*Gives Anaril a sketch of a saber cat wearing a troll costume.*
The vampire had to resist the urge to laugh, and fought back the smile from his lips. The crude drawing of an impossible scene had a childish air to it that honestly reminded him of his youngest siblings....
“......” Anaril quietly folded up the sketch, and tucked it into the bag hung over his shoulder.
When your twin disapproves of you living in a cave on the other side of the province and drinking deer blood to survive instead of just coming home and asking for help like a mature adult elf.
Send me a number and I’ll write a drabble about my muse’s past
((Random number generator picks…Anaril.))
The College of Winterhold was willing to overlook many things in the pursuit of knowledge. Necromancy, spontaneous combustion, self-experimentation, etc. Much of the institution’s history was written in swirls of sooty scorch marks, salt, and the sweat of a hard day’s work.
But murder drew a hard line in blood.
In the hands of a powerful mage, a Fear spell could be just as lethal as any blade. As confident as he was in his own abilities - bordering on arrogance, some would have said - Anaril had never imagined himself capable of killing someone. Let alone a classmate.
And when he had, it hadn’t even been intentional.
But intentions didn’t matter. His Breton classmate had still thrown himself from the College bridge in the throes of a terrified hallucination, and Anaril was guilty for it, as surely as if he had pushed the man himself. None had been awake to witness their fight, but the Altmer had fled nonetheless. He hadn’t dared return to the room he shared with his twin, and left carrying with him nothing but what he’d taken upon waking for that ill-fated duel at the college gates.
Gladroon slept as heavy as a mountain, but he had an uncanny ability to know when his closest sibling was distressed. Anaril couldn’t bear to entangle his brother in the tragedy he’d wrought upon himself...
...and a part of him dreaded to see such disgust and hatred etched into the mirror of his own face.
Now gone were the nights spent enclosed by tower walls, warm and safe and but a stone’s throw away from family and friends at the worst of times. The walls that sheltered him now were rough hewn, cold, and constantly dripping with some form of slime or water. The voices echoing from the next chamber were no family, and he scoffed to even call them ‘friends’. They were criminals. Monsters.
Nothing more than what he deserved.
Another shout echoed through the cave, followed by a loud CLANG that made the Altmer flinch. Alone in the alcove he’d claimed for his own, Anaril scowled at the flickering torchlight beyond his simple bearskin ‘door’, and pulled his ratty blanket further over his head. Why couldn’t those idiots just settle their differences in silence?
It was nearly noon. Some of them were trying to sleep...
((Rough sketch of Anaril - twin brother of Gladroon, elder brother of Tarene, and vampire who’s 160% done with (un)life in general.
He was an Adept at the College of Winterhold until he accidentally fear-spelled his classmate into jumping off the bridge, ran away to the Rift in a panic, and fell victim to a fledgling-hoarding vampire. Eventually, he managed to kill his captor and escape, but by then, it was too late to shrug off the curse.))
((This was supposed to be a short character introduction post but became a short story instead. Consider it a present, a thanks to you loyal readers, and a form of apology for not writing for so long. I hope you enjoy it!))
It had started as a fairly simple job. Help a woman with the skeevers infesting her basement. The things, though ugly as sin, fell easily to the iron mace, and Relvin was careful not to get bitten, clawed or to have their blood on his skin lest it spread disease. He wore a grey-green, striped scarf over his mouth for more protection, making sure no foul vapours could enter his throat and poison his lungs. It might seem like overkill, but he would not fall to some stupid rats and whatever filth they could spread. He returned to the woman, mace bloody in his hand, and received his reward. If things went on like this, soon he'd be able to pay off Keerava and Talen-Jei.
She came back two weeks later, complaining that she'd paid good money for a job half done, and Relvin agreed to follow her into the basement again, finding five more of the vermin. They fell like grass to the sickle, and in the brightness of the two lanterns the woman carried into the basement, he noticed what seemed like tracks. Leading out, out to her garden and into the forest.
