All of Morrowind seemed to be silent the day Vivec emerged from the Clockword City with the bodies of his fellow Tribunes.
The Living God walked in a dignified stride in front of the few Buoyant Armigers who had accompanied hir. Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil draped lifeless over the arms of the two uncomfortable mer stationed behind Vivec. Holding the corpse of your deity was not ideal to the soldiers, but they had little choice but obey when Vivec told them to carry them. Crowds of nobles and peasants alike parted to allow the procession to pass through on their way to pyre where the Tribunes would be honorably cremated. Young children hid behind legs, while their mothers stared wide-eyed. Men looked to the ground with lumps in their throat as older, thoroughly religious women quietly wailed into the arms of their sons.
The Dunmer were terrified. The Blight, though over, still weighed heavy on their souls. When the news that not one, but two of their gods had perished, chaos ensued. The Great Houses, Indoril especially, panicked. What did this mean? House Dunmer culture was rooted in their faith, how would this affect politics? Day to day life? Would the citizens turn their back on the Temple? Morrowind would surely perish without the Tribunes protection and wisdom.
Their Lord Vivec’s expression was unreadable as ze took his god-siblings and placed them on the pyre. Deep inside hir, ze felt hir supposedly lost mortality flare in anger at the sight of the Nerevarine solemnly standing with her head bowed. But hir composure was kept as ze turned to face the fearful crowd. Hir speech was swift and short, unlike the usual beguiling words his people expected from hir. An uncomfortable grief had made itself home in hir, now was not the time to use metaphors and a magical tongue to confuse and reassure hir subjects. Ze allowed the Nerevarine to tell the story of the Tribunes' demise- how a powerful sorceress had murdered the Clockwork God and released his mechanisms into Almalexia’s beloved city to lure her in and drive a sword through her heart. Ignoring the people’s bewildered expressions(how had one woman defeated two gods?), Vivec sent a subtle nod of thanks to the Nerevarine for her deception, for ze knew her words were fabricated without having been told. “Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil were once heroes, let them be remembered as such,” the Hortator would later tell hir. The irony of those words being spoken by Nerevar-reborn was not lost on hir.
Vivec saw how hir subjects looked towards hir for guidance. The Nerevarine was their hero of legend, and her presence was of great significance, but Vivec was their God. Ze was meant to be their guidance in trying times, to lead them to the next great chapter of Morrowind’s story. Ze had been there through terrible wars and occupations. Hir sharp tongue blessed them with laughter and hope and hir riddles gave them motivation to love and care for their homeland more than any race on Tamriel (even at the expense of others). Today, ze offered them nothing.
The Living God was weary, and hir weariness was continuing to grow into exhaustion. Divine power being drained out of you like a cosmic vacuum was not a pleasant nor an easy experience. Hir empire, once greater than the warriors of Yokuda, was dying. Hir Divine Brother and Sister (who he once called his friends, long ago) had fallen. Everything they’d built from the ashes of a troubled land had perished.
And ze’d known the day would come. Ze was a god, after all. Ze knew everything and nothing all at once. What ze didn’t know was the grief that would follow. The aching sensation of a long forgotten feeling, deep in hir body, squeezing hir lungs and pounding on hir stomach. What was ze meant to do now? How could ze console an entire province, keep an entire race stable when ze can’t even predict hir own reaction to an event ze’d already foreseen?
The Nerevarine followed hir with a watchful eye as ze retreated from the ceremony prematurely, dismissing the Armigers who attempted to follow hir. The crowd of Dunmer now hardly noticed hir absence in their mourning. She felt what ze was feeling, to an extent. Someone inside of her, someone she didn’t know but was a part of her, felt the same sadness; the same longing for a different time. A happier time.
The Great Temple meant to house the remains of Mother Morrowind and Clockwork God took four months to build, from Rain’s Hand to Last Seed. Located in the heart of Necrom, it was a great temple of lava rock and stone, crafted by the finest materials Morrowind had to offer, guarded by the fiercest Dunmeri warriors. The magister’s of House Telvanni assisted in the construction, as the magic used to build this holy place could only be done by those adept in ancient Dunmeri practices, of course. House Indoril nobles bickered over schematics and design, and even House Hlaalu offered their finest craftsmen for the construction. All the while, Vivec stayed holed in hir chambers for most of this time, only accepting the occasional pilgrim. Ze never dared visit the temporary temple the Tribune’s ashes were being held during the construction. Did ze even dare visit the Great Temple after it’s construction?
