A TRAGEDY IN BLACK
A folk tale from the time of the Oblivion Crisis
The dremora looked on the young boy with disdain. He looked to be no more than seventeen or eighteen, on the cusp of manhood.
"You? You have summoned me?"
"Mother says I'm good with spells. Someday I'm gonna be a wizard. Maybe even archmage!"
"And what would your mother know of magic, boy?"
"She's a wizard! She's an enchanter at the Arcane University."
"Ah. Another dabbler in the mystic arts. I'm certain she is barely mediocre."
"You shut up! I read the scroll. I get to tell you what to do."
The dremora was silent. Compulsion bound his voice.
"I want to know how to make a magic dress. I need it for her birthday."
The dremora's answer was more silence.
"You have to tell me. It's in the rules."
Freed from the previous compulsion, the dremora answered, "First, you need a soul gem. I happen to have one, and would gladly give it you for so noble a cause."
"Really? Why do I need it."
With a hidden smile, the dremora handed over the dull black gem.
"It is not enough to cast a spell upon an inert object. Magic requires thought, intent, will and emotion. The soul powers the enchantment. The bigger the soul, the more powerful the enchantment."
"So how big is the one in this soul gem?"
"Oh, that one is empty. You'll have to fill it. But it can hold the largest of souls easily. Do you know how to do that?"
"No," the young man said sullenly.
"Let me show you. You cast a spell like this."
The tendrils of the soul trap spell spilled from his fingers and surrounded the boy. The young man's eyes went wide.
"I didn't feel anything," he complained.
"How about now?" the dremora asked, plunging his talons into the youth's rib cage. His heart beat only once before it was pulled from his chest.
Quickly the dremora snatched back the black soul gem, just as the youth died. His soul tried to flee, but was trapped by the spell and drawn into the gem. Only black soul gems can hold the souls of men and elves.
"Your mother obviously never told you never to accept a freely given gift from a summoned dremora," he said to the corpse. "You see, it breaks the conjuration, freeing the summoned from the summoner. Now, let's go find your mother. After all, I have another black soul gem."
Well, that’s what ya get for bein’ a stupid moron. Ya get yer heart torn out and soul trapped by a Dremora when ya tusk up. Like...seriously? How can anyone be so stupid?
It was just another day in his hideout in Midden, reading through more books on Conjuration, this time more focused on Daedra themselves. And Grulmar was left wondering how can anyone be so stupid.
The knowledge was just there, in every book, in every tale, where Conjuration brings nothing but a sudden death or worse to those foolish enough to play with the dark forces of Oblivion. And yet people still did it. Playin’ with fire.
He put the book aside and took another one.
By Kynval Zzedenkathik of Clan Deathbringer
For as long as I can remember—and like all Dremora my memory is keen, especially for grievances—I have faithfully served the officers of my clan, and through them, My Lord Molag Bal. And yet not always: for once, to my shame, I was compelled to serve another.
I was on guard duty at the Endless Stair, an assignment I always enjoy, for I can mock and torment the passing Soul Shriven without being held responsible for them meeting their quotas. Leaping out from behind a claw-pillar while shouting, "There you are, weakling!" just never loses its appeal.
I was lurking behind a Dark Anchor chain link, preparing to terrify an approaching Soul Shriven by suddenly knocking her down and sneering, "No match at all," when I suddenly felt a strange tingling all over, from my horns down to my toes. I grew dizzy as the plane spun around me, nearly fell into a pool of blue plasm, and then suddenly felt myself hurled into an endless black void.
I wasn't alarmed at first, because who hasn't been hurled into an endless black void? It wasn't until I began to materialize at my destination and got a taste of the air that I had my first misgivings. "I smell … weakness," I said to myself—and I couldn't have been more right.
It was then that I first heard the voice of my Conjurer as he said, "Ah, this one looks fairly robust," and the full horror of my situation broke upon me. For I had been summoned to do the bidding … of a mortal.
Oh boy...
I turned, aghast, to see who had dared summon me across the infinities to Nirn, and found myself faced with a tall Elf of Summerset. Oh, I recognized the type: I'd abused more than a few Altmeri Soul Shriven in my time, and with gusto, for they evince a haughty arrogance entirely inappropriate in mere mortals. This one gave me a brief, appraising look, and then turned away, saying, "Follow and fight. There are Worm Cultists that need slaying."
Worm Cultists. Can you imagine the ignominy, fellow kyn? Not only had I been conjured away from my duty by one of the hated Elven mortals, but I must serve him by slaying the minions of Mannimarco, our Dread Lord's lieutenant and viceroy-to-be! I tried to resist, flexing my indomitable will, but the mortal mage's binding spell was too strong—all I could do was say, "No one escapes!" and follow him past a pair of torches into a subterranean maze of tunnels.
