The Worn Legacy

[TheBrownCow]

It feels good to be back on the forums once again. I usually post in roleplaying. But recently I've been writing and I was in the mood to post it to here!

So here's a bit about the lore of my story. I love getting into lore and details, so expect a lot of explaining as I write. I might make a spoiler drop down every so often to give an insight to things I mention. The world is set in an alternate reality of The Elder Scrolls universe. I'm leaving it up to the readers to decide how this reality came to be. Some things are the same, like the races, they all stayed. The Imperial city still exists in the same spot. A bunch of names have changed, and the lands aren't shaped the same way.

A lot in this story is up for editing and changes so this first post will be edited a LOT.

 

I need to update the beginning chapters because I've changed them :/

 

Important Characters(so far)

 

-Yorgan Worn

-Luca Emerson

-Leinkrahlir

-Greta Blackstone

-Wujeea

-Tyan

-Vak'Raka

-Orethimn Backus

 

The Lands

 

-Velain

-Urstubaaden

-Atmos

 

The Mainland(Velain)

 

-Vestus

-The Western Grazelands

-Harggroth

 

Urstubaaden

 

-Dunejih

 

Known villages of Harggroth: Berstead, Orphan Point

 

Known towns of Dunejih: Erestay

 

Intelligent Races: Man: Velar, Bretonguard, Proto-nord. Elf: Ehlnofey

 

More info will be added as the story progresses, I guess.. Not really sure how I should format this

Edited June 19, 2014 by TheBrownCow

[TheBrownCow]

The Worn Blood

-1-

This story starts with Yorgan Worn. A man of great honor. Known in the highest reaches of the world as a great explorer, adventurer and treasure seeker. If you asked a man on the street, who had but tatters for clothing and grease on his face he would have told you, for a price, the tales of the Worn legacy.

 

In the icy lands of Harggroth the northern plains filled with desolate snow caps and ice berg islands. Great fields of ice, towering into the sky where the civil dare not tread there sat a city, lonely in its isolation. The great Yorgan Hailed from even farther north if you could believe it. In a place to dangerous and ancient not many even know of its name any longer. Yorgan had come down from the mountainous homeland of his to find Berstead, the city among the snowy crags. At this point in time Yorgan was but an adventurer, the likes of which came through often, seeking great riches from the caves or fame in the form of great deeds. None knew Yorgan's reason for leaving his home and shacking up in a local inn.

 

Save one day, a call came from the Jarl of Berstead. A monster had found and killed his only son during a deer hunt. Garus Bersing, Jarl and founder of Berstead set a bounty on this creature's head, to any who slay the beast they be awarded a chest of gold coins. This creature? It was a great frost drake, cold and mighty, hailing from the old world. No man knows where dragons came from, but they know one thing. Every dragon desires to rule the world. To enslave the human race and take control.

 

But... Men are estranged from the world. They know hardly nothing, other than what they tell themselves. The Nordic people of Harggroth are cruel to life, thus earning their wrath. So Leinkrahlir, great frost drake sat in his cave, safe and warm despite his cold nature. On Mount Miraad he lived. Gathering up a few followers. People from the highlands who desired to worship this dragon in exchange for great power. The Nords of Harggroth were a brave and tough kind. They did not back down from enemies. Dragons on the other hand were a grand foe. None dared contend with its might, or magicka. Save this one. Yorgan Worn of Atmos dared to take on Leinkrahlir. Not only would he battle this creature, but he would go alone, to Mount Miraad to destroy his adversary. Yorgan had a rage building inside him. It was like this monster had wronged him personally. Perhaps, in Atmos Leinkrahlir had burned his village? Yorgan never said he’d seen this dragon before. However, when the town crier yelled out the Jarl’s decree Yorgan noticeably shuddered. Almost like he recognized an old foe.

Edited June 8, 2014 by TheBrownCow

[TheBrownCow]

-2-

 

Mount Miraad stood looming over Tarstaang Valley, which was due southwest from Berstead. A journey unto itself would be just reaching the peak of the great and terrible mountain. Miraad had quite a history behind it. Once there was nerdowell that lived on the very tip of Mount Miraad. A Bosmer Necromancer whose name he gave to the mountain itself. He was shunned by the Nords, mostly because he was mer. Man and mer do not always get along. Especially Nords and elves. A special kind of hate is reserved for the elven people, they have done injustice to man for a long time. Not to say that in some places the elves are welcome, and in some elven lands Nords and Imperials are welcome. At the time of Miraad’s existence there was a sort of cold war occurring. The forces working against each other were the Human Alliance and the Elven Consortium. Trade banning, border lockdowns and secret plans were commonplace during the Secret War.