Ze did. After a long while, of laying in piles of crumpled up parchment with failed poetry, ze made the trek to Necrom to visit hir friends. The temple was grandeur, far from hir own humble beginnings. The inside was littered with candles and offerings of all sorts; flowers and fruit and clockwork gears and unlit incense. Large, intricate statues of the ALMSIVI reached the ceiling. In the center sat the ash pit of Almalexia, Mother Morrowind, the heart of the Dunmer. To the left, Sotha Sil, and to the right, at Vivec’s request, an empty ashpit, meant for hir.
“How sad of a sight this is, old friend,” Vivec spoke to Sotha Sil as if he were there, pouring a part of hir bottle of flin in the ash and settling hirself on the stone floor. “We’d spoken of this moment. What the other would have wanted of the temple. You, Ayem,” A memory of a smile ghosted across hir face and ze turned to Almalexia’s statue. “What a handful you are. You sent the Houses in circles trying their best to fulfill your wishes. But you deserve nothing less, my queen.”
Silence, again. Such a quiet and cold room for them to rest in. Their souls were too bright for this.
“We spoke of it often,” Ze continued. “However, we never considered that one, but not three, that two, but not all of us would go. What else am I to do now? How am I to look over our people without the other halves of me? I am unwhole.”
Vivec sighed. A sound that carried through the whole temple. A mouse in the corner scurried into its hide.
“They still love us, they still follow our teachings, but how long will that last? Time changes culture and tradition quickly and you are not here to help me guide it,” Ze whispered the next part quietly. “How long will I last?”
Somewhere, in a land unknown by anyone but herself, the Nerevarine woke with a start. An unbearable sadness settled through her and tears welled in her eyes.
“There is nothing left for me in Morrowind, my dearest friends. I must leave.”
Vivec was standing now, slowly making hir way to the temple door. Hir legs ached and hir eyes were sunken. Ze was sickly.
“Don’t be mistaken, this is not the end of us. We will not die out to history.”
The Nerevarine held her head in her hands, breathing harsh and fast.
they need to come up with more words like necrosis and miasma and mausoleum and cadaver and morose and decrepit and stuff like that just so metal bands can expand their vocabulary
English has SO many good words like these (although yes we always need more), if you're willing to do a spot of leg work. For example, in no particular order:
Charnel (adj): associated with death (from "charnel house:" a building where bodies/bones are piled)
Lachrymose (adj): prone to crying
Mawkish (adj): a slightly sickly flavor, or something that is feebly sentimental
Visceral (adj): relating to bodily organs (ie viscera)
Excoriate (v): to damage or remove skin, or to viciously criticize
Ossuary (n): a place where bones are stored
Oubliette (n): a dungeon where the only entrance/exit is a trapdoor in the ceiling
Amaranthine (adj): immortal, or a reddish pinkish color, or relating to amaranth (a plant)
Sanguine (adj): bloody, or a blood red color
[sanguine is also one of the four humors, but that's not what I'm talking about today]
Effluvia (n): a bad or harmful substance, secretion, or smell
Maudlin (adj): overly self pitying or sentimental
Sepulchre (n): a small tomb made of rock, like a monument or room
Putrefaction (n): decay
Atrophy (v): to waste away from misuse or neglect (commonly used to describe living muscles or bones)
Morass (n): a muddy or soupy area, or a particularly complicated and confusing situation
Necropolis (n): a large (usually ancient) cemetery
Apostasy (n): the renouncement of a belief (usually religious)
BONUS: a cemetery is different from a graveyard in that a graveyard has a church connected to it, while a cemetery does not
Neither of these are a boneyard, which actually doesn't have to do with bones, but disused or decommissioned machinery
Morgiah paced, restless, around the clay pit holding the ash that was once Symmachus. Ash that had once formed the arms that held her as a little girl. Ash that consisted of the blood, sweat, and tears of her father, her protector.
“You should have fought harder. You could have. I know it. I don’t care if you had to cut through a thousand mer to survive. You should have come back to me, protected me, protected us.”
A lifeline, a soldier, a husband, a father, a king; all reduced to nothing but the fine, grey power nearly indistinguishable from the dust that sat on the surfaces of the tomb. For all the Empire had done in memoriam of her father after his death, there was nothing to show of it. No one had entered this part of the tomb in years. Not even Barenziah nor Helseth had visited when they returned. Morgiah wished she hadn’t. She remembered little of ancestral tombs from her childhood, and to her now they seemed like a cruel rest. Ash that was once a life, a good man, for all she’d known at eight years old. Maybe all she’d been told were lies, maybe her own memories were lies. If he were still alive, perhaps he’d be an unforgiving ruler and a harsh father. Perhaps he’d withdraw in his old age, abandoning his wife and children in all but formalities. There was nothing to show for who he’d be. Nothing but ash.
