The Chorus of Fire, Part 2 - Knights

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    Part 2

    24th of Frostfall, 4E 204, Hammerfell, Southern Bangkorai

     

    The smoke could be seen from leagues away and the setting sun caught the three knights walking towards the pillar of smoke in silence, lost in their own grim thoughts.

     

    Three knights. Three Orsimer. One was a tall female in leather armor with a blue and white cloak wrapped around her body. Second was a behemoth of an Orsimer, carrying big mace made of bone and orichalcum, his skin of the colour of rotten olives and his size indicating he wasn’t a pure-blooded Orsimer.

     

    And lastly a true knight, the Third of Vosh Rakh, protected by golden armor of moonstone and orichalcum, a shield of wood and moonstone resting on his left arm, a curved sword on his hip, ready in its scabbard.

     

    He kept squinting his silver eyes against the setting sun, constantly playing with his mighty beard of grey and blonde. The Third didn’t like the look of that smoke, but he could only guess at what exactly was on fire, since the smoke was rising from behind the hill ahead of them. They were traveling on a rocky road with mostly barren land, only rocks and dirt, to keep them company. Trees were scarce here, more common were low bushes of dry twigs covered with thorns.

     

    It had been long six months on the road for all three, but the High Priestess was taking it the worst of all of them. When they had left Orsinium she was strong in faith, but since Solstheim…her faith had begun wavering. They had managed to locate the promised prophet who would lead their race into a golden age, but what they had really found was… more than disappointing.

     

    The Orsimer they had been looking for for so long had laughed into their faces, making sure to tell them his opinion on how stupid they were to believe such a thing and if that wasn’t enough he had even poisoned them, leaving them to the whims of the insane Telvanni Magister.

     

    So was it any wonder that their faith suddenly didn’t seem as strong as before? The promised one was nothing more than a selfish Orsimer dabbling in magicks, with no interest in the divine promise of the Warrior-God. He would spit into the Warrior’s face if he could, that was clear to the Third.

     

    He had ran away from them, away from his destiny.

     

    Trinimac was testing them, the Third believed. He wanted to believe that. But testing them for what? Their resilience? They had traveled from Orsinium across Skyrim and to Solstheim and then back, following the running prophet to Dragonstar and then eventually to the edge of the Alik’r, to an abandoned excavation site where something terrible had happened. And from what the nomads said the prophet had been the only one to walk away unharmed from there.

     

    Or was Trinimac testing their faith? If so, it was certainly a cruel test, but just as that thought sprung up in Third’s mind he shook his head, quickly casting it away. Trinimac wasn’t cruel, he was just and true, always. There was a lesson in all this.

     

    A promise of a new age, but in the form of an unwilling Orsimer. It was up to the knights to persuade the prophet to reconsider. To believe. Because what other option did they have? The High Priestess made it sound as if they could just grab him and drag him to Orsinium against his will, but in Third’s opinion that was over the line. Hypocritical even. If their faith had been preaching about freedom of Orsimer, how could they maintain it by kidnapping one Orsimer against his will?

     

    But that was something to be considered once they caught up with him.

     

    And so the knights followed. North-east, towards Bangkorai. It almost seemed as if the prophet was running in circles, but Third believed there had to be a reason for that, why he was headed in this direction. Towards Azra’s Crossing. Why there?

     

    The Third’s thoughts turned sour once more as he gazed on the smoke in the distance. It could be a forest on fire, but it could also be something else. He didn’t dare hope, though…

     

    "What is the town ahead of us called again?" Atuul gra-Garmalah pulled him out of his thoughts and he glanced at her, her face hidden under her hood, but he could still picture the impatient grimace on her face.

     

    "Azra’s Crossing, High Priestess," he replied, slightly bowing his head.

     

    "It sounds vaguely familiar," she murmured and took a deep breath. She was wasting her breath talking while climbing uphill, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. If she wanted to talk, he would talk, out of respect at least.

     

    "It should. Azra the Nightwielder?"

     

    "The shadowmage? Ah, now I remember. The crater. The foolish mage who blew himself up."

     

    The Third nodded, forcing himself not to frown. Sometimes the High Priestess was too blunt, too direct, for her own good. Everything was black and white for her. Saying that one of the most powerful mages in Tamriel’s history was foolish seemed a one sided story to him, too coloured by her own subjective beliefs.

