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Chapter - Origins

Word Count: 7,661

Characters: Ra’athim Amara, Matriarch Drevlan, Almalexia

TW: Death, Gore, Ritualistic Sacrifice

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Mournhold, Morrowind 4E 210

The City of Light and Magic had seen better days. That’s what she was told whenever she visited the grand city, anyway. The former capital of Morrowind had been sacked, destroyed, in the initial thrust of the Argonian Invasion two centuries prior. It had never quite recovered, or so the common perception went.

Amara wasn’t quite sure that that was accurate.

It was hard for her to properly judge the splendor of the ancient city. After all, she had been born in the era of Blacklight and House Redoran. She had been born long after the Red Year. This was the only Mournhold she had ever known. Yet, the city had never felt like it had been destroyed in such a vicious fashion. The citizens of Mournhold were a proud people. They had taken to rebuilding their shining jewel not long after the Redoran Guard and the blessed lady pushed the invading Argonians back.

It had been two centuries since and Mournhold was as magnificent as it ever was. Twisted spires rose out of the ground, punctuating the skyline of the former capital, and accompanying them were large towers that scraped the sky. All built in the signature style of House Indoril. Beneath these stood the markets and bazaars that were the lifeblood of the city.

Amara wove her way between bustling merchants and other Dunmer just trying to make their way home after a busy day at their stalls and shops. Occasionally, there would be an Acolyte of the New Temple preaching about the stern love of the Reclamations, or some such nonsense. It was a sight that she was used to seeing across Morrowind, but Mournhold always made dealing with such preachers so much more entertaining. While the city had by and large bowed under the pressure of the rest of the province and accepted the new (old?) gods of the Dunmer people, Mournhold had still been the center of Old Tribunal worship for millennia. Such privileges and traditions were not erased so easily. To this day, Mournhold contained the largest number of Old Tribunal worshippers in Morrowind. Most of whom kept their beliefs to themselves, but it wasn’t an uncommon sight to see an Acolyte of the New Temple arguing fervently with a member of one of the various Tribunal cults.

She tried to wipe the smile off of her face as she strode past one such incident. It wouldn’t do to be waylaid by an upset priest declaring her a heretic for enjoying his misfortune. Or, Almalexia forbid, an Ordinator. Right now, she was just a normal Dunmer walking through the former capital. Just a normal, pious Dunmer making her way to the New Temple to conduct her own personal worship to Boethiah.

That was her story and she was sticking to it.

It wasn’t often that Amara visited Mournhold. She tended to tell herself that there wasn’t any particular reason for this; that the ancient city just happened to be out of her way whenever she traveled. It wasn’t altogether a lie, if only because she subconsciously engineered it as such.

The truth was that Mournhold made her… uncomfortable. Amara wasn’t even sure why, herself. She knew she shouldn’t be. This was the city of her ata. This was the city that her father had dedicated his life to protecting. This was the city that her father had been exiled over. Oh, how ata would wax lyrically about the paved streets and how the city lit up at night. About how it was the heart of the Dunmer people in so many different ways… It had sparked her imagination as a child, hearing of their foreign homeland…

To her father’s credit, Mournhold was just as he had described. It was beautiful in every sense of the word. Even more so for the hardships that it had endured. But it wasn’t home. Not like it was for him. Loathe as she was to admit it, home would probably always be the lush forests and crisp winds of Falkreath Hold.

But that was an outlander’s way of thinking, and she was supposed to have shed her outlander ways by now.

It took the better part of the evening for Amara to reach her destination. Her arrival to the city had been late enough in the day as it was and the smart thing to do would’ve been to find an inn that wasn’t booked and spend the night there. Amara had not done the smart thing. Although there was no particular time limit on the personal quest that she had given herself, Amara was of the opinion that the less time spent in Mournhold the better.

The city was already fraying at her.

So if that meant feeling like a vagabond, a fetcher, in the middle of the night? If it meant avoiding patrols and infiltrating what would no doubt be a heavily guarded holy site in the middle of the night just to afford herself some much desired privacy? That’s what she would do. That’s what she was doing.

N’chow, she was being so irrational about this! But she didn’t want any interference tonight, and Amara just knew that if the Ordinators found out about what she was carrying on her… Well, she’d rather not dwell on that. Regardless, the choice of her approach had already been made. It was too late to turn back now, for she had reached her destination.

The Mausoleum of St. Almalexia was a tomb built at the far edge of the New Temple’s (formerly the Tribunal Temple) rather expansive courtyard. It was built in the same twisted and lofty style as the temple itself, although far smaller in scope. Fitting, as its sole occupant was the impetus behind the temple’s construction. For, as the name implied, the mausoleum was the final resting place of the goddess Almalexia. Inside contained Mother Morrowind’s ash pit, rumored to be in the center of a vast network of underground catacombs, designed to protect Almalexia’s remains.