“I know I wouldn’t be here,” She continued aloud, her voice monotone but betraying a slight tremor. She glanced at the ground and noticed the dust was dirtying the hem of her skirts. “At least I wouldn’t be here, at your grave, wondering who you’d be to me. Longing for the life I’d have in Mournhold, the life I deserve. Do you have any idea what it was like? The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done, the things done to me, across the continent and throughout decades, all because you couldn’t-“
This time her voice cracked, betraying what she fought hardest to hide, even in the absence of everyone she felt the need to hide it from.
Oh my gosh. I just found this website that walks you though creating a believable society. It breaks each facet down into individual questions and makes it so simple! It seems really helpful for worldbuilding!
Heads up that this is a very extensive questionnaire and might be daunting to a lot of writers (myself included). That being said, it is also an amazing questionnaire and I will definitely be using it (or at the very least, some of it).
useful/fun character development questions for couples
there are a lot of “otp questions” lists out there but I just wanted to make a list that was specifically helpful for writers, especially for working out the technical stuff of conveying Romantic Love. so, here ya go, stuff to answer for each character
What, specifically, was the catalyst for their physical attraction (if applicable) to the other character? In other words, what in particular had them like “Oh, they’re…hot…”
Does this change over time? What things do they find “hot” about their partner after they’ve been together for some time, and have had more time to, well, notice and appreciate?
By contrast, what was the moment that first made their ~heart~ Soft for the other person? Not necessarily a conscious realization of “I love this person,” but a moment that had them like “Oh…I adore them…”
Does this change over time? What will always reliably make them melt with how much they adore the other character?
How do they consciously realize that they like the other character? Does it take them a while?
How do they react to the realization that they like the other character? Is it an “oh my god I’m never going to think about this again” thing, or are they pretty comfortable with it?
Do they (or would they) pursue the other character’s affection, and if so, how? Do they tell the other character how they feel? Try to earn their admiration? Woo them with romantic gestures? Flirt with them, skillfully or otherwise?
What do they think about romantic love? Do they have baggage surrounding it? Do they idealize it? Is it an object of longing and wanting, or were they really not thinking about it until they started falling for the other character? What are their expectations like?
What do they think about commitment? Is a long-term partnership the goal? Are they thinking about building a life with their partner, or are they focused on the present?
What scares them about entering a relationship?
What fears, past traumas, etc. would be hardest for them to talk about with their partner?
How much independence do they prefer in a relationship—do they want to share their lives as much as possible with their partner, or do they prefer to mostly do their own thing and let their partner do their own thing?
What is their go-to for making a partner feel loved?
What makes them feel loved? Would they build up the courage to ask for it?
What, for them, constitutes a level of intimacy that they would only rarely share with someone? This can be physical, emotional, etc.
If they had the ability to just spend free time with their partner, what would they do? Would they go out or stay inside?
Under what circumstances would they want to be left alone by their partner?
They’re going through something incredibly difficult—perhaps they’re very sick, have lost a loved one, or have gone through a traumatic event. Do they ask for or accept support and care from their partner, or try to isolate themselves?
Are they okay with public displays of affection? Do they like them?
When would they say “I love you?” Do they say it first? Do they say it often, or is it reserved for special moments?
If sex is something that would be part of a relationship for them, do both or either of them have prior experiences? If not, how do they feel about it?
What does sex mean for them? Socially, religiously, what attitudes are they bringing with them? Is “virginity” something they care about? Do they want sexual experiences to occur within a certain “level” of relationship, or does that not really matter so much to them?
How comfortable are they talking about, and openly communicating during, sex?
What would their partner do that would really turn them on, perhaps unintentionally?
They accidentally hurt or upset their partner. What happened? How do they respond? What do they do to make their partner feel better?
They have an argument with their partner—what is it about? Do things stay respectful, or is there some shouting and accusing going on?
They have to apologize to their partner. Is this difficult for them? How do they approach it?
How do they feel about the prospect of parenthood? Do they plan on it? How would they react if they suddenly found out they were going to be a parent?
What compromises are they making in their relationship?
What completely petty topic (music taste, favorite food) do they find themselves completely at odds with their partner about?
What little thing do they find incredibly (though harmlessly) annoying about their partner?
How do their friends react to finding out they’re a couple? Do they have lots of mutual friends? Did their friends know, perhaps before they themselves did?
Under what circumstances would they feel jealous?
Under what circumstances would they feel protective?
Would they get a pet? What kind? Who brings up the idea, and who takes a little longer to convince?
for the love of god, write all the self-indulgent scenes you want. be utterly shameless about including every last fantasy. i know everyone likes to share quotes and quips about how miserably hard writing is, but please please try thinking of it as joyful act where you get to be a messy human who makes art rather than some pain filled quest for icy perfection.
