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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 13: Three’s A Crowd

hey just a PSA that since i’ve fallen behind (this chapter is ridiculously late) i’m going to take a short break from posting for a while to work on building up a buffer! (join our discord and bug me to write pls)

summary Fahjoth is hopeful that tensions between Julan and Ribyna will settle, but their animosity risks a guild assignment going pear-shaped.

content warnings violence, blood, minor character death

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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He stood quietly awaiting a response after rapping his knuckles on the door, but only a heavy silence greeted him. Frowning, Fahjoth tried again, a little more forcefully this time. This was the right room, wasn’t it?

The third knock finally yielded a result. From within the room came a low, long groan, and Fahjoth took that as his cue to open the door a sliver and peer inside.

“Rise and shine,” he called, trying to hold back a grin at the state his friend was in. Julan was slouched on the bed, fully clothed and burying his face in his hands. “How are you feeling?”

“Ugh… fantastic,” came Julan’s gruff response. “Why did you let me drink so much?”

“You’re the one who kept asking for more! Want me to stop you next time?”

“Yes.” Julan paused. “Maybe. I don’t know. Sheogorath, it feels like my head’s about to explode…”

Fahjoth chuckled, pushing the door open a little more to step inside. “Are you up for training today? Or d’you need some time to, uh… recover?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Julan insisted, hauling himself to his feet and staggering slightly on the spot as he fought to balance himself. “So how come you’re looking so fresh this early?”

“Early?” Fahjoth repeated. “Mate, it’s gone midday.”

“It has?” Julan squinted at Fahjoth as he rubbed his head. “Gods… alright, there’s no time to waste then. What’s the plan?”

“Well, I thought maybe we could do something a bit more practical today,” Fahjoth started. “How d’you fancy taking out a bandit leader?”

“Bandits? Sure.”

With no sign of Cosades to be seen that morning, Fahjoth had stopped by the Fighters Guild to find something, anything to keep him busy and to keep the gold coming in. While the prospect of facing an entire gang of bandits by himself was daunting, he was a little more confident that he and Julan would be able to deal with it together. And having Ribyna tag along couldn’t hurt, although he hoped that she and Julan would be able to put their differences aside for the time being.

Julan continued to chatter as he sat back down again to pull on his boots. “D’you do this sort of thing regularly?”

“Sort of.” Fahjoth leaned against the doorframe, waiting and watching idly. “I’ve done a few jobs for the Fighters Guild to earn a bit more gold. Nothing this big before, mind.”

“The Fighters Guild? You’ve never mentioned that. Fighters… they’re alright, I guess.” Julan suddenly looked up, eyes wide. “Hey, have you ever seen a Nord hit himself in the face with his own hammer?”

“No?”

Julan sighed, a grin growing on his face. “Well, me neither, but I live in hope.” He stood up and approached the doorway, patting Fahjoth on the shoulder as he reached him. “After you.”

Fahjoth laughed as he headed out of the cornerclub, feeling an odd excitement begin to quiver somewhere in his gut. Or was that nervousness? Whatever it was, the feeling intensified as he stepped outside and came face-to-face with his twin, who was leaning against the wall and looking bored stiff as she waited for them.

“About fucking time,” Ribyna muttered, and as Julan stepped out after him, Fahjoth heard him falter. His good mood instantly took a nosedive; he had been hopeful for a few more moments of peace at least before the hostilities began again.

“Are you still up for coming with us to Suran, Beebs?” Fahjoth asked, in an attempt to ease the tension.

“Why the fuck else d’you think I’d be stood here like a lemon waiting for you?” She jerked her head towards Julan. “The question is whether drunk tank here can cope with it.”

Julan frowned. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that? You got pretty hammered last night.” Ribyna’s voice was casual, but the glare she fixed Julan with was hard and cold. “You almost drank a hole in Fahji’s coin purse.”

“What does that even—”

“Guys!” Fahjoth said abruptly, rubbing his temple as he spoke. Better to nip this in the bud before it became blown out of proportion. “Let’s get going, shall we? It’s a fair way to Suran. It’d be nice to get there before it gets dark.”

Neither Ribyna nor Julan continued to bicker, but the scathing looks they shot at each other instead left Fahjoth’s nerves shot. Julan’s eyes eventually met Fahjoth’s own and he began to look quite guilty.

“Sorry, Fahjoth,” Julan said. “Go ahead.”

Fahjoth flashed Julan a small smile of appreciation before setting off out of town. The balmy afternoon sun warming the top of his head offered little comfort as he dreaded having to break up fight after fight between his two companions, an outcome that was looking more likely by the minute.

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The journey to Suran passed mostly in a very strained silence. Fahjoth would make conversation with Julan or with Ribyna, but never both at the same time, as they seemed to be doing their best to ignore each other. Fahjoth wasn’t sure whether he preferred that over the snide comments and defensive retorts.

His contact in Suran, Serjo Avon Oran, resided in what was possibly the grandest house Fahjoth had ever set foot in. Delicate steps and care to avoid breaking or dirtying anything led the three to Oran; on speaking to him, Fahjoth learned that the bandits were occupying a cave among the hills to the northeast.

“Be careful,” Oran had cautioned. “Nasty piece of work, those bandits. But take out their leader, Daldur Sarys, and the rest should scatter. Good luck.”

With this advice in mind, Fahjoth was thoughtful as they exited Oran Manor and stepped out into the cool Suran evening.

“I felt so weird being in a house like that,” Julan remarked. “I was expecting someone to yell at me for trailing muck all over their floor…”

“You know, you were trailing a lot more than muck in there,” Ribyna replied. She sniffed, looking down at Julan’s boots. “Is that guar shit?”

A momentary flash of alarm crossed Julan’s face and he hastily lifted up his foot to check the underside of his shoe, only to scowl as Ribyna in turn cackled like a hyena.

“Don’t listen to her, she’s winding you up,” Fahjoth said with a sigh. “Right, well, if you’re done, shall we get going? We’re losing daylight. Unless we got a room for the night and headed out first thing.”

“Oh no, I’m not hanging around any longer than I need to!” Ribyna insisted, already turning on her heel and strolling out under the town’s entrance archway. “We’re going. What are you? Men or scribs?”

“You know that shit doesn’t work on me!” Fahjoth called, but nonetheless he followed suit, glancing back to ensure that Julan was following.

“Well, come on then! You and Guar-Boy better get a move on, or those bandits will have died of old age by the time we get there.”

Fahjoth said nothing, merely trotted along in Ribyna’s wake with an exasperated roll of his eyes. Likewise, Julan was quiet, but when Fahjoth risked a peek back at him, he caught him furiously mouthing “Guar-Boy?!” under his breath.

The road to Saturan was pleasantly empty. With the shadows cast by the sun growing as it sank behind the hills, plunging them into the bitterly chilly shade, Fahjoth was grateful that they encountered no trouble along the way.

By the time they located Saturan, dusk had come and gone, leaving only clear dark skies glittering with distant stars overhead. Fahjoth shivered as he stared at the cave entrance, the dilapidated wooden door concealing the unknown that lay within. He took a few cautious steps closer and gently pushed the door open, wincing as the hinges emitted a slight, shrill creak. The inside of the cave stretched further in than Fahjoth could see, its earthy tunnels lit by bracketed torches propped up on long iron poles jutting up from the ground.

The entrance cave meandered on for a short distance, descending deeper into the hill until opening up into a much larger cavern. The path was supplemented by a rough wooden boardwalk, its far end strewn with crates and candles and a ladder leading down to the lower levels. Fahjoth scuttled along, taking care not to hit his head on the low-hanging stalactites until he reached the crates, and beckoned Julan and Ribyna along behind him as he tucked himself behind one. Here, they looked down upon the lower boardwalk, where a few others paced back and forth, carrying boxes and sacks of loot back and forth. Fahjoth’s gaze was fixed down below, but he heard Ribyna and Julan settling down and crouching on either side.

“So, these must be the bandits,” Julan whispered. “Have you got a plan?”

“Sort of,” Fahjoth answered. “We need to get to the leader, somehow. Daldur Sarys. If we can take him out with a sneak attack, the rest should scatter like Oran said.”

“Right! So… how do we get to Sarys? Which one is Sarys, anyway?”

Fahjoth paused, frowning as he stared down at the bandit activity below. Truthfully, it was impossible to know exactly who their target was; all they could do was hope to hear his name brought up in conversation and go from there. But how long could they stay put, before someone discovered them and raised the alarm?

As Fahjoth pondered this rather pressing dilemma, he became aware of a soft rustling and clinking coming from his left. He glanced over, his heart beginning to hammer as he watched Ribyna idly rummaging through one of the crates.

“Oh hey, look!” She held up what seemed to be a bottle of sujamma, admiring it in the soft orange light of a nearby candle. “There’s loads of this shit in here! We won’t have to buy drinks for like, a week with this lot.”

Like Fahjoth, Julan’s agitation was evident.

“Put that down, they’ll hear you!” he hissed, lunging for the bottle. Though he made contact, Ribyna refused to relinquish it, keeping a firm grip on it herself.

“Piss off, Guar-Boy, get your own!”

“I’m not trying to steal it, you s’wit!”

“Oh yeah, right-o! I bet you’d be happy to guzzle this whole crate by yourself, you fucking alchie!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?! Let go—!”

With one sharp tug from Julan, the bottle was wrenched from Ribyna’s grip. But Julan, not expecting Ribyna to let go, toppled back and hit the boardwalk with a dull thud. His elbow struck the wood and the bottle was flung from his grasp, sailing over the side of the boardwalk and crashing against the wooden deck below, shattering on impact and splattering its sweet, frothy innards in a graceful explosion of liquor.

“Shit—!”

Fahjoth ducked back behind the crates, keeping himself as low to the ground as possible as he reached out towards Julan and hauled him back to safety as soon as he felt their hands meet. As the three huddled together, their breathing laboured with the effort of remaining as silent as possible, Fahjoth strained his ears to listen.

It was quiet. Far too quiet. The sounds of activity below ceased entirely as all bandits froze in their tracks.

“What the hell?”

Over the sound of Fahjoth’s own rapid heartbeat reverberating in his head, he listened to the soft creaking of the wooden planks beneath the bandits’ cautious feet becoming louder as the seconds ticked by. They couldn’t remain there for much longer.