The tomb had been the one building left unmolested by the Argonian invaders, the one structure not left in ruins when the Redoran Militia had arrived to relieve the city. As legend had it, many of Mournhold’s citizens took refuge in the depths of the catacombs. When the Argonians had come to clear them out, it is said that Almalexia’s spirit had risen from her ash pit and protected the people whom she held so dear to her heart, slaying every Argonian that set foot inside the tomb.

Amara believed the story wholeheartedly. It perfectly encapsulated everything that her ata had preached about Almalexia. That she was a fierce warrior who cared for her people. That she cared more deeply for the Dunmer than anyone ever had or ever will. That she was like a mother sabercat protecting her cubs. Amara was inclined to take her father’s word for it. After all, he had known the goddess!

Many in Mournhold shared her opinion, Amara knew. This was Almalexia’s city, even all of these years after her death. Even the New Temple knew better than to disrespect her here. Even if they didn’t necessarily believe in their divinity anymore, the New Temple took great strides to protect the remains of the person everyone in Mournhold viewed as a national hero.

Which is why it was so shocking when Amara arrived at the mausoleum and found it completely unguarded.

Amara had visited the Mausoleum of St. Almalexia before. Her purpose this time was so much more than some mere visit, but she had been here before. The tomb was never unguarded. There were always two Ordinators at the entrance, and they were notoriously strict about who could and couldn’t enter the tomb. She’d never been allowed inside herself!

The fact that the tomb was completely unguarded had troubling implications.

Finding the hastily hidden corpses of two Ordinators in the nearby bushes had even more so.

“Oh s’wit…” Amara muttered under her breath in muted horror.

The magenta-haired Dunmer knelt over one of the bodies and dared to press her fingers to some exposed ash-grey skin. Still warm. These kills had been recent.

Bowing her head, Amara muttered a quick prayer over the corpses of good men simply doing their duty. “Renka anta Nata.”

Walk with the Three.

Whether these two had worshipped the Reclamations or the Old Tribunal wasn’t important in regards to the prayer. Three Gods, One Faith.

Lifting her head, Amara stared at the entrance of the tomb, weighing her options.

I could just leave right now, Amara mused, I could leave and find the nearest patrol. Let them know what’s going on. That wouldn’t be too suspicious, right? Except… that would raise a lot of questions about what I was doing here at this time of night… Questions I don’t feel like answering.

Her brow furrowed and she stared at the entrance more intently, a plan formulating in her mind.

There’s someone down there. There has to be. Why else would someone get rid of the guards and hide the bodies? Someone is trying to get to Almalexia’s remains and… do something with them. Maybe? Or they could just be trying to loot the place, that’s a possibility… Either way, by the time I go fetch the guard and bring them back here… The fetcher could already be long gone.

Her crimson eyes narrowed and Amara realized something terribly important. It was as if a doom fell upon her.

I’m… the only one here. I’m the only one who knows. If they get away… then that would be on me. I’d be responsible for the desecration of my goddess… My goddess… This is my responsibility. My duty. Almalexia would charge down there and deal with those interlopers herself. I would do well to follow her example.

Resolve strengthened and decision made, Amara stood up and entered the tomb.

The inside of the mausoleum was remarkably well kept and tended, as was only fitting for one of the most important figures in Morrowind’s long history. The steps were swept, the braziers were lit, and it thankfully didn’t smell of decay and death… Which, in this situation, Amara wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good sign or not. Still, she had ventured down into plenty of tombs in her time, and they had a tendency to reflect their occupants.

It was always officially sanctioned and purely for research purposes, naturally! She wasn’t in the habit of disturbing the rest of the deceased!

At the bottom of the long staircase was an equally lengthy hallway that Amara couldn’t even see the end of. It simply stretched on and on until the darkness consumed the path. She had a vague idea of where this path would take her; deep into the catacombs of Old Mournhold. That was where the goddess’ ash pit rested. Resting her hand over a small pack at her side, Amara gave it a small squeeze, trying to reassure herself more than anything.

Hanging next to one of the lit braziers was a well hewn branch of wood, an unlit torch to be used by the Ordinators and the priests who came down here. Amara readily grabbed it and thrust it into the flames. It caught fire soon enough and she nodded in satisfaction. Torch in hand, Amara began her unorthodox pilgrimage.

