A crow's flight too close to the sun.

…

Not long after he read the note, a reason to get moving soon came.

His skin prickled with the arriving danger like static before a storm. So recently fed on fresh blood straight from the source, Rowan had plenty of energy in his reserves to fight with the best of his abilities, but he really did not see the need for confrontation. They weren’t blocking his path, whoever they were, and he hadn’t gone out to seek them in the first place.

The Gael did follow as per the corvid’s instructional cry, making haste. Somehow they’d made it to the river after the flighty incident transpired; had the Breton man led him there?

He didn’t ask. Lowering to his knees at the river bank, Rowan scooped up handfuls of water and dashed them over his face, until most of the evidence from the killing was gone. He appreciated the crisp, refreshing feel of it calming his nerves. 

“I don’t meet travelers of your caliber every day." 

Rowan got up, meandering over to him. His clothes were still bloody, but washing them right away wasn’t wise. He could do that when he was settled back home.

He could smell the party of men hiking up towards the spot where he and the man who’d found him stood prior. Mortals, definitely. Their blood rushed hot and triggered his nocturnal instincts back into motion. He had no need whatsoever to hunt again so soon, but the desire was still there, if slight. It was always there, lurking.

"Thank you for not attempting to kill me. My name is Rowan, by the way,” he said as he walked near the mute and his horse. Not boastful, simply introductory, he added, “I stand as Lord of a coven in the Northwest part of Skyrim. Do you know of the Volkihar?”

Rowan hissed at the crows for one or two fleeting seconds as one pecked at his kilt. Daring creatures. Though his agitation budded like a guard hound roused from sleep by a trespasser, he could respect the birds’ tenacity.

When a voice rasped out harshly all of a sudden, surprising him, he turned his attention back to the man on top of his horse. So he could speak, though barely. Looking closer, Rowan saw the scar on his neck. Was that the cause of his scarce words?

He read the note delivered by the bird.

“I’m…” he broke off straight away as he began to answer, very confused. Rowan was caught off guard. His brows were furrowed, and his speech was light in weight.

Here he was covered in blood like a Nord at War, eyes aflame like an Oblivion gate, nails stained and teeth no better, with an exsanguinated corpse at his feet… and the Breton was inquiring whether he  fared well, or not.

Manners for monsters. What a peculiar thing to ask, for something asked at all.

“… Better,” continued Rowan. “My veins are warmed and I no longer crave to any extreme. I can think with clarity. Have you found me for a reason? Did you track me down?” Plenty of people needed rogue vampire killers and Rowan was of that occupation among his other tasks.

A wave of shame broke against the Dunmer. He did not want to explain this, it pained him too much every time. It was hard to explain, even in Jel, his feelings about his ears were confusing to say the least. Even Antal-Lei found it frustrating at points. He wanted them off, he wanted them on. He wished to harm them and yet he felt ashamed of how he had mutilated them. A source of bullying when he was younger, a reminder of what he was. And yet the concern his parents had had for him, that his family still had for him meant he hated the cuts he inflicted upon his ears.

How he had cut them, a sure sign he was never going to win his battle of self-loathing. That he was never going to be strong.

And now once more his ears were the subject of a conversation. The previous calm and relief Antal-Lei had felt scuppered by flood of embarrassment. At Theo’s questions, he cast his gaze down.

His panic only grew when Theo produced his writing tools and placed them in his reluctant hands which gripped the notebook limply. His hands had gone bizarrely numb whilst his fingers ran over the paper in an almost childlike fascination. It felt incredibly dry, not damp at all. Raising a nail, Antal-Lei ran a nail down a sheet to discover a most unpleasant noise and dragging effect. Pulling his nail away he saw he had caused a minor tear in the paper as well as a dirty streak.

“Sorry,” Antal-Lei mumbled, now feeling too ashamed to even look up. Looking at the pencil, he tried to recall how Theo had held the writing tool. His stomach dropped as he realised he did not and now was in an even more humiliating position.

Slowly his picked up the pencil at the un-sharpened end. It felt hard and yet the Dunmer got the feeling would snap without much force. It was now another feeling started to creep forward, one of paranoia, was Theo trying to humiliate him? Why was he being to pressing about his ears? Why was he making him use this…drawing tool?

He did not want to admit his had no clue how to even use a pencil. But he did not wish to embarress himself further by attempting to use the pencil. Consumed by an urge to cry, Antal-Lei stared off into the distance at the floor, focusing his thoughts and doing his best to subdue to burning sensation in his eyes.

After a few moments silence, Antal-Lei still did not look up and could only mumble. “Cannot.”

—-

From the bushes anger was further building within the Shadowscale. Was this man actually an idiot? Senka had half a mind to charge over and slap him. Had it not occurred to him that if Antal-Lei could use a pencil he would have a notebook and pencil with him?!

To watch Antal-Lei being reduce to such a vulnerable state was painful, but also told her of how tactless this man was being. And why was he pressing Antal-Lei about his ears?! Senka was certain she had warned this stranger about Antal-Lei’s feelings regarding his ears!

