All of Dhamari's current outfits in ESO (ten slots is not enough I need more I beg). It's interesting to see the patterns and preferences that emerge when they're all laid out together. For colours, he favours blues, greys, browns, sometimes purples. Stylistically he can go with either short or long sleeves, but always long pants, and he vastly prefers to have his toes free, with an inclination towards Khajiit or generally cat-like foot-wear (something something he's actually a feral cat in sea elf form). He doesn't like flowy fashions OR bulky armour - mobility is extremely important. And he ALWAYS has his wrists covered to hide the scars on them.
A couple of Dhamari backstory vignettes I started writing over four years ago, and finally got around to finishing! They're meant to be just little glimpses, nothing super encompassing or polished. Written from Ilvedran's (Dhamari's father) POV. No, I don't have a better title (and this one's funny).
I don’t know what I would do without S’riba. Years ago she appointed herself the unofficial caretaker of all the Khajiit cubs on the island, and now she watches over them while their parents and older siblings tend to the other facets of their lives.
I still wonder what she must have thought, when I brought my own child to her and nearly begged for her help in rearing him. She cannot have been impressed - there I was, a lone Dark Elf, still half out of my mind with grief and barely able to keep hold of this squirming bundle of scales and teeth that I claimed as my son. But really, what else was I to do? I hardly knew how to be one parent, and after Sirral’s death I was in no position to be two.
Perhaps S’riba knew that, and took pity on me. She never said anything, and at the time I was too grateful to question any of it. One day, perhaps, I’ll ask her why.
Still, even her experienced care didn’t stop me from worrying. Khajiit cubs are one thing - half Maormer offspring are quite another. “Cubs are cubs,” said she, with a dismissive wave, “whether they have fur or skin or tails or tusks,” and she sounded so confident that I almost believed her. But even that couldn’t entirely assuage my anxieties. I think that must be a natural part of being a parent - worrying that your own child, in particular, will be the exception.
So every day, after my duties at the embassy were complete - as complete as these things ever are - I would hurry down to the cove where S’riba kept watch over the youngest of the cat-folk, plus one. It was easy to pick out mine from the others - he was the only toddler without fur, a flash of bluish grey amidst a tussle of browns and reds and tawny golds.
S’riba smiled easily at me from her perch on a massive pile of cushions, where she sat grooming one of her charges. I gave her a nod in reply before turning my attention ahead. Several of the little Khajiit, as well as my son, were engaged in a game of some kind. The object was not obvious to me, but it involved a fair amount of throwing shells at one another and then seeing who could pounce on them first.
As I watched, a scuffle broke out, and suddenly the air rang with high mewls and hisses. I suppose my alarm must have showed on my face, because before I could shout out, S’riba was beside me, towering over me as she laid a calming hand atop my head.
“Be easy, five-claw. This is but simple play.”
“Suppose one of them gets hurt?” I stammered out. It wasn’t difficult to figure out which ‘one of them’ I meant. I ducked this way and that, trying to make out what was going on; a challenge, with sand flying in every direction.
“Hurt is a natural part of life,” she answered. “Better that they know its feel now, and then know that it will be tended and will pass, yes?”
My brow scrunched dubiously as she went on, “They shall come to no lasting harm, and in the process they shall learn of boundaries and consequences.” She shook her head. “You mer - you teach these things in the mind, but not the body. You should trust S’riba. The Khajiiti way is a far better one.”
A loud yelp sounded from the roil of bodies and sand, and the children broke apart, tumbling in all directions. S’riba and I both frowned as an odd smell of scorched fur reached us. We exchanged an uncertain look, and then hurried forward.
“Enough, enough.” S’riba waved her arms, shooing several of the little Khajiit farther up the beach. “Go and build a sand hut, that will keep you busy. J’aato, let this one have a look at you.”
While she saw to the cubs, I went over to where my own offspring was crouched on the damp sand. His fin-like ears were pinned back, and he looked ready to spring, so I promptly scooped him into my arms before he could initiate further trouble.
I glanced carefully over my shoulder before saying lowly, “Dhamari, what did you do?”