It was a long walk, to say the least. The entrance hallway seemed to stretch on for an eternity, although the rational part of Amara knew that it was merely her perception of time exacerbated by the anxiety weighing down on her. She had no idea what she would find down here, and frankly she dreaded finding out. All along the walls were intricate carvings hewn into the smooth stone. Even though she was on a mission, Amara couldn’t help but pause and try to interpret a random section.

The carving depicted a fierce battle between what could only be described as titans. A massive, multi-armed demon cut a swath of destruction through a city or a village. The only being that stood in its way was a lone woman, armed with a scimitar wreathed in flames. The two beings clashed, doing battle as the settlement around them was destroyed. In the end, the woman was victorious, banishing her hated foe back to the realm from whence he came.

Every child knew the story that the frieze depicted.

The epic battle between Almalexia and Mehrunes Dagon was the stuff of legend! It was irrevocable proof that Mother Morrowind would always be there to protect her children, even from the grips of Oblivion itself. The Ouraan Dagrai, the House of Troubles, would not take her people so long as Almalexia had anything to say about it.

And now she was gone. Was it really any shock that Morrowind’s troubles came as soon as the Old Tribunal vanished?

But this was neither the time nor the place to dwell on such things and so Amara hurried on, averting her eyes from the rest of the thousands of years of history etched into her surroundings. It was a good ten minutes or so before her perseverance was rewarded, and by that point even she had been beginning to doubt that anything untoward was actually down here. But then she caught it, like a breath on the wind.

Voices.

There were others down in these catacombs, more than one by the sounds of it. However, Amara was still too far away to actually catch what these strange, echoing voices were actually saying. She crept forward with all the grace and silence of a sabercat on the prowl, a skill imparted to her when she had still been a young girl in Falkreath. Soon, she was able to make out the words echoing throughout the catacombs.

“…Doesn’t this seem like a bit much?” The voice was nervous, jittery. Full of doubt, which made Amara all the more curious.

The next voice was rougher, almost bored sounding. “What’d you mean?”

“Don’t it rub you the wrong way? I don’t know, Folms… But killing Ordinators? Aren’t they supposed to be on our side-?”

The nervous voice was cut off by a loud clanging sound and a grunt of pain.

“Keep your voice down, you s’wit!” The rough voice, now identified as Folms, growled harshly. “No names in the field! By Vivec’s hairless arse, it’s like you want to be caught!”

That seemed to be the extent of their conversation, with the nervous fetcher taking his partner’s advice and shutting his mouth. It didn’t take long for Amara to actually get a good look at who those voices belonged to. The hallways she had been walking through for the past few minutes finally came to an end, opening up into a decent sized room. It wasn’t the main chamber, clearly not. It wasn’t grand enough, for one thing. It seemed like it was a checkpoint of sorts. The only other exit was flanked by what she assumed was the owners of the voices she’d been hearing… and crumpled up in a corner were two more dead Ordinators.

Nerevar, help her…

It was a plea that would become particularly relevant, as Amara had spent so much time gawking at the corpses that the two fetchers taking their place soon noticed her standing in the doorway.

“Hey, you!”

N’chow!

Growing up, Amara had always been taught that stealth and silence were her greatest assets. That it was better to deal with an opponent before they even realized that she was there. Her aunt had drilled that into her head so many times… Well, all of that had just gotten thrown out the window, but there was no time to dwell on her folly.

Amara immediately threw up a ward and not a second too soon, for as soon as she cast it the metallic clang of steel swords echoed throughout the small chamber. Her foe’s weapons bounced off of the ward and Amara was left briefly dumbstruck. These men didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They immediately went in for the kill. She really shouldn’t have expected anything less from such proven murderers, but who even were they?

Questions for later. Amara forced magicka into her legs and practically leapt across the room, trying to put some distance between herself and her attackers. Stealth wasn’t an option anymore. Thankfully, she had other talents.

Fire sprang to life in her palms as the fetchers charged at her once more. In what was admittedly a fairly telegraphed move, Amara threw firebolt after firebolt at the pair of swordsmen. It didn’t matter that they saw it coming. The room wasn’t large enough to dodge without colliding into each other, and her aim was true. Aside from the grunts of pain as flames scorched their steel plated armor, it didn’t seem to do much damage, and their approach didn’t slow.

The flames in her hands doused themselves as Amara threw up a ward in each palm, smaller than the single, large ward that she had used earlier. It covered less of her, but that didn’t matter so long as she managed to accurately block each strike… Which was easier said than done.

Amara had been hoping that these two had somehow just gotten the jump on the Ordinators, but no, it was clear that they were simply just that well trained. She barely had a moment to catch her breath as she bobbed and weaved, twisting her body in ways she hadn’t in years as she dodged or blocked each strike. Mostly blocked. The chamber being as cramped as it was hampered her as much as it could help her.

