One of the more intriguing legends found on the island of Solstheim is the story of a mythical figure whose name is long forgotten, but whom time remembers as "the Traitor."
Certain that this myth is rooted in history I set out to learn what I could and perhaps piece together a presumptive account of the events that gave rise to the legend.
The tale is remembered best by the shamans of the Skaal, that unique tribe of Nords whose culture evolved along an entirely divergent path than that of their brethren in Skyrim.
I spoke at length to the shaman of Skaal Village, a wise and hospitable man named Breigr Winter-Moon. He described an age long ago when dragons ruled over the whole world and were worshipped as gods by men. Presiding over this cult of dragon-worshippers were the Dragon Priests, powerful mages who could speak the dragon language and call upon the power of the thu'um, or Voice.
According to the legend, one such Dragon Priest was seduced by a dark spirit named Herma-Mora, an unmistakable analogue for the Daedric prince Hermaeus Mora. Lured by promises of power, this treacherous priest secretly plotted against his dragon master.
The Traitor's plot was discovered by one of his contemporaries, another Dragon Priest whom legend named The Guardian. The two fought a mighty battle that lasted for days, each hurling terrible arcane energies and thu'um shouts at the other.
So great and terrible were the forces unleashed in this contest that Solstheim was torn apart from the mainland of Skyrim. Here, the myth clearly descends into the realm of pure fantasy.
The Guardian, whom the legend presents as a paragon of loyalty and nobility, finally defeats the despicable Traitor, who seems to represent all that is corrupt and evil in men. Their epic duel is clearly representative of a greater struggle between good and evil. Perhaps it is this timeless quality that has kept the tale alive for so long.
Unlike many similar myths, the tale of the Guardian and the Traitor does not feature a suitably heroic ending. Herma-Mora snatches the Traitor away just as the Guardian is about to strike the killing blow.
The dragons appoint the Guardian ruler of Solstheim, but not before he is compelled to swear an oath of vigilance to watch for the Traitor's return. His reign is, by all accounts, a time of peace and prosperity for the people of the island, and he is remembered as a wise and just leader.
No further mention is made of the Traitor, but neither is he thought to be dead. The legend ends on a cautionary note that the people of Solstheim, the heirs of the Guardian, must remain wary, lest the dark influence of Herma-Mora, or even the Traitor himself, return someday.
Although no physical clues exist now on Solstheim to suggest the presence of the dragon cult, is it hardly difficult to believe that it might once have flourished here. Perhaps some hidden tomb still waits to be discovered that will tell the truth of the tale.
There are other tantalizing clues, though perhaps these connections strain the bonds of credibility. For example, is it possible that the Skaal deity, the All-Maker, is some distant echo of mighty Alduin, the World-Eater of the ancient Nord pantheon?
Perhaps not, but one thing is certain: Solstheim's history is riddled with unanswered questions. Perhaps future generations will pull aside the veils of mystery and reveal the truth about the origins of the Skaal and the identities of the Guardian and the Traitor.
At first, he wasn't capable of understanding his situation. He thought that it would blow over, that everything would be fine just like it was before. When they chased him out, they were throwing rocks at him and he ran, trying to get away from their anger, but now, as he was sitting on a rock above a pool of water, looking at his swollen face, he was wondering if it wasn't a completely definitive decision.
His face was slowly healing, the skin returning back to its normal size and he shook his head. He knew pain, from all the beatings of his chieftain or from the sparring sessions with Gularzob, but when they dragged him out of the longhouse and the bone needles began pumping paint under his skin… He was crying, he was begging, but they didn't pay any heed. It didn't matter what Gularzob was telling them, they did it anyway. Black paint under his green skin. Just below the surface. The mark of an exile. When they were done, they chased him away, into the forest and he ran, half blind from pain.