     

    Yes, shadowmages were dangerous, maybe even more than the more common necromancers or conjurers, but so was a weapon in the hands of untrained. Magic was just like any weapon or any tool, it all depended on how it was used. And yes, Third saw the other side of the argument too. Swords or tools couldn’t create craters in the earth.

     

    He realised he hadn’t answered and he found the High Priestess staring at him. He lowered his head, gazing at his own feet. "Apologies, High Priestess. Got lost in my thoughts. Yes, the one and the same Azra Nightwielder. The town was founded at the edge of the crater shortly after the Nightwielder’s demise, but there are records indicating that there used to be a town long before that, called Azura’s Crossing. Of course, the violent nature of these borders between Hammerfell, Skyrim and High Rock never allowed the town to grow and since Azra’s demise it has been leveled and built from the ground over and over."

     

    "Like Orsinium," Yaman thundered behind the Third, and he turned around, looking at the giant Orsimer, his mace resting on one of his shoulders and on the second was his thick braid of brown hair.

     

    The Third could hear the High Priestess snort in mockery of Yaman’s words. "Comparing a tiny village of humans to the glorious idea of Orsinium. I applaud your imaginative genius, Ogre."

     

    Yaman haven’t answered to that, just kept walking, but the Third felt his own jaws clenching. Too blunt for her own good indeed, he thought and he was about to open his mouth, to tell her that the observation was actually on point, that the Orsimer and humans weren’t that different from each other, but he noticed Yaman slightly shaking his head. The Third narrowed his lips into a thin line and nodded. As you wish, friend.

     

    They were nearly at the top of the hill when the light rapidly waned with darkness creeping right behind it, but the sky still seemed to be lit by something in the north. And when they reached the top of the hill they finally saw what it was.

     

    It was the town. Azra’s Crossing. It was on fire, blazing into the dusk. The Third watched with narrowed eyes because there was something wrong in that sight. There were no people trying to put out the fires. No shouts and no screams.

     

    "Is this where the trail eads?" he asked out loud.

     

    The clenched jaws of the High Priestess were his answer.

    Yaman watched the town in flames with narrowed eyes as his feet carried him over to the fire and the heat, almost like a moth drawn to flames. He missed the heat of the Everember Forge and part of him felt disgusted for rushing towards the fire, just to feel the familiar heat on his skin. Disgusted because those houses used to be someone’s homes…

     

    "Bandits maybe?" the High Priestess offered a possible solution, but Yaman didn’t think so. He might look stupid, but from his point of view he most likely wasn’t. He just wasn’t inclined to waste words, feeling no need to explain himself to the High Priestess or anyone else. No, he didn’t need to speak, he counted on the Third in that regard.

     

    "I don’t think so, High Priestess," the Third spoke. "They wouldn’t set the whole town on fire. For bandits it is better to suck their victim’s resources dry first, but look at the fields around the town. Just before harvest. It doesn’t look like bandits."

     

    Yaman was in agreement with the Third on that, pondering the question in silence as they closed on the town, the heat intensifying. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder. If the prophet had passed through this place… was he among the victims? Or worse, what if he wasn’t a victim at all? Yaman wouldn’t be surprised if the prophet came to be the sole survivor of whatever happened here, it would certainly correspond with what happened at that excavation site. 

     

    Wouldn’t that be a curious coincidence? He didn’t want to say that out loud, somewhat hoping his companions were thinking the same thing. Because if the prophet was responsible for this… inferno, what did that say about their future spiritual leader?

     

    But Yaman was still willing to give him the benefit of doubt. The Orsimer they were looking for didn’t strike him as a person who revelled in destruction, who enjoyed the feeling of hot blood on his face. He had made it clear what he thought about their quest, about the destiny waiting for him. He had run. Run, but he hadn’t killed them even when he had the chance.

     

    And that spoke volumes about him in Yaman’s book as he neared the first burning buildings, his feet slipping in the grit that was the road. The first thing he noticed was the structure of the buildings. Most of them had wooden walls along with wooden roofs, quite uncharacteristic to Yokudan architecture, but ultimately, Azra’s Crossing was located close to the mountains and temperatures could drop much lower than in the west. It was no surprise then that the whole town caught fire. Most of those buildings had already collapsed into a pile of burning rubble. The only houses left standing were the ones made of stone, but even those were collapsing in front of his eyes.