“Fahjoth,” Julan whispered, “we have to do something.” He paused to listen for a moment before continuing with the same hushed urgency, “If we all rush out at the same time, maybe we can catch them off-guard.”

“Yeah. It’s our best chance,” Fahjoth agreed. “Alright... ready? One... two... three!”

Julan led the assault. He vaulted down the steps and engaged with the first bandit, an Orc who was unlucky enough to be standing closest. As Fahjoth followed suit, from his periphery he saw Ribyna leap over the crates and land on the lower boardwalk where she lunged at the closest bandit. The force from her collision knocked them both clean off the edge, causing a loud squelch as they landed in the muck beneath.

Fahjoth drew his weapon as he charged forward and the Redguard bandit in front of him scrambled back for distance, reaching for his own axe. But Fahjoth was faster, and the Redguard hollered as his hand was struck with Fahjoth’s sword, leaving an angry, weeping welt across his knuckles. With the blade sailing ever closer, the Redguard threw up both hands in an act of surrender.

“I yield!” he cried, and Fahjoth ceased his attack. There was no way he could kill a surrendering man... But his sword hand did not waver, and after a second he spoke the first thing that came to mind.

“I’ll give you one chance,” he said, his voice heavy with threat. “Your group’s done. Get out.”

The Redguard needed no encouragement. Edging around Fahjoth’s sword, he broke into a sprint up the steps and fled, his footsteps echoing down the cavern until the creaking of the door in the distance announced his departure.

As he caught his breath, Fahjoth glanced around to see how his companions were faring. His eyes fell on Julan; his sword was slick with blood and his opponent had dropped twitching to the ground, and a surge of admiration welled up in Fahjoth’s chest. He opened his mouth to call over to him, but the air froze in his chest as a shadow caught his eye.

A hunched figure crept closer to Julan, the glint of a blade flashing in the candlelight as it was drawn from its sheath.

“Julan!” Fahjoth yelled, kicking off into a mad dash back up the boardwalk to his friend. The figure, a Dunmer, recognising that his cover had been blown, fully brandished his weapon and rushed towards Julan as well. As Julan raised his own sword, Fahjoth caught up with the bandit and threw himself legs-first at the bandit’s ankles.

A burning pain radiated out from his shin as the bandit’s foot collided with it. Fahjoth skidded to the ground, but his effort had been enough. The Dunmer, tripped up by Fahjoth’s sliding tackle, stumbled forward — and directly into range of Julan’s shortsword. Julan lunged, impaling the bandit clean through the neck. With blood dribbling from his gurgling mouth, the bandit crumpled to his knees, and after a hard kick to the chest from Julan, he dropped to the ground and fell still.

With his leg throbbing, Fahjoth struggled to get his feet, but Julan was quick to approach and offer a hand which he gladly accepted. But before he could say his thanks, footsteps at the end of the cavern alerted them to the arrival of two more Dunmer.

One of them, donning thick chitin armour, stared at the scene in shock before his angular features twisted with rage.

“You’ll regret killing my people, you n’wah!” he hissed, drawing a glimmering sword as he stepped closer. Behind him, the second Dunmer — donning the elegant robes of a mage — raised his hands as he prepared a blistering fiery spell. Julan prepared his own spell in retaliation, but before the mage could attack, a dark figure on the ground beneath the boardwalk suddenly lunged at his legs.

The mage howled as Ribyna plunged her dagger into his knee, and as he was rendered lame and unbalanced, she grabbed his robes and dragged him down to the ground with her. The head bandit — Daldur Sarys — snapped his head around in alarm, and Fahjoth took his opportunity.

He struck at Sarys with his sword, but Sarys faced him in time to block it with his own, the hilt vibrating in Fahjoth’s hand and the blades screeching as they clashed. As Fahjoth jumped back to avoid Sarys’ retaliation, Julan’s voice rang out from behind.

“Fahjoth, get down!”

Without hesitation, Fahjoth ducked.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as a crackling energy sailed overhead. He risked peering up in time to witness a bolt of electricity crashing down on Sarys. As the magic jolted through his body, he gave a choked gasp and stumbled back, and Fahjoth took his chance. He whacked at Sarys’ sword arm, and — as he drew a deep breath and steeled himself — slashed his blade across the bandit’s throat.

With a deep laceration in his neck now gushing blood, Sarys began to stagger on the spot. A weak glow illuminated his hand as he tried desperately to heal himself, but the damage had already been done. Unable to breathe, and with his own blood generously painting both himself and the wooden planks beneath his feet, Sarys could only remain standing for a few seconds more before his legs gave way beneath him and, like the rest of his comrades, he collapsed.

With the silence in the cavern now punctuated only by the sound of their ragged panting, Fahjoth turned to face Julan, taking deep breaths in an attempt to force his heart rate back to normal. The pain in his leg now pulsed much more noticeably than before.

“I think that’s all of them,” he said, limping to meet Julan and weakly wiggling his sword to shake off the blood. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Julan answered. “What about you? Is your leg okay? That fall looked nasty.”

“It will be,” Fahjoth replied, but before he could continue, a noise behind them caused them both to whirl around in alarm. Fahjoth’s heart hammered again, but it calmed as soon as he realised it was just Ribyna, wearily clambering back up onto the boardwalk from the muddy cave floor beneath, splattered from head to foot with a grim combination of muck and blood. Fahjoth started towards her and offered a hand to help her up — which she ignored entirely.

“Beebs! Are you alright—“

“No thanks to you.”

Fahjoth paused. “What d’you mean?“ She had since got to her feet, but as Fahjoth tried to reach out to her again, he faltered as she smacked his hand away. “Ribyna, what’s the matter?”

Ribyna didn’t answer. Instead she gave a derisive scoff, turning away from Fahjoth and making a half-hearted attempt to clean the grime off her leathers. Confusion gave way to a prickling anger as Fahjoth’s blood began to boil.

Before he could stop himself, he had snapped back.

“What exactly is your problem? I mean if it wasn’t for you fighting with Julan, none of this would have happened in the first place! What the hell were you thinking?!”

Ribyna let out a humourless laugh. “Oh yeah, that’s right! Go on, blame me instead of your new best mate who can do no wrong!”

“What?” Fahjoth’s mouth dropped open as he stumbled over his words. “W— where’s this coming from?”

“As if you need to ask! It’s like he’s the only one who matters now!”

From beside him, Fahjoth noticed Julan bristle and take a breath as he prepared his retort. Fahjoth held up a hand and shot him a pleading glance — a silent request to let him handle this situation, which Julan thankfully obliged.

“Beebs, you’re being ridiculous—”

“Am I, though?! Ever since he joined us, you’ve been siding with him and defending him all the time!”

Fahjoth frowned, his frustration from Ribyna’s behaviour over the past few days finally bubbling over and spilling out. “Because you’ve been treating him like shit!”

“He treated us like shit, Fahjoth! Or have you forgotten already?!”

“I apologised for that,” Julan interjected with a frown.

Glancing between Julan and Ribyna, Fahjoth nodded. “He did apologise for that, Beebs.”

Ribyna cackled again, a rough, unpleasant sound devoid of any mirth. “There, you’re doing it again! Well, d’you know what, I’m done. I’m fed up of you picking this random guar-fucker over your own fucking family.”

Fahjoth stepped back, Ribyna’s words hitting him like a punch to the face as a wave of unease washed over him. “But... I’m not—”

“Save it!”

She turned away, and Fahjoth’s stomach churned as he noticed an unmistakable dark red stain oozing from her hairline, just before her temple.

“Ribyna? Did you— are you hurt?”

He stepped closer again and cautiously touched her shoulder, but another hard strike from Ribyna sent him recoiling instantly.

“Ribyna—!”

“Fuck you both. See you ‘round.”

Ignoring Fahjoth’s cries, Ribyna wheeled around and stormed off with a distinct unsteadiness in her steps. His gut twisting and a cold sweat settling on his skin, Fahjoth continued to shout after his twin long after her angry footsteps had receded into silence.

“Ribyna!”

With nothing answering him but the gentle dripping of water from the cave roof, Fahjoth dropped his head into his hand and sighed. Things had been tense with Ribyna lately, but he hadn’t anticipated such a blow-out. He hadn’t realised she still held such a grudge for Julan’s attitude on their first encounter. Why couldn’t she have just talked to him about this? He was used to her stubborn reticence, but it was still incredibly frustrating.

“I’m sorry.”

Fahjoth turned around. Julan was standing there, looking almost as wretched as Fahjoth felt.

“What are you apologising for, mate?”

Julan wrung his hands, dropping his gaze. “I just… I feel like this is all my fault.”

“Hey, don’t be daft!” Fahjoth took a few hasty steps forward until he was close enough to rest his hands on Julan’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. Ribyna is just…” He grimaced, shrugging as he wondered how best to explain. “She isn’t the easiest person in the world to get on with. She doesn’t really… make friends very easily.”

“But my point still stands!” Julan protested. “Me being here is just causing you problems. You wouldn’t be fighting with your twin if it wasn’t for me.”

Fahjoth scoffed. “I wouldn’t be so sure. We always squabble over… pretty much everything. But— look…” He gave Julan’s shoulders a squeeze and crouched the few inches necessary until they were at eye-level with each other, trying to convey his sincerity with a small smile. “I promised I’d help you train, and I’m sticking to that. Whether that’s with or without Ribyna. Okay?”

Julan managed a weak smile in return. “Okay.”

“Anyway, you’re not just causing me problems!” Fahjoth continued. “Look at what we did today! I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you, mate.”

“You probably would have. But thanks.” Julan’s smile gradually became a grin. “We do make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

Fahjoth’s smile widened. “Damn right we do!” Without thinking, he pulled Julan into an enthusiastic one-armed hug — only to panic as he realised what he’d done. Had he crossed a line? He didn’t know what Julan’s stance on physical contact was; what if he was offended?

“Sorry, I just—” he began babbling as he backed off, but Julan simply laughed and patted Fahjoth on the shoulder in return.

“It’s fine,” he said. “So… shall we get going? I could kill for a mazte right now!”

Fahjoth raised a brow, glancing around at the bloodied heaps of bodies dotted around the cave. “I think we already did, mate.” He flashed Julan another grin and set off, limping out of the cave while frequently looking back to ensure that Julan was following. “I think we’ve more than earned that mazte.”

