Malekaiah see Tacitus was gesturing at her hanging robes. “She’s just drying her clothes,” Tacitus laughed.

Ghorza dropped Malekaiah and moved over to the robes. Malekaiah scurried into the corner.

Ghorza plucked the clamps from the line, causing the mostly-dry robes to fall to the floor. “These aren’t clothespins, girl,” she growled. “I’ll have your hide if these rust.”

Tacitus, a soot-faced young Cyrod, bent down to look at Malekaiah - he seemed to take notice of the sheath on her thigh. “Wait, Ghorza. I know this one! She was the one at the market yesterday, who killed the Forsworn!”

Ghorza huffed wordlessly. “Stand up and let me have a look at you, girl.”

Malekaiah felt heat rush to her cheeks as she slowly obeyed, keeping a hand hovering near the sheath just in case. Ghorza towered over her, but Tacitus in the corner was about Malekaiah’s height. Malekaiah began to wonder if she was short for an Orc.

Ghorza placed her rough smith’s hands on Malekaiah’s shoulders, squeezing as she moved down to feel her biceps. “Pretty scrawny,” she said before grabbing Malekaiah’s chin and tilting her head this way and that. “And maybe not so bright - no common sense, at least - but you know how to kill. A decent sign.” She let go and turned around. She pulled something from a rack and turned back to brandish it before Malekaiah. “Here. See how this feels.”

It was a sword - Malekaiah guessed it was made of iron. She took it by the offered handle from Ghorza and waggled it around a bit. It was lighter than it looked.

Ghorza stepped back. “Give it a few swings.”

Malekaiah looked up at Ghorza’s eyes, anxious. But she did as she was told, and swung at the air a few times. They were clumsy swipes, and the sword nearly fell from her hand at the end of the last.

“Stop,” ordered Ghorza. “No training. Shouldn’t be surprised.”

Malekaiah laid the blade across both hands and inspected it. The metal was dull, without the sharp gleam of her Da’s dagger. She asked, “Is this…a gift?”

“No. It wasn’t going to be free, at least.” Ghorza retrieved the sword from Malekaiah with a delicate touch that betrayed a great respect for the iron. “But it wouldn’t do you any good without any skill. Swinging it wildly is ineffective, at best. Get you killed, at worst.” She pointed the sword at Malekaiah’s sheathed dagger. “Better off with something smaller. And staying out of trouble in the first place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Malekaiah as she watched Ghorza return the sword to its rack. She took the opportunity to retrieve her robes from the floor.

Ghorza turned back and looked Malekaiah up and down for a moment, arms crossed. Finally she said, “You did good in the market yesterday. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Malekaiah said.

“Get out of my sight.”

“Yes m-” Malekaiah began, but Ghorza’s eyes flared up, and so she hurried away, nearly tripping over her dangling robes in the process.

-----

Unlike in Anvil, the sun in Skyrim never seemed to rise very high in the sky, even by midday. But Malekaiah knew she’d be mostly keeping to this same northerly latitude for her journey, so she figured she’d have to get used to it.

Malekaiah had stocked up on food and supplies this morning, spending almost all of her remaining gold, before leaving the city about an hour ago. She followed the main road west as it faded from paved to dirt to cleared to tracks to footprints to complete obscurity. Now she and Magnus faced the same direction, the latter sure of his path over the mountains, but Malekaiah much less so. She knelt in the dirt and puzzled.

When overwhelmed, Da always taught her to take things one step at a time. She scanned the jagged horizon of slate-gray peaks, and looked for low passages between the rising slopes and cliffs. She followed a trail of them closer and closer until a nearby path emerged.

She stood and dusted off her knees. She was ready to keep walking, but then she heard footsteps behind her. She turned back to see a woman there she hadn’t noticed before. She was a dark elf, a Dunmer, wearing shiny brass armor and a deep black cloak with red trim. Her hood shrouded her face in darkness, but two locks of white hair spilled out from underneath onto her shoulders.

“Muthsera?” croaked the Dunmer, betraying what Malekaiah understood as the accent natural to residents of the volcanic island of Vvardenfell, in the Ebonheart Pact.

Tentatively, Malekaiah responded, “Yes? How can I help you?”

The dark elf said, “I’m lost. Which way to Solstheim?”

“Oh, I’m not from here,” Malekaiah said with an apologetic smile. But she wracked her brain for memories from her geography lessons. “Solstheim…that’s an island, isn’t it? In the Sea of Ghosts?” She pointed east, behind the Dunmer.

The dark elf didn’t so much as turn her head to acknowledge the gesture. “Oh,” she said, staring exclusively at Malekaiah. “Thank you.” She broke eye contact briefly to glance up at the skies as she asked, “Seen any dragons lately?”

“Sorry? Malekaiah said, looking up where the dark elf did. She didn’t see anything, so she looked back down. “Dragons aren’t real, are they?”

The Dunmer’s lips spread open wide, revealing two rows of yellow, viciously sharp teeth in a wicked grin. “Oh, yes,” she said, her teeth not separating as she spoke, “Of course they’re real.” Her red-nailed fingers wrapped around the corners of her hood and peeled it from her face, the shadows receding to reveal her eyes, blood-red and wide, and the third, tattooed on her forehead, crimson ink glowing brightly. “You’ve just met one.” She rushed forward, grabbing Malekaiah by the face and pressing her thumb into her forehead.

“Praan.”