     

    The heat was almost unbearable – it would have been if Yaman wasn’t used to it from his constant pounding of hot metal in the Everember Forge – and as they came close they began noticing dead bodies among the houses. Wounded and scorched. Unmoving.

     

    "Yaman," the Third spoke first with a rasping voice. "Is it safe to look for survivors?"

     

    "Survivors?" the High Priestess sneered with surprise in her voice. "We should look for the prophet, not for survivors. Who cares about these humans?"

     

    Yaman ignored her remark and examined the flames and the smoke rising from them. The wind was blowing from the east and he noticed how it carried the smoke through the streets. "No," he answered the Third’s question. "The smoke. And the heat. Nothing can survive that."

     

    He turned his eyes to the bodies on the ground and from where he was standing he could see five of them, but the heat didn’t allow him to go closer and inspect them. Three men, all Redguards, two women, one of them a Breton, or perhaps an Imperial. He could see all kinds of tools on the ground around them too. Woodcutting axe, scythes, kitchen knives and a chain. The weapons of peasants.

     

    Who were they fighting? Were they fighting the Orsimer we’re after?

     

    "See? Even the oaf understands it’s pointless," the High Priestess snorted, and Yaman glanced at the Third, seeing his cup of patience slowly overflowing, but he just clenched his jaws. He was bound to show the High Priestess proper respect, more so because she was Trinimac’s favourite. Both Yaman and the Third knew she had visions, sent to her by Warrior-God himself, and ultimately, it was her in charge of their little group. They were just her protectors.

     

    "But we still need to look for him," she continued and waved her hand, a golden light shimmering around her form. "Wait here," she said, and with those words she stepped into the smoke and heat. Neither of them were fast enough to stop her. The Third tried to reach for her, but the heat repelled him and in matter of seconds she was gone from their sight.

     

    Yaman snorted. It didn’t seem like she really needed their protection, somehow completely oblivious to the heat. He turned around, deciding to circle the town while the High Priestess searched through the inferno. There was nothing else they could do. The heat wouldn’t let them search the town, not without the protective magicks the High Priestess wielded, and so in Yaman’s mind they could at least search the surroundings. Maybe there would be survivors there.

     

    The Third grunted in acknowledgement and Yaman could hear him follow, most likely deciding it wouldn’t be wise to split up. The light was deceiving because the sun had already set, the sky was dark and the only light came from the flames of the burning town, casting dark shadows over the landscape outside Azra’s Crossing.

     

    "Do you think he did this?" the Third suddenly asked and Yaman glanced in his direction. The older Orsimer’s fingers of his right hand were twitching, as if he wanted to rub his beard in thought but didn’t dare to move the hand away from the still sheathed sword. "I know it has crossed my mind, my friend, and I will pray for Trinimac’s for forgiveness for these thoughts, but this is what I do. I doubt. I am Trinimac’s Doubt. What if the High Priestess was wrong? What if we have the wrong Orsimer?" The Third stared into the fire, the flames‘ reflection dancing in his eyes as he chewed the inside of his cheek. "How could our people follow someone capable of this destruction?"

     

    "Some would welcome it," Yaman rumbled, giving the Third a hard stare and the older Orsimer understood. There were those who believed that they should forge their place in the world through sword and fire, to bring war on the Redguards and Bretons, to let them taste their own medicine. Neither Yaman nor the Third shared that sentiment, but there were those who did. The High Priestess Atuul for example, and then also the Second of Vosh Rakh – Trinimac’s Wrath. Orsinium might seem united on the outside, but inside? Not so much.

     

    They stumbled on two corpses a short distance away from the town, and Yaman crouched next to them, extending his arm to turn them around. The bodies were much smaller than any puny Breton he had ever seen and – he suddenly stopped and withdrew his hand. Too small… He looked at their long dark hair covered with soot, at the pool of dried blood around them, at the kitchen knives in their hands. At the straw doll lying close to them. Too small… He looked up, locking his gaze with the Third and he could see the older Orsimer gritting his teeth.