“Hah, you’re right.” He glanced down at Fahjoth’s leg, noticing his awkward gait. “Are you sure your leg’s alright?”

“Oh, it’ll be fine, don’t worry,” Fahjoth replied, waving Julan’s concern aside with an airy flick of his wrist. “It’s just a bit bruised, I think.”

“As long as you’re sure. You know, that was an impressive tackle.” Julan paused, a thoughtful look on his face as he trotted along beside Fahjoth. “I heard you letting one of them go.”

Fahjoth faltered, his grin slipping away to a wry smile. “Yeah… he was yielding. I couldn’t bring myself to kill someone after they’d surrendered.”

“You’ve got better morals than half of Morrowind then. At least.” For a moment, Fahjoth wasn’t sure whether that was meant to be taken as a compliment or an insult, but Julan continued, “Oh, I’m not criticising! I think it’s nice. Just… be careful, okay? I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

A curious feeling settled in Fahjoth’s stomach. He glanced at Julan, the earnesty on his face clear to see even in the low light of the nearby torch flames, and instantly Fahjoth felt a rush of gratitude and affection for his new friend. The idea that another person cared that much about him warmed him from the inside out, even as they stepped out into the chilly night air.

“Cheers, mate,” he said, clapping Julan on the shoulder as another smile lifted his cheeks. “Let’s go tell Oran the good news, then go get those drinks.”

Julan grinned back, lightly bumping Fahjoth’s shoulder with his own.

“Sounds good to me.”

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #julan kaushibael #Morrowind #dunmer #nerevarine #dunmer oc #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfic #tes iii: morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 7: Awakening

oops im seeing about changing my upload day to friday but yesterday i totally forgot abt it so lmao

summary After a successful assignment, Fahjoth is glad to be given a few days off and learns a little about his duties from Caius. The twins plan a trip to Vivec City for some exploration.

content warnings none

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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Flouncing through the front door of Cosades’ tiny house, Fahjoth couldn’t wipe the grin off his face as he brandished the scrolls of parchment with glee.

“I got them!” he cried, ecstatic. “The notes from Sharn gra-Muzgob! I got them!”

Cosades looked up from his supper with one brow raised, but by no means did he look on with disapproval. “And not a scratch on you,” he remarked, holding out a hand to receive the scrolls as Fahjoth passed them over. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you found your feet. Well done, Novice.”

“Well, I had help—” Fahjoth started, unwilling to take all the credit for his achievement, but Cosades didn’t seem to be listening anyway. He unfurled the scrolls and silence fell as he pored over them, a thoughtful look on his face as he examined the scrawling, loopy handwriting. Fahjoth took a seat at the table and waited, wondering what his next assignment was to be. At least Ribyna was on standby back at the South Wall Cornerclub, and for that, Fahjoth was grateful.

“Well, Fahjoth,” Cosades started, rolling up the parchments once again and turning to face Fahjoth with the beginnings of a smile, “I’m promoting you to Blades Apprentice. You deserve it after the hard work you’ve put into all your duties.”

Fahjoth’s heart began to soar with excitement. “Apprentice?” he repeated, awestruck. “Thank you, sir! So, uhh... what will I be expected to do now?”

“Nothing too different, I assure you. It’s mostly a recognition thing, to be perfectly honest,” Cosades answered. He got to his feet, beginning to pace around the room in deep thought and occasionally stopping to check a book or scrap of paper, cross referencing several stacks of notes. Fahjoth wondered how he was able to keep track of it all. “Now, I'd like some time to think how this all fits in with the Emperor's plans for you. So if you'd like to get in a little freelance adventuring, go ahead. But whenever you're ready, I'll have new orders for you."

“Oh... alright.” The news came as a welcome surprise for sure. Fahjoth had to admit, he was glad to have a few days of downtime at last. It would be a good opportunity for him and Ribyna to do some exploring; she had mentioned wanting to visit Vivec City at some point, perhaps now they could finally go.

But there was one thing that he had been growing more and more curious about; the subject of all his errands, the very reason he had been putting his life on the line in exchange for whatever information Cosades wanted. He knew nothing about any of it, and the burning desire to ask, to learn exactly why it was so important, could not be quashed. Maybe now was the time.

“Sir?” he questioned, biting his lip with uncertainty. Cosades stared fixedly at Fahjoth, indicating that he was listening, and so Fahjoth continued — albeit with some hesitation. “Could you explain the... things that I’ve been getting information about? The, uh, the Sixth House and the Nev... Nevera... Neraver—“

“The Nerevarine,” Cosades finished for him, and Fahjoth nodded. “Of course. I forget that you can’t read well. We’ll start with the Sixth House.”

Fahjoth shuffled in his seat, getting himself comfortable and listening with rapt attention as Cosades began to speak. “There isn’t much to say about the Sixth House cult just yet. A trusted informant of mine says they're a secret cult associated with some strange events recently. More importantly, my informant thinks these recent disturbances are related in some way to the Nerevarine Prophecies."

“And what are the—?”

“I’m getting to that part, Apprentice. One thing at a time. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s been some attacks recently attributed to sleeper agents of this cult. Have you heard anything about them?”

Fahjoth shook his head. “No sir.”

“There've been several attacks recently, and these Sleepers all say the same thing. ‘Serve your Lord, Dagoth Ur. The Sixth House is risen, and Dagoth is its glory.’”

A shiver suddenly tore through Fahjoth’s ribs, catching him by surprise. Why did that name sound so familiar? There was no distinct emotional response attached to hearing it, but the hairs on Fahjoth’s arms continued to stand on end, giving him prominent goosebumps.

“Keep an eye out, and if you see anything suspicious, let me know.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, now for the Nerevarine.” Cosades rejoined Fahjoth at the table and took a swig of something from an open bottle before continuing. “The Ashlanders—“

“The what?”

“The Ashlanders— by the divines, Vetharys...”

Fahjoth grimaced, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Sorry...”

“No, it’s alright,” Cosades sighed. “I just thought you would’ve heard about them by now. I don't know much about them. Most people say they‘re murderous savages. But most people are idiots. I know they hate the settled Dunmer almost as much as they hate Westerners. I don't think their tribes tend to be particularly welcoming to outlanders, so watch yourself if you’re ever wandering in the Ashlands.”

Fahjoth nodded, remaining quiet to let Cosades go on.

“The Ashlanders pass down their customs and history in the form of poetic verses. Among the things they preserve in verse are the dreams and prophetic visions of their wise women, in particular the verses that foretell the coming of the Nerevarine. And before you ask,” Cosades added, seeing that Fahjoth was about to speak again, “some Dunmer believe that an orphan and outcast, a youth born on a certain day to uncertain parents, will one day unite all the tribes of the Dunmer, drive out the invaders of Morrowind, and reestablish the ancient laws and customs of the Dark Elven nations. They call this orphan and outcast the ‘Nerevarine’, and say they will be a reincarnation of the long-dead Dunmer General and First Councilor, Lord Indoril Nerevar. But... I don't know much else about it. That's why I'm sending you to find out.”

Fahjoth nodded, fascinated by the sudden bombardment of information he was receiving. “And... it’s relevant to stuff that’s happening now? These cult attacks and whatnot? That’s why we’re investigating it?”

There was a split second where Fahjoth thought that Cosades may have paused, his stern grey eyes locked on Fahjoth’s own, but then came a perfectly normal response, leaving him wondering if he’d simply imagined it.

“Correct.”

Armed with this knowledge, Fahjoth suddenly felt inspired. So this was what all his top-secret missions had really been about. He still had no idea why he’d been pulled out of prison to join this endeavour specifically, but he no longer felt as much of a need to question it. This was his chance to make a difference, to do some real good in the world; it strengthened his resolve and he silently vowed to give it his all, regardless of how many errands he would end up having to run.

“Alright. Thanks, sir.” Fahjoth rose to his feet, figuring he should go and find Ribyna and tell her the news, but Cosades leaned back in his chair and stared at him with such a dour look in his eyes that Fahjoth faltered.

“Don’t forget, Vetharys — always pay attention to what’s going on around you. You’re an agent of the Blades; information is our specialty,” he advised. “And never let your guard down. I don’t ever want to find you being sent back to me in a box.”

Fahjoth cringed, feeling distinctly like he was being told off for the sheer amount of ignorance he had so openly displayed. Well, he had to learn somehow, didn't he? “Yes, sir… thank you, sir.”

And with that he bade farewell to Cosades for now, scurrying out of the house before he could be admonished further, and made a beeline straight for the South Wall Cornerclub. Just as he rounded the corner and descended the short flight of stone steps between buildings, he found himself face-to-face with a familiar dark-haired figure, and coincidentally just the person he was looking for.

“Ribyna!” he called, grinning as he got his sibling’s attention seconds before she stepped into the cornerclub. “Thought I’d find you here.”

“‘Sup, Fahji?” Ribyna turned away from the doorway and gave Fahjoth the usual hug of greeting. “You look happy. Has something happened?”

“I got a promotion!” he exclaimed without hesitation, eager to share the news. “And I got a few days off, too. I was thinking maybe we could do something.”

“Ah, well done, bro!” Ribyna congratulated him with a grin. “Yeah, I’m good for a few days. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I thought maybe we could go to Vivec City? If you still wanted to go there, that is.”

For the second time that night, Fahjoth thought he detected a fleeting look of hesitation on the face of someone he was speaking to. This time it was Ribyna, who appeared almost apprehensive as soon as Fahjoth had mentioned going to Vivec City; but then her response was as casual as ever, leaving Fahjoth even more befuddled and debating with himself over whether he was just seeing things.

Maybe I’m just tired, he mused to himself.

“Yeah, sounds good. D’you wanna leave now or tomorrow?” Ribyna asked. “If you like, I can go see how much the silt strider bloke charges.”

“Well, it’s getting on a bit, but…” Fahjoth paused, looking upwards and searching for the position of the sun, which was already past its highest point in the sky. He estimated that they had a few hours of daylight left, so ignoring the little voice of caution in his head, he made his decision.

“Yeah, why not? Let’s go tonight. Could be fun to stay overnight in the big city!” Fahjoth enthused, and Ribyna nodded.