"You serve the great Vanus Galerion, Dremora," my Conjurer announced, quite unnecessarily—for what need had I to know the name of my slavemaster? But then I reconsidered, and mentally added his name to that long list each of us keeps: the list labeled, "Vengeance."
I followed, not deigning to crouch when my Conjurer hunched over to sneak, merely glaring at him and thinking, "I will feast upon your heart." In truth, however, it was as well that I had this Elf Vanus to follow, for the tunnels were many and twisting, and though we Dremora are fearless, relentless, and unparalleled among warriors throughout Oblivion, our sense of direction is rather poor. When doing courier duty, I've been known to lose my way right in the middle of the Moonless Walk and wind up back at the Lightless Oubliette where I started.
In time this Vanus began to pause frequently, listening, which only increased my irritation and impatience. Finally he stopped, with a "Shh!" to me—which was completely unfair, as I hadn't said a word. But I realized why he'd stopped when I suddenly heard human speech from the tunnel ahead. Hesitating nary an instant, I drew my greatsword and rushed forward, crying "A challenger is near!" The Elf cursed and followed, but he had only himself to blame—I was following his orders exactly.
The next minute passed in the red fury that all true Dremora feel when they enter battle. But my usual enjoyment of bloody slaughter was tainted by the knowledge that I was killing those my Dread Lord would prefer I didn't, and frankly, that just ruined the whole experience for me. As I lopped off the limbs and heads of the Worm Cultists, I was aware of the energies of the Elf's powerful magics crackling past me, incinerating the more distant enemies, but I was too mortified to enjoy the orgy of destruction. The Elf came striding up as I subdivided the final Worm Anchorite, gloating, "So much for them. Take that, Mannimarco!"
"There could be no other end," I replied sourly, then felt the strange tingling again as the conjuration that had brought me to Nirn began to weaken. As the bonds dissolved I took one menacing step toward the Elf, but then the plane spun around me again, and it was back into the endless black void.
When I came to my senses I was lying in a pool of turquoise slime, looking up at the smiling face of my superior, Kynreeve Xalxorkig. "So, Zzedenkathik," he snarled, "straying from your post when on duty, eh? It's the scathe-rings for you, my lad!"
"But, Kynreeve," I cried, leaping to attention, "I couldn't help it! I was conjured, summoned to Nirn—by a mortal!"
Xalxorkig smiled even wider. "And that'll be an extra shift scathing for telling such a hornless lie. Now march, Zzedenkathik," he shouted, thumping me with his truncheon. "Left, right, left, right, left, right …."
I hate it when Xalxorkig smiles. Kynreeve or not, his name's going on my list.
Ha! Alright, so...even Dremora doesn't like it. And they seem to be one spiteful Daedra too. Though it was somewhat interesting to read about Vanus Galerion using Daedra against Necromancers. Everyone was making a saint out of that mage and here Grulmar found out he was practicing Conjuration too. Suddenly not so tall, eh? When the pedestal is kicked from under yer feet…
He reached for another book, because while the previous one was funny, it didn't hold much interesting information. Beside Dremora hating to serve mortals...That's an interestin' bit.
As a Doctor of Transliminal Mythomysticism, I have long been interested in the soul/body problem, the reformation of the Daedric body post-banishment, and the formation of the body around the essence commonly known as the "vestige." Since our enforced relocation to Coldharbour, courtesy of Our Luminous Lady, I have had considerable opportunity to observe these processes first-hand, and am now in a position to confirm many hypotheses that, upon Mundus, were fated to remain mere conjecture.
It has long been understood that a Daedra, who lacks the Anuic animus known as the “soul,” is not killed when its body is destroyed. A Daedra slain upon Mundus is merely “banished” back to its plane of origin, where its morphotype, or “vestige,” gradually forms a new body, so that eventually the Daedra lives again. (This happens as well when a Daedra is slain in its native Oblivion.)
Wait, what? So the tuskers can't even be killed for good? Oh boy... Note: Never give Daedra yer name when ya kill them. They might add ya to their “Vengeance” list...
Furthermore, we have long known from the Daedra themselves that their bodies are formed from the very stuff of chaos, the "creatia" of Oblivion, a shapeless but energetic material that accretes around a vestige until it conforms to the morphotype's inherent pattern.
I literally have no idea what are ya talkin' about...what creatia? Vestige? Morpho-whatever? Is someone makin' these words up?
