An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I have been BUSY <3 This fills the writing prompt, Mushrooms.
And it's (melancholy) shippy shit with my new Morrowind OC, Drelayn! >:} Fic Universe Canon, and, btw, this is Teldryn's boyfriend during a great deal of the Nerevarine stuff.
(Technically we do also get a second OC, Drelayn's twin sister, now passed, Dravynea.)
I waffled a little over the ship, until I decided Drel would be here, now, in this moment, after Tel had to do some awful shit to finish filling a prophecy he doesn't believe in. Their paths are parallel in many ways. And Tel was not always as huge a mess as he is in World. This is, technically, before the fall.
A quick thank you to @paraparadigm, @changelingsandothernonsense and @snippetsrus for your endless support of these endeavors <3
~*~
New Light
Drelayn Uvelath looked over at Teldryn, sharp planes of his face made sharper by the light and the twisting, deep purple tattoos that snaked down under his collar. His hair was messy, sides overgrown, crest no longer able to keep its shape. The stubble he’d always been keen to shave away was growing in too, and he scratched at it absently. He was staring into the distance, the sun setting over Tel Vos, its enormous fungal tower peeking through severe, grey-stone Imperial architecture, goaded along by Telvanni magic.
Nerevarine.
The title felt strange to turn over in his mouth. It was a word tossed around by the Ashlanders, but nobody ever took it seriously. At least, not until now.
Drelayn scooted closer and leaned his shoulder against Teldryn’s, winding his fingers through his. He could feel the tension in them, under the bruises, the callouses. Under the ring, too—Moon-and-Star—whose enchantment buzzed like a distant hive of bees. He brought Teldryn’s hand up and kissed the back of it. That earned him a look, a tiny quirk of a smile. And then he was distant again, head full of plans. Fears. Doubts.
This was the last stop. Everything he’d been through, every deed done, and finally, Aryon would name him Hortator. And that would be that. A prophecy complete. Aside from the runs to Black Marsh he’d been doing for the Lamps, Drelayn had been here much of the way. He smiled to himself and watched as Teldryn hugged his knees to his chest with a sigh and rested his chin on them, making himself small. Always so melancholy. Always worried about the next step.
Drelayn had been there before, where every decision felt like the wrong one. Mercenary work was not for the soft. He’d built up walls, and let ice collect in his core, to numb the shock of having both no voice at all and the specific kind of power it took to hold other people’s lives in his hands. These jobs ranged from watching the blood drain from the neck of the otherwise-innocent, to recapture of…escaped assets. The work was cruel. And he’d gone cold enough that even when it all fell apart, and there wasn’t anything left tying him to Vvardenfell, he still felt nothing. He had been cruel. Before that, his twin sister had taken all of this in stride, and was able to compartmentalize the pieces of this life that made him ill. He often wondered how she’d managed. Sometimes, he still did.
Work is work. Sometimes you’ll have to make due even when it hurts, baby brother, she’d said. She was right. She’d always been. Don’t let it grind you down. -> Read the rest on AO3.
“Dram and I used to be something between asssociates and friends, but friends was… Subjective. We shared projects and ideas. Underwent transformations, physical and mental, together, if not for the trust of having someone else who knew what they were doing nearby. But something… Changed him, when reality tore over New Mournhold.
It was as if something took away a key part of what balanced him. He fell hard, and stopped listening to my warnings, then to me entirely. After threatening to destroy a Century for warning him of the consequences of playing with fire, we came to the decision he wouldn’t be coming back.
I’m not even sure if he sees what he’s doing anymore. In the simplest terms I can explain in, its as if he would destroy the cycle entirely just to grasp at that power he saw one more time. I fear for what would happen if, against the seemingly impossible odds, he succeeded.”
Feth laughs, nodding with a mirthful sort of grin to his features. “Hah! I remember running through the bazaar as a young child with a fist full of weekly allowance. Myself and a few other children from the area, all tearing through the streets while the guards shouted at us to slow down so we didn’t knock over anyone’s displays. There was a particular stall near the back walls that sold a flame-broiled skewer of guar-meat that was spiced with something borderline deadly. Had you crying and sniffling from every part of your bloody face and left a numbness that very well may have been poison for how long it lasted.
Didn’t stop me or the others from buying one every Fredas afternoon.”
Ferrin’s features light up with an expression of eager joy. “Oh, do I ever. Nothing can beat that burn up your nose that you can feel in your eyes and ears. Not to mention, it’s the only good way to preserve food for long travel if you don’t want to just salt it to Oblivion and back in a handbasket!”
Vier seems to give a so-so motion with their entire body, humming indecisively, “It... has it’s place I suppose, and I don’t mind spice, but it’s got to have a purpose. I don’t like spice for the sake of spice and I certainly don’t like spice for the sake of burning my tongue, it’s only got to add something to the meal. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Drelayn thought for a moment, as if it took him effort to recall. “When I was a child, to an extent. My mother made a soup in the colder months with a potent spice that had the curious effect of keeping you properly warm for hours, almost like the tingle of alcohol without the inebriation. Though after that all turned to dust… I stopped eating anything heavily spiced for a time. Perhaps it made me home-sick at first, but after a while I simply stopped thinking about it.
Ah… Well, not that I can actually eat regular food these days.”