“Alright! I’ll go find out how much a one way trip costs,” Ribyna said. “Start heading over towards the silt strider and I’ll meet you there!” And with that she tore off, racing over the bridge in the middle of town and zipping up the stairs to speak with the caravaner.

With a quiet chuckle, Fahjoth shook his head and began to meander at a far more relaxed pace after his twin, passing by one of the townsfolk as he stepped off the bridge. He dipped his head and smiled in casual greeting, but the Dunmer gripped his wrist with such force that Fahjoth gasped in shock.

He leaned in, his face mere inches from Fahjoth’s own, and Fahjoth could see only too clearly his strangely blank, vacant expression. His eyes, though unfocused, were glaring at Fahjoth with such a scorching intensity that he almost broke out into a sweat, his heart hammering rhythmically in his chest like a trapped sparrow, fast and fearful.

And then he spoke, his voice gravelly and harsh, the sound of crumbling charcoal over burning ashes.

“Beneath Red Mountain, Lord Dagoth sleeps. But when he wakes, we all shall rise, and the dust will blow away. Serve your Lord, Dagoth Ur. The Sixth House is risen, and Dagoth is its glory.”

Momentarily frozen, Fahjoth’s senses eventually returned to him and his first instinct was to yank his wrist free of the Dunmer’s grip, panting as if he had just run a marathon. The Dunmer jerked as Fahjoth tore free, and then within seconds, the blank look on his face melted away and he cleared his throat, glancing around as if confused. He then regarded Fahjoth with a perfectly normal, albeit rather sleepy stare.

“What do you think of our city, outlander?” he asked mildly, but before Fahjoth could even think of a response, a voice calling his name caught his attention.

“Fahji! C’mon, hurry up!”

His mouth dry, Fahjoth wheeled around and dashed after Ribyna, not stopping until he had caught up with his twin. Ribyna looked irate as she immediately began a short rant.

“I’m not paying for that bloody silt strider. It’s a ripoff! And if we’re gonna stay in Vivec overnight, gods know how much the rooms are gonna set us back, too. Come on, we’ll walk instead—” She paused and frowned as she finally took in Fahjoth’s appearance, while he tried to calm himself down in the meantime.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” With a shake of her head, Ribyna corrected herself, “Actually, you weren’t even this pale when we did see a ghost. Did something happen?”

“A— a Dunmer,” Fahjoth began, his gaze rapidly flicking from left to right, half-expecting an attack to come out of nowhere. “A Dunmer stopped me and... and said a thing...”

However, as he took in Ribyna’s attentive expression, he realised with a heart-wrenching disappointment that there was no way he would be able to explain any of it to her. Not without going into detail about the missions that Cosades had given him, which he had been strictly forbidden to do. He could lie, omit some elements of the truth, but then what would be the point in that? His voice trailed off into silence, leaving him awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. After a few seconds, Ribyna spoke up again.

“Did he threaten you?” she asked, very seriously. “D’you want me to find this bastard and have a word?”

“No!” Fahjoth replied hastily. With reluctance, he took a deep breath and tried to swallow his anxieties, his gaze wandering down to his wrist as he rubbed it. There was no visible blemish, but somehow, he felt his wrist burning fiercely where the Dunmer had grabbed him. “It’s fine. It was probably nothing. Let’s just go to Vivec,” he added, “I could do with the walk, I think.”

It was clear from her expression that Ribyna didn’t believe him, but his tone of voice made it very clear that to question him further would only exacerbate the issue, and Ribyna relented. “Alright,” she said eventually. “But if you’ve got a problem, you can talk to me, okay?”

“Yeah... I know. Thanks, Beebs.” Though he wanted nothing more than to confide in his twin, Fahjoth regretfully held back. He was alive, and that was the main thing; telling Cosades could wait until he got back. In his shaken state, he found it far too overwhelming to think about right now anyway, and so the two departed from Balmora and embarked on the considerable journey southwards to Vivec City.

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfic #tes iii: morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Photo

not me posting this to the wrong account at first asfsdgsdg

And second twin’s ref done 😩

Again this delinquent is one of the protagonists of my Morrowind fic - which can be found here!

(character bio under the cut!) (eta that i updooted her armour a lil bit)

— Rɪʙʏɴᴀ Vᴇᴛʜᴀʀʏs —

Gender: Agender (any pronouns)

Race: Dunmer

Height: 6’0”

Date of birth: 16th Evening Star, 3E 404

Birthsign: the Thief

Class: Assassin

Ribyna has many antisocial tendencies and, when meeting someone new, she can come across as brusque and rude. Even with friends she has a very blunt manner of speaking, often casually hurling insults which can be difficult to become accustomed to. She is playful by nature, although this often manifests in the form of mean banter, teasing and name-calling (usually with affection). She is short-tempered and easily riled, and is far more prone to violence than her easygoing brother. Ribyna is fiercely protective of those she cares about and her boldness can make her seem unafraid of anything (or utterly stupid, depending on how you look at it), but she does also have a much softer side that is only seen by those closest to her. She does have trouble expressing herself, however, which can make her seem standoffish and uncaring. Unfortunately, Ribyna makes reckless decisions and is as stubborn as a mule, and her headstrong attitude often winds up causing trouble — but does prove useful on occasion.

#oc: ribyna #tes #tes art #morrowind #morrowind oc #dunmer #dunmer oc #elder scrolls #elder scrolls art #tes iii: morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 10: Lost In The Ashes

once again i advise to read on AO3 if possible bc better formatting n stuff ✌️

summary Fahjoth is dragged along to accompany Ribyna on a dirty job. When their only way of navigation is lost, Ribyna takes it upon herself to lead the way, with unexpected results.

content warnings violence, blood, minor character death

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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The yurt loomed in the distance, still and silent aside from the soft rushing of waves rolling and breaking against the shore. The peace along this stretch of Azura’s Coast was unspoiled, aside from the footsteps of the twins as they crept closer.

Fahjoth wasn’t at all sure how he felt about being dragged along on Ribyna’s next assassination. On the one hand, he disapproved heavily of what she was doing. On the other, he knew better than anyone how difficult it was to sway Ribyna once she had her mind set on something, so at least this way he was able to keep an eye on her and offer assistance if things got tough. Their one saving grace was that the target, Odaishah Yasalmibaal, lived alone on the coast, far away from any town or city where there would be witnesses to report them.

Fahjoth cringed at that notion. Witnesses. He felt as culpable as an accessory to murder.

Once they reached the yurt, Ribyna motioned to Fahjoth to stay still and silent. He obliged, watching as his twin approached the door and drew her weapon, perhaps expecting resistance. After a moment during which she seemed to be gathering her nerves, she flung open the yurt door and charged in.

The reaction was instant. From outside, Fahjoth could hear Yasalmibaal’s furious cries, cursing and insulting Ribyna to the deafening clashing of blades. Fahjoth was a bundle of nerves, possibly even more so than Ribyna, but as he tried to edge closer to the doorway to peer inside, he was almost flattened by two flailing bodies as they tumbled out of the yurt, yelling and snapping at each other like rabid wolves.

Then Ribyna was on the ground, her shortsword held up lengthways as Yasalmibaal bore down upon her with a war axe of his own. She struggled to keep him at bay, kicking out against his armoured midriff, and Fahjoth gasped.

“Ribyna!” he exclaimed, drawing his own sword, but Ribyna snapped him a response without breaking eye contact with her target.

“Don’t get involved!”

With strict orders not to intervene, Fahjoth could only dither on the edge of the fight and watch helplessly as the two continued to brawl. Then, Ribyna’s boot found its way between Yasalmibaal’s legs, slamming hard against his groin and inciting a grunt of pain from the stricken man. As he slumped to the side, desperately trying to regain his strength, Ribyna sat upright and thrust her dagger into his throat without hesitation.

As she yanked it free, the blade left behind a deep puncture hole in Yasalmibaal’s throat that began to gush blood in a rapid free-flow, painting everything in the vicinity a stark red. Fahjoth crouched beside Ribyna to check her over, but quickly became distracted by the sound of blood spattering against the dusty ground, as well as Yasalmibaal’s rasping gurgles as he fought for breath and struggled to remain upright. With his chest now coated in a slick dark stain, he dropped into a weakly convulsing heap, occasionally twitching as he bled out. After some time, he moved no more.

“Gods...” Fahjoth murmured, feeling rather sickened by the scene. “Well, is that it, now? Are you done?”

Ribyna began wiping her dagger blade on the nearest soft surface, which happened to be Yasalmibaal's trouser leg. "Yup, that's it," she confirmed. "No point hanging 'round now. Let's get back to Vivec."

"Ugh. Right now? We've been walking for ages," Fahjoth complained. "A break would be nice!"

The journey from Vivec City to Azura's Coast certainly hadn't been quick, nor had it been particularly easy. After departing from Vivec the twins had headed east, on the road for hours on end until they reached Molag Mar, where they had stopped overnight. The following morning had seen them up at the crack of dawn to continue onwards, following the coastline — oftentimes having to wade through the shallows themselves to navigate around jagged rocks and cliff faces — until they had reached Benserib Camp, Yasalmibaal's home. Fahjoth wasn't looking forward to the journey back.

However, it seemed that Ribyna was keen to get going; as soon as she had finished cleaning her blade, she stood up and sheathed it, looking remarkably unruffled — albeit with her hair a mess and back now covered in dust. "Oh come on," she goaded him, rolling her eyes. "Don't be a pussy. A slow walk back will be fine. Anyway, I think I've figured out a shortcut."

Fahjoth certainly had his doubts. "Really? Where?"

"Yep! Look," Ribyna said, drawing her map out of her pocket and holding it up to show Fahjoth. He held the other side so that Ribyna was able to point with her free hand, cringing as she left a smudge of blood on the parchment. "If we cut across the Ashlands here, we can go straight down to Vivec without needing to go all the way around the coastline again."

"The Ashlands?" Fahjoth frowned. Cosades' words floated to the forefront of his mind:

“I don't think their tribes tend to be particularly welcoming to outlanders, so watch yourself if you’re ever wandering in the Ashlands.”

"What if we come across Ashlanders?"

"Pfft, fuck 'em!" Ribyna scoffed. "Come on!"

"Ribyna—!" Fahjoth groaned. But Ribyna was adamant, and he had no choice but to trot along in her wake as she set off further into the dusty, ashen wastelands spanning central Vvardenfell, the sun already obscured by its many jagged peaks.