My son merely growled a few times and then finished with a wet hiss. I sighed. “Dhem, use your words for Ata.”
Being raised among the Khajiit had its drawbacks; the cat-folk are much more reliant upon body language and raw vocalisations, and I often found myself frustrated when Dhamari fell back on those methods of communication. It was natural for him, growing up with only Khajiit for peers, but still I worried that his language skills would not develop as they should. For someone in my field of work, words are more than words - they are carefully crafted tools, to be wielded with as much effect and precision as any other implement. And in my mind, it was imperative that my son should learn to do so.
I adjusted my hold, turning him around in my arms so that I could look him in the eyes. The liquid void of those eyes stared back. Dark, like my own; but instead of being confined to the iris, the blackness stretched from corner to corner, filling the entirety of the visible eye, in what I assumed was a hereditary twist on a filmy Maormer gaze.
“Dhamari,” I said, stern this time. “What happened?”
Dhamari’s nose scrunched. “J’aato tried to take my shell,” he sulked. “I won, it was mine.”
I exhaled a patient breath - an all too familiar sound since my son had started walking. Trouble seemed to follow him like a storm cloud.
“And what did you do?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice light and reasonable.
Dhamari bared his teeth ever so slightly. “I sparked him,” he replied, with a definite note of triumph.
Faintly alarmed by this answer, I set him down on the sand again. “What do you mean, you ‘sparked’ him?” I asked quickly, and then added, “Show me.”
Either Dhamari was too young to detect my concern, or he simply didn’t care. His small face scrunched in concentration as he extended his hands in front of him. The air around his fingers seemed to fizzle, and then a thin jolt of lightning seared the ground between our feet.
I could barely restrain myself from leaping back in my own version of shock. “Where did you learn to do that?” I gasped.
Dhamari crouched down, prodding at the now glassy surface of the burnt sand. “I didn’t learn it. I just did it.” He glanced up at me, and grinned. “It’s fun.”
His easiness troubled me. Not his declaration of ‘fun’ on its own; more that I had never heard of such an obvious affinity for destruction magic manifesting in a child this young. Not only that, but he already seemed to have some measure of control over his abilities. This was not the willful expulsion of a child’s tantrum, but something more directed. Deliberate.
I let out a long breath to calm myself. Getting down on one knee, I took my son gently by the shoulders.
“Dhem. Look at Ata.”
Obediently, Dhamari raised his head from his sand inspection. Once I was sure I had his attention, I went on sternly, “You are not to ‘spark’ anyone from now on, understand? If you are upset with J’aato, or Buree, or any of the other children, you must use your words to tell them. That way they will know you don’t like something, and they will not do it again.”
Just then, a long shadow fell across both of us. I craned my head around, and gave a slight start of surprise when I saw Massoch standing over my shoulder. I’d been so caught up in my son’s unnerving display that I hadn’t even heard the Sea Elf captain stroll up behind me.
Massoch was not one of the inhabitants of Khenarthi’s Roost, nor officially attached to any of the Maormer ships that patrolled the surrounding waters. Rather, he was a self-professed ‘privateer’ who made frequent trips to the island, finding it a convenient port from which to enact his own trade endeavors.
He and I had struck up a friendship not long after I came to the island. Contrary to several warnings I had been given regarding the demeanour of the Sea Elves, I found him to be patient and intelligent, with a certain offhand, acerbic wit that proved a welcome change from the suffocating snootiness of the Dark Elves. Another point in his favour was his disdain, unlike many of the Maormer, for engaging in the slave trade. This tradition, shared by my own people, has never sat well with me, and it was a relief to find him of a similar mind. Perhaps not actively opposing the practice of slavery - but at the very least, sidestepping it on his own ship.
“What’s this I hear about sparking?” Massoch asked me easily. He was picking at his teeth with a sliver of fish bone, presumably having just finished his snack of its flesh.
I pursed my lips, and got to my feet. “Dhamari was just showing me a bit of…” I hesitated, then finished uncertainly, “Magic. Shock magic.” I lowered my voice, and went on, “I am no expert in such things, but it seems far too soon for a child to be displaying such abilities. Unless they can manifest earlier in your people?”
