kagrenacs...2!!

Grudge, Throat, Weak, Relief and Smell!

Feel [Mere-Sa tapping into the collective consciousness of the Hist]

Like the roiling head of a thunderstorm, thoughts of a great presence make themselves known to them. The three siblings wail a song of sadness and mourning for their fourth. They taste the blood of theirr children as it spills and seeps into their roots, They lash out in rage, but can’t rationalize why such a tragedy could occur. Their children’s eyes saw drywalkers- Dark Elves and a Nord, snakes shedding their skins to hide their intentions. Surely they must be the ones tapping their sibling's blood and boiling it in great vats of hot iron!

It’s overwhelming, Mere-Sa feels like a capsized boat in the midst of a tempest. Heita-Meen clings to them so as to not be lost in the turmoil. Together they swim forward until their scales scrape against worn bark.

Lose [Mere-Sa and Dralli after successfully saving the like of Jorunn Skald-King]

The king called for them in his sick bed, four days after his brother was killed. Reports from captains came in that they successfully intercepted the southern Stormfist army as they prepared to assault Windhelm. The armies of the Pact standing together were no match for them, even whilst Covenant backed. The Crown of Freydis was lost amidst the chaos, maybe it would be something for future generations to delve for.

“And that’s…it?” Mere-Sa asked.

Dralli shrugged. “Usually how it goes.”

Blind [Dralli contemplating her existence]

     What was she? She had died. The first Dralli died. (The second one too, she uncomfortably remembered the momentary flash of blinding pain in her skull as Magistrix Vox brought Judgement down.) The Prophet claimed her body was created by Molag Bal and animated with the blood of Coldharbour. The Prophet had given her anuic energy she needed to attune to Nirn. (Another reason she hates Varen, he’s the reason she exists, and that isn’t a debt you can easily repay.) 

         So, what does that make her? Daedric? Mortal? Something in between? Fragments of a fucked-up person created by Molag Bal and an ex-emperor. A person wearing the face and memories of a dead woman. Something unnaturally wrong.

A Vestige.

Shake [Mere-Sa managing their first scouting mission]

The scouting mission was cold, wet, and painfully isolated- at least for Mere-Sa. The dead-growth forest had given way to a strangely icy swamp, with a strong sense of otherworldly eeriness about it, far different than the warm and humid swamps of their home. Ominous howls and yelps echoed from the dark and twisted branches. They made certain to have Kaju-Mota at their side the entire walk, it was reassuring to have a bear at your side. And Mere-Sa liked to grip onto his fur, so the others wouldn’t notice the shake of their hands. They were this troop’s leader, they needed to appear strong and in control.

Night [Casual dialogue]

“I smell the scent of embers in the air. You’ll be in for a treat if Kasura is teaching the firewalk.” 

“That sounds…gruesome,” Tharn said.

“The Flaming Nix had something like that. Free ale for a night if you could make it all the way across.” Dralli added.

“Did you try it?” Lyris asked.

@ervona

Under the guise of night, the Tongues of Mora descended upon the city from the mountains and shouted it out of this world. What they didn’t shout away, they burnt to its foundation, leaving a blackened, ugly scar across the frozen ground.

Avdleft shifts and grips her spear a bit tighter, attempting to take a bit of the weight off her sore, cold feet. They had walked for three straight days from Kagrenzel, knowing well by the time they would arrive, there would be little that could be done.

It’s a shame. Mzanleft was not a fortress of war, but a city of craftsmen and trade built along a well-used road. She used to get her halfway decent leather shoes repaired here. Yet another example of an endlessly growing line of tragedies inflicted upon them by the Nords. 

A small camp is established at the foothills, sparsely populated with those few survivors. Unable to observe their proper final rites and legalities, the bodies of the deceased were unceremoniously cremated and scattered amongst the ashes of their home. If they were not Dwemer, Avdleft thinks, one might attach some meaning or significance to this.

 Avdleft wanders, uncertain of where her help may best be spent. The pains in her feet ensure she was one of the last to arrive. As she assesses, her aid is largely unnecessary. Perhaps she’ll be able to rest her feet for the first time in days.

But as circumstance holds, a young mer- no more than a child, is wandering through the camp, its wide, glassy eyes staring blankly ahead, frantically mumbling words beneath its breath.

