~ Brings Rain ~
An Elder Scrolls Story
PART 1
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This was to be my entry for October’s Month of Short Stories. But like so many of the things I try to write, it got blown out of proportion in the best way possible.
What I present to you now is my latest exercise in storytelling. It’s been years since I’ve tackled writing an original narrative, and I have to say, this was a lot of fun to make. There's some stuff here that's lore friendly, but I've taken many creative liberties.
I won't give you any idea of what to expect, and hope to pleasantly surprise.
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Calls-From-Afar was never one for questioning leadership. Yet as she looked upon the young hatchling’s face, smooth-scaled and adolescent, even her trust in the An-Xileel’s wisdom wavered. Her team had been promised the aid of a great assassin. They were given a child.
“Are we so lucky to be egg-sitters now?” Croon-Tail hissed, brushing a hand over the feathers on his head.
“Be silent,” Calls snapped at the mage. “Your place is not to argue. I will decide if this one is fit for our mission.”
The woman with copper scales and crown-like spines returned her attention back down to the hatchling. He stood a foot below Calls, already the shortest of her team, and held her stare with no trace of emotion. Cold and still, like a morning fog.
“The An-Xileel have sent you to us in good faith, have they?” she mused aloud, giving a slight flick of her tail.
“I must believe so,” the hatchling said softly.
Calls folded her arms, studying the small Argonian. She was a well-worn battle maiden and no stranger to fighting with youths. Countless hatchlings joined the An-Xileel’s armies, eager to serve their people. Yet something was different about this one. The boy bore an unsettling presence. His black jerkin, knit skillfully from threads of kresh and silverweave, clung tightly to his slender frame. Not even Calls had the privilege to brand armor made from such prized materials – she settled for steel, her men jute and leather. Open toed boots and fingerless gloves were worn to good effect, brandishing the sharpness of the hatchling’s claws. Upon his sash were a pair of quicksilver swords and numerous throwing knives among other utilities. A hood cloaked his face, the top half of his snout painted over with pigments resembling the likeness of a skull.
The hatchling had arrived at their camp moments ago. Calls and her men were told to wait for his coming in the deep ranges of southeast Morrowind, near the former city of Tear. Though not nearly what she expected, Calls could see that this was no mere child. Everything about his façade was fierce, formidable…
Everything but his eyes. Sky-blue with widened slit pupils. Their softness betrayed his cool demeanor.
“What are you called among your tribe?” Calls asked, her jade eyes meeting his.
“Brings-Rain,” the boy replied quietly. “Are we ready to begin our task…?”
“We are ready. What remains to be seen is if you are,” Croon-Tail muttered.
“Either he will be or he won’t. You don’t know any better than us,” Sleeps-in-Shade sighed, standing up from his slouch against a boulder. Croon regarded the brawny brown lizard with disdain before turning to a slim green figure sitting cross-legged in the ash.
“No words from you, Hides-in-Mud?” Croon prodded, “This hatchling wears the garb of a shadow walker. You aren’t worried he’ll get in your way?”
Mud kept mute, as often as always. He never concerned himself with petty squabbles.
“Enough, Croon-Tail. The boy is our ally,” Calls said. “Young or no, we will treat him as such.”
“What help can this egg-spawn offer? We do not need him,” the grey-scaled mage contested. “He will only slow us down!”
“Burdening you with my presence is not the reason I am here,” Brings-Rain said. He was averting his eyes, peering off into the distance. Calls-From-Afar could not tell if he was lacking in confidence or merely shy.
“You believe you are able, young one?” she asked. The hatchling returned a firm gaze.
“I will do as I must,” he said. That answer would have to suffice.
“Then you join our brood at this hour,” Calls replied, turning to her men. “Grab your gear. We reach the plantation by the sun’s full tilt. No arguments on the way, understand?”
“Yes,” Shade said, erecting the spine of submission.
“Thoughts received,” Croon hissed.
Mud nodded in agreement.
With that, the four gathered themselves and resumed their journey through the forest of trees and giant mushrooms, Brings-Rain in tow. He kept silent the whole way, intently observing his surroundings. Patches of tall grass sprung from beneath the ash covered landscape riddled with knolls and crevasses. They passed by a colony of scribs, insect-like creatures the size of melons, busily scavenging the surface world for food. All the while ash fell softly from the plumes of Red Mountain, blown southward. Calls wondered if this was the boy’s first time in Morrowind. Few Argonians would bother traveling to Tear from Black Marsh. Before the Red Year, this region had been fertile farmland filled with dozens of Dark Elf plantations. Earthquakes and ash-fall since had left wastelands in their wake. Yet nature was slowly taking back its foothold. Calls could sense its silent struggle to survive, walking amidst the scarce and ragged plant life.