I could hear the question in my own voice, perhaps even a hope. I wanted Massoch to nod, and say that this was quite normal for Sea Elf children, and have him brush away all my concerns.
Instead, the tip of Massoch’s frilled ear twitched curiously where it protruded from the waves of his white hair. “Shock magic, eh?” he repeated, casually flicking away the fish bone. “That’s not so unusual. We Maormer have a strong affinity for weather magic of all kinds. I thought you’d know that by now, Vedran.” I saw the briefest glint of teeth as he smiled sardonically.
I was in no mood for his teasing. “But he’s so young,” I pressed the point. I glanced down at Dhamari again. Content to let the grown-ups have their conversation, my son had returned to his inspection of the glazed sand, and was now scratching some aimless design into its surface with his fingernail. I tapped on Massoch’s elbow and drew him a few steps away.
“There are days when he struggles to even speak properly,” I finished, out of Dhamari’s earshot. “And yet this magic seemed nearly thoughtless.”
“He has strong instincts,” Massoch replied, seemingly unconcerned. “That is a good thing. Oftentimes, out there on the waves, your instincts are all you have, and you must rely on them.”
My lips pursed. “Not if that instinct is to attack first, and think second,” I hissed back, as quietly as I could. “And over a mere shell? A toy, a trinket? This is not something I want to encourage.”
“It’s not something you want to smother, either,” the Maormer replied, a little more sharply. He glanced over towards Dhamari, and his head crooked in thought, an almost snake-like movement. “If such storm magic is appearing this early, it means that its currents run deep in him. Suppressing it, containing it - that may even work, for a while. But sooner or later that storm will break, and there’s no telling the damage that would do to him. Physically and emotionally.”
Hearing this, I sucked in a breath of dismay. I stood there for several moments, gnawing at my lip as I watched Dhamari, who was still picking contentedly at the sand he’d hardened. As with most situations involving my son, I felt vastly out of my depth. I was versed in some magics, but my knowledge was rooted in the Alteration and Illusion schools; my own Destruction spellcasting was limited to the flames that were standard for many Dunmer mages.
But Massoch - he was an accomplished sorcerer, far more experienced in offensive techniques than I. Surely he would be able to provide some guidance for a budding storm mage.
So I turned to him again, making no effort to conceal the plea on my face.
“Can you help him?” I asked. “Show him how to use his magic. Teach him how to control it.”
Massoch’s tongue glided across his pointed teeth as he considered me, and my request.
“Perhaps,” he answered at length. “I’d like to test him first. Get a measure of his power.”
Mild alarm rose within me again. “Test him?” I echoed quickly. “How?”
Massoch flashed me a measured smile. “Nothing dangerous, I promise you.” He shook his head lightly, going on, “Fatherhood has certainly had its effect on you, Vedran. You’re so easily flustered these days.”
Pinching at the bridge of my nose, I released a lengthy sigh. To my ears it sounded more like a groan.
“I am learning how much I don’t know about children.” Another sigh, softer, brought on by the ghost of an ache not yet laid to rest. “I wish Sirral were still here. She was so eager to have a child. I know she would be so much more adept at rearing him.”
Massoch laid a hand on my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.
“I miss her as well,” he said lowly. “She was as close to me as family. But - I think she would be happy to know that you are carrying on her legacy.”
I nodded silently to this. Scant comfort, perhaps, next to the weight of a dead spouse; but comforting to me nonetheless.
Massoch gave my shoulder a couple of light pats before brushing past me. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he strode off. “Wait here.”
In short order he returned, and held out his hand to me. Resting there was a palm-sized coin of coral, intricately carved with serpents and concentric rings of the undulating Maormeri script.
“This is a Pyandonean weather disc,” explained Massoch. “Our sailors use them to gauge the intensity of a storm, to judge whether or not it would be safe to set sail with a tempest brewing.”
I lifted my eyes from my examination of the disc. “Aren’t you the ones who brew them?” I pointed out drily.