She couldn’t keep this up. This strategy of blocking would only last so long as her magicka reserves did, and keeping such wards up… Well, they were draining fast. Something that proved prophetic as one of her wards flickered and one of the fetcher’s swords left a nasty gash in her arm. Amara couldn’t even scream. She was far too busy for that. She had to change the game they were playing.

Throwing caution to the wind, Amara decided to stop treating this like a fair fight. They had backed her into a corner, both figuratively and literally, and there was always one move that women in similar situations could always count on.

Her stoneflesh-enhanced foot found its target between the legs of the one named Folms, and he dropped.

His resulting yowling sounded like they belonged to a particularly randy alley cat. The storm of swears that launched from his mouth wasn’t something that Amara would feel comfortable repeating even in the most disreputable company. Even his companion, the nameless one with the nervous voice, couldn’t help but to pause and take stock of his ally’s state.

That hesitation would cost him his life.

Amara pounced, knowing that if she didn’t take this opportunity… Well, she probably wouldn’t get another one. She launched herself at the nervous one, taking him by surprise as she grabbed his helmet and wormed her fingers underneath. Flames loosed and his screams soon dwarfed his companion’s. The smell of cooked flesh filled the underground chamber, and as much as it made Amara want to hurl she didn’t stop.

Only when the fetcher stopped struggling did Amara let him drop to the ground, dead. By now, the one named Folms was recovering and he was seething.

“You bitch…!” It was a low rumble in his chest that turned into a roar. He was angry. Blindingly so. But as Amara had always been taught, rage like that… It made you sloppy.

Which was a lovely thought and all, but it was hard to come up with a plan to take advantage of that when a bull of a Dunmer charged at you with the intent to kill. Amara just barely dove out of the way of Folms’ strike, his sword instead becoming embedded in his partner’s corpse. His struggle to yank his weapon out of the body wasn’t much of a reprieve, but it was long enough for Amara to scramble up and grab the sword that had belonged to the nervous one.

Amara wasn’t exactly the best at swordplay, but that was fine. She didn’t need to be.

Her free hand flashed and Amara muttered a nondescript incantation under her breath. True to form, as soon as Folms’ weapon was free, he came charging at her once more. Talented with a sword that he may be, his approach was becoming pretty predictable. She could see why he was chosen to take on the fairly straightforward Ordinators, but against a clever opponent…?

Amara blocked the initial strike, though the sheer force and vibrations of the blow caused her to grit her teeth. She tried to thrust forward with a sloppy counterattack, but Folms was ready for it. He twisted his body to the side, dodging the thrust entirely, and countered by slashing at her stomach.

The blow connected.

Amara dropped to her knees, breathing heavily as her sword was thrown to the ground. Hands desperately clenched at her stomach, trying in vain to keep pressure on the wound… But the blood just wouldn’t stop flowing. Glancing up, she met Folms’ gaze, and there was a grim satisfaction in the eyes just barely visible behind that helmet. Raising his sword, he readied himself to give the final strike…

But that’s when a sword was thrust through his back and protruded through his gut.

Folms tried to speak but found himself unable, his lungs filling up with blood as they were. The simple question that he would have asked was soon answered anyway, as the dying form of Amara before his eyes faded away into nothingness. All too late did he realize what had happened. It was a trick. An illusion. She had gotten him to lower his guard, to make him think he’d won…

“I’m sorry…” Amara whispered as she twisted the sword in his back. There was genuine remorse in her voice. Her opponent dropped to the floor, not dead yet but… Folms wouldn’t be long for this world. He was done.

Sighing, Amara collapsed to the floor herself, thoroughly exhausted from that little duel. By the Three, she was out of practice! And clearly unprepared to handle whatever this was. She had been expecting some run of the mill thieves, but this…

Those two were far too well trained to be mere thieves. Not nearly as sneaky, either. Those were soldiers.

Now that she could get a better look at them without fearing for her life, she noticed that their choice in attire was… odd. Their armor was similar to the golden heavy plates of the Ordinators, but it had clearly seen better days. It looked very well worn. They were covered in odd robes too. Meant to disguise their resemblance to the guards they killed, maybe? Dark in color, they were rather simple and monolithic designs. The only real embellishment on the robes was what must have been the symbol of the organization they belonged to.

A human probably would have mistaken it for a stylized ‘C’. Amara knew better. That was the Daedric symbol for Almalexia.

That was… oh no. None of the potential implications there were any good. Amara reached down to grab at the symbol, to look it over and see if she had simply misinterpreted it… But she never got that far. Instead, she felt a brief yet intense burst of pain at the back of her head, and suddenly all she knew was black.

