Interlude III: Dunmeri Dialogues
A noble Dunmer clad in ebony falls to one knee and begins breathing heavily as the distant air is distorted by massive wings, a loud roar makes him tense once more but it grows ever more distant with each moment.
The sound is swiftly replaced with the groans of the wounded and dying, the air around him covered in ash and smoke making his heart burn with hatred at the beast who had the gall to laugh as it burned his kin.
He glares into the ashen skies for a few more moments before allowing some of the tension to leave him, the moment he does so his entire form is struck with burning agony as the adrenaline leaves him, yet no scream leaves him but a mere quiet grunt.
He must have been staring for far longer than he thought because it took someone shaking him awake before he returned to reality.
"-y lord! My lord, are you well?" He blinks as he feels a hand shake his shoulder, letting out a pained hiss as his head twitches to the right, glaring at the robed attendant who thought it wise to shake a Mer struck by dragonfire.
"I will live." Archmaster Varan Sarano of House Redoran, the de facto ruler of Morrowind growls, before the simpering fool can recoil into a squall of platitudes he grunts a simple demand "Casualties?"
The Kinsman pauses briefly before hesitantly listing "Six dead, seventeen mortally wounded and twenty lightly wounded. We managed to drive the beast off before it managed to enter the kwama mine but many of the drones still died to its magic." He barely managed not to stammer the words out, which likely saved him from an enraged smack.
Still, the kwama surviving was a victory, no matter how small. The beasts were a dying breed ever since the eruption and losing even one mine wound be near catastrophic for his kin.
Not to mention it would make him accept even more handouts from Mede, the mere thought of which made him tremble with impotent rage.
Forcing the infuriating thoughts into the depths of his mind Varan grunts in affirmation and extends his hand, a sharp hiss carrying his command "Potion."
"At once my lord" The unworthy Kinsman bows and rushes off.
Varan feels a shift in the air and immediately stands, swinging his curved longsword behind him and resting his blade against the neck of a shrouded figure, clad in blacks and purples and marked with the symbol of the Morag Tong "A woodsman?" He growls, his muscles screaming at him as he forced himself to ignore the pain of his burns "Who sent you?"
The veiled female looks down at the blade for a moment before letting out a soft, almost amused, giggle, an act which would have likely cost her her life had Varan not be cautious due to his wounds "I assure you Archmaster, there has been no writ of execution issued upon your head. I am here merely as a messenger."
He narrows his eyes but seeing the woman so at ease even under threat he realizes that she likely allowed him to sense her in the first place. Before he can question her further his fool of a Kinsman Almer rushes up to him with a swirling bottle filled with a red liquid.
Without a word he grabs the potion from his cousin's shaky hands and downs the contents, hissing as he felt his skin slowly begin to knit "Tch" He spits out a bit of the aftertaste "Is this really the best we have?"
Almer bows his head shakily "Apologies, my lord. I felt the superior potions better used upon the dying and the crippled."
"Hmph." Varan feels his lip twitch upwards "You do have some spine after all." All his pride promptly disappears as the young one preens under the praise "Go fetch the House Brothers present, I feel we will have much to discuss." He gives the woodswoman a pointed look at his last words.
Beetle, who had been pretending to check out her nails until then, merely smiles through her veil.
As Almer rushes of Varan focuses fully on his 'guest' "Tell me then, agent, what message do you have for me? And tell me which fool felt it wise to send an assassin as envoy?"
She straightens up and pulls out a scroll marked with the seal of a three eyed beetle, the symbol immediately making Varan tense due to the horror stories connected to that very sign he grew up listening to. Just as quickly though his century of experience as a politician and a warrior let him control his expression, though not perfectly if the widening smirk of the veiled woman was anything to go by.
Done amusing herself, Beetle begins to speak "Lord Reyvin Dagoth cordially invites a representative of House Redoran to visit him at your earliest convenience."
Before she can go on Varan interrupts with a frown "Awfully bold of him to present himself as a Lord of a Great House, especially one who is supposed to be dead and buried."
Instead of being offended at his words, Beetle shrugs "The Chosen Hortator, honored by all, has seen fit to honor the Sixth House and the Tribe Unmourned after his battle against his old friend, the fact that the house survived the death of one Dagoth Voryn has no bearing on the legitimacy of the Chosen's decision." Her voice is so utterly flat that he felt she must have rehearsed that bit of verbiage hundreds of times by now.
That brought him some minor amusement at the very least.
Varan schools his impeding scowl, the agent's words were not incorrect but he still felt ill at ease considering the possibility of another Great House joining the power struggle still ongoing in his homeland "What proof has he of his legitimacy?"
The woman's smile turns so smug he can feel it through the veil as she intones "My Lord carries the blessing of Azura with her star, the tacit approval of Boethiah alongside her mail, and is Chosen by the Webweaver whom I and my fellows serve with devotion."