Mournhold was different than Morgiah remembered it.
When the Queen of Firsthold stepped off the silt strider and removed the heavy garments from her journey, the first thing she noticed was the cold. Colder than she’d ever expected a land of volcanoes to be; though, she suspected living in the tropical Isles had skewed her judgment on temperature quite a bit. The great city of Mournhold wasn’t only cold in temperature, but in appearance. The dark, stony Dunmeri architecture felt soulless among the cloudy air of the Deshaan. While located hundreds of miles away from Vvardenfell and subsequently Red Mountain, the region still had traces of ash in its breeze. The city was dreary and desolate of passion in light of the recent hardships of Morrowind.
Despite this, and despite the fact that she’d spent much of her life on the other side of the continent, Morgiah was relieved.
For as long as she could remember, the Dunmer was forced to move and adapt to her surroundings in the name of survival. Soon after her father was killed in a peasant uprising, Morgiah’s mother, Barenziah, had promptly swept her and her brother to High Rock with no hesitancy or remorse for the life they were leaving behind. The culture of Morrowind, of her province and her people, was taken from her in the blink of an eye. Suddenly she was no longer praying to Vivec, but to Akatosh. Her Dunmeris dialect warped into the Breton language, just as the ashfall turned into rainfall. It was difficult to leave behind a culture so proud and, at one point, mighty. But, true to her house of Hlaalu, the young princess learned very quickly the necessity of assimilation, even if her heart was elsewhere. Barenziah taught her children to be cunning and resourceful, and in that the small family stayed true to their Dunmeri roots.
Their life in Wayrest was bland, Morgiah had hated it even as a child, but they were comfortable and safe. As she grew, she knew nothing good would come out of her step-father's wretched daughter Elysana. She’d been correct, of course; Elysana conspired against Morgiah’s brother Helseth for King Eadwyre’s throne. With a succession war on the horizon, she threw herself at the first reasonably handsome royal she met. After a bit of plotting and a few years of engagement, she did the impossible and married an Altmer king, Reman Karoodil of Firsthold. Once again the sly Dunmer was learning the customs of a new land, with her fingers crossed behind her back and a totem of Boethiah hidden behind her mirror.
News of Helseth’s rise to the throne of Morrowind after the tragic demise of King Llethan and his heir was only slightly a slap in the face (<i>why hadn’t she thought of that?</i>), but nevertheless, she arrived in Mournhold only months after his coronation to formally congratulate him. A family of schemers were loyal and close-knit, if not entirely affectionate.
Being back in the city made her heart yearn for a time that no longer existed. A time of childhood naivety, of chasing her older brother around the halls of the castle, of her father teaching her battlemage spells, and her mother reading her Almalexia’s homilies. A time before bargaining with nobles for all her life’s choices, and before being forced to water herself down in the worst ways. A life that didn’t involve being a Queen was no life for her, but, though she’d never admit it, she sometimes fantasized about who she could be if not a mere puppet of an Altmeri royal council.
“Perhaps we could take a detour and stop at the Temple, muthsera,” The Hlaalu councilor accompanying her from the gates of Mournhold to the castle finally spoke, wrenching Morgiah out of her thoughts. Hlaalu Elethus Arenim was an insufferable mer, one she’d had the displeasure of speaking to through writing a few times. “It would be good for you to say a prayer to the gods. Bring you back to your roots. What’s left of them.”
His snide comments didn’t phase the Queen, only served as entertainment for the walk across the Godsreach district. The townsfolk eyed her and her royal escorts warily, and the Altmer who’d accompanied her looked back at them with just as much uncomfortableness. Outlanders were not uncommon on mainland Morrowind, especially not in Mournhold, but it was not everyday the Dunmer saw Altmer of such high stature in their city. Likewise, it was not often that the royal servants of Firsthold walked through the streets of a foreign capital.
Morgiah smiled at him, almost mockingly. “Why, Elethus, have you forgotten that I’m now a devout follower of the Altmer divines? Auri-El bless you, and all.”
The Dunmer scoffed, earning him a glare of disapproval from Morgiah’s most trusted counselor. While more open-minded than most Altmer, Valinwen still valued tradition above all else. This trip would not be easy for her.
“Don’t worry, Elethus. I will pay my respects to the Temple once I’m settled in. Surely it’s reasonable for me to want to rest first, hm?”
Elethus didn’t respond, only grunted and quickened his pace so he walked ahead of Morgiah and Valinwen. As somewhat of an outsider, Morgiah couldn’t help but see the irony in the resentment the Altmer and Dunmer societies had for one another. While vastly different in many senses, the two cultures both harnessed an obsession with tradition and a resentment for outsiders. Yet neither side seemed able to recognize the similarities between them.