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Consciousness came to Amara slowly, spurned on by flickering pinpricks of candlelight and the hushed, reverent chanting of a dozen voices. Her head throbbed in pain, no doubt the result of whatever had knocked her out. But when Amara attempted to raise her palm to her forehead, she found it to be an impossible endeavor.

She could not move her arms. She could feel them, and yet…

Amara tried to sit up, but failed to do so as well. Something was… something was blocking her- Amara’s crimson eyes snapped open and she glanced down at herself.

To call Amara tied up would be an understatement. Rope was tied around each of her limbs – wrapped around her wrists and ankles – as she dangled vertically over… an ashpit. No wonder she couldn’t sit up! She already was up… But what was the point of being suspended over-

Her musings were interrupted by the sudden deafening silence of the room. The chanting had stopped.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

The gnarled, raspy voice thankfully came from in front of her. It did not take long to spot who had spoken to her either, despite the dim light of the chamber, as an elderly Dunmer in priestess robes approached her.

Before she responded, Amara took the opportunity to scan the room. It was an ashpit chamber, obviously. That had already made itself evident… but there was only a single, rather massive, ashpit in the center. Normally, there would be several dotting a chamber. That this room only had a single one… it meant that whoever’s ashpit this was… they must have been obscenely important in life.

Surrounding the ashpit were a dozen or so men. At least, that she could see, considering that she couldn’t really crane her neck to see behind her. So, probably- no, definitely more than that. The chanting had been coming from all angles. She was surrounded.

Aside from the elderly priestess, each of the men were wearing the same armor that the two men she’d killed before were wearing. The same armor that her ata had kept in his closet for as long as he’d been alive.

They all wore the armor of the Hands of Almalexia.

“Ah, you recognize us.” The priestess spoke up once more. “I see the recognition in your eyes, child. You know who we are. Who we once were.”

“Yeah…” Amara admitted, her voice feeling hoarse. “I have a pretty decent idea… You’re the Hands of Almalexia. Or what’s left of them anyway.”

“Intelligence will be useful.” The priestess tutted, as if she were taking notes. “And the way you took down Folms and Nevil… Speaks of potent magical ability and the imagination to use it… Could be better with a blade, but that will come with time and practice… Yes. You’ll do.”

Amara blinked, unsure what to do now that the priestess was sizing her up like she was at a House Dres slave auction.

“Do you expect me to apologize?” Amara questioned. “They tried to kill me. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t hesitate. They would have murdered me just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yes, they would have. Should have. Such were my orders. But their failure might still be to my benefit… Ah, but I have been impolite!” The priestess exclaimed; her wrinkled face almost predatory in the harsh light of the candles. “I am Matriarch Drevlan, the last true Mouth of the Goddess. Just as these men and women who surround you are the last true Hands of the Goddess.”

Yup. A cult of Almalexia. Because who else would be trying to force their way into Mother Morrowind’s grave?

“I take it that this isn’t the usual kind of worship service, Matriarch.” Amara drawled. “Considering…” She shook at her bonds to emphasize her point. “So what’s the deal? Are you sacrificing to the goddess? Not exactly a traditional Tribunal practice…”

To her credit, Matriarch Drevlan barely even bristled. “And what would you know of the Goddess, child?” She asked calmly. “You look too young to remember the Red Year, much less the Old Tribunal.”

“My father kept the faith.” Amara shot back. “Ata was an old Hand too, but he wouldn’t be caught dead killing Ordinators or, ALMSIVI forbid, an innocent woman who got in the way!”

“ALMSIVI!” The matriarch sneered. “A pox on Vivec and Sotha Sil! The poet god is just as responsible for the Red Year as Azura is. And Sotha Sil hadn’t cared for any of us since millennia before his disappearance! We are worshippers of the Goddess. Almalexia! Mother, maiden, crone! The three in one! We are here, this night, at the center of Her power, to do Her will!”

There was a lot to unpack in Matriarch Drevlan’s ranting, but what alarmed Amara the most was where Drevlan claimed they were: at the center of Almalexia’s power.

Amara glanced down at the ashpit below her and paled, now knowing exactly where she was.

In life, the ashes below would have been skin of a golden hue.

The bones poking out of the ash would have belonged to a living god.

She was being suspended above the remains of Mother Morrowind herself.

“What do you want with me?!” Amara cried out as she struggled against her bonds. All to no avail.

“Can you kill a god?” Matriarch Drevlan replied, her crimson eyes glowing with magicka and malice in equal measure. “Even in the oldest legends, Lorkhan’s heart was merely torn out. His flesh divinity reduced to the moons above, but his spirit walks the face of Nirn. That is but merely one example. What reason is there to believe that something as mundane as death would shackle the Goddess?”

