Songs of Cinder - A Morrowind Fanfiction

[AncientNightblade]

Hi there, this is my first fanfiction ever, so any constructive criticism is appreciated. I'll be adding more chapters (I plan on about fifteen). Please tell me what you think! :smile:

You must have played Morrowind (or Dragonborn DLC for Skyrim) to understand. I hope you'll enjoy.

P.S. Excuse my English, it's not my native language.

SONGS OF CINDER, BOOK I: TRADING DAEDRA

The moons were full on 2nd of Sun's Dusk, Boethia's Summoning Day. A silt strider caravan, escorted by several sellsword parties and accompanied by a small bunch of Khajiiti captives, was seen from one of Tear's watchtowers, surfing through the marshy landscape that housed the villages and plantations of House Dres. A few moments later, one could hear the opening of the town's massive southern gate as the caravan approached. An elderly Dunmer unmounted the silt strider just as the caravan docked, a gray wrap concealing his whole face, a lantern in his right hand barely lighting a few metres around him. After stepping on an old wooden scaffolding, he gave a sign to the others to prepare all the slaves and wares, and reached out to a small cage, scribbled with Daedric letters, resting on his mount.

 

The Old Kollop Cornerclub, a haven for local wealthy slave traders and fortune-seeking adventurers alike, had its rusty front doors open wide for the recently arrived merchants. The Dunmer entered the cornerclub after dismissing the caravan, and sat on a chair by the fire, placing the cage and the purse full of gold in front of him. Before he could take the last sip of sujamma, a fellow Dunmer, clad in Netch leather, walked up to his chair and started examining the cage.

"Well, certainly it is no ordinary slave right here," the latter said. "Never seen anything like that in the Old Kollop before."

"This is something that must fit best to be a slave, serjo. But, if I were you, I'd cast that spawn back adrift the waters of Oblivion from whence it came. I never liked trifling with such kinds of dealings, but it seems I don't have a choice now."

"A hundred drakes is hardly a price for such rarity." the Dunmer by the name of Tedryn Brenur replied, eager to strike a deal. He pulled up a chair and flashed a bag of coins in front of the dealer.

"I don't really care about gold as long as I can get rid of this... Foul creature, to say the least."

"Date of birth?" Tedryn raised his brow.

"4th of Second Seed. True, it is no more than two years and six months old, but, you know, raised a slave - always a slave, if you make sure he's kept the proper way, of course."

Tedryn did not say a word, but took his dagger and cut the bag instead. Coins spilled all over the table with a pleasing sound that surely conjures a wide smile on every dealer's face. This particular dealer, however, did not show any signs of satisfaction with neither disposing of the cage nor having more coin in his pockets than he had originally planned. He silently stood up, thanked Tedryn for a purchase and rented a room before heading upstairs in a hurry.

"It seems another soul had its touch of luck tonight, hadn't it, sera?" The bartender said, serving a couple of bottles of flin to Tedryn, who was staring at the scribbles on the cage. Even the continuous sound of coins flipping on tables and jingling in purses, the loud singing of "The Battle of Molag Beran" and the handy high-kick could not disctract him. His eyes were full of interest and desire to open the lock and see what's inside. The dealer, Mithorpa Nasyal, threw his bag on the bed and opened the window only to be showered by sparks of the nearby forge and the pleasant wind blowing in his face. He took off the wraps, revealing his handsome, if a bit tainted by age, face. He never thought he'd end up travelling around Tamriel, selling things an average merchant would not be expected to sell. He made an inhuman sound in his throat, realising that he has just sold a Daedric soul, and thus subject to some Daedra's fury. All of these thoughts that haunted him throughout the night, and the sorry state of Tear seen from his window in its full "beauty", contributed to Mithorpa's depression. Both did not possess a single clue of what they've done this night.

2nd of Sun's Dusk, 3E 414.

SONGS OF CINDER, BOOK II: A KHAJIIT WITHOUT A TAIL

Urjorahn opened his eyes. Everything was the same: the same rotten ceiling, which was giving signs of being ready to fall on his head at any time, the lantern so dim one could only see the ceiling it was hanging on, the end table with its shelves open, full of crumpled up pieces of old paper, scribbled and doodled with Daedric letters that Urjorahn made, using charcoal he managed to find under his hay pile. The same Daedric letters as those he only caught a single glimpse of when he was transported to Vvardenfell, those which were on his cage. He felt like it was an eternity, even though only sixteen years had passed. He never really knew what these Daedric letters were supposed to mean, neither did he care.