Varan knew the young Mer carried Azura's star, such news were rather difficult to hide even across the mountains of Veloth but to have approval of all of the Tribunal was... nigh inconceivable. His own house worshipped an aspect of Boethiah and to hear he possessed her mail was not something to be taken lightly, especially should he try and escalate the issue he knew a good chunk of his house would go against him simply due to the Daedra's blessing.
Not to mention the Indoril fanatics, they would rush to ally with him even if his name was a cursed one.
Just what he needed. First it is the Argonian incursions, then it is the constant blue goblin attacks on Raven Rock, then the dragons and now this. Sometimes he really regretted challenging the previous Archmaster to that duel, but he tried seducing his wife so it had to be done.
"And what does your lord desire?" He did his best not to make the title sound sarcastic "Does he wish to use this dragon invasion to embed himself into Morrowind?"
The woman titters "Oh I assure you that my lord needs no schemes to return to his ancestral home." She covers her mouth with a dainty hand "None could stop him if he so chose after all."
Varan glares at her, was it confidence or arrogance? "Get to the point woman."
She offers a light bow "But of course your lordship, my humblest apologies. My lord merely wishes to offer you a trade deal, the details of which are contained within the scroll I have brought you. He feels that throwing the lives of his fellow Dunmer at the attacking dragons is foolhardy at best and has thus come up with an alternative."
The Archmaster nods and hesitantly begins reading through the scroll, his eyes speeding up with each passing moment as he quickly realized the implications held within. After a long minute he looks up "These... tools of the deep ones, have you seen them in action?"
"Lord Dagoth's artifice is beyond peer." She intones, she pulls out a small orb, casting some kind of spell as the orb unfurled into a moving model of what he recognized as a modified Dwemer sphere construct. The maneuverability it displayed was much greater than he remembered from his days of searching the old ruins however which drew his interest.
Was it possible this mere youth improved upon the deep elves' design?
His own curiosity aside, he had a job to do. He lets out a gruff grunt "And the prices? The ones listed here would demand considerable investment to make any real difference in our defense."
"I am afraid that the prices have already been lowered as much as possible." Beetle bobs her head "You are only paying for the materials as my lord has seen fit to waive the production costs as a sign of friendship."
Varan makes a point of looking the scroll over once again, finding a list of the materials and their prices at the bottom of it. After doing a bit of calculation his eyebrows raise ever so slightly as he realizes that the price was set perfectly at market value, a very tempting offer indeed...
Which meant Dagoth desired this deal to come through. But why? What were his motivations? Surely it couldn't just be a desire to reduce casualties...
A small part of him pointed towards the young Mer's thrice blessed status but he smothered that in the cradle. No one was that naive, or that frivolous with their spendings.
"I will have to discuss this with my Councilors" The Archmaster points out "Even if we do decide to accept the offer, any kind of association with a Dagoth will bring its issues, no matter how blessed he may supposedly be."
"Be that as it may." The agent hums "You should keep in mind that these tools can also be used to stymy the incursions from Black Marsh to great effect, the offer will last only until the dragons have been dealt with however."
A valid point, but it changed nothing. Making unilateral decisions in Dunmeri society was a quick way to getting one's self killed, something that a woodsman no doubt already knew.
"Very well." Varan nods, his voice still somewhat raspy from his wounds "A messenger will be dispatched to Winterhold with all due haste to inform you of our decision." He pauses "That is your preferred location, no?"
"It shall work." The agent answers neutrally "My lord shall be most pleased to learn you were willing to listen to his offer." Beetle bows and pulls out a vial from her robes "As another token of friendship, do take this potion of regeneration, it should serve to heal you fully."
Varan doesn't bother accusing her of a poisoning attempt as that would ensure their houses were forever at war now that a group of his House Brothers had arrived and listened in to the latter part of their discussion so instead he inclines his head ever so slightly "You have my thanks."
She offers another, much deeper, bow and turns to leave, quickly disappearing beyond the corner of a nearby building without a sound.
Giving one quick look to the potion, the Archmaster ponders the day's revelations briefly before turning around and offering the vial to one of his kin "Give this to the most critically wounded, make sure to spread it out as much as possible, it looks immensely potent."
What was a few burn scars compared to the lives of his warriors?
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(Far to the west)
The doors of the Lightbringer's Cornerclub, one of the few establishments in Silruhn Fell, are smacked open by a rough hand, swiftly followed by a group of Dunmer accompanied by a single Falmer entering the large tavern building, all of them looking exhausted from a long day of work.
"Oi Marveth!" The innkeep yells out threateningly "The next time you kick my door I am doubling your tab you bloody s'wit."
The large Dunmer immediately loses all of the bravado he entered with and winces "Sorry about that boss! Long day training you see."
The woman manning the bar rolls her eyes "A long day of getting your arse kicked maybe, what will it be?"
Marveth's companions laugh at him which he takes in good humor "A round of ale for all of us, and whatever you got cooked right now, I am starving!"