She began thinking to herself. Why have the Dark Elves returned to this place? When the reports first came to her, she found them hard to believe. A splinter from House Dres somehow garrisoned themselves in an ancient netch farm. They were not present in devastating numbers, though surely enough to have seen no resistance from the farm’s inhabitants: two hired guards and small Argonian family. Their bodies were found near the Padomaic Ocean. Under normal conditions the An-Xileel could have exterminated such a splinter with ease. But the elves possessed a powerful magic that protected them within the plantation. According to the scouts who survived, only those possessing a special mark on their forehead could tread the grounds without fear of harm.
These red-eyes think themselves clever… They will soon be shamed. The An-Xileel’s shamans had deciphered the secrets of this mark, with successful replication. Calls and her men were to brand themselves with it, infiltrate the plantation, and destroy the source of the Dark Elves’ magic.
As the sun drifted along its arc, sinking below the line where land met sky, the band of Argonians arrived at a peculiar Emperor Parasol. Its stalk bore patterned markings in its flesh. Croon inspected them closely, stepping beneath the mushroom’s shade.
“This is the scout’s mark. The plantation isn’t far,” he said.
“Search for high ground. We need a better view of the area,” Calls ordered. They had to be certain of their position. The elves’ magic was proximity triggered. To stumble on accident into its range would bring swift death.
“There is no high ground here,” Croon replied. “The nearest rock formations are several miles away. We…”
He trailed off mid-sentence, watching Hides-in-Mud as he tethered up to the top of the mushroom with a grappling rope. It easily supported his weight – the stalks of Emperor Parasols are as sturdy as any tree trunk.
“Still too slow, Croon. Mud’s already bored,” Shade chuckled.
The mage huffed, tail hanging limp. “I was about to suggest that…”
Mud settled down on his belly. From below his head looked like a sailfish with its dorsal fin above the water. Retrieving a telescope from his bag of supplies, he began surveying the land.
“Can you see the plantation?” Calls asked.
“Yes. Two miles off,” Mud replied in a raspy voice. “I count seven elves on patrol. Six netches.” Though the plantation itself was centuries old, the Argonian family had restored it to function. They raised netches on the farm for their leather and jelly. The Dark Elves, it seemed, were content to do the same.
“What about the stone the scouts mentioned?”
“It is at the top of a villa.”
“What does it look like?” Croon inquired.
“Brick-laid. Three stories.”
“I meant the stone, fool,” Croon hissed. Mud shuffled in place.
“It is slender. Glowing white,” he replied.
“What? Are you sure? That can’t be right...”
The mage climbed up Mud’s rope without too much difficulty despite his robes. He took the telescope, hunkering down on the other side of the parasol.
“By the Hist… It looks like a Varla Stone,” he remarked, peering through the scope’s glass eyehole. “How did the elves come to possess such a thing?”
“Varla Stone? I have not heard of this,” Brings-Rain commented.
“Not surprising. Even I only possess cursory knowledge of them,” Croon replied. “The stones are found deep within Cyrodiil’s Aylied ruins, said to be forged from shooting stars.” He handed back the telescope to Mud and rappelled to the ground. “Based on the descriptions we were given, they must have rigged the stone into a spellcaster trap. One that can fire deadly arcane bolts.”
“Aren’t spellcaster traps powered with soul gems?” Brings-Rain questioned.
“Ordinarily they are. It looks like the elves have found a way to harness that Varla Stone for the same end. Their properties are similar,” Croon mused, a troubled look on his face. “Though compared to a soul gem, a Varla stone is much more potent.”
“How so?” the hatchling asked.
The mage began eyeing the boy. “A pertinent question. I assume you know how soul gems are filled and used to recharge enchantments. Varla Stones can do the same, but instead of providing a single measurable charge they are capable of restoring an almost indefinite number of enchantments to full capacity. A single Varla Stone could theoretically recharge an army’s worth of enchanted weapons.”
Croon-Tail let out a grumbling snarl, directing his dismay at the others.
“Do you see why this is a problem? It is this charge that powers a soulcaster trap. Even a common soul gem can last for scores of castings, given the right conditions. With a Varla Stone, the trap in that tower could remain powered for Sithis knows how long. That’s not even considering the strength of its spellcasting.”