     

    Too small. Too young. There were things that were beyond redemption, that made even their god flinch. So said the priests, but there was a question clawing its way out of Yaman’s skull. If this was done by the promised prophet… What does that tell us about our god? A dangerous question, one more suited for Trinimac’s Doubt, because wasn’t it his purpose, to make sure they didn’t stray away from the righteous path? To make sure they didn’t repeat the mistakes of the past?

     

    To make sure they didn’t cross the line?

     

    Yaman spared the two bodies one last look, burning the image into his mind so that he would never forget it, so that he could always go back to it to remind himself the meaning of the word monster. He was never one to voice his opinion in the Triune’s Hall, but the next time a question of the direction Orsinium should take comes up, he knew that he would recall this image and describe it to the last detail. To remind everyone they were supposed to be better.

     

    He stood up with a loud growl and began walking again. The Third grabbed him by his arm suddenly, and he bared his tusks at him. There was concern in the Vosh Rakh’s face, even more coloured by the dancing flames, deepening the shadows under his eyes. "Yaman. The wounds-"

     

    "I don’t want to talk about it," he shook off the hand off his arm with a rumble and walked away from the scene. After a moment the Third followed again.

     

    They circled the town, keeping their eyes on the ground, looking for tracks, but all they found were more bodies, with no tracks leading too far away from Azra’s Crossing. It seemed as if they tried to run, but none managed that. How was that possible? One man – or an Orc – couldn’t be everywhere at once. And yet there were no other tracks but those who tried to escape. He could see footprints of struggle, their weapons bloodied, but there was nothing around indicating they hurt something.

     

    He paused for a moment, looking at another pair of bodies in front of him. Two Redguards, one dead of a crushed skull, the other having choked on his own blood, a knife in his throat. There was a smith’s hammer lying close to the two bodies, bloodied with bits of bone and brain still on it.

     

    The wounds

     

    The Third’s surprised yelp pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked to his right, seeing the Vosh Rakh on his back and… slipping.

     

    Yaman dropped the mace and jumped forward, landing on his belly, and grabbed the Third by the collar of his armor. The older Orsimer was slipping down a steep slope of dirt and grit, trying to stop his descend with his feet and right hand, the shield on his left burying into the dirt. Yaman rumbled and pulled, the muscles of his right arm bulging as he struggled with the weight of the Third and his armor.

     

    But he managed to stop the descent and he slowly pulled him back up. They both laid there, breathing heavily, and Yaman looked ahead, past the slope. In the night, all he could see was a large pool of darkness, the fires barely illuminating the slope and he came to realization the massive pool of darkness was in reality the crater the Third had mentioned before.

     

    "Trinimac bless you, my friend," the Third sighed. "It’s those fucking old eyes, Trinimac forgive me my cursing. They’re not what they used to be. Few years back I would have seen the damn slope from leagues away, but now…" He shook his head, sounding awfully as if he was apologizing for being old.

     

    Yaman just snorted, patted him on his shoulder and rose to his feet, staring down the slope. He could hear the grit still rolling down the to the bottom of the crater, but his ears also picked up on something else, even though it was difficult to say with the fires of the town constantly cracking and drowning everything else.

     

    It sounded like… Quickened breathing. Suppressed sobs.

     

    "Vosh Rakh," he got the Third’s attention. "Down there," he said quietly, motioning with his head down the slope a little bit to their right, closer to the town. The Third rose to his feet and stared down there, squinting against the light of the flames.

     

    "I don’t see anything," he whispered.

     

    "Hmph," the bigger Orsimer rumbled. "But there is something down there." Yaman took off his sack and opened it, pulling out a tightly wrapped strip of leather housing four torches. He pulled one out and began lighting it up. It must have looked ridiculous considering there was a huge fire right next to them, but he didn’t want to risk going too close to it. When he finally lit the torch he looked at the Third, who’d already pulled out his golden sword, and they both nodded.

     

    Yaman threw the torch down the slope, towards the sound he heard earlier and they watched it fly through the air, falling down. It landed on some kind of stone ledge and Yaman could see a small figure scurry away from the light, hiding behind a dry tree protruding from the slope. There was a glint of two golden eyes and dirty and torn clothes, but it hid too fast for Yaman to recognize more. But he already had an idea what it was.