The paper split apart quite easily, Theodore had not expected the other to make such a movement, but the technique was astoundingly familiar. Despite Antal-Lei's frustrations brewing between knitted brows, the breton returned a spark of hope as he mouthed an exclamation.

"Stone?" He whispered, gesturing to the pillar beside them. A blue square glowed against the shape as Theodore drew together four straight lines. Like a slice of pie, a peice was removed and placed before the dunmer in an even cube.

"Better?" Came a concerned question following after. "Stop me if I do not make sense, but perhaps you shouldn't try to hurt yourself. There are people that are concerned about you, yes?"

The breton found stout twig while feeling between the blades of grass, shaping it like clay as his magic continued to weave. The density changed subtly, like a lump of steel as a solid peice of slate served as a hammer. He then handed that, and the magically crafted 'wooden' chisel to Antal-Lei. The weight of both items were surprisingly incorrect for a palm stone and a peice of wood. Judging by the feel, one would assume it could easily etch away at the stone cube.

I spent five or more years wishing that it would never happen. Apart of me hoped that the vision was merely a misdirecting distraction weaved by the deadric prince, another trick disguised as truth. Each day was leaden with grim anticipation, and I had no proof in warning the people of Vvardenfell. How would anyone be convinced that I saw a vision of Red Mountain’s eruption? What if I was solely responsible for the mass panic of thousands of people as they fled from a catastrophe that was never fated to happen? The wisdom in me knew that this was all a facet, that the vile being in the black book could change the reflection of fate in whichever way I turned it. Perhaps I could warn the masses, and destruction would never happen. Perhaps I could never tell anyone outside of those I trust and the vision would play out nonetheless.

Hermaeus Mora holds the truth that is too lofty to know. The kind of epiphanies that one does not ask for. If I would of had the choice to return this offering, I would gladly do so, but a responsibility has placed itself upon my shoulders, growing heavily with each syllable spoken out loud.

Gar…din…ier. I took my earnings with House Telvanni and bought myself a room in the village of Riften. A small hold in the province of Skyrim that lay just across the Velothi mountains, a place and culture that strangely unfamiliar despite how physically similar I was to the nords. The group I traveled with was treated with an immediate hostility, having entered the hold in a guar drawn caravan, but once I had separated to find the inn there was a much warmer accommodation. I didn’t need to enunciate my fluent dunmeris to gain the favor of strangers, but despite it all, I felt as if my traveling companions shouldn’t have been treated so differently. A few days passed, and then a month. I spent the time taking walks through the birch forests that reminded me of Solstheim, with the towering peak of what I learned to be called The Throat of the World. On one side of the Velothi pass was this land of ash and creatures I had grown accustomed to, with the fiery peak at it’s center. Here, was an endless expanse of woods with deer, elk, wild horses, and the odd black birds that gathered in a curious flock around me. It was pleasant to be rid of the responsibilities of House Telvanni, to be alone and practice magic under the influence of herbal medicine while the solemn snowcapped peak stood tall like an ominous giant. The contrast felt like I had traversed into a liminal space of serene solitude. Perhaps I never belonged to Morrowind after all. I may return, if the vision of Hermaeus Mora was false. I know my father would love to see this land and hunt it’s game. My mother must have passed through here on her journey as well, seen what I see now long before I was born. I should write them, perhaps convince them to move here to ease my anxiety.   ——— Summer was pleasant in The Rift, unlike the humid heat of Sadrith Mora. The air was clean and dry with fields of verdant grass growing beneath the soil. After a day at the market I brought home my supplies for the trek west, this time on horseback. The skies stretched endlessly without a cloud in sight, but along the cliffside I could see the familiar plume from the eastern peak of Morrowind. A terrible feeling brewed, with such visibility rare and nostalgic. I couldn't’ pinpoint where it derived but the tremors beneath the earth were much deeper than before. …and then the ground violently jolted. The horse whinnied, nervous and confused, as my eyes directed towards the east. Without break or blinking I gazed at the pale smoke that billowed up from a fiery maw, red streaks pouring out in mile-long stretches that were visible from so far away. For a moment I felt like I had traipsed upon a vivid nightmare fueled by my paranoia, but the waking moment never came as the tiny spec on the horizon collapsed upon itself and threw ash into the otherwise cloudless expanse of sky. A desperation struck my heart as I ordered the horse forward as fast as it’s legs could carry. Dropping supplies and trampling the loose dirt road that served as a shortcut to Riften. I passed the fort and carried on towards the Velothi mountains alongside the bewildered travelers whose eyes remained affixed to to the ever growing plume. Within the valley clearing we all watched in disbelief, a mariner’s telescope was passed between us all. When it was my turn to look, to take in the reality of what had happened as the only visible parts of Vvardefell appeared black and streaked with lava. Ald’ruhn, Caldera, the Zanab camps, the Urshilaku tribes, perhaps even Balmora and Gnaar Mok…so many civilizations now under a black sheet of molten stone. My heart sank until I could feel nothing. I couldn’t even feel the fall as my knees collapsed to the ground and the rest of my body followed. The Yanimimbal camps, they had to have been… my mother, father, Yan-Ilu…everyone. Everyone. Gone. My vision faded to black.