Arriving at the center district of the city, Morgiah took the time to pay more attention to her surroundings. The gates to Mournhold’s castle were large, but not very extravagant, and the structure was built more like a military fortress than a palace. Where on a palace on Auridon there would be large, rounded crystalline towers, there were instead rectangular columns with sharp edges. The architecture was a strange mix of Dunmeri-Imperial, the spots that were rebuilt after Tiber Septim sacked the city obvious and out of place. It was intimidating, to say the least, and not very pleasant to the eye. The building loomed over her, so tall she could barely see the peaks. She suddenly felt foreign and small, and as if the eyes of a million of her ancestors were hidden in the stones, watching her.
She had dreamt of returning to Morrowind, to her homeland. But was this really her homeland anymore? Her previous relief suddenly began to fade. Judging by the looks she’d gotten from commonfolk, she was seen as little more than an outlander. But the insecurity threatening to arise in her was forced to the side for the moment, she rolled her shoulders back and raised her chin slightly. They were passing through the doors and any sign of weakness in front of the royal court wouldn’t do, especially not in front of Helseth. She was already nervous enough to see her mother and brother after so long, she didn’t need his incessant questioning on top of that. Her eyes stayed trained ahead of her as they passed through the castle halls, purposefully avoiding the gaze of the Dunmer watching her, the expressions on their faces a mix of disgust and awe. Hlaalu Morgiah of clan Ra’athim, a disgrace to the Great Houses of Morrowind, a Dunmer princess conniving with Altmer bastards. Conspiracy theories of her visit were surely already in the works. Was she here to spy? To threaten their traditions? Try to turn them back to worshipping the Aedra?
If only they knew Morgiah was even less welcome in Summerset than she was in Morrowind.
After what felt like hours walking in tense, discountenancing silence, Morgiah and companions arrived in the throne room. It was large, as expected, and the decor represented more traditional Velothi style rather than the modern and Imperialized outside. Grand rectangular windows with rounded edges let in sunlight through frosted glass, and dark green tapestries the color of dried hackle-lo leaves decorated them, tied together with gold ribbons. Mossy green and golden seemed to be the color theme of the chamber, excluding the sanguine rug that ran from the entrance up to the platform that housed the thrones. There sat King Hlaalu Helseth on a velvet throne, leaning to the side of the chair casually with his tongue stuck out slightly in concentration, a habit he’d had since they were children. He had his ceremonial robes and diadem on for the event of his sisters arrival, a sight that procured an emotion in Morgiah that she wasn’t quite sure was jealousy or pride. What she wouldn’t give to be on the throne of Mournhold; however, she’d always known her once timid older brother would be capable of great things.
The Steward stepped forward and opened his mouth to announce Morgiah, but Helseth raised his hand to silence him. The siblings stared at each other for a minute, neither quite sure what to say, before his lips quirked into a sly smile, one that she returned quickly.
“Queen Morgiah,” Helseth rose from his seat and set his crown on the table beside him, walking towards her with all the confidence of a king. A strange tension hung in the air, but not one of resentment or anger. An apprehensiveness, perhaps? It’d been four or five years since they’d last met in person. Not long by elven standards, but the two mer were still rather young. They hardly knew what to make of each other, especially not as rulers.
She nodded. “King Helseth.”
They looked at each other for just a moment longer, before the tension cut loose and her older brother pulled her in for a tight and much needed embrace. A wide smile found its way onto her face. Her uncertainty of Morrowind and vice versa had left her hurt and confused, but in it was the familiarity that was her family. Suddenly the room around her was much more familiar, images of her mother and father sitting on the throne while her and Helseth watched the court from the balcony flashed before her eyes. The smell of sweetpulp incense and boiled ash yams, the sounds of silt striders in the distance and bickering House councilors. A pleasant warmth ran throughout her body that was only intensified by the image of her mother standing next to the siblings, arms already outstretched for her. Morgiah hadn’t even realized she was bleary-eyed until the family of three pulled away from each other and regained the composure befit of royalty.
“To see you here, safe and unharmed…” Barenziah let out a sigh of relief, bringing her hands up to cup her daughter's cheeks. “Every day I wake up half expecting a courier to arrive with news of your assassination, or imprisonment, or worse.”
Despite being over four-hundred years old, Barenziah barely looked a day over two-fifty. Faint lines did run along her skin, though she wore them with elegance and pride. Her hair was an alabaster-white, pulled tightly into an up-knotted style while a magnificent circlet fit only for the Queen Mother lay upon her forehead. Her mother had always been Morgiah’s anchor; her most trusted ally and respected advisor. Barenziah had centuries of experience as royalty and knew very well the fear and betrayal that often came along with it. She never once eluded her daughter into thinking it would be simple. Morgiah was entirely thankful for that, as her guidance had most certainly let her evade trouble multiple times.