——————————————

The further they ventured into the Ashlands, the greater Fahjoth's feeling of foreboding grew. The endless valleys, already steeped in shadow, became darker and darker with the setting of the sun. Traipsing across the cracked ashen ground, Fahjoth broke into a sweat as they passed by pools of magma, beautiful but deadly and glowing as bright as a flame in the gloom, seeing his twin sweltering just as much as he was in the stifling heat.

Fahjoth was already having plenty of regrets, even before his foot slipped on some loose stones and he came dangerously close to falling onto a stream of sluggishly bubbling lava. Fortunately, Ribyna had been close enough to grab his arm before disaster struck.

“Watch where you’re going, you fucking idiot!” Ribyna had snapped as she hauled Fahjoth backwards to safety.

As if it was his fault they were stumbling through a magma-ridden wasteland.

And as if that wasn't enough to solidify the notion that Ribyna's 'shortcut' had been a terrible idea, it wasn't long before they were besieged by scorching winds, carrying a blanket of choking dust that obscured the path ahead of them with a thick crimson haze — an ash storm.

After a short while of struggling through, Fahjoth slowed to a halt. “We have to stop somewhere!” he yelled, desperately shielding his face and raising his voice to be heard above the roaring of the wind. “This shit carries the Blight!”

Ribyna turned to squint at him, her scarf wrapped tightly around the lower half of face. “We can’t stop now! We’ve got nowhere to stop! Just don’t breathe it in,” she replied, and Fahjoth groaned with exasperation. Even with his mouth and nose covered by his own scarf, the simple matter of being in the midst of the ash storm — and knowing what it could bring with it from Red Mountain — was making him feel sick with anxiety. The dryness in his mouth was not helping, instead making him think that he had somehow managed to inhale dirty, disease-ridden ash and grit even through the scarf’s dense fabric.

And so the trek continued. Every time Fahjoth tried to persuade Ribyna to stop and take shelter, she would only counter it with a stubborn rebuttal that made him want to tear his hair out in frustration. At one point, when they could barely see two metres ahead and the winds howled viciously around them, Ribyna stopped to unfurl her map.

“Look, we’re about here,” she shouted, pointing to somewhere on the southern edges of the Ashlands. Fahjoth had no idea how she could be sure of that, but before he could voice his concerns, Ribyna ploughed on. “We just passed that lake, so we’re literally like an hour away from Balmor— AGH!”

Fahjoth watched in mute horror as the wind whipped the map clean out of Ribyna’s fumbling fingers, snatching it away into the deep red gloom. Ribyna made an attempt to catch it, grabbing wildly at air thick with dust, but the map had vanished within seconds.

With his heart already settling somewhere in the region of his stomach, Fahjoth buried his face in his hands and let out a groan that gradually rose in volume and pitch until it was almost a muffled scream. “Great! Fucking fantastic!” he exclaimed, glaring furiously at Ribyna, who merely stood there and looked sheepish. “What now, then?! I’m sure you’ve got another brilliant idea that’ll just get us even more lost — if it doesn’t kill us first!”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Fahjoth could almost hear the gears ticking over in Ribyna’s head, she spoke up with much less conviction than previously.

“We just keep going straight ahead,” she answered. “Balmora is due west. So we just keep going in this direction and we’ll get there.”

Fahjoth rarely wanted to strangle his twin, but this was one of the few occasions where he wished to do nothing but. But what other choice did they have? Ribyna’s plan was a terrible one, but it was their only one. So he shut up and trudged along after her, saving his energy to fight against the storm rather than with his sibling.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as Ribyna had hoped. The path ahead was not straight, but winding and twisting and up and down over hills and mounds of ash and dirt. And after passing through a vast ravine where they were forced to turn north and follow the natural path that stretched along its base, Ribyna began to pick up the pace.

“I think we’re nearly there! I can hear a silt strider!” she called to Fahjoth, who again had his doubts. This area looked nothing like the pleasant grassiness around the southernmost regions of the West Gash. Even with the ash storm still raging around them, Fahjoth could tell that they were still in the Ashlands. But, sure enough, they soon found themselves on another road — not just a road, but a real footpath — and now Fahjoth too could hear the solemn cries of the silt strider himself, even over the wind. Moments later, the lofty walls of some kind of settlement faded into view through the haze.

Without another word the twins rushed forward, passed under the arch marking the entrance and made a beeline for the nearest inn — not very pleasantly named The Rat In The Pot. It wasn’t quite the South Wall Cornerclub, but as far as warmth and shelter went, it would do.

Ribyna’s sense of direction had been just a little bit askew. They may not have returned to Balmora as planned, but they had made it to Ald’ruhn.

——————————————

“Right, what are you having? I’ll get the first round in.”

Fahjoth settled down at a small table near the bar, taking care not to disturb the candle that sat flickering merrily on its surface as he let out a heavy sigh. After their long journey, he relished the chance to sit down somewhere warm, dry and relatively safe, despite being in an unknown area. “Are you sure, Beebs?” he asked as he turned his gaze up to Ribyna, who simply nodded impatiently and gestured for him to go on. “Alright, well, I’ll have a mazte then, ta.”

As Ribyna headed over to the bar, Fahjoth sat back and quietly watched the occupants of the inn. Ald’ruhn was Redoran territory, he knew that, so he was surprised to see how diverse it was; a Breton woman stood behind the bar and the punters included a Khajiit, an Argonian, and a Dunmer who was quite unlike any Dunmer he had seen before. Piercings and scarifications bedecked his face, and his clothes were more reminiscent of pelts and crafted leathers than anything Fahjoth had seen being worn by the town- and city-dwelling Dunmer he saw day-to-day. A curious thought occurred to him: was that an Ashlander?

Did Ashlanders even venture into House Dunmer territories? Fahjoth to his knowledge had never seen one before, but that didn’t exactly prove anything. While he pondered this interesting occurrence, he watched as the Dunmer struck up a conversation with Ribyna.

How odd, he thought. Over the chatter of the other punters, he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Ribyna looked as surprised as Fahjoth was by the man’s approach. After some time, the man departed, and Ribyna returned to the table with two bottles clasped by the neck in one hand, and a cloth pouch in the other.

“Well, that was weird,” she said, taking a seat and sliding one of the bottles over to Fahjoth.

“Yeah, it looked it. What was all that about?” He accepted the drink with a murmur of thanks, then nodded to the pouch that Ribyna had placed onto the table. “What’s in the bag, anyway?”

“Two hundred drakes.”

Ribyna’s answer caused Fahjoth to almost spit out the mouthful of mazte that he had just swigged, forcing him to splutter and swallow it far more quickly than he had intended to.

“Two hundred?! Did that man give it to you?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

Ribyna shrugged, a look of mild bemusement on her face. “He asked if we were going to that Ghostgate place. And if we were, he asked if we’d look out for some lad who’s going up Red Mountain. Or something. I dunno, I wasn’t really paying much attention...”

“And you didn’t think to... I dunno... ask? And get the full story?” Fahjoth frowned. “So what was the gold for? Some kind of reward?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t matter, though. We haven’t got to do anything.”

Now Fahjoth was even more confused. “So he gave you gold... for no reason? Surely he’s expecting us to go and find this person?”

Ribyna suddenly grinned. “That’s the best part! He literally told me he doesn’t even care if we don’t go. I think he was glad to see the back of this boy, to be honest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Course I am! Or don’t you believe me?”

“No, I believe you,” Fahjoth replied hurriedly, “I just think it’s... well, a bit weird.”

“Me too, but I’m not gonna question it.” She waved the matter aside with a flick of her wrist. “Listen, don’t worry about it. I’m not. Basically, I just got us some free gold for our drinks tonight and our ride home tomorrow morning. No need to thank me.”

Ribyna was looking very pleased with herself as she drank her mazte, but Fahjoth still had reservations.

“Did you even get his name?”

“Who?”

“That man! Or the boy we’re meant to be finding, actually.”

Ribyna blew out in derision. “What am I, a detective? Anyway, it don’t matter! It’s not like we’re actually going to Ghostgate anytime soon, is it?”

Fahjoth was about to protest, but on seeing the severe look Ribyna gave him over the brim of her bottle, he sighed. “No, I s’pose not...”

It wasn’t long after the twins finished their drinks that they decided to retire for the night, but it was a while before Fahjoth was able to sleep. He was still awake long after Ribyna’s deep breathing indicated that she had drifted off, while he remained staring at the ceiling in the dark, deep in thought. Ribyna may have been able to dismiss the request as easily as the Dunmer himself, but Fahjoth could not bring himself to do the same, and the thought played on his mind until the tiredness took over and he eventually fell asleep too.

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tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfic #TES III: Morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 12: Two’s Company

summary As the party grows from two to three, Fahjoth tries his best to smooth over tensions.

content warnings strong warning for nausea/emetophobia about halfway down

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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The shock reverberated up Fahjoth’s shins as his feet found solid ground with a jolt. Gasping, he staggered back, desperately trying to regain his balance. Once his brain caught up with the messages his eyes were receiving, he realised that the three of them were back in Ald’ruhn; a nearby guard stared at them from behind his impassive helm, but otherwise he didn’t seem to care too much for three Dunmer suddenly materialising out of thin air.

While Fahjoth remained on his feet, Ribyna was not so lucky, and she groaned from her landing position face-down on the dusty ground. “Ugh… what the fuck was that?!” she spat, rubbing smudges of dirt from her face as she dragged herself upright again.

“Almsivi Intervention,” Julan answered, discomfort clear on his face. “It teleports you to the nearest Tribunal temple.” There was a pause before he continued, “I’m sorry, I— I don’t know what happened back there… You must think I’m such a coward. I swear I’m not. I swear I am a warrior, and I’ve never run from a fight, nor do I fear death.”

“Look, don’t be daft,” Fahjoth replied, raising his voice to speak over Ribyna’s loud scoffing as he tried to reassure Julan. “We don’t think you’re a coward—”

“Speak for yourself...” Ribyna muttered, but Fahjoth ignored her to reassure Julan.

“I wasn’t exactly having a good time up there either,” he continued, trying to inject a bit of humour into the situation. Judging by Julan’s expression, it hadn’t worked.