     

    The Third sighed. "Was that-?"

     

    "Yes," Yaman rumbled just as he began pulling a rope out of his sack, looking for a place to tie it around. He found rather large boulder and he frowned at it, trying to lift it up, but it wouldn’t move. He leaned against it and pushed and it didn’t move either. He grunted, satisfied and began tying the rope around it, then eventually around his waist.

     

    "Are you sure you don’t want me go down there?" the Third asked with raised eyebrows and it had a certain logic considering he was smaller than Yaman. But he had his own reasons for doing this.

     

    He knocked on the Vosh Rakh’s armor and the Third tilted his head. "I could take the armor off," he said.

     

    Yaman rolled his eyes. "Trinimac take pity on us," he murmured and the Third chuckled at that. Yaman couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the older Orsimer without that armor of his and if he took it off the stench could kill them sooner than the smoke. Though honestly, they all needed a bath.

     

    The big Orsimer took one last look at the rock and tugged at the rope, to make sure the boulder wouldn’t budge.

     

    "Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it stays where it is," the Third assured him and Yaman shrugged, turning his back to the slope and began descending.

     

    The grit and rocks were slipping under his feet and he had to lean more into the rope, which wasn’t a completely pleasant feeling considering down under his back was nothing but blackness of the crater and Yaman wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what laid at the bottom. The ledge with the short was several steps to his left, and at least four to five steps bellow the edge of the slope and he began moving there.

     

    As he got closer to the light it became easier, since he could see what was under his feet and his boots were no longer getting stuck in roots, which allowed him to reach the ledge quite quickly. He could hear the quickened breaths and sobs even more clearly now, and they were getting more frantic as he approached.

     

    Something about that sound gripped Yaman’s heart, the raw fear and despair of it filling him and he paused for a moment, listening to it. His breathing quickened and he realised he had to force down his own sob, his eyes watering as the image of the two small bodies kept resurfacing in his mind. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. Not now. He began moving towards the ledge again, now hanging on the rope right next to it.

     

    He could see a pair of golden eyes staring at him from behind the dry tree, wide as plates, with black hair, covered in soot and dust, hanging over them in a tangled mess. He noticed the hem of a simple white and brown dress and realised he was looking at a little girl. He extended his arm, afraid of stepping on the ledge, which was just a big rock protruding from the slope. Who knew what his weight could cause…

     

    She covered behind the tree, trying to get away from him as far as possible. She was scared to death. But was she scared because of what had happened in the town or because he was an Orc? Or were those two things actually related? She must have ran for her life and slipped down the slope, lucky the ledge stopped her fall, and even more fortunate because it mostl likely saved her life from what was above.

     

    "I won’t harm you," he said as softly as he could, speaking in Tamrielic. "It’s alright, little one." No reply.

     

    "I don’t think the child understands you," the Third’s voice rang out from above, and Yaman held down a rumble.

     

    The girl could have been somewhere between eight and ten. Just as old as his little Yara, his little nightingale. She loved to sing, all the time, and if not sing than hum, and it used to drive him crazy. But she was his daughter. Once he had bought her a collection of songs and poems on Orsinium’s market. It had made her so happy that she had insisted on him singing with her ever since. There had been times when he realised he was humming the tunes even when working the forge. He really missed his little Yara, as well as his wife, and couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing right now in the glorious city of Orsinium in his absence. 

     

    The girl was peeking from behind the tree, obviously scared of him and he smiled – smiled as best he could without making his tusks even more prominent – and cleared his throat.

     

    "Bravely bold Sir Cadwell

    Rode forth upon trusty Honor.

    He feared nothing in Coldharbour,

    Oh brave Sir Cadwell.

    He loved the land all blue and gray,

    Righting wrongs and saving days.

    Brave, brave, brave Sir Cadwell."

     

    The girl blinked in curiosity, stepping a little away from the tree and Yaman began recognizing her features in the light of the torch. Gold eyes, pointy ears, darker skin with a golden hue. She was an Altmer. He extended his arm once more and she cowered a little bit and he spoke softly. "Don’t be afraid." Something in his face – even how strange it might have been coming from an Orsimer – calmed her, and he nodded. "Yes. Everything’s fine. Just a little closer, little one."