Morgiah smiled reassuringly and took her mother's hands off of her face gently. “You needn’t worry so much. My husband is diligent about any threat to me or us, and I have many allies. More than you’d expect,” She glanced back at Valinwen. “Reman sends his regards, and apologies for being unable to make it. He sent gifts for both of you along with me, I’ll fish them out of my luggage in the evening.”
Helseth snorted. “Unable to make it. You mean, if both of you left the kingdom at the same time a usurper would be met with little to no resistance?”
“That’s always a very real possibility, yes,” Morgiah said. “But not as likely as you might think. Altmer society values royal bloodline highly. Yes, they want me gone, but they risk going against their traditions if they cast out Reman as well. That makes it infinitely more difficult for them. The Trebbite Monks-“
A cough came from behind them. Valinwen was looking at her with eyes that said <i>’a conversation for another time’</i>, while she glanced frantically at the other occupants of the throne room pretending not to listen to the family’s reunion. Morgiah figured discussing Firsthold intel openly was something her counselor would very strongly counsel <i>against</i>.
“I suppose I should introduce my entourage,” Morgiah winked at Valinwen, then beckoned them forward. The group consisted of four Altmer and a Bosmer; Valinwen, three guards, and a handmaiden. The Bosmer, Laena, immediately fell into a curtsy, while the others stood stiff as boards. They awkwardly bowed at Morrowind’s royalty after a pointed look from Morgiah, and she had to stifle a laugh. She introduced them to her mother and brother. Barenziah was much more gracious than Helseth, who let out a grunted “<i>welcome</i>”, then stalked off to speak to his advisors.
After what might have been the longest moments of Morgiah’s life, she was shown the way to her guest quarters to rest after her long journey. Valinwen and Laena fell close on her heels, and when the door shut, her handmaiden immediately began a bath while her counselor sat herself into an armchair with an incisive look.
“A land of fungus and insects and ash, where murder is legal and gods walk among mortals,” Valinwen held a small and delicate pipe between her fingers; made of shell glass and filled with a sweet tobacco native to the Isles. The Altmer was obviously attempting to assess all she’d learned of Morrowind from the short time they’d been there, her brow crinkled and honeyed eyes seemingly distant. She was of a noble family of Sunhold, apparently, but other than that had a past shrouded in secrecy. Morgiah suspected she’d been of an intelligence guild, as she doubled as Morgiah’s own personal spymaster at times, and the part fit her well.
“It’s a bit more complicated than murder being <i>legal</i>,” The Dunmer began undoing her own corset, but didn’t resist when Laena rushed to take over. “There are steps one must take, it’s not like I could go out and stab the Dres noble down the hall with no consequence. In fact, I wouldn’t be stabbing anyone personally. It goes through the Morag Tong.”
“Yes, the Tong. I’ve had the displeasure of working with them once or twice.”
Morgiah raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting her maroon gown fall to the floor once the corset was loose enough.
“I still think this was a mistake. A mistake to trust the people of this province enough that they will accept your being here. A mistake to trust your brother.”
“Helseth wouldn’t harm me,” Morgiah said, a twinge of impatience in her voice. They’d had this conversation one too many times and she was growing tired of it. Valinwen insisted Helseth couldn’t be trusted, citing sources she refused to give. Her brother was selfish, yes, and Morgiah wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t act against her in some way if he deemed it necessary to his reign. But he would denounce his claim to the throne himself before he would put Morgiah in any real danger; and he had no reason to do so anyway.
“I never said he would hurt you, at least not on purpose. I don’t know your relationship,” She sighed. “But you can’t tell me you’re not worried that once the nostalgia subsides he’ll grow suspicious. As a king his allegiance to his kingdom comes first, and you’re married to the king of an enemy.”
“Not an enemy. Morrowind and the Isles are both Empire provinces.”
Morgiah knew how ridiculous that was the minute the words left her mouth. She pursed her lips together as Valinwen barked a laugh.
“Saying the Isles belong to the Empire. We’re almost entirely self-governed and the Empire has little say in anything. It’s all for show.”
“I know that!” She snapped, and Valinwen threw her hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter whether we’re both part of the Empire. Morrowind and the Isles may not exactly get along but we’re not at war. He has no reason to distrust me and even if he did my mother would put him in his place. Enough about this!”
Morgiah hadn’t even noticed Laena slipped from the room without being dismissed.