“I’m not afraid of Red Mountain, or any of its monsters,” Julan said. “It’s... something else. It’s to do with these… weird dreams I’ve been having.”

Fahjoth’s curiosity was piqued as he thought back to his own night terrors. He hadn’t experienced them for a while, and for that he was thankful, but recollections of fiery landscapes and dark figures with blazing red eyes still lingered in the back of his mind. “Oh yeah?”

Julan took a deep breath. “I dream that I’m climbing Red Mountain. It’s just like what we saw — it’s dark, the air is filled with ash that gets into my eyes and mouth, but the further I go up, the harder it is to keep going. And then there’s all these voices, whispering things to me.”

“What sort of things?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t even know. I can’t understand what they’re saying, it’s too hard to make out. But it sounds, uh… well, not good, y’know?” Julan looked between Fahjoth and Ribyna apprehensively. “You’ve heard of Dagoth Ur, right? I mean, I’m guessing you have, but...”

Their silence said more than enough; Ribyna’s face looked as blank as Fahjoth’s brain felt, and Julan was visibly stunned.

“Oh come on, even outlanders must know about him! Dagoth Ur? The devil who lives beneath Red Mountain?”

“Sorry, mate.” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t—” Then he stopped, as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, does he have anything to do with the Sixth House Cult?”

“Yeah…” Julan frowned, and Fahjoth began to feel as if he’d done something wrong. “What do you know about the Sixth House Cult?”

“Honestly, not much.” At least that was truthful. There was no point bringing up Cosades and his work, as Fahjoth knew very little about it himself. “I just heard there’s been attacks from sleeper agents. I saw one of them myself.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the memory, remembering the vacant expression on the Dunmer’s face and his iron grip as hot as ashes on his wrist. “He said something like… Dagoth Ur is risen, something something Sixth House glory… I don’t know.”

Even Ribyna looked surprised by Fahjoth’s anecdote, while Julan’s tone became one of understanding instead. “Ah, I see. Yeah. Dagoth Ur is a powerful figure in our history and legends. Supposedly, he causes people to go insane by sending them dreams.”

Ribyna raised a brow at that. “What, so you reckon you’re going insane?”

“What— no!” Julan replied defensively. “I am not insane and I’m not planning to be, either! Lots of people dream about him. It’s nothing.”

For a moment, Fahjoth wondered if it was worth bringing up his own dreams. But if what Julan said was right, then perhaps it was more common than he had thought. He didn’t feel like he was going insane, and as long as it stayed that way, then he surely ought to be alright.

On realising that he had tuned out of the conversation, Fahjoth jolted and made an effort to concentrate again.

“Then why are you so bothered by them that you can’t even climb a mountain?” Ribyna was saying.

“I’m not! I mean—” Julan blew out, his frustration evident. “Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense, okay? I just need time. Anyway…” He looked between the twins, vying for a change of subject. “Never mind that. How about getting on with some training? I could do with taking my mind off things.”

“Yeah, alright. Good idea,” Fahjoth agreed. He gestured between himself and Ribyna. “Me and Beebs are both used to working with short blades and light armour.” Then he gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think either of us will be able to help with your magic, though. We can’t cast spells for shit.”

“Hah! That’s alright.” Julan grinned. “I don’t need any help with archery, either, I’ve been practising since I was small. I prefer fighting with blades anyway, so I’m up for that.”

“Right!”

Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna, alarmed by the sight of her drawing her dagger.

“Sparring match, then? Let’s see how we do,” she suggested. Fahjoth was nervous; Ribyna’s attitude so far hadn’t sat well with him at all, and neither was the look on her face as she eyed Julan. Such a sudden turnaround, going from being openly hostile to Julan to wanting to spar with him, didn’t exactly bode well.

Whether Julan himself shared Fahjoth’s apprehension wasn’t apparent. On the contrary, he drew his own shortsword and nodded.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” Fahjoth asked. “With real weapons? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“It’ll be fine, Fahji,” Ribyna said dismissively.

“Don’t worry, we won’t go too hard,” Julan added. Fahjoth wasn’t at all optimistic about that, but he held his tongue and decided to lean against a nearby wall to observe.

Ribyna brandished her dagger and stalked a circle around Julan, who stood ready with his chitin sword. Without warning she lunged, hard and fast. Julan brought his sword up to deflect the blow, the blades screeching on impact. A retaliation from Julan, deliberately slow and cautious, forced Ribyna back and kept her at arm’s length for the time being. Overall, it seemed to be going well, and Fahjoth began to relax.

That was until one particularly close call from the tip of Julan’s blade threw Ribyna off her rhythm. Although the strike hit the tough leather of her armour, the force and angle still caused the dagger to get flung from her grip. With a grin, Julan pointed his sword up to her chest, puffing from the brief yet intense exercise.

“Got you! Maybe don’t drop your weapon next time.”

Ribyna only scowled in response. Then with a flash of steel, she pivoted herself against Julan’s chest, a second dagger poised against his throat.

“Maybe make sure your opponent is actually unarmed next time.”

There was a moment of stiff silence; Ribyna glared at Julan, her face less than an inch from his own, while Julan stared back defiantly. Then the tension broke, and she backed up and resumed pacing, looking for the next opportunity to strike.

The remainder of the sparring session continued much in the same manner, with Ribyna and Julan flitting around each other in a vicious dance, both trying to get the upper hand over the other. A short while and a few close calls later and they agreed to call it a day, having been reasonably evenly matched. It seemed that training together would be as beneficial for Fahjoth and Ribyna as it would be for Julan himself.

“How about a drink?” Fahjoth suggested to his somewhat bruised companions. “I think we could all do with chilling out for a bit.”

“Fine by me,” Ribyna said, while Julan looked awkward.

“Oh, I… don’t think I have enough to—” Julan started, but he stopped as Fahjoth waved a hand genially.

“Don’t worry about it,” he chirped, offering Julan a friendly smile. “I’ll get them. I owe Ribyna a round, anyway.”

Julan’s unease melted away and was replaced with a grin, which Fahjoth found quite contagious. He purposefully ignored Ribyna’s dull glare in his periphery, focusing instead on Julan.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a mazte, if you’re offering.”

“Sorted!” Fahjoth declared, ambling further into Ald’ruhn while Ribyna and Julan limped along with him. He was subjected to the uncomfortable feeling of someone staring at him, and he didn’t need to look around to know that it was coming from Ribyna.

Once they reached the cool shade of the Ald Skar Inn, Fahjoth suggested that Julan find them a table while he went to retrieve the drinks, to which he happily obliged. However, Fahjoth was not all surprised when Ribyna offered to help him carry them over, despite knowing full well that he could handle them himself, and prepared himself for the ear bashing he knew was imminent.

“He’s taking the piss,” Ribyna hissed, once they were at the bar and out of earshot of Julan. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”

Fahjoth heaved a sigh as he leaned against the bar, deciding to just let her rant. “Go on then, enlighten me.”

“He’s gonna mooch off you every chance he gets! He’s always gonna be all, ‘oh no, I don’t have any money’, and then you’ll have to pay for every-bloody-thing.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not like I don’t have the gold for a few drinks here and there. I’d do the same for any friend!”

Ribyna’s mouth fell open. “Friend?” she spat, outraged. “You barely even know the bastard! Honestly Fahjoth, you see a pretty boy and I swear your whole fucking brain just shuts down!”

Trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks, Fahjoth was quick to see a lifeline and he clung to it like a drowning man. “Oh, so you think he’s pretty, do you?”

This time, it was Ribyna whose cheeks flushed a dull red. “I— no, I never— don’t put words in my mouth!” she retorted, fuming. “You know exactly what I’m saying, and you know I’m right!”

“Well, just do me a favour and keep it to yourself if you can,” Fahjoth requested flatly. “I don’t want Julan to feel uncomfortable. More than he already is...”

Ribyna looked as though she was going to continue to argue, but a moment of respite came when the drinks arrived. Fahjoth hastily took them over to the table before Ribyna could say another word, leaving her to traipse after him clutching her own. Once he placed the drinks down on the table, Julan gratefully took his, shuffling his stool along to make plenty of room for the twins to join him.

“So, whereabouts do you two live?” he asked. “It’s not here in Ald’ruhn, is it?”

“Nah, we’re staying in Balmora.”

“Probably a good thing. It’s like the dusty armpit of Vvardenfell here. And so Redoran, it’s illegal to even joke about it!” Julan swigged his mazte, looking to Fahjoth curiously. “What’s Balmora like?”

“Bit bigger than Ald’ruhn. And less dusty. You’ll see it for yourself soon!” Fahjoth paused. “Well, that’s if you still want to come with us. I’ve got to go check in with my boss soon.”

“Course I do. As long as we can still continue to train, then I don’t mind where we go.”

Fahjoth grinned. “Don’t worry about that. If I’m not around, you’ll be able to spar with Ribyna again!”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve got a life outside you or anything,” Ribyna grumbled, staring at Julan with heavy mistrust — and even dislike. Julan seemed to notice as well, for his smile slipped somewhat and an awkward silence fell over the table.

“Anyway…” Julan attempted a wary change of subject. “What is it that you do for a living? Apart from rescuing people from clannfears, of course.”

“To be honest, mate…” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t really know. I know that sounds daft, but mostly I just run errands. Gather information. Sometimes nearly get myself killed in Dwemer ruins or haunted tombs. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds… interesting.”

Both he and Julan both then turned to Ribyna, but she remained silent, glowering back at them while she sipped her drink. Fahjoth’s stomach sank. With Ribyna’s stubborn refusal to socialise, the relatively upbeat mood had been well and truly quashed.

A heavy weight began to settle in Fahjoth's chest. Though he was looking forward to working with Julan, the excitement was spoiled by Ribyna's behaviour and incessant hostility towards him. He knew Ribyna was prickly at the best of times, but he hadn't anticipated this much resistance to gaining a new companion. If Julan was going to stay with them for the foreseeable, Fahjoth dreaded the idea of trying to persuade her to play nice. How much more grief were they going to get from her?

But more importantly, how far did Julan's tolerance extend? How long would he put up with her animosity and foul mood before deciding that he'd had enough?

——————————————

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s up with your hair?”