With a brief nod of Drevlan’s head, the chorus surrounding Amara began their chanting once more. The matriarch’s hands lit up with violet hued magic. The ashpit chamber, which up until now had been fairly dark save for the flickering of weak candles, lit up with runes and spell matrixes.

The air became filled with a pungent, sickly sweet smell. It was a smell that Amara was all too familiar with, having spent a good amount of time tending to the sick and wounded of countless battlefields. The scent of rot. The scent of death.

Oh no.

“No!” Amara cried out. Her voice cracked out of sheer desperation “Stop! This is blasphemy!”

“This is justice! This is a restoration!” Matriarch Drevlan shouted back fervently.

Amara was having none of it, though. “You would break one of our oldest laws! A law set down by the Tribunal themselves!”

“We would bring back our Goddess!” Drevlan cried. “You, child, will be the blood that fills Her veins! Your very essence broken down and remade in Her image! Rejoice! Your father would be proud! With your sacrifice, the Goddess will return to us!”

She’s crazy…, Amara thought despondently. There would be no getting through to Drevlan. No making her see sense. The elderly priestess was a fanatic. One that would stop at nothing to do what she thought was right.

Despite being deep underground, a wind began to pick up in the chamber, whipping at the robes of Drevlan and her followers. The runic lights intensified and Amara knew that she didn’t have much time. Though her head still throbbed and her magicka reserves were still recovering from her earlier bout, Amara’s hand lit up in flames. She wrapped her fingers around the ropes that secured her wrists and slowly burned a hole through them.

The ropes snapped and Amara tumbled face first into the ashpit of a god.

Amara internally swore up a storm as she lifted herself up, sputtering out ash and bone fragments. Her ankles were still bound by their own ropes, however, so she quickly made short work of them. Not once did Drevlan or any of her followers attempt to stop Amara. She soon discovered why as she stood up and bolted out of the ashpit… only to run face first into an invisible barrier of sorts.

No, no, no, no, no…

“Did you really think…” Matriarch Drevlan chuckled. “That we would go to all the trouble of tying you up with the intention of using you as a sacrificial conduit… and not ensure we had a backup in case you freed yourself?”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no…!

“Accept it, child,” Drevlan continued, “you’re about to become something so much greater than yourself.”

Amara sunk to her knees, devastation etched onto her young, ashen face. Was this how her story ended? Used as a sacrifice for some crazy bitch’s plan to revive a goddess? The worst thing was… were this any other circumstance, Amara wasn’t sure she would have opposed Drevlan’s plan.

She had been raised to worship the Tribunal, and Almalexia especially, from a young age. And as Amara got older and saw more of the world… the more disheartened she became about the state of her homeland. Devastated by the Oblivion Crisis, the Red Year, and the Argonian Invasion back-to-back-to-back. Amara had never known a Morrowind that wasn’t struggling.

In her heart of hearts, Amara yearned for the return of the Old Tribunal. She had never accepted the Reclamations. Drevlan’s plan had merit… Amara was just the poor sap that got captured and used as the sacrificial lamb.

Who would it have been if not her? One of the female Hands that she could just barely make out beyond all the intense, flashy magicka? She supposed it didn’t matter. There was nothing that could be done here.

If that were the case, then there was only one thing left to do. Amara had to fulfill her duty – the entire reason she had came to Mournhold and Almalexia’s tomb in the first place. Thankfully, her captors had not removed the small pack strapped to Amara’s hip. Had they searched it, they would have found something more precious than the old Hand armor that they all wore.

Amara reached into her bag and pulled out a single small finger bone. Even for how old it was, the bone was still in pristine condition. It had been her father’s most treasured possession and had taken great care of it. When he had passed, the duty had fallen to her. And that, hopefully, one day she could return it to where it belonged.

No matter what, that day was today.

And as the ritual neared its completion; as the chanting rose in volume in intensity; as the wind whipped wildly around and blew out all the candles… Amara grasped onto one of Almalexia’s middle phalanxes and prayed.

Then everything exploded.

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Drevlan Turala had lived a long and fruitful life in service to her Goddess. When the Nerevarine came and the Goddess vanished, Drevlan had been middle aged. Now? She was an old woman, and older every day. But her faith in the Goddess kept her strong. When everyone else had turned their backs on Almalexia, Drevlan had kept the faith. For more than two centuries now, she had wandered from settlement to settlement, doing her best to spread the good word.

Almost always she was chased out by New Temple s’wits; traitors to everything Morrowind stood for. It wasn’t until she settled on Solstheim in 4E 201 that she found any real success. There, at the edge of the world, she had been able to preach without worry. For what did House Redoran and the New Temple care for Solstheim? A worthless spit of land covered in ash and frost.