"Sit yourselves down, I will be right with you." The innkeeper shoos them toward a corner and begins pouring mugfulls of ale.
The group all take seats around a surprisingly well made round table, all of them looking very happy to finally be done with today "So, what's got you so generous?" One of the other Dunmer in the group asks, a stocky Mer clad in soot covered clothing from his long day in the forge.
Marveth smirks "Managed to cast a firebolt today, Lord Davos saw it and told me to come to the tower tomorrow morning."
A wave of appreciative whistles and congratulations greets him from the group.
All of them save for one, a well built Dunmer male clad in far better clothes than the rest of them "Bah!" He scowls "Lord Dagoth coddles the mages far too much, just because you can throw a single firebolt doesn't mean you lot deserve an immediate raise."
Marveth rolls his eyes "Come off it Algar, you ain't got room to complain."
"Oh?" The veteran marksman raises an eyebrow "Think your piddly little firebolt can do anything close to my crossbow?"
"Ah yes, the very expensive very enchanted crossbow you were given." The aspiring mage points at him mockingly.
"The crossbow I earned." Algar glares at him "Unlike a brat who got lucky."
"Come off it you two." The sole Falmer in the group sighs "I didn't spend my day listening to idiots on the training fields whining about their little booboos just to hear you two go at it for the fifteenth time."
"Yeah, yeah." Marveth raises his hands in surrender "We'll stop bitching Velor, no need to get your robes in a twist."
Algar just grunts an affirmative.
You do not want to piss of the Mer responsible for putting you back together, no matter how stupid or proud you may be.
The ensuing quiet is quickly broken as the innkeep comes up to them and starts laying out the drinks and food "Got some rabbit stew done just before you came in, eat up now children." The old woman pats the two Mer closest to her on the back and walks off.
All of them descend upon the steaming food with the hunger of a ravenous horde, demolishing it within a minute and groaning in satisfaction.
"Say what you will about ole' Wildred but she sure does know how to cook." The smith taps his stomach contentedly.
"What is with that name anyway?" Velor asks as he patiently wipes his mouth "Doesn't sound very Dunmeri to me."
The smith, Dagrath, shrugs "Heard her father was a Breton or something, parents decided to name her in their tradition."
"How long ago was that?" Marveth chuckles "I wouldn't be surprised if she was born before the Septims died." Dagrath gives him a look which immediately makes him gape in surprise "You are shitting me!"
The smith nods "Yep, old coot is almost three centuries old by now."
"I heard that Dagrath you little shit!" The innkeeper calls out, much to the rest of the group's amusement.
The smith ducks his head and shakes it "Anyway, you lot doing alright with the whole 'wartime protocol' as the lord called it?"
Velor is the first to answer "He has all of us capable of healing on constant standby in case he needs to react to a dragon attack, otherwise it is just the usual watching over the idiots smacking each other in the head on the training yard."
Marveth rolls his eyes "You sadistic fuckers make sure the healing hurts as much as possible, I am sure of it!"
Velor shrugs "How else are you going to learn to parry a blow with your weapon instead of your head?"
Algar huffs in amusement "Recruits." He shakes his head and turns to the smith "We are mostly attacking whatever pockets of feral Falmer are left, too many animonculi are getting sent out for us to relax our guard so he has us proactively culling them before they become a problem."
The not so feral Falmer scowls in distaste before sighing "If only we could recover all of them."
"You are either lucky or you are not" Dagrath shrugs "Such is life." He looks to his calloused hands and grunts "As for us smiths, we are making bolts by the crateload, I swear if I didn't know he could make portals I'd wonder where he is pulling all that steel from."
"Those dragons won't shoot themselves." Algar smirks ever so slightly "Not like the smaller bolts will do anything though, those hides are thick."
"Ah, you were at Windhelm, right?" Dagrath looks up to the marksman "Got a chance to see one of them up close?"
Algar shivers "Don't wanna talk about it."
Not even Marveth feels like trying to convince him otherwise.
A beat of silence passes before Dagrath speaks up once again "It does make me wonder though, why go out of our way to help the Nords fight off the dragons in the first place? Didn't they treat us like shit for decades?"
The healer scoffs "Don't be an idiot, those were just some of the Nords and you know it. And I have more reason to hate them than all of you combined." His words are met with grunts of agreement "Besides, so long as we fight them away from here our kin remain safe and protected, best that the Nords' farms burn and not ours."
Marveth whistles "That is pretty cold of you, but I can't say I disagree."
"We are allies, not kin." Algar shrugs "They'd protect their own first if the positions were reversed."
"Enough of these dour topic my friends!" Marveth interrupts suddenly "We've come here to relax, not ponder things we have no business affecting." He smiles and looks over the whole group "Now then, bottoms up, there is work to be done tomorrow!"
A cheer greets him and the night descends into a blur.
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Let the stoning begin!
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