 

Miraad lived alone and contrite on the peak. For he had wronged his love. A forbidden love, it was. She was Nord and he was elven. Miraad and Imira lived in a secluded grove just north of the mountain, back then it was called something else. Miraad was victim to sudden bouts of terrible rage. He was also very paranoid. So much so that he believed a group of secret men were out to kill him. Or at least observe him, because after all he was such an important individual. At least to Miraad, Miraad was important. Some elves can just be so conceited. One time, as his anger and paranoia was acting up, Imira had come home from gathering herbs and berries two hours late. Miraad had earlier that day been seeing mirages of people watching him from the cliffs. A somewhat uncommon occurrence. However it was the first time the Imira had been around him when it had happened. When he told her, she told him that he was imagining it and that no one was watching. His anger grew. He told her she was crazy. There were people watching them and if she denied it, she was working with them! So then, when she came home hours late, Miraad accused her again, of working with the invisible men and she denied it. He became so angry, that in a fit he conjured a ball of flame and burned his beloved to death. Miraad then promptly packed up and moved to the mountain peak, in hopes that the secretive order would not find him there.

 

After a few days, Miraad realized his mistakes, and lamented. For too long he lamented over his mistakes. After a moon cycle, he began to think of ways to bring her back. Back from death. He gathered up her charred remains, or all that he could find. They were somewhat preserved due to the freezing cold climate. For a few weeks he tried to resurrect her from the dead. At last, as he gave up all hope, with a final spell, she rose. Now, Miraad didn't know that when she came back, it wouldn't be the same person. In fact, Miraad was a rather terrible necromancer. He wasn't actually so gifted in the art, the only thing that he had ever attempted to resurrect in the past was an apple tree. He had summoned a daedra into the body of his burned Imira. The abomination was horrible. Miraad was almost driven crazy by its speaking. It talked of demon worlds, other dimensions and how it would kill Miraad. He had the thing held at bay by a magical ward around the iron cage in which it was held. Unfortunately Miraad was eventually driven insane and actually killed the creature. He cast the body off the top of the mountain, and after, refused to eat or do virtually anything, except study his necromancy. Within a few days, Miraad succomed to dehydration. This tale is told far and wide across Harggroth. Some details change from bard to bard. Sometimes he is Nordic, and she is elven. Sometimes they lived in a city, other times it was the woman named Miraad.

Edited June 8, 2014 by TheBrownCow

[TheBrownCow]

-3-

 

As the morning sun peeked over the horizon, Yorgan Worn just finished his packing. He did not own much, but what little he did was in a backpack. He left it hidden in a chest inside of his room. He was not ready to leave just yet for the mountain. Facing a dragon was no easy task. In fact it was quite an impossible feat of heroic might. So that of course warranted a shopping trip. Not your everyday trip to the market however. Yorgan was going to the blacksmithy to see was sort of armor was available. Perhaps even buy some enchanted gear. Enchanted with the protection of frost of course. Leinkrahlir was a frost drake, so it only made sense that his breath will be of frost. Yorgan had on at the moment furs, made from a snow bear pelt. No better clothing would keep you warm in the frozen land. On a leather belt was strapped his axe of choice named Remming. He had bought this particular steel weapon from a caravan of merchants just after arriving in Harggroth. Remming was not anything special, it had only one steel bladed side to it, and a spiked bit on the other side. The handle was made from Black Pine wood, native to northern Harggroth only. It was bolstered with iron screws and lining to keep it from breaking, and the actual handle itself was wrapped with hard leather. Leaving Fargyell Inn, and walking down the street, he passed by the heart of Berstead, the open market. There he saw the hustling people, all bargaining and arguing over prices. One vendor, an Altmer woman, was selling jewelry. No one seemed to be paying her any attention. As per usual Carlotta and Nara’s stalls were packed with people. They sold farm produce. All different kinds, cabbage, wheat, leeks, onions, eggs, milk and more. The butcher, Sughon The Grinder’s stall stood next to them. Yorgan knew these peoples names, but barely spoke to them. In this town, almost everyone knew each other. Berstead was quite small in terms of a Harggroth village. The only buildings with more than two stories where the smithy’s house, the Jarl's Longhouse, Fargyell Inn, and Dred Manor, located on a hill a little ways from the town. Reaching the side of the smith’s house slash vendor market Yorgan glanced at the forge, and then to Greta, the one and only forge-master in town. Greta was a large woman, with a manly appearance. She seemed to always be dirty. Her hair was always put up in a ponytail fashion of some sort.