Oh, but not to her. There she slowly and steadily grew her flock. There she made a community of worshippers. And once she had the manpower and resources that she’d needed… she set about on her quest to bring back their Goddess.

Drevlan coughed and sputtered, for the air had filled with smoke and ash once the ritual had completed. Make no mistake – Almalexia’s resting place was more than a little disturbed now, but Drevlan doubted that the Goddess would mind. What use was an ancestral tomb when one was back amongst the living?

“Do you see anything?” Drevlan called out to her followers. The explosion had rattled them all, and truthfully the matriarch wasn’t sure what that was all about. That… wasn’t the effect that her ritual was supposed to have. Then again, Almalexia was a being of such phenomenal cosmic power… bringing her back was surely liable to cause some theatrics.

As the smoke cleared and the ash settled back down to the floor, Drevlan was able to make out a figure in the middle of the ashpit. A figure just… standing there.

“My lady, is that you…?” Drevlan asked hoarsely.

Soon the chamber settled enough that Drevlan was able to better see the mysterious figure. The matriarch hoped to see golden skin and hair like flames… but instead beheld gray, almost violet-hued skin and… magenta hair.

It was the Prisoner.

The Prisoner, the sacrifice, was virtually unharmed.

The ritual had utterly failed.

“How…?” Drevlan growled, her visage twisted in fury and confusion. “You shouldn’t be… What went wrong?!”

The Prisoner said nothing. Merely tilted her head and looked at Drevlan with… an almost bored sort of curiosity. Like she was mocking the matriarch.

That infuriated Drevlan more than anything.

The priestess snapped her fingers and gestured to her two nearest Hands. “Kill her.” Drevlan commanded. “I don’t know what went wrong. I’ll need to perform an autopsy on the body.”

Damn it all… it would be some time before they would be able to attempt the ritual again. No doubt the changing of the guards above would be soon… Having a Goddess with them was supposed to have mitigated the consequences of their actions, but that evidently wasn’t happening. It would be a long time before they had the access to the mausoleum necessary to try a revised ritual again.

To say that Drevlan was pissed would be an understatement. In fact, she was absolutely livid. The ritual must have been thrown off by something the Prisoner had done in the last moments… Oh, how she would enjoy watching her men cut down the little n’wah.

Two of her Hands approached the Prisoner, swords drawn and ready to cut her to ribbons. Still, the Prisoner did not move or even attempt to defend herself. She barely had any reaction at all, just an amused smirk on her young face. Like the professionals they were, Drevlan’s Hands went in for the kill immediately. In mere moments, Drevlan expected to be hearing the Prisoner’s screams as she was cut down.

Drevlan had not expected to hear the sickening crunch of a wrist being crushed.

The Prisoner had grabbed onto the arm of the Hand that swung at her, catching the blow and snapping the offending appendage like it was a weak kwama shell. Naturally, this caused the Hand to drop their sword, which the Prisoner deftly caught in their open hand.

Only then did the Prisoner speak once more. “Rusty, Vonos. Rusty.” Then they stabbed the Hand, Vonos Veri, through the heart.

As the former Hand of Almalexia dropped to the ground dead, Matriarch Drevlan only had one thought going through her mind: W-what?

The Prisoner turned towards the other Hand, who was now completely on guard. “I advise you rethink this course of action.”

Drevlan, watching this entire exchange go down, had other thoughts. “Don’t just stand there! Are you a Hand of the Goddess or not? Avenge your brother in arms!”

The Hand evidently took Drevlan’s words to heart, because he charged at the Prisoner with such strength and speed that even a mighty sword-singer of the Ra’Gada would have had trouble keeping u-

A scream pierced through the din of the chamber. The hand belonging to her Hand was tossed at Drevlan’s feet. The matriarch slowly glanced down at the offending appendage and then slowly glanced back up. The Prisoner made eye contact with her as the Prisoner slowly slit the throat of one of Drevlan’s finest warriors.

“I…” Drevlan murmured as she took a step back. “How? I received a report of your combat prowess from the Hand that knocked you out! You were not this strong!” The Prisoner’s crimson gaze seemed to pierce through her very soul and Drevlan took another step back. “And- and how did you know Vonos’ name?!”

The Prisoner tutted in disappointment. “A mother always recognizes Her children.”

What? That didn’t make any sense! Unless-

That was about as far as Drevlan’s last train of thought went. For now there was a blade sticking out of her throat. She… she hadn’t even seen the Prisoner move-!