A healer tending to a mer’s burn notes Avdleft’s gaze, “It’s gone mad. Leave it be, there’s nothing that can be done for it.”

She ignores the advice, approaching the child. It doesn’t note her presence, instead, its gaze remains turned towards the valley, perhaps envisioning a city that no longer exists.

Avdleft has seen it before, all too often before, at a certain point the mind benumbs itself and simply caves under the weight. Curse those Nords! She thinks. Too many children left parentless, too many clans without cities.

The child surprises her by speaking in a more direct tone. “They’re speaking of us.”

Words seem to be sticking to her dry tongue, “Who?”

“The tones of the earth.” It says dreamily, swaying on its heels. 

“What do they say?” 

“I’m not real. Nothing is real. Sometimes when I have dreams, I wake up inside the dream before I wake up in real life. But I don’t remember how to wake up anymore.”

“Tell me what else you hear,” Avdleft speaks carefully and slowly, enunciating each syllable.

“Shouting. Lots of shouting. Talking and grownups crying... I thought grownups didn’t cry.”

“What else?”

“The wind. It sounds like a song, see? Oooo.”

“Good. Now tell me what you see.”

“My home, it’s gone now. I used to make snowmen on that hill.”

Avdleft crouches down. Sorely wishing she had mittens, she cups snow in her bare hands and compacts it into a neat ball, repeating the process twice more. Then, shifting through the snowbank and exposing the talus below, she grabs a handful of pebbles. Carefully she embeds the stones into her miniature snowmen.

“See? We can still make snowmen.” Taking the child’s hands, she places her creation to the child’s palms. “What do you feel?” 

“Nothing.”

“What do your hands feel?” She prods again.

“Cold. I feel cold.”

Avdleft rises, smiling. “Then we should get you a blanket to warm up, hm?” She moves to turn away, before feeling a tug at her skirts.

The child’s head is bowed, the snowman denting the pristine snow. Clutching the fabric with a grip so tight its knuckles are white. When it speaks, it’s in a voice of quiet desperation. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to disappear.” 

Avdleft pauses, before kneeling down once again and drawing the child in her arms. “I’ll stay. I promise.”

******

Kagrenac surveys the empty valley with an expression as cool as the air around her. Despite the passed time, so thoroughly was the land ravaged, that not even lichen dares to colonize the sediments left behind.

“What is it, my Lord?” Her retainer asks, stopping his mount in its tracks.

“What of the energy system dynamics?” Magnus inquired. “Do you anticipate this system being opened or closed?”

“I’m undecided. I was thinking of doing a few trial runs and see what worked best.” It’s challenging to tell Magnus’ disposition toward this, the spirit is abstruse- all precise angles and rigid sublimity. Any indication of softness is lost upon him.

“Hm. I can see potential flaws in both options. Opening the system would allow for the infinite input required to meet the energy threshold which will maintain Mundus’ structure, but there would be too much chaos for our purposes. 

Having a closed system would allow us to test-run which variables provided the strongest stable states to their eventual climax and plateau. Then we would terminate the simulation and retry until all variables are in a stable range.”

“Everlasting perfection.” He says, flatly. “...May I pitch an idea to you? What if we never ended the kalpa? What if we put a hold on the wyrm program?”

“And allow it to keep spawning iterations?” Magnus asks, betraying a rare moment of confusion. “Whatever for? The cycle would decay and rot.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s a manner of perspective-” Lorkhan pauses as motion flutters near his ear. A small luminous and winged spirit is curiously peering over his shoulder with a thoughtful look.

“It is a minor spirit. Pay it no mind.” Magnus turns back to the blueprints.

“Hello.” Lorkhan says, “What is your name?”

“Merid.” They say, multitudinous hues shifting beneath their skin.

“Your presence is not required, leave us.” A hundred hands wave in dismissal, two hundred continue to scrawl formulas unperturbed.   

“What would you think, Merid?” Lorkhan asks, ignoring the architect.

“Hmm… You could have an infinite generation of energy within a closed system.” She quietly said, “Just continue to transfer and redistribute the energy. Only those who are initially bound to the system would be able to participate though.”

“You are dismissed.” Magnus spoke, to the spirit's quiet departure.

Mere-Sa: Your love for your Patron blinds you friend. Mephala is simply an extension of Sithis, the constant and awesome tide of change.