 

“Fine morning to you, smithy” Yorgan called over, from the opposite corner. She didn't look up, or otherwise acknowledge his existence however she did say, “Oh, morning Mr. Worn. Is that what I shall continue call you, since you're keeping to saying ‘smithy’?” Yorgan and Greta met one another the moment from when Yorgan passed over the bridge to Berstead’s fields of grain. Greta had been visiting a friend out in a small village by the Odali river, a few miles down the road. She was returning when a pair of wolves had jumped her close to the bridge. Yorgan was nearby and heard screaming. When he got there, Greta being the burly blacksmith, had killed both animals. One of the wolves though, bit her arm. Yorgan had bandaged it for her, and afterwards the two became quite good friends.

Edited June 8, 2014 by TheBrownCow

[TheBrownCow]

“If you insist, I shall just call you Greta, is that fine?” Yorgan always tried to be as polite as he could muster. “Oh it don’t matter what you call me, so long as you ain’t sayin smithy! I get that from people day in and day out.” Greta had been pounding a piece of hot iron on an anvil. She stuck it back in the fiery coals to heat it up, and started squeezing the bellows.

 

“As I’ve told you and you’ve probably overheard the inn keeper boasting, the frost drake will die. By my hand nonetheless. Unfortunately, my raggish clothing does not suit a quarrel with a dragon. I came here to look for some good armor, possibly gear with some magical enhancement?” Yorgan and Greta have chatted about armor and weapons many times. Him being a warrior, he loved nothing better than to hold conversation about such things. Of course if this conversing was with a woman, all the better. “Of course! We’ve talked many a time about this. I told you last night, all you had to do was ask, and I’d provide” She smiled, but again did not take her eyes from her important smelting job. “Right, well I’m asking” Yorgan retorted.

 

“I’m in the middle of this forging right now, do you need it now?” asked, almost pausing to look at him, but she didn’t. “Now would be better for timing. I mean to leave for Mount Miraad within the hour” Yorgan had a thing for women who had meat to their bones. Not overly indulgent women of course. No, that was just awful. But Greta was far from overweight, and yet far from being thin. She had the right curves, Yorgan decided. Not to say Yorgan was going to act on these feelings. He had a dragon to slay. No time to be wasting with such things. “Okay, open the window to the Cornered Cudgel, I’ll tell Turnius, my apprentice, to give you a twenty-five gold discount on anything in the shop.”

 

Yorgan went inside the blacksmiths shop and opened the bay window overlooking the forge area outside. “Turnius! That man gets a twenty-five discount on any and everything! Don’t try to haggle him now!” Greta shouted out. A smallish boy/man looked over from a chair at the corner of a bar height table. “Oh, ok Greta! Hello sir, welcome. Uh so I guess you get a special deal? What’s with that?” Turnius was an annoyance. He was imperial, and very, well... very undesired by the public eye. “You mind your business Turnius Caolf. It seems I’m in ‘her ladies’ good graces. Let me see that breastplate up there.” Yorgan motioned to a shining steel armor piece, with fur around all the major cavities, for warmth. It seemed to gleam with a white and green light. It was faint, but if you turned it the right way, you would see shimmering runes and magic, covering the steel surface. That was indeed an enchanted piece. Greta blushed outside, though no one could see her doing so. She was a hard, muscled blacksmith, but had a very feminine side to her as well.

Edited June 8, 2014 by TheBrownCow

[Maharg67]

Very enjoyable; just a suggestion but your stories might be more readable if you separate the paragraphs with gaps as many writers do when they post into forums.

[TheBrownCow]

Aah ya, I do put spacing in google drive and then I just copy and paste. I forget to add the spaces back, but I'll start doing it, thanks!

[TheBrownCow]

“Yes of course sir, here you are, very fine chest I must say…” Turnius drooled on about how this chest plate had been made centuries ago by a legendary nordic smith. Some nonsense that surely was fabrication, just to make the product seem more worth Yorgan’s gold. It glinted and almost rippled with energy. The steel armor was around the same shape as Yorgan’s body. It looked as if it would fit on him perfectly. “You wish to try it on, yes?” Turnius nodded at him. “Sure, but i think it will fit-”

 

“There’s no harm in do so anyway! You will no doubt need it soon anyway, you are to slay the dragon, am I correct?” Turnius insisted that the armor be worn. Yorgan looked at his odd childish face and shook his head but slipped off his think woolen jacket and set it on an equipment table. The steel armor went over his head with ease, but Yorgan had not predicted correctly. The armor was a tad big on him. Not big enough however to warrant looking for another piece. “I think that looks about right” Turnius said thoughtfully. He tried hard to act like a successful man but Turnius did not seem to ‘fit’ into the role of a shop owner. He looked more like someone who should be chopping wood. He certainly needed to gain muscle from chopping.