He found a spot near Largashbur, where the rocks and trees created a natural shelter and he managed to improve it with several broken twigs, giving himself more protection from the elements. And all the while he believed that this was just temporary, that he would be forgiven. His father - no, chieftain, remember that - would eventually let him back in and everything would be as it was before. It didn't matter how bad was it, it was everything he knew. What else was there?
He tried to hunt rabbits, but it wasn't so easy when he didn't have any of the proper tools. He had only rocks and so he was throwing rocks at them. And one time he got lucky, hitting a rabbit directly on its head. The animal’s legs just stopped and the rabbit dropped to the ground, unmoving. When he came to the animal, his stomach was rumbling so loud that they had to have heard it back at Largashbur. He kneeled beside the small animal, his small hand reaching towards it, touching the soft fur and all of a sudden tears began streaming down his cheeks. So soft...He stroked the fur, he watched the small stream of blood from the rabbit's head and...he took the rabbit in his arms and brought him back to his shelter.
It wasn't dead, it was only unconscious and he cleaned the wound with a little bit of water. It seemed the skull wasn't cracked and he sighed in relief. Were you abandoned too, little rabbit? he thought, stroking its fur. It suddenly opened its eyes, looking straight into his and before he could react, the rabbit darted away. He felt more tears well in his eyes. I hope you will find your home and family, little rabbit. That they will take you back…
Because his family wouldn't take him back. He knew that, especially after he tried to come back to Largashbur after few days. They were shooting arrows at him. Yelling at him. That's how he came to the realization that he wouldn’t even be allowed to come back. He didn't matter to them anymore.
The face in the pool looked so alien to him. The skin was red around the black markings, it still hurt, but it was slowly getting better. But from now on, he would have to live with those markings for the rest of his life.
He heard footsteps behind him and quickly turned around. He saw another Orc in furs slowly walking towards him and he sighed, again sitting back on the rock. “They will not take me back. Right, Zob?”
The older Orc took a seat next to him and handed him small package - a little bit of food wrapped in furs. He then cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Gru. I tried to explain to them, that what they saw wasn't the truth. But they wouldn’t listen.”
Grulmar's eyes began watering and he sniffed. “What I'm supposed to do, Zob? I...I'm not even a proper Orc. Where should I go? I can't do it. Please, I just can't do it. I don't know what to do-”
The older Orc's arm went around his shoulder and he shook him. “Come on, little brother. Listen to me. This is your chance to walk away from this. You weren't born for this life, you hear me? Yes, you are different. You are clever and caring, not like me, like the rest of us,” Gularzob chuckled. “There's nothing in Largashbur for you. In a few winters you would have had to go through Trials and you saw what happened to me when I went through them. Be glad you don't have to.”
“I know, Zob,” Grulmar murmured. “I know. But...it's everything I know. I was never as good as you, I'm just a runt that doesn't know anything. Where am I supposed to go?”
Gularzob sighed and looked to the east. “Go to Riften, little brother. It's a Nord stronghold, with many longhouses. I've heard the chieftain of Riften is a female, that means she can't say a no to an adorable runt like you, right? I'm sure you'll find your place there, little brother.”
Grulmar looked at his older brother, remembering how Gularzob treated him when they were little and how much he had changed. It was him who always defended him from Yamarz, who was helping him and taking care of him no matter what. “You will be a great chieftain, Zob,” he smiled. “And maybe you will allow runts to throw snowballs at each other during winter. That was always fun.”
“Yes, I remember,” Zob chuckled. “Until you accidentaly threw a snowball through the longhouse's window.”
“And you took the blame for that.”
“Yes, I did.”
Grulmar sighed, looking into the water, just enjoying the presence of his brother. Deep down, even though he lacked the years to completely understand, he knew this was the last time he was seeing him. He knew him for twelve years and now he was seeing him for the last time. “I'll miss you, Zob.”
His brother looked at him and smiled. “Here in his shrine.”
What?
His brother's face became a mask of gold, with narrow eyes and tentacles instead of a beard. “That they have forgotten.”
It didn't happen like this!
“Here do we toil.”
Enough!