Blinking, Fahjoth slowly turned to face Julan, trying to concentrate over the rough jerking of the silt strider’s teetering steps and the shrill grinding of its chitinous joints ringing in his ears. He wasn’t normally prone to motion sickness, but being so high above ground level coupled with the vigorous swaying of his seat was not a good combination, and Fahjoth had spent much of the journey from Ald’ruhn to Balmora trying to hold down the urge to vomit. After spending another day in and around Ald’ruhn for training and shopping, Fahjoth could no longer put off returning to Balmora and the silt strider was the fastest way to get there. Even if it did make him want to throw up.

His first time riding one, and he dearly wished for it to be his last.

Julan perhaps mistook his silence for offence, for he held up a hand apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Eh? No, it’s fine. Sorry for being quiet, I’m just not feeling great,” Fahjoth explained, squinting as the low sun on the horizon shone into his eyes. At least the weather had been good for their trip. “Well, it used to be totally black. But a few years ago, it started to go white in the front here.” He held up a strand by means of demonstration. “I dunno why.”

“That really is weird.”

“I still reckon it was stress,” Ribyna added, looking over her shoulder with a smirk. With her arm hanging loosely over the silt strider’s side, she seemed to be having no issues with the bumpy ride. “Obviously not everyone is cut out for life in prison.”

Julan did a double-take, looking from Ribyna to Fahjoth with shock. “You’ve been arrested?”

Fahjoth turned to Ribyna, scowling. Ribyna simply smiled back at him with false pleasantry and turned away to gaze at their surroundings as the silt strider tottered along. With a sigh, he turned back to Julan, feeling somehow even more queasy at the thought of telling the truth and wondering how Julan would take it.

Damn Ribyna and her big mouth!

“Yeah. Me and Ribyna both came here on a prison ship,” Fahjoth admitted. Instantly, Julan looked leery.

“You’re both convicts? You’re not on the run, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. We were released.”

“Released? On Vvardenfell?” Julan scoffed. “That’s just typical of the Empire. As if they haven’t done us enough damage, now they’re offloading their unwanted criminals onto us!”

Admittedly, that comment stung. But before Fahjoth could answer, Ribyna had whipped around in her seat again, looking none too pleased with Julan’s remark herself.

“Yeah, that’s no good, is it? It’s not like those unwanted criminals saved your sorry arse from getting eaten alive by clannfears or anything!”

Julan blanched, biting his lip as he realised what he had said. “Oh— gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it personally. Look, I didn’t mean— well…” As he took a deep breath, Fahjoth noted his hesitation to continue. “You do seem like a good person… people. Good people. Um... were you... y’know... guilty? Of... whatever it was you did to get arrested.”

Fahjoth, for a moment, was silent. He risked a glance over at Ribyna, feeling his stomach clench when he saw that she had turned her back to them again. She said nothing, but Fahjoth could see the tension in her shoulders, and he knew his twin well enough to know that if he spoke the truth, it would hurt her. So he looked back to Julan, thinking about his words carefully.

“It’s... a bit of a long story, mate,” he said. “It was...” — he paused, waving his hands vaguely — “an accident.”

Julan stared at him with a mild frown, and Fahjoth felt himself break into a nervous sweat, not knowing what he was thinking. After a silence that was far too long for his liking, Julan spoke up at last.

“I believe you,” he said simply. “I’m not sure why, but I do. Like I said, you seem like a good person, and either way, I’m willing to judge you on your actions here and now, rather than in the past. Whatever they were.”

A wave of relief crashed over Fahjoth, but before he could respond, a particularly vigorous judder in the silt strider’s pace hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach, already churning from nausea and anxiety, convulsed violently and a thick, wet sourness hit the back of his throat. Spinning around, he bolted up from his seat, leaning over the side and letting his head hang as he fought to swallow the sickness down again.

Through watering eyes Fahjoth watched as the ground went rushing by with the strider’s uneven pace, stopping and starting with every bumpy step, the leaves on the trees and bushes below blurring into one as his eyes struggled to focus. How far up was he, anyway? Twenty-five feet? Thirty?

His knuckles whitened as he clenched his trembling hands, his skin becoming hot and clammy and damp with sweat while his heart fluttered an uncomfortable half-rhythm in his chest. After seconds which lasted a lifetime, during which the contents of his stomach barely managed to settle, Fahjoth hauled himself back into the relative safety of his seat. It was still as choppy as ever, but at least he didn’t have to look at the ground this way. When he was able to focus again, he found Julan’s perturbed face fixed rapt upon his own.

“Fahjoth, are you alright?”

“Yeah Fahji, you look pale as fuck,” Ribyna added, finally turning her gaze back around, brows furrowed with concern. “Here you are, have some of this.”

She rummaged in her backpack and fished out a bottle of mazte, reaching back to offer it to Fahjoth. Fahjoth, however, shook his head with his mouth clamped tightly shut. If he opened it, there would likely be more than just words coming out.

Julan reached over and patted Fahjoth’s shoulder, albeit seeming reluctant to get too close. “It’s okay, I think we’re nearly there. Just... hold onto your lunch a bit longer, alright?”

The silt strider finally drawing to a halt could not have been a bigger relief. Except now that they had reached Balmora, Fahjoth faced the prospect of having to disembark from the silt strider and onto that precarious platform awaiting them. It had been bad enough ascending the narrow ramp to board the strider, how on Nirn was he going to get back down again?

Fortunately, Ribyna was on hand to lend him hers. Once she had clambered up out of the strider's hollowed-out carapace, she offered her hand to Fahjoth as he hesitantly followed suit. The simple boon of having something firm to grip onto while he stumbled out of the silt strider made all the difference, and without a word, Ribyna let Fahjoth continue holding her hand as they made their way down the slope, Fahjoth's pace hindered significantly by his shaking legs.

It took all his effort not to collapse to his knees the moment he stepped on solid ground at last. He doubled over, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as he tried to encourage his stomach to settle, paying no heed to anything else going on around him. Once his nausea had subsided enough, he straightened back up again, preparing to face the mocking and jeering he predicted from his travelling companions.

However, there was nothing of the sort. Both Ribyna and Julan were watching him, their faces showing nothing but concern and sympathy.

“Not good with heights?” Julan asked, his tone one of pity.

“I— I dunno,” Fahjoth admitted. “I never realised... but I suppose, yeah. Obviously…”

“Either that or the turbulence,” Julan suggested. He fell silent, turning his gaze away to survey Balmora instead. "So, this is Balmora? It’s so grand." There was clear hesitation in his voice as he continued, “Um... tell me honestly, do I look like a complete savage?”

Fahjoth blinked. “What?”

Julan chewed his lip, his eyes darting from left to right apprehensively, as if searching for anyone who would look at him with disdain. “I know how people view Ashlanders. They think we’re violent, uncivilised barbarians who live in filth and poverty. They don’t even try to understand us, or our culture, or why we choose to live as we do. But we’re proud of our culture. We don’t need these tacky displays of wealth to be happy — we have more valuable things of our own.”

Before Fahjoth could even open his mouth, Ribyna cut across him. “Oh, don’t worry. Me and Fahjoth grew up stinking savages ourselves.”

Unsurprisingly Julan bristled, glaring at Ribyna and quietly seething. Sensing an altercation brewing, Fahjoth hastily spoke up, cringing over Ribyna’s lack of sensitivity. “What she means is that... well, we grew up on the streets,” he explained. “People saw us as nothing more than dirty, uncivilised thieves, as well.”

Thankfully, Julan seemed to calm down. “Well. Then maybe you’ll understand. My people are viewed with suspicion here in the cities. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my heritage, but I feel like I might be too conspicuous. I don’t want to go drawing any attention. What d’you think?”

Fahjoth shrugged. “I mean... you look fine to me, Julan. But if you like, we can look into getting you some new clothes.”

“At least get him something that smells less of guar,” Ribyna interjected, and once again, Fahjoth wanted to throttle her. Fortunately, Julan didn’t take offence.

“Maybe that would be a good idea, actually. But!” He jabbed Fahjoth in the chest with a finger. “If you make me look ridiculous, I swear I’ll never forgive you!”

Fahjoth held his hands up innocently, a grin curling at the corners of his lips. “I would never! I’ve got a good eye for fashion, me. Can’t you tell? Anyway…” He looked between Julan and Ribyna with an apologetic gaze. “Do you two wanna go get us a table in the South Wall Cornerclub? I need to go speak to Cosades, but I’ll join you straight after. He gets grumpy if I call on him too late in the day.”

Both Ribyna and Julan looked as apprehensive as Fahjoth felt to be sending off by themselves, but for the moment, it was unavoidable.

“Alright, well... don’t be long!” Ribyna said with a frown.

“I won’t!” Fahjoth called back as he began heading off, jogging away between the long shadows cast by the setting sun.

——————————————

Given the lateness of the hour, Fahjoth had assumed that Cosades would be home, perhaps settling down for the night with a few bottles of booze as he was wont to do. To his surprise, that was not the case. He lingered around for five minutes, just on the off-chance that Cosades would turn up, but he was reluctant to leave Julan and Ribyna alone for much longer. So he hurried on to the South Wall Cornerclub, hoping that the two had not bitten chunks out of each other in his absence.

However, he needn't have worried. When Fahjoth arrived and descended the steps into the bar, he spotted Ribyna and Julan sitting in complete stony silence at their usual corner table. Quite frankly, he had seen funerals looking more lively.

His arrival seemed to come as a relief, as Julan glanced up and waved Fahjoth over. Fahjoth obliged, joining them at the table with haste as he accepted the bottle that Ribyna pushed towards him. He was both unsurprised and disappointed to see that Julan had nothing.

“Sorry about this,” he murmured, casually pushing his own mazte over to Julan instead.

“It's fine,” Julan replied. “Not like either of you are obligated to buy me a drink.”

“Yeah, but it's polite, isn't it?” he said, directing this particular comment over to Ribyna, who curled her lip but said nothing on the matter.

“So did you see Cosades?” she asked instead. “What's he got lined up for you this time?”

“He wasn't in,” Fahjoth answered. “I'll see him tomorrow, I'm sure.” He paused, before sliding a handful of coins over the table towards Ribyna. “Could you go get me a mazte? I still feel a bit dodgy.”

“I already got you a mazte.”

“Ribyna, come on,” Fahjoth groaned, desperate for one night of peace. “Please.”