He was nothing if he was not true to his word, and so he promised to find the nest and root them out, upon his honour. Nothing to ruin a man's career and future like being thought of as dishonest and a liar. She'd made a suggestion that there might lie a few septims in it for him too if he completed this task, and how can you turn away the offer of gold for beating some stupid rats in a burrow somewhere?
The peat and moss were soft underneath his feet, and the soft mist turned the golden-red leaves of the birches into blurred flames in the distance. The nest was easy to find. The skeevers had burrowed underneath a fallen pine tree, the upturned roots the teeth of a gaping maw or long stringy knotted fingers, exactly the thing mothers warn their children of crawling under. He'd brought some pork trimmings from the inn to lure them out, but found he needn't have bothered as they all scrambled out to fight him anyway, grey-brown furs matted with filth and hideous boils on their skin. It was good that he had his scarf to cover his mouth and nose, and new fur gloves to protect his hands from blood and claws and teeth, as these things were positively crawling with filth and disease. They were not hard to kill. He felt slightly bad about killing the young ones, but realized that anything with those kinds of boils that would crawl from its mother's teat to claw and bite and screech was a danger and not to be left alive.
After the deed was done, he took out a small birchwood jar from his pack. This one had been a bit difficult to get, given that there simply is no way for anyone to ask for cat piss without sounding fairly mad. However, he had finally gotten it when the woman had stopped laughing, fresh from the source as he'd happened upon her cat relieving itself in her garden. He'd scooped up the dirt and put it in the jar, and now spread it around and inside the rat nest. This was a trick he'd learnt in Windhelm, that the rats would not go near any nest that smelled as though a cat had been near. Of course, the Nords managed to twist the news of rat-free houses in the Grey Quarter into a rumour suggesting that the Dunmer ate the rats.
As he walked back to Riften for his reward, he found a small camp. A fur and leather tent, the remnants of a small campfire, some wood chippings. He stood, half-crouched and ready to run for it, listening for signs of the camp owner (owners?), looking through the mist for any signs of movement. Nothing. The camp was abandoned. The campfire had been put out for quite some time judging by the looks of things, and an arm's length away laid a pile of ash with shards of bone peeking out. Whoever owned the camp must be from somewhere up north, where people burnt their trash because the frozen ground was impossible to dig in. The smallest child would know that you either burn or bury it, lest animals are attracted to the scent and visit your camp. There were many wild pheasants and rabbits in these woods, so the ash pile was probably just the refuse from someone's breakfast.
Taking one deep breath and reminding himself that he had a mace at his hip and the comforting weight of a crossbow and good steel bolts on his back, he went inside the tent. Not much there, a bedroll, a small backpack, a collection of food, and... oh, yes, a small stack of books. Nothing on the covers, though. Could they be journals?
He shouldn't have done it, so of course he did. Relvin picked one of the books at random and went back outside to read it. If they really were journals, perhaps he'd learn where this particular bandit planned to strike next, or the reason a hunter from the north set up camp near Riften, or whatever reason the camp owner might have for camping here. He nudged the ash pile with his foot and discovered a piece of chainmail amongst the ash. Recoiling in horror, he almost dropped the book he was holding. Chainmail. Armour. He had stepped upon a body, burnt to ash. It had to be, unless the rabbits had discovered blacksmithing. Shivers ran down his spine and he decided to read the book instead, to distract himself. The last-used page spread fell open, saving him the trouble of skimming through the book.
“Some bandits. Easily taken care of. The ruins nearby though, they might be tough. Learning can be so joyful and yet so difficult.”
There were no date markings in the journal, just some kind of strange symbols he could not read.
“It’s strange how the locals regard me with suspicion. I was born here. I am as much of Skyrim as they are. Yet they assume. Still, they gave me some help, more than I’ve gotten from certain people.”