Massoch smiled briefly, another glint of teeth. “Sometimes. But even an unnatural storm cannot always be predicted, or controlled.”
“And you think you can… gauge Dhamari’s storm abilities, using this?” I asked, nodding to the object in question.
He returned my nod without hesitation. “Not precisely its intended purpose, but I think it should give us a general idea of his power.” Swivelling on his heel in the sand, he called out.
“Dhamari! Come over here for a moment.”
My son had moved on from scratching in the sand to sculpting it, patting wads of it into the shape of some not-immediately-identifiable creature. He took the time to solemnly prod two holes into it with his finger - eyes, I assumed - before rising and trotting over to us. He said nothing as he stood there, looking up at us, but one frilled ear tilted expectantly.
Still slightly apprehensive, I watched as Massoch bent and set the weather disc on the ground in front of my offspring. “Dhamari,” he said. “Show me what you just showed your Ata. Try to shock the disc.” He straightened again, stepped back, and to me he added, “The more it glows, the more potent the storm inside him.”
I wasn’t truly surprised when Dhamari did not even look at me for permission. I was the stolid, overbearing father; Massoch was the free-spirited and encouraging foster uncle, and I could see that my son was eager to show off his ‘spark’ for him.
Once more Dhamari extended his hands, and several threads of lightning gathered about his tiny fingers. He twisted his hold, and the air spat with sudden moisture as a thin cone of lightning jolted the disc at his feet. This time the torrent lasted several moments, and when it fizzled out, the smell of burnt sand was tinged with petrichor.
Grinning, Dhamari shook out his hands and looked up at me. Exhilaration danced in the darkness of his eyes.
“Like that? Did I do it right?”
Massoch answered before I could wrench my mouth open. “Just like that, my little sea viper,” he chimed. He ducked deftly forward to retrieve the weather disc from within the small cloud of smoke that hung near the ground, and held it out for me to see.
Only the outer circle of runes was passive; virtually every other marking on the coral pulsed with a fierce, blue-white glow. I swallowed, feeling my stomach turn over with a strange unease I could not explain.
But Massoch smiled. “And now we know. Dhamari is clearly gifted, Ilvedran. The Great Storm is with him.”
I dragged my attention from my son to Massoch, and shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means,” I said.
Massoch only laughed a little. “Just an old Pyandonean saying,” he replied readily. “When such magic comes easily to a mer.”
“So you can help him?” I pressed. I needed to know that Dhamari would have guidance, that he would not become overwhelmed by this potent magic inside him.
“I can,” said Massoch, nodding as he tucked the weather disc away. He laid one hand on Dhamari’s little head, and clapped my shoulder firmly with the other.
“Don’t you worry, my friend.” His marbled eyes held me confidently. “I’ll teach him everything he needs to know.”
*****
One Year Later
The wine had been tainted. A single glass in the evening before retiring, as was my custom, should never have laid me out so heavily.
But there was a sour taste on my tongue as it scraped round the dry cavern of my mouth, and I could feel my mind struggling to surface from beneath a quagmire of sedative. Pushing myself upright from my bed caused my head to pulse unpleasantly. But somehow I found my footing, and groped my way across the darkened room to the dresser.
As I dredged my hands through the basin sitting there, dashing cool water onto my face, I tried for a moment to make some sense of it. Who would have cause to drug me? Why a simple sedative, and not a poison? My groggy senses could not offer an answer.
I wet my mouth with a hasty palmful of water, trying to expunge the aftertaste, and then hurried to check on my son. He slept in a corner of our small apartment, screened off from the rest of the room, so that if I were to stay up late into the night, with my work or with a book, the candlelight would not disturb him.
No more than a pace or two from the wooden divider, I stepped on something sharp. Sucking in a hiss of pain, I snapped a small flame into my hand, and under its wavering light I bent to examine the floor.
Scattered around - and beneath - my bare foot were tiny fragments of volcanic glass, glinting darkly in the flamelight. I knew instantly what they were. There was no volcanic activity on Khenarthi’s Roost; this obsidian originated in the Stonefalls. A memory of my homeland, cut in the form of a simple pendant.