“That we might remember.”
Grulmar jumped on his feet and yelled: “I say enough!”
The birch forest of southern Rift disappeared and suddenly there rose a garden of slender trees, and wound about the trunks were vines festooned with lily like flowers. A multitude of spheres moved, deep in the sky, as distant and pale as the moons. There was the sound of chirping birds, but it was a doleful sound, as if something with a vague memory of having been a bird was trying to reproduce sounds it no longer felt.
But the sky was different than he remembered it. It was a sickly green, with clouds of poisonous gas floating there in the shapes of masses of tentacles, swirling and thrashing around. There was that golden mask up in the sky, a mockery shining down like sun rays, the will clashing against Grulmar's skin, but he only shrugged it off.
“I see ya improved yer game, tuskers!” he shouted, expecting the Green-Eyed Bitch or Tall Man to appear out of nowhere, but as he was looking around, he saw nothing.
Run! Run from Solstheim! something cried deep down in his mind, a tiny voice trying to penetrate an ebony wall, trying to slip between the cracks. “Seriously? That's all?” he asked and shook his head. “What the tusk is goin' on in here?”
“What happened to that girl? The one you were chased out because?” a woman's voice sounded and Grulmar frowned. A completely different voice. It was slightly deeper, every word being pronounced slowly as if the woman was considering every syllable, not sure how it would roll of her tongue. “They killed her. In front of your eyes. And you were chased away. Why?”
He was spinning, his eyes looking over the garden, trying to find the source of the voice, but he suddenly couldn't get the image out of his mind. A young Orc female decapitated, murdered in cold blood, her head slowly rolling on the ground towards him. Murdered, but for them it was justice, an answer for her crimes. Why didn't they kill me too? The head stopped just a step away from him, dead eyes looking into his.
“Why are you still alive when I'm not?” the head spoke and Grulmar released a terrified yell.
“Shit!” The head disappeared and he looked at the sky. “Why do ya tuskin' care? What do ya want this time, ya son of a bitch?!”
“They're not here,” the voice sounded behind him and he turned around to see the back of a figure hidden under dark green cloak. The end of the cloak was torn to pieces and each strip of fabric was moving as if it was alive. “They don't have any power here,” the woman continued. “Especially that echo of the Liar-King of Alinor.”
“I don't understand shit of what ya are talkin' about, lady,” Grulmar growled. Somethin' is different. There's no longer that pressure on my chest when I'm here, no sound echoin' in my ears. It's almost like if the place was...empty.
“But you will. Eventually,” the woman said, still with her back to him. “The Allegiance Guide is trying to use you as he is using the others, but you pushed him out.”
Grulmar frowned. “Did I?” he wondered out loud. There was something about the woman he couldn't really place. This was the Garden after all, and every time he was in it something weird and crazy happened. Yet, when he was looking at the stranger, he didn't feel threatened, he didn't feel as if something terrible was about to happen. He just felt like he was being watched, measured. “And who is this Allegiance Guide?” he asked and an image of the golden mask flashed in front of his eyes. “The Mask. He's the Allegiance Guide? What does he want?”
The woman chuckled, her shoulders slightly shaking. “He wants to be free, but you know something about that if I am not mistaken. One man's prison can be other's freedom. No?”
“Who the tusk are you?” he growled, grabbing the woman by the shoulder and turning her around to face him.
He looked into the face of a blind woman, her eyes covered by a blindfold under the cape. She extended her upper pair of arms in welcoming gesture while her lower pair of arms was holding a big green eye against her chest. A green eye with two pupils. “You may call me Oghma.”
Grulmar screamed at the sight.
And he kept on screaming even when he opened his eyes. He shook his head when he realized he was standing under the dark sky of Solstheim, the silhouettes of mushrooms visible against the auroras. He was standing next to a dark stone, a hammer and chisel in his hands and around him were other people, working on the stone doing...something.