“Fits just fine Turnius. Thank you. I think I’ll have to buy it. How much?” Yorgan put his wool jacket on over the armor, covering 99% of it up. Just the furry collar stuck out of his jacket. “Let me check,” Turnius went behind the counter again and took out a big old leather bound book. It seemed to be the reference to all of the Cornered Cudgel’s prices. “Uh, yes. It will be eight hundred and eighty five gold, sir. But since you get a discount.. mm.. eight hundred sixty please.”

“Really, very well. That price is almost too good to pass.” Yorgan was surprised by such inexpensive enchanted gear. Foraging around in a backpack he’d brought with him, he took out a bag heavy with gold. “This is a front payment of one hundred. You realize I can’t carry any crazy amount of money on my person. I’ll have to go get the rest.” Yorgan smiled a little and put the bag on the counter. “Of course,” Turnius took it “I’ll just wait, if you could go and get it?”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes” Yorgan got outside and walked back, through the market stalls and crowds to the tavern. Getting inside, Yorgan took in a breath, filled with the heavy smell of mead and smoke. Early in the morning the smoldering remains of a great fire lay in fireplace. A few shadowy customers sat at tables to the right of the doors and two bearded men sat at the bar. One was sleeping with a tankard clenched in his dirty hand. “Hahahah haah! The ol’ fool, Barcuf, he’s fallen ashleep. Do you see ‘em?!” the other man garbled his speech, clearly under the influence. The barkeep, another rough older man with a scar on his right cheek chuckled with him.

Edited February 8, 2014 by TheBrownCow

[TheBrownCow]

Yorgan ignored the drunken men, disregarding them without another thought. Although Yorgan did enjoy his share of mead and alcohol, he was focused on getting the gold.

Up the stairs and around a corner, in the dimly lit, cozy inn room Yorgan located his chest of gold at the foot of the dark woolen bed. To get the chest to the smithy, Yorgan had to take the chest outside, pay for a cart and have it delivered down with him. He paid the cart runner ten gold for his service.

 

“Alright, now let me see that chest,” Turnius was a little skeptical if the chest actually had the amount that was promised inside. Upon looking in the pinewood chest you could see a sizable amount of gold. “I guess I can’t count it.. I’ll take your word on your honor that this is the right amount”

“Of course Turnius, that’s all the gold, I swear it. Be a skeptic if you will. May I?” Yorgan refrained from rolling his eyes and motioned towards the armor. “Yes, I suppose you can wear it. You bought it! Good day to you Yorgan Worn. May the gods be watching over you. I could not imagine that dragon will invite you in for supper” Turnius looked at him with a little smile, but it vanished as he walked into the back room.

[TheBrownCow]

-4-

 

Traveling in the Bearsting Craglands was dangerous business. Many travelers parish annually to the harsh environment. As to be expected from a place with their name in the title, bears were a major part of this area. Caves dotted the ground, dark dank holes infested with the furry lumbering beasts. Deep crags ran along, making the land massive islands looking like floating pieces of ice.

 

The town of Berstead sat on such a raised ice island, it rose up above the valleys grand and imposing. The valleys created a sort of strange ice maze, leading to caves, and small towns. Berstead stood above all the strife, seeing very little of the bears. Many other villages sat below, some had walls to protect from animals, others had a large force of guardsmen and women.

 

Yorgan tramped down a steep snowy ramp. He had left the town of Berstead hours ago, and had been looking for a way off the large ice island that the village sat on. He found a ramp leading down, to a narrow white passage through the ice. The surface of the island of ice was shiny and streaked with random dirt, and some black marks. a bone, or what looked to be one, stuck out on a cliff side. Yorgan did not want to get a closer look. Human bones oddly enough made his skin crawl every time he saw or heard mention of them. Traveling in the Craglands was quite uneventful. The landscape was unchanging, besides the narrowing valleys and caverns.

 

Yorgan had gone for about six hours, non-stop, when he decided that it was time to take a quick break. His stomach felt knotted. Not just because of his hunger however. Yorgan stopped at a cave entrance. He knew the danger, but had discovered the tracks of a bear. The tracks led out of the cave, and never returned back inside. Using his sense of judgement he decided that he left about two hours ago.