Back on Mundus I had naively envisioned this creatia as some sort of misty, amorphous material swirling in a void somewhere. After our arrival in Coldharbour, it was some time before I realized that its ubiquitous pools of blue slime, the substance we've come to call “Azure Plasm,“ was in fact the form that creatia takes upon this plane. By extension, I reasoned that chaotic creatia takes a different but planar-appropriate form in every realm of Oblivion — and this theory was later confirmed for me by the rogue Xivilai known as the Sojourner, who has had direct experience of numerous planes of existence.
Oh, friendly Daedra. Lovely...
In fact, it was the Sojourner who first introduced me to one of those secret grottoes where one can observe the process of plasm-accretion in action. (To find such grottoes, where Daedra are “born,” it is necessary only to observe the slow flow of the Azure Plasm and follow it to its destination—for plasm-accretion causes a slow drain on adjacent pools.) It was fascinating to watch a vestige gradually absorbing Azure Plasm and converting it from the general to specific, so that over time it slowly took on the size and shape of a hulking, reptilian daedroth.
Then there are the poor slaves known as the Soul Shriven. Each is a mortal kidnaped from Mundus at the moment of death, his or her soul stolen by Molag Bal for some unthinkable purpose, and given in exchange the vestige that enables him or her to form a counterfeit body here in Coldharbour. But they are not native to Oblivion, so a Soul Shriven’s body is a sad imitation of the body worn in life, suffering rapid wear and decay until it dies—a death that is no liberation, for its vestige only forms a body once again, over and over, ad infinitum…
Wait...they are dead, their souls stolen...but they are given...this vestige and create a body. A mimic of Daedra? And the vestige only forms a body once again…over and over...
That did seem like fate worse than death to Grulmar. And I wonder...what if someone gets stuck in Oblivion for too long? Will he become “daedrafied”? A Soul Shriven?
Such are the facts. What follows is speculation, born of conversations with the Sojourner during his infrequent and unpredictable visits. His theory is that the Soul Shriven’s bodies are flawed because they have lost the focusing principle of their Anuic souls, so their vestiges are imperfect patterns. I concurred that this was likely, and then proposed the theoretical possibility of a Soul Shriven who, despite having lost his or her soul, possessed some other intrinsic Anuic aspect. This shall-we-say “paragon” Soul Shriven would form an unflawed body in Coldharbour that was a perfect duplicate of the body worn in Mundus. In fact, if this paragon bore a sufficiently high Anuic valence, upon contact with Padomaic creatia its body would form almost instantaneously.
The Sojourner scoffed at my theory, but seemed taken with the idea nonetheless. He went on to speculate that if such a thing were possible, it would probably occur in a situation where the Mundus was in existential jeopardy. In that case the Heart of Nirn would spontaneously generate such "paragon" individuals as a way of defending itself from destruction, in a manner analogous to the way the mortal body fights off infection.
Ah, Sojourner—how I miss your stimulating conversation. Such flights of fantasy! And yet, given the wonders I've seen in my prolonged existence upon this plane, is anything really impossible?
“What are you doing?” sounded a high pitched voice behind him and Grulmar jumped in fright, sending the chair he was sitting on on the floor as he got up and turned around. When he did, he blinked several times. There was a kid standing in the middle of the room, a Nord girl with brown hair, barely ten years old, dressed in College robes that were larger than her small body. The tunic that barely reached Grulmar’s knees was hanging on her like a bedsheet, touching the floor, even though it was cut to be shorter.
“Who in the name of Malacath’s curved tusk are ya? And what are ya doin’ here?” He growled at the girl, but she seemed to completely ignore his tone.
“I’m Agni,” she said, looking around the room like if there were some amazing wonders to be seen. Beside webs and dust...there weren’t. “I came to College with Falion-”
Grulmar narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care-”
“But you asked,” she interrupted his interruption.
“I meant what are ya doin’ down here. But I realized I don’t really care. So beat it, runt,” he growled and turned around, expecting the kid to just run away.
“What’s a runt?” sounded the voice behind him.again and he rubbed his eyes in annoyance.
“Ya are,” he turned around to see the kid standing just few steps away from him. “Just...go. Do whatever ya little imps do when ya are bored. Go find yer owner.” She just watched him and he sighed. He took an apple from the table and threw it down the corridor. “Fetch!”
She didn’t even look at the apple and started giggling. “You’re funny. Are all Orcs funny like you?”
Grulmar moaned and leaned against the table with head in his hands. Why don't these little creatures obey commands? “Nah, I'm special.”
She seemed to think about it and then shrugged. “I suppose. I met the Arch-Mage. He's not funny like you. He's grumpy.”