“Can we destroy it?” Calls asked.
“The stone? No, not with the resources we have,” Croon said. “But it is set upon a pedestal etched with channeling runes – they are needed to direct the stone’s charge. Remove the stone from the pedestal and the trap will cease to function.”
Calls smiled. There were days when Croon’s smugness proved more than a little irritating, but his knowledge never failed to impress. She could always count on him.
“Then we know our river’s course. We get to the tower, steal the stone, and prepare for the attack,” she said. “Croon, you have the scroll, yes?”
Croon-Tail gave his affirmative. Calls and her men were the first phase of the An-Xileel’s plan, paving the way for a larger offensive. Argonians were gathering in force not far from the plantation. Once Calls’ team disabled the trap they would leave and regroup with the final assault. In the event they could not escape, however, Croon possessed a scroll containing a powerful lightening spell, one that would surge and coil through the clouds when cast into the sky. It could easily be seen at night. Casting the spell would signal the Argonians to attack.
“Everyone gather to me. I’ll begin inscribing marks on all of you,” Croon said, pulling out a small jar from his bag. The others complied. The mage began smearing symbols onto their foreheads with a pasty red substance. Croon worked quickly while there was sunlight left to spare.
“Kaah… I still say they should mark everyone. Attack the camp all at once,” Shade grumbled, inspecting his weapon set – a sharp flint mace and leather shield nearly double the height of his chest. Brings-Rain sat quietly on the ground and stared at the big brown Argonian.
“Ignore him,” Croon muttered to the boy, keeping up his work. “Shade is whining. He dislikes the thought of having to sneak our way in.”
“We should be striking these elves together! We would overwhelm them easily!” Shade insisted.
“You know why we can’t do that. You heard the report,” Calls said, checking the strap on her greatsword’s sheath. The last scout to observe the plantation witnessed an accident – one of the elves broke a netch egg while the parent was unrestrained. It became enraged and defended its young on instinct. The Varla Stone was used to put down the netch, even though it was branded with the elves’ protective seal. “The red-eyes can control this trap of theirs directly. Even while marked, they could still target our forces with its magic.”
“The elves will be expecting us,” Shade protested. “They know our ways by now. We are old enemies, tired and using the same tricks. Now is the chance to be unpredictable!”
“That is not worth risking a dead charge. The cost would be too great,” Brings-Rain said. “Tired tricks or no, we are here to prevent loss of life.”
Calls regarded the boy with some surprise. He had not spoken out about anything until now. There was no reading him. For this reason she remained concerned – not merely for Rain, but for her command of him. She knew her men would keep calm under pressure and follow her orders to the letter. They always had. There was no guarantee that this hatchling would do the same. She did not have his loyalty, nor a good grasp of his abilities. Her leaders had spoken highly of him, though. Was he really so capable despite being so young? Her team could not afford a dead weight. If the boy lacked experience…
No. Don’t dwell on such thoughts. The An-Xileel would not have sent him just to sabotage our efforts. If nothing else he seemed compliant and level-headed.
“There. I am finished,” Croon said, setting down a small mirror. He had marked himself last. The group was ready.
They advanced toward the plantation as darkness fell, sky draped over with misty clouds. Sounds of talk among the elves and crackling fires came into hearing. Moving swiftly but silently through the ash, the five stopped within clear view of the plantation’s outer walls, lined with burning coal pits. A sentry stood on patrol atop a wooden tower near the netch enclosure, clad in chitin armor. The netches, meanwhile, were afloat in the air, tethered by ropes. The giant jellyfish-like creatures were a strange and foreign sight. They never touched the ground, even while sleeping. Ash fell upon their carapaces. In the distance the Varla Stone gleamed against a hazy backdrop of darkness, high atop a villa at the other end of the plantation grounds. A second building stood beside it, slightly smaller. Calls glanced over at Brings-Rain. He was clutching the pommel on one of his swords, a faraway look on his face. Shade drew close to the boy.
“Afraid?” he asked. “Don’t be. Calls-From-Afar will see us through this. The Hist favor her.” Calls scoffed at the mention of that. Shade was always quick to sing her praises. Perhaps a little too quick.
“I fear neither pain nor death. Do not concern yourself with me,” the hatchling said flatly.
“How will we approach?” Hides-In-Mud asked his leader. Calls took in the layout of the farm.
“We go around,” she said, “make our way to the back perimeter wall and find a point of entry.”