A gift I had given. To Massoch.
My chest tightened with a sudden, intense foreboding. I veered around the screen. “Dhem!” I exclaimed, heedless of how the din of my voice would wake him, but in an instant it didn’t matter, because all that greeted my cry was an empty cradle of blankets. My son was gone.
Stunned, I stared at his sleeping place. At length my still-sluggish brain managed to latch onto the trail of damp sand that marred the otherwise spotless floor, and my stupor broke. My throbbing foot was forgotten as I turned and nearly threw myself out the door.
Though daybreak must have been approaching, it was virtually invisible behind the blustering clouds and lashing rain outside. There had been no sign of a storm the previous evening; I suspected this one was far from natural.
The flame in my hand guttered and spat as I stumbled frantically down the stairs of our little Khajiiti house. Within moments I was drenched, my nightrobe clinging to my limbs and my long hair plastered to my face like wet rope.
“Dhem!” I cried into the uncaring storm. “Dhamari!”
But my son did not appear; and so despite the iron-dark tempest, I took off at a run across the island’s uneven terrain.
Massoch tended to avoid mooring his ship at the main docks. He preferred a berth at a cove nearby, with easy access to open water and a quick getaway. I had the horrible suspicion that I now knew why; that this predilection could be attributed to something far more sinister than a pirate’s constant paranoia.
Scrubby grass stung the sides of my feet and angled rocks bruised their soles. Even with the fire in my hand, I could only see a few paces ahead through the storm, and it was all I could do to keep from pitching headlong down the slope that led to the sea. But I knew the general path, and each time I stumbled, my knees dashing against the ground, panic pushed me up and ahead again.
I careened onto the beach in a spray of wet sand, and urged my limbless torch to greater strength. Any footprints had been long washed away by the rain’s assault and the waves heaving upon the strand. But I did not need a trail, nor much of a light, to see that the Maormer ship once anchored just offshore had vanished.
The air was too warm for what I felt crawling across my brain - an icy, numbing disbelief. But my heart was still pulsing dreadfully, and it knew.
Massoch was gone. And with him, my son.
Perhaps I only imagined the shadow of a vessel fading into the invisible horizon; far more likely that the Maormer crew were hours out of reach. Yet I still found myself splashing senselessly into the foam of the shallows.
“Dhamari!” I screamed, as though the wind might carry my anguish across the frothing waves, and he could follow it back. “DHAMARIIIII!”
But the wind instead only tore his name from my mouth, and shredded it like a burial shroud ripped from a desecrated corpse.
A surge of angry seawater nearly swept me from my feet. I quickly stumbled back to a safer distance, only for my legs to give way of their own accord, and bear me to my hands and knees upon the battered beach.
Huddled there, with the rain driving at me and the wind wailing, I wanted to curse Massoch by the name of every power I knew. To hope that a few of them would hear it, and bring a terrible retribution upon the man I had called my friend. But I could not curse him and, in the same breath, weep for my son.
I dug my fingers into the sodden sand, feeling it slip away beneath my grasp. Lifting my face, I called Dhamari’s name out into the storm, until it seemed like the storm itself might echo it back in derision.
And then I bowed before the fury of my grief, and wept.
Tagged (indirectly) by @thehobbitwithstickyuppyhair to share the last seven sentences of a WIP! And for a change it's not SWTOR or BG3, but ESO, because I'm deep in the Dadmer feels this week.
"I thought you’d know that by now, Vedran.” I saw the briefest glint of teeth as he smiled sardonically.
I was in no mood for his teasing. “But he’s so young,” I pressed the point. I glanced down at Dhamari again. Content to let the grown-ups have their conversation, my son had returned to his inspection of the glazed sand, and was now scratching some aimless design into its surface with his fingernail. “There are days when he struggles to even speak properly, and yet this magic seemed nearly thoughtless.”
I shall no-pressure tagggg.... @cadmium-creme-egg @tiredassmage @newvegascowboy