———

I awakened the next day, in a yurt much like the few I was familiar with since childhood. A row of people laid adjacently next to me, mostly dunmer coughing up soot and tending to their wounds both physically and mentally. At first I assumed this was a dream, picking myself up to shuffle through the healers and mourners exiting the shear cloth flap that was caked in dust. The air was thick and hazy, neither peaks were visible through the white fog and snow. How odd, it normally did not snow this far south in mid summer and the air felt too dry and hot. Someone had even brought my horse to the stables and wrapped cloth around it’s muzzle.

…and then, in my own postponed shock, I realized that the soft feathery flakes falling from the sky was ash.

I can not even begin to describe the sudden emotional pain I felt. I would have rather lost a limb, and eye, even my own voice, than endure this sense of loss. I battled with the idea that nothing happened, trudging my way through drifts of grey powder as my lungs heaved with every hastened step forward. I could make it to the shores on foot in a couple nights if I kept up this pace. The Velothi Valley was crowded with survivors from the inland region who built tents and silently gazed ahead. My body strained against the ash, both at my feet and in my lungs, screaming in physical pain like a demand to stop, but yet I pushed forward as if my grief was a shadowy predator behind me.

Rows, and rows, and rows of yurts. All weighed down by debris. The corpses of exausted guar settled under evergreen trees, life expended by loyally leading their masters and families to saftey. I should have heeded that warning of blind dedication as I began to cough violently, leaning against the lantern post for balance. I had not noticed a stranger approach me in sympathy as a grey hand laid itself upon my shoulder.

“There’s nothing there but death.” The hoarse grain of his voice caught my attention. I looked up to see a dunmer, scar across one eye and clean shaven. He appeared to acknowledge the tattoos across my face long before I replied in dunmeris.

“Are you certian?” I rasped, a semblance of my rationality seemed to have returned as this mer spoke.

“Yes, but we will survive. We are different from outlanders. I still have a task to do and I have a feeling that you do too.”

The words remained true in my memory for years after. I replied with nothing more than a nod of respect, slowly and carefully making my way back to Riften. Although my mind was quarrelsome I had to remember why I left Vvardenfell. I had ties in High Rock that were still left open in the wind.

(childhood) A great day turns terrible in a matter of moments.

(childhood) A good memory about family or friends.

(childhood) A harsh lesson is learned.

(childhood) Meeting a stranger.

(childhood) The loss of someone or something important.

(young adulthood) A new perspective on the world is gained.

(young adulthood) Reality hits hard and hurts terribly.

(young adulthood) Love, lust, or infatuation.

(young adulthood) An awful, stupid mistake.

(young adulthood) Getting into trouble.

(adulthood) What is ‘family’ to them?

(adulthood) How far have they come?

(adulthood) How far do they personally believe they have to go?

(adulthood) The understanding of another person is achieved.

(adulthood) Will it ever be time to settle?

What does ‘trust’ mean?

The farthest distance traveled.

Isolation (self-imposed, even if brief).

Isolation (due to circumstances outside of control, even if brief).

Beliefs are shaken.

Knowledge is shared.

Does ‘honesty’ matter?

Value is found in something previously deemed worthless.

A question is asked, either aloud or silently. “What made you this way?”

A serious lie is told.

They have to hide. Quickly.

A personal project is undertaken.

Rules are bent for the greater good.

“Explain yourself.”

Rowan bore a light squint, wary and curious both. Was the man trying to say something to him? Regrettably, he didn’t understand the signal, but maybe…

Maybe there could be peace here.

He licked his lips while he thought about what to do next, gathering up what blood remained there for savoring. It wasn’t of much use to try and clean himself of it, really; the mess was all over his face and would need a good washing off at the nearest river, at least. Yet the monster in him loathed to part with the taste of his kill so soon. A kill, which, by all rights according to his inherent vampire nature, was still very much his – a fact most present in his mind, despite knowing the oncomer would likely want no claim of the corpse.

Unless he was partial to raising the deceased with a very particular and widely dreaded magic, of course.

His head was low, the temptation to show his teeth strong. Hardly any blood was left in his victim’s network of veins, not worth another go at feeding, and still Rowan felt inclined to possess. Hunting was dangerous work, and the now-healing gash on his forehead left by the man’s wildly flailing knife was proof of it. It bled but little, but the slash was clearly there. 

He stepped on his urges and stayed civil. After all, the same courtesy was being shown to him.

“Do you mean to attack me, siubhail?” 

A question that needed to be posed nonetheless. So many did, and he’d not lay blame against this stranger for doing so, given the circumstances of their encounter.