     

    She reached for his hand, somewhat fascinated by it, her fingers going over his open palm. It must have been the colour of his skin most likely. She then grasped his forefinger and he smiled again, slowly putting his hand around her waist and pulled her closer, under his arm. She was shaking but she wasn’t screaming and he slowly began climbing up, which wasn’t easy with one hand but he saw the Third pulling the rope up, grunting with every pull.

     

    After a short while they were up, the burning town to their right and she looked at it with wide eyes and Yaman could only imagine what kind of horrors she had seen. The Third quickly wrapped a blanket around her, sitting her down and Yaman involuntarily fixed her hair. She looked at him, confused by that, and then she quickly averted her gaze.

     

    The Third spoke some strange words Yaman didn’t understand, trying to get the girl’s attention but she didn’t react. "No Altmeris either," the Vosh Rakh murmured. "She is in shock, but still..." He then switched into another language and this time the girl lifted her gaze at him, but then she quickly averted her eyes again. "Ragudi? Curious."

     

    Ragudi. The language most commonly used in Hammerfell these days. So an Altmer girl who spoke neither Altmeris nor Tamrielic but Ragudi. Curious indeed. She instinctively leaned closer to Yaman for some reason and he felt his arm wrapping around her. She looked up, weakly smiling at him and then she pointed at his tusks.

     

    The Third narrowed his eyes and asked her something. She was silent, but after a moment she nodded. "She has seen an Orsimer here. The prophet." He then focused on her again and asked something else. Yaman could see her press her lips into a thin line, tightly grasping the blanket around her shoulders. He gently stroked her back, letting her know it was alright, but she seemed too shaken by the question to answer.

     

    "What did you ask her?"

     

    The Third chewed the inside of his cheek, rubbing his beard. "If the Orsimer did it," he murmured.

     

    Yaman looked at the little elf, at the expression on her face. She was scared, too scared to answer. She hadn’t said a single word, not even a peep, and Yaman wondered if she would ever speak again.

     

    Wind picked up and the smoke began blowing their way and Yaman quickly grabbed the girl, running further away from the town, away from the choking smoke. He could hear the Third rattling behind him, also carrying Yaman’s sack now. They ran for at least three dozen steps before they got out of the smoke’s reach and Yaman could feel the girl’s hands tightly wrapped around his neck.

     

    She then gasped and he looked in the direction her eyes were focused to and he could see something in the inferno, a shadow among the dancing flames. The shadow was completely engulfed by the fire, but it still kept walking. A moment later the High Priestess walked out of the inferno, unharmed, and she looked around, looking for her companions.

     

    The Third whistled a raised his hand, getting her attention and her head snapped in their direction. With a deep frown on her face she began walking towards them, the shimmering golden light around her now fading. She truly was blessed by Trinimac because no ordinary person could have survived the heat and the smoke among the rubble, but she did, unscathed, with only her clothes covered with ash and soot.

     

    And as she neared Yaman could see how her frown was deepening with every step, her eyes set on the child wrapped around his neck.

     

    “A survivor?” the High Priestess barked and girl instinctively cowered in Yaman’s arms, burying her face into his chest. The High Priestess threw something on the ground and Yaman narrowed his eyes.

     

    Half melted black metal, something that could have been a… flail. Yes, Yaman was able to recognize the remains of the chain and the flail’s head, even though there was only a half of the spiked skull remaining. And he had seen that flail before. The prophet had carried it.

     

    A confirmation then. Of both their hopes and their fears. The prophet had been here.

     

    “Yes, High Priestess,” the Third nodded to her question, giving the girl a look. “But the child doesn’t speak, most likely too terrified by the events here. So we don’t know if… If the prophet is cause of this.”

     

    “It doesn’t matter,” the female sneered and glanced at the girl. “I found a… flavour of magic that might be the prophet’s. There isn’t exactly a trail, but I can sense a bit of this flavour in the east. So that is where we are heading. Now put the child back where you found it and let’s be on our way.” She then turned around, ready to walk away but Yaman didn’t move. He only narrowed his eyes and exchanged glances with the Third.

     

    Atuul paused and looked over her shoulder, noticing her command was not heeded. She frowned, baring her tusks at them. “Are you deaf?”