“We should put Mud on reconnaissance,” Croon suggested. “Let him scour the area and find a path into the villa.” Mud nodded in agreement. He could do that. Calls, meanwhile, mulled over a thought that crossed her mind.
“Very well,” Calls said. “Take the young one with you. See how he performs.”
The men startled. Croon was swift to glare at Calls. She could smell his worry.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” the mage whispered harshly.
“Maybe it is not my call to make,” Calls replied, turning to the boy. “Do you think you can keep up with Hides-In-Mud?”
“Yes. Easily,” Brings-Rain said. He did not sound provocative. Nonetheless Mud arched an eyebrow, tail stiffening somewhat.
“Good. You two take to the left. The three of us will go right. We reunite at the far end of the grounds,” Calls spoke with authority. “May the Hist guide us.”
The group split up, slinking their separate ways. Croon began to silently cast a muffle spell. A soft wisp-like fog appeared beneath Calls’ boots. Then Shade’s and Croon’s. Every step that fell from the trio was noiseless. Hides-In-Mud was the only true shadow walker in Calls’ outfit. Croon’s magic allowed her and the others to employ comparable stealth without skill or training – a tremendous boon, one that allowed the group to work more in harmony. Calls-From-Afar had led three teams in her lifetime and ran alongside several others, but this one was arguably the best. They survived where so many before would have fallen. Mud, Shade, and Croon were the most reliable men she had ever known. They were like egg brothers to her. She felt proud to lead them.
Keeping a safe distance from patrolling sentries, the group trudged on. A Dark Elf upon a wooden watchtower stretched his arms lazily, conversing with a friend below. Calls knew enough Tamrielic to get by but she could not make out the content of their conversation. She glared sullenly at the grey-skinned Dunmer. The old generations passed down stories of plantations like this one, to ensure her people would never forget their suffering at the hands of the elves. Towers now warding intruders once served to imprison farm workers, forced to toil for the red-eyes of House Dres. Of all the great houses, theirs formed the agricultural backbone of Morrowind in olden days. Dres strictly followed ancient Dunmeri traditions. This included the practice of slavery.
And what better place to find slaves than the swamps just south of their border? Argonians made perfect laborers – they were little more than ‘lizards’ after all – capable of living in harsh conditions and resisting disease. Entire villages were captured and sold, tribes and families torn apart, all for economic viability.
This went on for centuries. But the cruelty could not persist forever. The elves had to have known they were sowing seeds of discord. After hundreds of years the people of the root were given their chance to reap a bountiful harvest. The Red Mountain erupted. The Dark Elves faced disaster. And so they were weakened. The An-Xileel invaded Morrowind and took from them the southern lands that Argonian hands had tilled. Now these elves were back, no longer feared foreigners of the north. They were like flesh flies, buzzing and biting. Calls hissed to herself. Would her people ever be rid of them?
“There are a lot of guards here,” Shade said softly. “Do you think these elves have slipped in reinforcements?”
“Unlikely,” Croon replied, “though they may yet grow bold enough to try.”
“So close to our borders but still holding their ground… These grey-skins are taunting us. They think that they–”
There was a sudden crack, loud and booming.
Bright light flashed in the sky as a bolt of lightning lashed out from the Varla Stone, striking some place beyond the other side of the plantation. Calls felt her heart skip a beat. The Dark Elves were on alert, calling out to one another to investigate the disturbance.
Croon stirred. “No… Was that–!?”
“It might not have been them,” Shade hissed.
“I… Did I mark one of them incorrectly? No, no… I couldn’t have…” The mage looked distressed, almost guilt-ridden.
“What do we do?” Shade asked anxiously.
Calls grimaced. How could the Varla Stone have detected the others? If they were in trouble, would a rescue be worth the risk? That was assuming someone needed to be rescued. In her mind she pictured Hides-In-Mud and the hatchling, one dead and the other surrounded by red-eyes. There was no way to predict what Brings-Rain would do, but she knew Mud would take advantage of the chaos. He would try to escape unseen and regroup. If not… he would prolong a diversion. Calls stole herself and focused.
“We keep moving to the back. The elves are distracted,” she said. “Anyone still alive will have to meet us there.”
By the Hist, I hope at least one of them does…
PART 1 --- PART 2 --- PART 3
Comments
Fixed. Thanks as always. ^^'
Only typo--"'Not surprising. Even I only possess cursory knowledge of them,' Coon replied."