“Here in his shrine,” said a voice he knew and he saw the steward from Tel Mithryn, Varona, chiseling the stone to his left.
“What the tusk…?” he gasped. He was fully clothed even though he remembered he went to bed only in his undergarments. And now he was standing a considerable distance from Tel Mithryn, with a bunch of other people and he shook his head. I really hope that this isn't one of those things when ya get really drunk and don't remember shit, even if someone raped yer arse with a staff of calm…
He looked at the people, who were mostly Dunmer with a few Nords mixed in. Their eyes were unmoving, just staring ahead, their hands working manually as if they were masons their entire lives. And they all murmured the same thing, repeating it like a mantra.
“Here do we toil,” murmured Talvas next to him and Grulmar jumped in fright. Ya have seen all kinds of weird shit, Grulmar, but this is really really creepy…
“You there! Orc!” someone raised his voice and Grulmar turned to see the crazy Telvanni wizard standing behind a column of rock. “You don't seem to be in quite the same state as the others here. Very interesting."
“Interesting?” Grulmar frowned. “What the tusk is going on here? Why is everyone out here? Why am I here?”
The Telvanni shrugged. “Why? Well, as you can see, you are here to build…something.”
“Build something? Is that your doin'?”
Neloth raised his eyebrows. “I would love to take credit, but no. It happens every night, though not everyone is affected. And yet they don't seem to have much to say about it. I'm very interested to find out what happens when they finish.”
Grulmar looked at all the people. “Have you tried to stop them?”
“Certainly not! Doing so would interfere with whatever is going on, and I would be unable to see how this all turns out,” the Telvanni shook his head in disbelief. “Alright, I tried it once. They became histerical and nearly tore my robe. The outrage!”
Grulmar just stared at him. “Yeah, the outrage. Good to know ya care about yer servants so much. Nothin' warms yer heart like a carin' wizard,” he murmured.
“What's that?”
“Nothin',” Grulmar said out loud. “Why aren't ya affected?”
"I have gone to some pains to ensure that I am immune to many forms of control. I cannot say for certain which is currently protecting me, but it bears further investigation at some point."
“Lovely,” the Orc murmured again and looked at the stone. He would swear there was something calling to him from that stone and he took a step closer. He realized that he didn't make that step out of his own volition, just as the second and third.
“That seems inadvisable…” Neloth said from great distance when Grulmar extended his hand and touched the stone. “Oh well,” was the last thing Grulmar heard before he was overwhelmed by the image of golden mask.
“By night we reclaim what by day was stolen…”
Grulmar forced himself to take a step back from the stone and shook his head. “Somethin' is controllin' them,” he murmured.
“Ah, so you appear to be able to resist the effect by exerting your will,” the Telvanni wizard murmured with interest in his voice. “Fascinating! I would not advise touching the stone again. The effects of repeated contact could be... Unless of course you'd like to contribute to my investigation. It would be very enlightening to observe you. Or maybe you would agree to a dissection of your brain? That would help me a lot too.”
“Tusk no!” the Orc growled. “I'll fix yer tower but there's no way in Oblivion I'm goin' to let ya tinker with a knife in my brain!”
“Shame,” Neloth shrugged.
Grulmar just shook his head and looked at the people again. Is this happenin' all over the island? Not a good sign, matey. Whatever was that thin' in your head was, it was ancient. Ya get yerself in the middle of some serious shit again, matey. Remember yer mantra, alright? When ya see a shit flyin' yer way...duck. Though he couldn't help but wonder how helpful was the ducking going to be in this case.
But ya can't deny one obvious thin', matey. The Tall Man and Green-Eyed Bitch aren't around anymore. Considering there was something completely different in his head and in the Garden now was that really a good thing?
Comments
I loved this chapter, Karver. The flashback and the appearance of old Zob and then her and then how you approached the shrine work.
Miraak's planning his return, and I'm sure a certain Ser Shiny is not far behind.
Miraak's planning his return, and I'm sure a certain Ser Shiny is not far behind.