The Prisoner, now standing immediately before Drevlan, grabbed onto the old matriarch’s straw-like gray hair and pulled their head back all to meet the Prisoner’s crimson gaze.

“Do not expect thanks for breaking one of My most sacred laws.” The Prisoner intoned. “Or for the needless slaughter of innocents. You will die, Matriarch. But you will die having given Me new life.”

There was a flash of steel and as Drevlan Turala’s lifeforce ebbed away from this world, she heard the Prisoner proclaim to the rest of the room, “Well? Is that all you have to offer?”

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Amara awoke with a start. Which was a surprise because she had never expected to wake again. Though, if she were to be completely honest, she wished she could curl back up and go back to sleep. There was an exhaustion that seemed to seep right into her bones. Her wrists and ankles were incredibly sore from being bound, and her head still throbbed from being knocked out earlier, and her limbs felt like jelly.

The last one she wasn’t too sure about. Maybe from the ritual or the… explosion…

…What had happened?

The last thing she remembered was praying to Almalexia and then… nothing. Poof. The next moment she was waking up and… right, crap, what was her status?

Amara sat up and scanned the room. It was still the same chamber, the one that contained Almalexia’s ashpit. But where were-

It was only her experiences during the Second Great War that enabled Amara to not retch.

The chamber was the site of a massacre. Blood was spattered everywhere, staining the very bones of the ashpit. Corpses and limbs were scattered about, haphazardly hacked to pieces. For all that the cult wore that fancy armor it hadn’t seemed to do them any favors. Not a single soul had been left alive.

But what… what had happened…? Who had done this?

I did.

Amara yelped, shooting up to her feet upon hearing the mysterious voice. She quickly scanned the room, trying to find the interloper, the monster that had slaughtered dozens and… saved her life.

Yes, please do focus on the positives.

“Stop that!” Amara cried out. “Stop… reading my mind! It’s creepy!”

A request I cannot grant.

“What do you mean you-” Amara huffed as she cut herself off and took a deep breath. “Then at the very least show yourself!”

Another request I cannot grant. Not unless you have access to a mirror.

“To a mirror…?” Amara muttered, looking down at her own hands. Her very blood-stained hands. This time she really did bend over and retch.

I cannot show Myself as I do not have My own form.

Panting, Amara wiped her mouth with her forearm, for all the good it did. “Your own form…” She mused, mulling over the strange voice’s words. She glanced back down at her hand and shuddered. “Do you mean…?”

Yes. I am inside of you.

“…The ritual?”

Correct.

“Fuck.”

This was fine, this was fine. The ritual meant to sacrifice her to bring back a goddess had instead thrust an apparently murderous spirit inside of her to use her body like a timeshare! This was all fine! Perfectly natural! Nothing to freak out over!

You are hyperventilating.

“I know!” Amara shouted, looking all the world like a crazy person having an argument with themselves. “I don’t… how do you expect me to respond?!”

A thank you would be sufficient.

“Thank you?!”

Yes. I took care of the cultists that were trying to kill you.

That was… a surprisingly fair point.

“Alright…” Amara muttered. “…Thanks. I guess I owe you one for that.”

I am glad you think so, for I agree. You do owe Me one.

A shiver went down Amara’s spine. She didn’t like the sound of that. But… she glanced once more around the room, this time finding the ruined corpse of the matriarch in charge of the whole thing.

“Guess you failed, huh…” Amara spoke to the corpse. “Can’t say that you deserved any less. It was either you or me…”

A fitting assessment. In life or death scenarios you must be ready to kill or be killed. Do not mourn her loss. She would not have mourned yours. In fact, she meant to rejoice in your demise.

“Yeah…” Amara muttered, standing back up straight. She patted herself down, making sure everything was still on her person. Everything was intact, except… “The bone’s gone… Guess it performed one last miracle.”

Amara could have sworn she heard feminine chuckling in the back of her head.

“Look… we can talk about this favor of yours later. For now, I think it would be best if we vacated the area. I don’t want to be around when the Ordinators come to investigate.”

Agreed. The less that they know of our presence the better. The time is too soon to reveal Myself.

“Which means you intend to do so eventually…” Amara noted sullenly. That bade well. “We’ll cross that bride when we get to it. For now… I’m sure you already knew this if you can read my thoughts, but I’m Amara.”

You’re right, I did. But it is a pleasure to properly meet you, Ra’athim Amara.

“H-Hey, don’t-!” Amara began to protest before cutting herself off. It wasn’t like the voice in her head could be heard by anyone else. “…Fine. I don’t like spreading my family name around, but if you’re going to be sticking around in my head for a while… And what should I call you, oh mysterious and deadly spirit?”

Ayem. You may call Me Ayem.

#;amara

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