     

    Yaman pulled the girl closer and he looked into the Third’s eyes, looking for understanding and sympathy, but as soon as he did, he realized he didn’t have to. The Third knew what was right, what was just. In this, he and Yaman were united.

     

    “We’re taking the child with us, High Priestess,” he raised his chin in a challenge of her leadership.

     

    She tilted her head, grimacing. “Come again?”

     

    “We’re taking the girl with us. We cannot leave her here.”

     

    “She is an Altmer from the looks of it. She is not our responsibility!”

     

    That was where the High Priestess was wrong. Well, yes, the child wasn’t their responsibility, but not because she was an Altmer. Even if she was a human it wouldn’t make a difference, because responsibility wasn’t something one was born into. No, responsibility was something that one had to accept. It was a denial of ignorance, a decision of not looking the other way when others, even complete strangers, were in need.

     

    Maybe Yaman was really as stupid as the High Priestess kept saying, but if this so called stupidity made him doubt what was right or wrong he was glad for it. And everytime the High Priestess would call him Oaf or Ogre, he would embrace the meanings behind the words, the meanings the High Priestess couldn’t comprehend in her righteous certainty.

     

    “Without our help the girl will die,” the Third said in low, yet somehow soft voice, as if Trinimac’s reason just spoke through him. “And I won’t let that happen, because if I did, what would that make me in Trinimac’s eyes?”

     

    “If the roles were reversed, the humans finding an Orsimer child-”

     

    That argument was cut short by the Third who boldly interrupted Atuul with a snarl. “Precisely because of that we will help her. I have been chased by dogs and their human handlers like an animal when I was a child, and precisely because of that we have to help the girl. Because Trinimac teaches us to strive to be better, to be the best versions of ourselves. To prove we are not like the humans. We are Orsimer, we are the Warrior-God’s children, High Priestess. If we let the child die, how does that make us different from the humans, or worse, those who still blindly follow the Spurned-God? Right here, right now, we decide who we are. Orsimer or Orcs. Are we Orcs, High Priestess? Are we? Answer me truthfully, and prove you still have your heart in the right place. Answer me, with the Warrior-God being our witness.”

     

    Every word was spoken with the emotional precision of a philosopher, captivating and yet distanced, with emotions bubbling right under the surface but never breaking through. Every word was pummeling Yaman’s soul with the rhythm of hammers ringing in the Everember Forge and for some reason, this was the moment he felt the closest to their god in his life.

     

    Trinimac’s Doubt had spoken and silence followed, because even the High Priestess seemed to lose her speech. He could see in her expression that the Third’s words had reached her soul even through her thick armor of Trinimac’s blinding light.

     

    She pressed her lips into a thin line, then opened her mouth and closed it again, as if she had changed her opinion on what she wanted to say. And in that moment it seemed as if she had swallowed her pride, at least for once. “And what will we do with the child?” she asked, avoiding answering the Third’s question out loud, because her expression was a clear answer enough. “We can’t carry the girl everywhere we go, she will slow us down.”

     

    “She won’t,” Yaman rumbled, shifting the girl in his arms as a proof of his statement. To him she weighed nothing, she wouldn’t slow him down.

     

    “There are settlements in this area,” the Third murmured, rubbing his beard in thought. “We’ll see if anyone would be willing to take care of her. If not, we’ll bring her to Orsinium with us. After we find the prophet of course.”

     

    Orsinium. Yes, she could become an acolyte in Trinimac’s order or someone in the city would take care of her. Orsinium - and Trinimac’s order - was an idea after all, an idea where Orsimer were accepted and could cooperate with other races, thus Orsinium wasn’t just for Orsimer. Everyone deserved a chance.

     

    “Very well,” the High Priestess reluctantly nodded and turned around. “Now let’s get going. The fire and the smoke will eventually draw the attention of the Redguards and they clearly aren’t as open-minded as we are.” She glanced at the Third with those last words and the Vosh Rakh slightly bowed his head in response, before following her.

     

    Yaman glanced at the burning town and his hand instinctively stroked the girl’s hair. “You’re safe now, little one. You’re safe. Everything is going to be alright.”

     

    She didn’t understand him, but Yaman wasn’t saying that just for her.

     

    It was for all of them.