“It’s not about war. A king who gains his throne under suspicious circumstances is a paranoid king,” Valinwen sat the pipe on the glass side table next to the armchair. She stood, walking past Morgiah and towards the door without so much as a glance in her direction. “Whether you aspire for said throne or not, he might believe you have a good claim; as you weren’t involved in the supposed unauthorized assassination of Llethan. Sooner or later, you’ll be little more than a threat to him.”
-
The Tribunal Temple of Mournhold was one of the many wonders of Tamriel, or so the Dunmer always said. A grand, Velothi palace made of indigo stonework and striking metallic-gold plating. The curvature of the architecture, especially around the entrance, gave the building an inviting character while the high spires on either end sought to intimidate those without the purest intentions. A testament to Almalexia herself.
It was evening when Morgiah walked the high steps to the Temple; alone, despite the many misgivings heard from Valinwen and her mother. A setting Magnus gave a subtle orange glow to the city around her, and the moons were beginning to become visible in the darkening sky. A sickening nostalgia set in the queen’s stomach, painful memories from childhood threatening to rise. Morgiah had been forced out of Mournhold before what would’ve been her first meeting with the goddess. She didn’t expect to see her today, it was after hours, but that didn’t stop the nervousness of simply being in such close proximity. What would Mother Morrowind think of her? Of her distance from her ancestry. Her connivings with non-Velothi. Would she look at her with the same contempt and disappointment as her subjects?
As much as she didn’t wish to admit it, the thought brought such an intense distress to Morgiah it was almost hard to bear. She didn’t want to disappoint Almalexia. She was only slightly religious, it was a wonder the Tribunal Temple’s teachings had stuck with her for so long in any capacity, but with her lack of cultural identity came a desperation. She <i>wanted</i> to belong in Morrowind. She wanted to belong to the Dunmer, to the Temple, and she wanted the living gods to accept her as they accept all their followers. Little was known to her about the Tribunal’s personalities beyond what one prayed to each for. Was she just as much a traitor to them as she was to House Hlaalu?
It took her a minute to gather the courage, but eventually she pushed the large doors open. As suspected Almalexia was not present in the foyer, but instead sat a single Hand. The woman was a Dunmer, of course, only visible due to her helmet being sat to the side of her. She was scratching at a piece of parchment intently, and only at the sound of the doors creaking shut did she look up from her writing. Her brow furrowed at Morgiah in what could’ve been confusion or annoyance, then she placed her tools beside her and stood.
“Lady Almalexia is not seeing any pilgrims today. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I know that, I-,” Morgiah swallowed, glancing at a shrine in the corner. “I just wanted to see the Temple. Pay my respects and give thanks for my safe journey. That’s all.”
The Hand of Almalexia seemed to notice her foreign garments and warped accent, and recognition flashed on her features. The look of slight suspicion on her face melted into a warm smile. Morgiah was relieved at that.
“I’m glad you‘ve come, Princess Morgiah.”
“Queen,” She corrected, almost instinctively.
The woman’s smile didn’t fade. “As long as you are in our lands you are our Princess. Come. I’ll lead you to the main shrines.”
Morgiah followed the Hand, wringing her palms together in anxiety. The temple was utterly beautiful. It wasn’t a surprise to her, how stunning each corridor and every piece of artwork was. Another thing Morrowind and the Isles held in common: extravagance. Though, in different ways. The Altmer were obsessed with perfection. Symmetry. Bright colors and large, unblocked windows to let in as much sunlight as possible, as every inch of artwork must be seen. With the Dunmer, everything was much more subtle. While there was no denying the beauty in the architecture or decor, sometimes the best parts of it had to be searched for. A mirage of small details that made the whole picture come together.
“How has your visit to Morrowind been so far, sera? Do you remember much?”
“It’s been lovely,” Morgiah answered, almost too fast. In reality, it’d been anything but lovely. She felt alienated and confused and <i>lonely</i>. She never realized how much cultural identity she’d lacked, and painfully fond memories of her father and early childhood did not help her conflicted emotions. “The city is beautiful, though it’s been so long since our departure that I remember very little. I hope to become well acquainted with Mournhold while I’m here.”
“Hopefully House Hlaalu sees to it that you do.”
“I’m not sure House Hlaalu wants anything to do with me, in all honesty.”
The woman laughed, but not in an unkind way. She pitied Morgiah, in truth. So far away from her traditions for so long that she was as much of a stranger to them as they were to her.
“You’ll have the best luck maintaining a relationship with Hlaalu, of all houses. They are diplomats; they certainly value whatever advantages having the Kings’ sister married to a King of the Isles can bring Morrowind. Or them specifically.”