As he read, he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and every hair on his body raised up. He heard a noise too, almost too quiet to be heard at all, but it was enough to startle him. He spun around, holding the book like some sort of makeshift shield, his other hand reaching for his mace, readying himself for a fight.
Standing there, perhaps two paces away from him, was a robed figure with a fireball in one hand, poised and ready for attack. Altmer, judging from the golden skin and pointed mer features.
“Explain yourself. Now. Any sudden movements and you’ll taste fire. Understood?” The Altmer’s voice rang out, clear, as though all other sounds of the forest had been silenced. Relvin’s heart beat like a drum inside his chest, and his hands felt as though stung by a myriad silver needles.
“Muthsera, please, don’t hurt me”, Relvin rasped, his throat dry.
“Did I mention my patience is quite limited?” As the Altmer said this, the flame in his hand sparked and crackled wildly, sending strange shadows over his face.
“D-don’t hurt me, please, I meant no harm! I thought there might be bandits and just had to take a look, is all!”
“Good one. Do continue, sera”, the Altmer said, his pronunciation of the word sera sounding stilted and strange.
Relvin slowly bent down to put away the book and just as slowly stood up again, showing his open palms to the mage before him.
“See, no weapons. Look, if you’re going to rob me then go ahead, I’ve got nothing on me worth your while anyway.” It was true. All he carried was the iron mace he’d bought back in Windhelm, his crossbow heavy on his back, his all-too-light coinpurse, the small jar of cat piss, the iron knife for daily use, some grilled rutabaga wrapped in birchwood bark, a tinderbox and of course the locket. The ALMSIVI carved in Daedric writ inside the locket would probably mean little to an Altmer. He might be able to sell it on the market but it wouldn’t be worth killing for. The weapons were decent but not really worth a whole lot anyway, and what use would a mage with fire at his fingertips have for some Nord-forged iron, anyway? As Relvin stood there, he felt a strange calm envelop him as he calculated the risk of his own death. Unusual. Not the typical heady mix of fear, anger and bloodlust that he usually felt when being robbed, beaten or threatened by thugs.
“All right, let’s say I believe you. Let’s say I trust you. Let us pretend, for a while. Why are you here, Dunmer?”
“I… Like I said, I was just l-looking. Thought there might be bandits nearby, that this was their camp. Please, just let me go in peace.”
The Altmer looked at him through narrowed eyes shining like glowbugs, lit by the fireball in his hand, his expression unreadable, and gave but a small nod as an answer.
“I’m sorry I read your journal, I was curious and I’m sorry. You killed the bandits, didn’t you? W-with your fire. I promise you, I am no threat.” If he kept talking, maybe it would help. He wasn’t sure if he could stop talking now that he’d started, words just kept pouring out of his mouth like rushing water.
The Altmer’s expression changed, something shifted in his eyes, and the flame in his hand died out in a flourish of smoke.
“I understand. My apologies. You know how it is, can’t be too cautious in these parts and these times, eh?”
Relvin blinked a few times. Relief filled him from head to toe and he felt a strange urge to start laughing.
“Thank you! It’s all right, I know how it must have looked. Are you new here? There’s a city not too far from here, Riften, in case you didn’t know.” The last part was probably pushing it. The man was an Altmer, of course he’d know about Riften, they live long lives. But he felt giddy with relief and could not stop himself.
“Oh, Riften? I have heard of it, but I’ve never really been there. I came here in search of a cave, as I’d read there was interesting magical phenomena going on nearby it and I thought that there might be some sort of magical artefacts inside. This is my first time in Riften Hold, you see, do you know these parts?” The Altmer smiled slightly as he started speaking of the cave, all previous hostility forgotten.
“No, I’m new here too. I work in Riften, though. It’s a decent town, it’s good to get away from the cold for a while. I must warn you, however: the Thieves’ Guild are holed up there and you’ll notice that very, very soon. Pickpockets, good old-fashioned robbery at knifepoint, things like that. Some utter bastards even take advantage of innocent mer enjoying a bit of drink.” Even the memory of it, the embarrassment mingling with the hangover and the sinking dread of finding out his coinpurse was missing, was enough to make him grimace.