From a slave's perspective, everything is always the same, and things hardly ever change behind the bars of his cage door. If they do, most react to it as a blessing from above, or a curse. Sadly enough, more as a curse. The other slaves, a Khajiiti bunch transported the same night as young Urjorahn was, were mocking him for his unusual appearance. Urjorahn was considerably taller than them, but so skinny that his dark grey fur couldn't hide the fact that he hasn't eaten in weeks. His nose and left cheek had fairly noticeable marks made with red paint, which was also seen on his skinny arms and neck. Urjorahn never ever erased them; he always believed that this paint may hint at the clan he was born to back in Elsweyr, or at his past in general. His eyes scared even the slavemasters themselves - one could call them glowing white orbs, as they certainly were not those of an average Khajiit. The most bizarre of all his features was his tail, or, more exactly, lack thereof. Everyone was making up the silliest stories about his taillessness, ranging from it being stolen by a skilled thief, or a curse from one of the gods, but no one but Urjorahn himself knew the truth: a terrible wound, clearly indicating that his tail was cut off - a great shame for any Khajiit, even a hopeless slave. But even Urjorahn didn't know who did this, when and for what purpose. He thought he truly was cursed for reasons unknown.

All of these features combined together - and one gets the full image of a sickly, tailless, mad cat, dressed in a dirty and ragged roughspun tunic, that is Urjorahn.

"This one obviously has been having evening meals with Sheggorath the Skooma Cat, eh?" Dro'masha kept saying this to Urjorahn. True, he looked like a skooma addict, or someone who underwent years of Daedric influence.

It is no wonder that everyone treated Urjorahn even worse than them average beastfolk; slavemasters wouldn't miss a single chance to give him some extra work or punishing him twice more. He was, quite literally, an abomination. "Raised a slave - always a slave", these words were forever in his memory.

The sun was only partially lighting the grotto that was used for keeping slaves, and it was difficult to say whether it was midnight or afternoon. Everyone managed to keep track of time due to the guardsmen's daily routine - every morning they took their blades and clubs and hit the bars of every cage door, yelling "Wake up, filthy n'wah!" and thus making a noise that could make even the sleepiest of slaves stand up and be ready for a hard day's work like they've been awake this whole time. This morning was no exception, and when all of the slaves were woken, the cage doors opened one by one. A large, brutish Dunmer, capable of bringing down a Nord warrior by the looks of him, lead the slaves outside, towards the blinding light. Urjorahn rubbed his eyes and opened them one more time once he got used to the sunlight. The same plantation, hugging the edges of a hill just west of Pelagiad, was before him. The hill itself was sticked with villas all over, creating an impression that it was made of those. Perhaps these villas were the only sign of a civilized culture that Urjorahn and the rest of the slaves knew, spending most of their time in a dark grotto. He could see the figure of the slavemaster Tedryn a couple of metres away, enjoying the sight of hundreds of working slaves. The latter took a look at Urjorahn, recognising his old purchase, his heart giving birth to regret, as he indeed came to regret his actions in the Old Kollop that night. Urjorahn, however, made it clear that he isn't going to stay here for longer, his eyes full of confidence Tedryn hadn't seen in years.

"You better get to work, n'wah!" Tedryn shouted, "Or, do you want an another portion of punishment I had prepared for you?"

Urjorahn saw a few guardsmen, clad in bonemold, approaching him.

"We'll see how you change your attitude after a good beating." one of the guardsmen said, slowly unsheathing his short blade and pointing it at the slave. Instead of replying, Urjorahn hissed and got back to work.

As well as being different in appearance, Urjorahn was also notable for disobeying the slavemasters more often than the others did, a feature Tedryn hated deeply. While certainly he wasn't quite the servant, the only thing that kept Tedryn from killing him was Mithorpa Nasyal's words after the deal. Words that terrified even Tedryn himself, a Dunmer who tested his mettle and blade in bloody battle and his tongue for gift of deceit.

Words that Tedryn wished to keep secret.