“Yeah, Broody is like that.”
“Broody? Arch-Mage Broody? I like that,” she smiled after trying how does the word sound rolling of her tongue. “What's a broody?”
“That’s when ya think too much and it makes ya grumpy,” Grulmar chuckled. “But now seriously, runt, get lost. Someone’s surely lookin’ for ya. What would yer mother think? Gettin’ lost like that?”
She shrugged and came closer to the table with books Grulmar was reading. “Probably nothing. She’s dead.” The way she said it…
Grulmar grimaced. “Yeah, welcome to the club.”
She looked up, her big puppy eyes staring at him, like if he just grew another head and then she frowned the way only small girls can. “You haven’t told me your name. That’s rude. I’ve told you mine.”
“Oh, my deepest apologies, yer Royal Highness,” Grulmar sneered. “This humble servant goes by the name of Grulmar. Now, could the Princess leave so that I may continue with my research? Please.”
She put her chin forward and put up the chair, climbing up so that she could sit. “You may continue,” she proclaimed with faked noble tone. “But I will supervise.”
Grulmar's eyebrows shot upwards. “Ya don't know what's a runt or broody but ya know what supervise means?” I have a feelin' this kid is makin' fun of me. Whaaaat? What in the Oblivion is goin' on here?
She shrugged. “Just because I'm ten doesn't mean I'm stupid. I lived with Falion in Morthal, I catch all kinds of words here and there. And he says supervise a lot.”
“I don't like kids,” Grulmar murmured.
“I don't like grown-ups,” she replied with smirk on her face. “What are you reading?” She looked at the opened book and turned the pages back to look at the title. “A Tragedy in Black. That one is stupid. Just a tale people like to tell to scare little children.”
“I feel like someone's playin' a joke on me,” Grulmar murmured. “Aren't ya supposed to be playin' with dolls somewhere, play with mud, dig some bones from the ground?” He then took a step back, with small signs of fear clawing their way up to his face. “Ya aren't a vampire, are ya?”
She looked at him and flashed her perfectly normal teeth at him. “I'm glad you ask, yes I am. I'm going to drink all your blood tonight.” She shook her head and laughed, taking another book on Grulmar's table.
“Little witch,” he shook his head in disbelief. Tuskin' kid's makin' fun out of ya...And more importantly, she's kickin' arse at it. The world's goin' to end soon…
“Ah,” she proclaimed. “I Was Summoned by a Mortal. That one is actually quite funny. And interesting. If we can believe it then Vanus Galerion clearly wasn't afraid to use Daedra against Daedra and the Worm Cult.”
Grulmar snorted. “Ya sound like if ya really understood it. I bet ya have no real idea what Conjuration is.”
She looked at him and her eyes were shooting lightnings at Grulmar, burning through his skull, making him flinch under that stare. “Try me.”
“Alright. Familiar spell.”
“What about it?” she sneered. “It's the easiest spell of the school. While the wolf is called Familiar by many mages - ignorants, that's what Falion says - it is actually a lesser Daedroth from Hunting Grounds, which is Hircine's plane of Oblivion. It is not a spirit of dead wolf or any such nonsense. Satisfied?”
For Hircine's rotten loincloth...She really knows the answer. And ya don't. Lovely. Now ya are bein' put back into yer place by ten years old runt who knows more about Conjuration than ya. Ten years old! Though deeply shocked he remained calm on the outside, nodding in confirmation. “Very good. So ya know at least little somethin'”
“Yes,” she stick her tongue out at him and then jumped off the chair. “I should probably go, Falion is most likely looking for me. Can I come here later?”
“No!” he growled. “And don't tell anyone ya were here or that ya see me.”
“I won't,” she smiled. “If I can come later again.”
“Ya little witch,” Grulmar murmured and she stuck her tongue at him.
Sources used in this Lesson: A Tragedy in Black, I Was Summoned by a Mortal, Chaotic Creatia: Azure Plasm
Comments
also wondered what happens when a mortal goes to Oblivion for their
afterlife, do they stay as a ghost or do they gain a Vestige?
And Agni is great, haha.
also wondered what happens when a mortal goes to Oblivion for their
afterlife, do they stay as a ghost or do they gain a Vestige?
And Agni is great, haha.
A... more
In regards to familiars, I personally thought they were similar to bound weapons and armors, being daedric spirits trapped in form. I also thought familiars weren't restricted to wolves.
In regards to familiars, I personally thought they were similar to bound weapons and armors, being daedric spirits trapped in form. I also thought familiars weren't restricted to wolves.