“Hmm, that does sound unpleasant, I’ll remember to keep my eyes open while I’m there. I just have to ask, though: are you, by any chance, a practicioner of the arcane arts?”
“Oh. No, I’m afraid I’m not, never really been much for magic, if that is what you mean.”
“Ah, I see. Don’t the Dunmer have some affinity for fire magic, though, or have I been mistaken? I’ve not known many Dunmer, you see. In fact, you’re the first mer I’ve spoken to in quite some time.”
“Oh, that. Yes. There is that. Fire runs in our blood, just as ash colours our skin. You can see the red flames in the colour of our eyes.” His mother would remind him of this whenever he complained of being called a grey-skin, that he should wear this name with pride as it was just a foolish Nord’s word for its true meaning: a child of Morrowind, borne of ash and flame and as strong and hardy as the land from where they came. That nothing would take that away from him, and nobody should make him feel less for it, especially not some filthy ice barbarian. “As we carry flames within us, fire has a gentler touch upon us than it does for the other races. That’s what my mother used to say, anyway.” He almost heard her voice as he spoke, using her words as closely as he could remember them. He wished he had her way with words. Perhaps it would come with age, Moraelyn seemed to know just what words to use as well.
The Altmer smiled a lopsided grin and ran one hand through his hair, looking at the ground.
“You know, now I feel a bit silly for threatening you with a fire spell. Would it even have singed your eyebrows if it had hit, do you think? Have you tested this ability before, do you know more about how this resistance works? Is it all fire, or just magefire?” He took one step closer to Relvin, his eyes bright and the excitement clear in his voice. “Again, forgive me if I am too inquisitive, perhaps even nosy, it’s just that I haven’t been able to ask anyone about these things before.” Relvin thought that perhaps it had been a very long time indeed since the Altmer had talked to another person. Cabin fever, a terrible thing.
“I… Well, it’s pretty useful when I work, I can handle heated pots and things in the kitchen without burning my hands, I suppose. But no, I don’t know any more about how these things work. As a general rule, I try to avoid getting set on fire by mages. Sure, it might take you a bit longer, but eventually I’m sure you’d have burnt me to a crisp as well.”
“Good to know, I suppose. You said you worked in Riften, correct? Do you know if they have a library of some sort, perhaps a bookstore, or perhaps some kind of store of magical supplies? I’m running low on fire salts, so it would be a nice opportunity to restock. I suppose that’s more alchemy than magic, though, technically speaking…” The Altmer muttered something below his breath, possibly about the nature of magic or alchemy.
“You do realize that despite the weather, we are still in Skyrim, right? Nords are not known for their willingness to read. I suppose the Jarl would have a court mage, and I know there’s an alchemy shop on the lower level of town, near the sewer gates, but I haven’t visited. I work at the Bee and Barb, the inn. It’s a pretty good place, rooms are decently priced, food’s good, no lice. There’s also this place called the Bunkhouse, run by some Nord woman, but though it may sound like a good place to sleep it’s better if you’re there for, ah, entertainment purposes. They have a small shop where they sell freshly-brewed Blackbriar mead at the brewery, but it’s quite expensive. Lots of mer work there, though, if you tire of Nords.”
“Well, I’m not much for mead, though the alchemy shop sounds interesting. And I’ll probably need some place to sleep once I visit, so I’ll remember the Bee and Barb. It would be good to sleep in a proper bed for once instead of a bedroll…” The Altmer smiled at Relvin again. “Oh, and before I forget, what is your name? Mine’s Anaril, and I figure it would be best to introduce myself, even if we got off to a rough start.”
“Anaril. Pleased to meet you, sera. My name is Relvin Meru. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a reward to collect. You know, since you don’t really know these parts, would you like to tag along to Riften? It’s nice to meet another mer. Thank you for not burning me, by the way.”