     

     

     

Comments

12 Comments   |   Caladran and 4 others like this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  August 14, 2018
    Well, this was a great chapter. I like the additional development of Yaman's character. Reminds me of a big smithing fat ass priest of Auri-El I know with a soft heart. I don't see the priestess as bad though, she's just doing what she does. But I am sad ...  more
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  August 14, 2018
    Since obviously they won't take the girl to Orsinium in the end, I dread to think of her fate. Really, poor girl.
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Justiciar Thorien
      Justiciar Thorien
      Justiciar Thorien
      Since obviously they won't take the girl to Orsinium in the end, I dread to think of her fate. Really, poor girl.
        ·  August 14, 2018
      Mind you, I didn't have this story in mind back when I was writing Chasing Sun - heck, this story didn't even exist in my mind few months back. So, because something wasn't mentioned before... I quite like the image of Altmer priestess of Trinimac to be honest.
      • Justiciar Thorien
        Justiciar Thorien
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Mind you, I didn't have this story in mind back when I was writing Chasing Sun - heck, this story didn't even exist in my mind few months back. So, because something wasn't mentioned before... I quite like the image of Altmer priestess of Trinimac to be honest.
          ·  August 14, 2018
        Yes, that would be a cool image. And I bet she'd fare much better with the priests of Trinimac in Orsinium than all alone in the streets of some human town. Though at this point and with Chasing Sun in mind it does appear as if they'll leave her somewhere.
        • Karver the Lorc
          Karver the Lorc
          Justiciar Thorien
          Justiciar Thorien
          Justiciar Thorien
          Yes, that would be a cool image. And I bet she'd fare much better with the priests of Trinimac in Orsinium than all alone in the streets of some human town. Though at this point and with Chasing Sun in mind it does appear as if they'll leave her somewhere.
            ·  August 14, 2018
          Makes me wonder. I think she would fare better as a Penitent for being an Altmer than as a human for example. But still can't see her not struggling with prejudice even if she was the most devouted to Trinimac. Not even the Orsimer can't escape the traps ...  more
          • Justiciar Thorien
            Justiciar Thorien
            Karver the Lorc
            Karver the Lorc
            Karver the Lorc
            Makes me wonder. I think she would fare better as a Penitent for being an Altmer than as a human for example. But still can't see her not struggling with prejudice even if she was the most devouted to Trinimac. Not even the Orsimer can't escape the traps ...  more
              ·  August 14, 2018
            Oh, well, prejudice sucks, but being a homeless orphan (especially for a girl) sucks thousand times more. Her race is a secondary factor here, though I'd assume that while she might be treated a bit better in Orsinium because she is an Altmer, in a human ...  more
  • A-Pocky-Hah!
    A-Pocky-Hah!   ·  August 14, 2018
    You know... I'm kinda curious why Trinimac picked 'him' out of all Orsimers to be the prophet. Then again, knowing Elder Scrolls, it seems that ANYONE can be a prophet/chosen one these days... :P
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      A-Pocky-Hah!
      You know... I'm kinda curious why Trinimac picked 'him' out of all Orsimers to be the prophet. Then again, knowing Elder Scrolls, it seems that ANYONE can be a prophet/chosen one these days... :P
        ·  August 14, 2018
      Well, I think - not that me and Trinimac are best pals or whatever - that it´s very possible that "he" is simply expandable. :)
      • A-Pocky-Hah!
        A-Pocky-Hah!
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Well, I think - not that me and Trinimac are best pals or whatever - that it´s very possible that "he" is simply expandable. :)
          ·  August 14, 2018
        Do you mean expendable or expandable? Since those two words each have very different meanings.
        • Karver the Lorc
          Karver the Lorc
          A-Pocky-Hah!
          A-Pocky-Hah!
          A-Pocky-Hah!
          Do you mean expendable or expandable? Since those two words each have very different meanings.
            ·  August 14, 2018
          Expandable. Like a balloon. Makes more room inside. :D
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  August 14, 2018
    Finally the Third made the High Priestess quiet, I was getting annoyed by her. :P
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Caladran
      Caladran
      Caladran
      Finally the Third made the High Priestess quiet, I was getting annoyed by her. :P
        ·  August 14, 2018
      She does get on the nerves, doesn´t she? :D