Nchuanamz looks to try and hide an embarassed laugh with a rub of her neck. “Spicy food? I ah... don’t have much of a tolerance for it. I do enjoy it, still, but I’ve never been able to handle it at all.”
Spice - Do you like to cook? Do you cook often?
Feth returns a blank expression. “...I can burn water if I set it in a pot on the fire.”
Ferrin doesn’t even need to stop and think. “I do most of my cooking on the road, but it’s a perfect way to wind down the evening. I can preserve food as well, through spicing or salting it, and magically in some cases. It’s a great way to bring a bit of variety onto a long road that would otherwise be punctuated with breaks of nothing but hard-tack and dried mushrooms.”
Vier stares off into thought for a moment in consideration. “I cook for myself whenever I can- granted, I do live alone, and have trouble eating something if I don’t know exactly what’s in it. I would say I enjoy it, though; There’s something relaxing to it, ritual almost, and a reassuring thought that I can often make exactly what it is I need or want on a particular night if I care to put the effort into it.”
Drelayn rose a brow again. “I...don’t need to cook for myself these days, and Nuaane would rather make her own meals. I’m told I’m a decent cook, however, when I need to for whatever reason.”
Nchuanamz laughs a little, “I’m afraid I never quite got the hang of cooking- At least, anything that I didn’t learn when I was young. It’s hard to get some of the ingredients now, so I find the only thing I’m able to cook is breakfast.”
I had a discussion with a friend about the likeliness or circumstances for each of my characters to commit murder, and I think this is what we found.
Drelayn is disarmingly calm and I’m not sure if many non-morrowind-living people would think of him with much suspicion, but if he thinks your death will be to a long-term overall benefit, he probably wouldn’t have thought twice. If it’s of particular weight this might even outweigh friendships- It has, twice, in the past, though he doesn’t enjoy it or think that he’s absolved of any fault or wrongdoings. He’s fully aware that there’s blood on his name, and doesn’t try to hold moral high ground over it.
Ferrin has only killed in a kill-or-be-killed immediate circumstance. He’s just.... too gentle. He would, however, not be above turning a blind eye to someone else committing a murder if it was particularly justified.
Feth, surprisingly, is relatively clean, up until 4E 207 where he carves a considerable trail of blood through Vigilants of Stendarr and Imperial soldiers both. Granted, in his mind, it was absolutely warranted, but you’d really need to push him over the edge to spur him into such a thing.
Vier is the mer in the corner of the tavern that threatens a drunkard harassing them with “I’ve killed over less.” The thing is they absolutely meant it, and put a concerning amount of planning, effort and detail into it each time. They know they’re rather unassuming and disarming, and in cases of corruption and certain traits or actions they would find despicable, that unassuming guise works startlingly to their advantage.
Nchuanamz has only killed once in cold-blood, a circumstance I’ve already written about once or twice before. Not a very crowning moment of glory. Nchuanamz isn’t one for violence and murder. She’d rather talk it out or otherwise out-wit them.
Don't chase the rabbit, Drelayn. [Lets look into his ashlander youth!]
“Yenshah-Pal, go find your sister! Dinner’s nearly ready.”
The young boy was startled from his daydreams by his mother’s voice. He quickly jumped up to his feet to respond, but she’d already disappeared back inside. He closed his mouth with a small huff as he swallowed his words, and turned to depart, running down the path through the camp, then out past the threshold. He darted past the guard keeping watch on the roads, and off into the wilds of the Grazelands.
The terrain was easy for him to traverse. He knew the lands like the back of his hand, like any self-respecting Ashlander did. To know to avoid the more aggressive wildlife, how to find or make an impromptu shelter in an ash-storm- It was all second nature. He grew lost in thought as he wandered through a tangle of brambles and twisted fungi, making his way to the coast where he knew his sister would be.
She probably lost track of time looking for shells again, he thought. As he drew near, the salt-breeze began to greet him. It caressed his cheeks and left a pleasant, fresh scent behind. It was faint at first, a whisper, but soon turned into a warm and welcome embrace. A “welcome back,” as he reached the sandy beach proper, and felt his feet sink into the sun-warmed grains. He had to stop just to breathe, to appreciate it all.
His eyes snapped back open as he felt something small and hard smack the back of his head. He let out a sharp cry borne more of surprise than pain, but it smarted, and he clapped his hand to the back of his head to nurse it as he looked around for the source.
Amasibbi-Yan. Of course. There she stood up on a little rocky pillar, bits of driftwood piled in front of her. That must have been what she threw at him. Her hands were propped onto her hips proudly, beaming at her brother as he pouted back at her. So certain was she in her little victory! She shut her eyes to dramatically proclaim her triumph to an invisible audience, grinning ear to ear, until Yen took the moment to pitch the scrap of driftwood back up at her.
Thwack. It nailed her in the forehead, where she stopped mid-sentence, mouth forming a surprised “o” as she processed what happened. She quickly matched his wide grin with a mischievous curl of her own, and at once she had skipped from the rocks to the sand. Yen took off for the water’s edge, Sibbi hot on his tail, but both laughing raucously as they wound around the beach.
Yen had entirely forgotten about the time. They had run through the foam and the tides for what felt like hours, playing without a care in the world until the sun was so low in the sky that it lit the entire sea a brilliant, glowing gradient of orange and red.
Their mother would scold them, but they both knew that it was worth it.