They came to the shrines, housed in a large room at the end of a circular corridor. It was dimly lit, but Morgiah could make out the silhouette of three triangular statues, one for each Tribune she supposed. The room smelled of a piquant ceremonial incense that tickled her nose but made her feel a bit woozy from the intensity of it.
“I certainly don’t feel valued,” She stepped forward towards the shrines, while the Hand stayed back and observed. A magelight appeared and floated towards the ceiling as Morgiah got closer, allowing her to see the daedric inscriptions along the statues and the many offerings along their base. She brought herself down to sit on her knees, and took out the small potion vial she’d brought as an offering. She decided her actual gold would be of better use going straight to the Temple, rather than sitting on the shrines for who-knows-how long.
It could’ve been hours that she sat like that. Staring at the shrine, attempting to feel what other Dunmer described while visiting the Temple, the vial still clutched between her hands. The Hand, who’s name she’d later find out was Ilyne, guarded the Queen and kept a respectful distance as she prayed.
Morgiah didn’t know what to pray for. She was not so blind to Temple traditions that she didn’t know <i>how</i> to pray, but sitting there in Mournhold’s Temple, surrounded by those who were raised with no other faith in no other land, what could be only meters away from Almalexia herself, Morgiah again found herself feeling out of place. At first she prayed for what was expected of her. For the safety of her husband in the Isles, for the health of her mother, and success for her brother. She prayed for the less fortunate and for a plentiful harvest. And when she came to her own desires, a selfishness she allowed herself at that time, she prayed for belonging. She never belonged in Cyrodiil or High Rock, she certainly didn’t belong in Firsthold, and now she didn’t even belong in Morrowind. Just once, since her childhood, she wanted to feel comfortable and like she wouldn’t be forced to pack up and flee at any moment.
“The last time I’d attended a Dunmer ceremony was my father's funeral,” Ilyne started for a second when Morgiah spoke after so long. The queen still sat in front of the shrines, but her eyes were open and looking at nothing.
She continued, “This was a different service than the memorial service held by the Empire. This was a proper Velothi funeral and the last time any of us—my mother, Helseth, and I—saw Morrowind for a very long time,” A sigh escaped her lips and she began to her feet, accepting a helping hand from Ilyne. “I was fifteen. It was seven years after he died, when we finally got the chance to properly put him to rest. I was so overcome with the returning grief that I did not get to appreciate the ceremony for what it was. I regret that now.”
Ilyne was studying her with a sad smile. “You were young and in mourning, Princess. Do you remember it, at least?”
“I remember the procession. I remember being angry at my mother for dredging up memories. I remember the potent smell of the Ancestral tomb-“ Ilyne’s nose scrunched up at this. “-And how my mother wept over the ashpit. The whispers, though. The whispers of the ancestors in the tomb, my ancestors, still ring through my mind like it was only yesterday.”
“Do you remember what they said?”
The Queen of Firsthold glanced at the shrines one last time, her solemn face reflecting dimly in the stone.
do you ever wonder who we could be if not who we already are?
if the tides of time were changed, if we were born on different nights to different parents with different skin? would we find eachother again? we could raise field guar in stonefalls or even own an inn across the continent; we would watch the patrons come and go like day and night while we stayed where we were and grew old together. we could let our roots grow deep into the soil, have friends who recognize us just by the sound of our breath before it turns into words.
a dog, even.
you dislike dogs.
a housecat. we would adopt her as an abandoned kitten and raise her from the bottle. she’d catch mice in the basement and we would wake up in the darkest hour of the night, after the fire keeping us warm had already turned to ashes and she would be inbetween was our entangled bodies, her purr slowly lulling us back to sleep.
you would have a different body but you would still have your laugh as sweet as candied ash yams; your eyes would be a different color but they would look at me with the tenderness they do-did-when we were alone and no one was there to threaten or intimidate or torment you. when the world is-was-frozen. evil ceased to exist when you would look at me with those eyes.
you’d think me weak for suggesting it. i think me weak for pondering it.
who are we, if not queens or warriors or gods.
but time is so fragile. one misplaced shilling could have given us different signs and different parents and different skin. who would we be? who could we be?
reman definitely knows morgiah still subscribes to a lot of dunmer cultural and religious practices (he finds the makeshift shrines hidden around their quarters and in the gardens morgiah spends a lot of time in), but he doesn’t care. i characterize him as very laidback outside of the public eye, and even though they don’t Love eachother at first they’re very fond of eachother and he knows how hard it is for her to be separated from her family & from morrowind for so long. he’s a little bit more wary about her affinity for boethiah than he is for any of the tribunal but he keeps it to himself and let’s her do her own thing as long as no one else in their court sees it