A moment of irate silence later and Ribyna got to her feet, striding off towards the bar with a distinctly sour demeanour.

Fahjoth sighed, burying his face behind his hands with dismay. “I'm so sorry about her,” he apologised, lowering his hands and resting his chin on his fist.

Julan shrugged. Fahjoth had to admire his fortitude. “Don't worry about it. It's hardly your fault. And I've dealt with much worse, believe me.” He peered over his shoulder, jerking his head in Ribyna's direction before turning back to Fahjoth. “I don't suppose you know what her problem is?”

“I wouldn't take it personally, mate,” Fahjoth said. “She's just... like that. To everyone, pretty much.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth continuing to move as his frustrations began to seep out. “Has been for years, now. I knew she was... difficult, but I swear she's gotten so much worse since we got here. Like, I know you need gold to survive, that's obvious, but there's gotta be better ways of going about that than joining the Thieves Guild or the Morag bloody Tong—”

“Hold on,” Julan interrupted, cutting Fahjoth off mid-rant. “She's in the Morag Tong?!”

Fahjoth froze, realising his slip-up.

“Uh…” he began, but he was spared the need to respond by Ribyna's return.

“There's your bloody mazte,” she said grumpily, putting the drink down in front of Fahjoth with enough force that, for a moment, he thought the bottle might shatter. Before he could say anything, Julan was on the attack.

“So you're in the Morag Tong.” He glared at Ribyna, his grip on his own bottle hard. “The Morag Tong! You'd better have a damn good reason for this!”

Ribyna paused, slowly turning her gaze to Fahjoth as she sat down again. Fahjoth could merely offer her an apologetic grimace, and with a loud huff, she rolled her eyes and turned back to Julan.

“Come on then, I want to hear this!” Julan went on. “How can you possibly justify joining a murder cult?!”

“It's a job,” Ribyna said bluntly. “I get paid to do it. That's all. And keep your bloody voice down, will you?”

After glancing around to ensure that they hadn't drawn any undue attention already, Julan continued in a low hiss. “So that's all this is to you? Money? There's lots of ways to make gold that don't involve killing people you don't even know!”

“Listen, save the lectures. If someone's got to die, they're gonna get killed either way. At least this way, I can get paid for it!”

Julan sighed, eyeing Ribyna with distrust. “Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to like it. You're still walking up to a stranger and putting a dagger in their back. I don't know if I could live like that. And if you can, well…”

“Yeah? Well if you don't like it, you know where the door is,” Ribyna spat. “In fact, why don't you do us both a favour and piss off back to the Ashlands alread—”

“Alright, that's enough!” Fahjoth snapped, holding his hands up towards the bickering pair. “Both of you, pack it in! You're doing my head in. Let's all just calm down, okay? Thank you…”

Fahjoth hung his head after his outburst, going back to nursing his mazte in silence and deliberately avoiding both Ribyna and Julan's eyes. Already he felt guilty about losing his temper, but he was still feeling rough from the silt strider ride and the vicious squabble wasn’t helping. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever get along; the prospect of having to put up with their constant quarrelling was a grim one. Was this going to be his existence for the foreseeable future? Playing referee between his twin and his new friend?

He despaired at the thought. But he could always live in hope, no matter how exhausting it was.

————————————————————————

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #julan kaushibael #morrowind #dunmer #nerevarine #dunmer oc #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfic #tes iii: morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 4 years

Photo

actually finished something FOR ONCE

just Fahjoth and Ribyna chillin in the Waterfront

don’t let Ribyna’s face fool you, she does love her brother

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #tes #tes art #the elder scrolls #tes oc #tes ocs #elder scrolls #elder scrolls art #elder scrolls oc #tes iii: morrowind #morrowind #morrowind oc #tes iv: oblivion #oblivion #oblivion oc #dunmer #dunmer oc

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 6: Ancestors

summary Luckily for Fahjoth, Ribyna is more than happy to assist him with his next assignment and he’s feeling positive. But will it go as well as they hope?

content warnings mild threat/violence

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

—————————————————————————————

Not even the deep grey clouds that hung overhead the following morning could squash Fahjoth’s spirit as he trotted along the dusty path with Ribyna in tow. The fragmented sleep he had managed to achieve overnight had done little to soothe his aches and pains, but nonetheless, Fahjoth walked along with an evident spring in his step. It was hard not to let his excitement show, and in a stark contrast to the previous night, he had a near permanent grin etched onto his face.

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Ribyna called, on the alert for aggressive wildlife or hostile thieves. Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna but continued walking, so that he was effectively walking backwards while addressing her.

“Course I do! I remember the way to Seyda Neen. And from there we just need to find the t—“

His statement was abruptly cut off as he felt himself suddenly drop; his heart leapt up to his throat and his gut lurched as he plummeted backwards, before the world stopped spinning and his brief moment of weightlessness came to an end as he landed flat on his back. As the air was knocked out of his lungs, he lay there and stared up at the sky, wheezing, before Ribyna’s surly face suddenly obscured his view of the clouds.

“Well done, shit-for-brains.”

With a groan, Fahjoth struggled to sit up and stared reproachfully at the small rock that he had tripped over. As he opened his mouth to reply to Ribyna’s taunt, he paused as a strange sound reached his ears. Ribyna seemed to have heard it as well, for she looked up and stared straight ahead into a mass of scrubby bushes nearby which rustled and twitched, despite there being very little wind to disturb them. He pulled himself to his feet as slowly as he could, while the quiet shhk of gliding metal indicated that Ribyna had drawn out her dagger. But before Fahjoth could make a move of his own, a large, broad head suddenly jutted out of the foliage.

The creature it belonged to resembled some kind of reptile, with a large, domed forehead, tiny eyes and a noticeable underbite. As the rest of it followed, scaley hide glinting in the muted noon light, Fahjoth let out a laugh of joy as the creature began snuffling along the ground, tiny arms tucked against its chest.

“Ahh! Ribyna, look!” Fahjoth cried, taking a tentative step forward. “It’s a guar!”

Ribyna sounded much less enamoured by the creature as she kept back and watched from a distance. “Well don’t get too close, it might bite!”

“Nah, if it was gonna bite, it would’ve by now,” Fahjoth reasoned, taking a tentative step forward. The guar looked up and he stopped, crouching down slightly to present himself as less of a threat. “Hey, buddy!” he crooned, holding out his hand as one would do to coax a dog. The guar turned to face Fahjoth, its nostrils twitching as it scented his hand. Once it realised that he carried nothing edible, it chuffed quietly and continued on its way. Fahjoth felt awestruck nonetheless.

“Wow…” he breathed, straightening up and watching the guar toddle along the path. “Aren’t they brilliant?”

“Hm.” Ribyna sounded less than impressed as she stared with one brow cocked. “Anyway, let’s stop fucking about, come on! It’s gonna start hammering down soon and I’d rather not get soaked.”

“Okay, okay,” Fahjoth sighed, walking onwards with his twin but feeling strangely uplifted by the encounter.

The rest of the trip south to Seyda Neen passed without event, and fortunately, the tomb was relatively easy to locate as well. A smaller path diverged from the main road, leading up to a visible door constructed into the side of a smooth grey rock face set into the hill. The siblings ascended the path — with Fahjoth lingering along the way to fawn over a nearby scrib before being forcibly dragged away by Ribyna — until they reached the weather-beaten wooden door, where they both came to a stop.

They stood in front of the door, but for a few moments neither spoke a word. Eventually, Ribyna took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Right, well, let’s go then,” she said, raising a hand towards the door but not yet making contact. Fahjoth knew and understood why; he was more than apprehensive about entering the tomb himself. But after appearing to mentally psyche herself up, Ribyna firmly pushed the door open, triggering a sudden cascade of silt and tiny rock fragments from the door frame above their heads.

“Ugh—!” Ribyna spluttered as she frantically wafted the dust cloud away from her face, but Fahjoth was silent; with his hand held over his nose and mouth as he squinted into the shadows of the tomb, it was with the gift of hindsight that he wished he’d brought a torch or lantern.

“Right… are you ready to go in?” he asked Ribyna, glancing at her with uncertainty. “It’s… kind of dark in there.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Not scared of the dark now, are you, Fahji?” Ribyna crooned, and Fahjoth felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“No!” he protested, but a frown crept onto his face as he gazed into the gloom. “But I’m kind of scared of what might be in it.”

Surprisingly, Ribyna didn’t seem to have a witty comeback to tease him with this time. She simply grimaced and nodded in understanding, then flashed him a wry grin. “Well, it’s lucky you’ve got me then, innit? Come on.” After giving a gentle tug on Fahjoth’s arm to encourage him, Ribyna strode on ahead into the crypt and Fahjoth hastened to catch up.

Even with the door of the tomb left open, the gloom seemed to envelop them within seconds. Fahjoth held out a hand as he edged along one step at a time, flinching as his fingertips brushed along the cold walls and fighting the urge to recoil his hand with every unexpected bump or notch in the stone, afraid of what he could potentially touch in the unyielding darkness.

Then something brushed against his other hand and his breath caught in his throat, his heart immediately hammering against the inside of his chest as he whipped his arm back to safety — but as his brain caught up with his senses and he heard a gasp and a series of rapid footsteps, he realised that he had merely brushed his sibling’s shoulder.

“Ugh, this is ridiculous!” he heard Ribyna hiss. “I’m gonna try something, hang on.”

Fahjoth waited in silence, wondering what Ribyna was doing but appreciating the moment of pause, taking it as an opportunity to try and calm his nerves down again. He didn’t have to wait for long, however, as a small flame suddenly erupted into life in the darkness, casting a deep amber glow on the surrounding walls and illuminating their way forward, if only slightly. Ribyna’s face was lit up the most as she held out her palm, upon which a tiny flame danced and flickered away enthusiastically.

“Yes!”

“Nice one!” Fahjoth praised. “Merrick would be proud—”

Too late did Fahjoth realise his mistake, and he cut himself off abruptly as he saw the grin immediately vanish from Ribyna’s face. She said nothing but instead continued walking on in silence, and Fahjoth hurried along in her wake and reached out for her shoulder as they went.

“Sorry, Beebs,” he apologised, but he was still bothered by a feeling he couldn’t shake. In all the time they had been together, both in prison and later in Vvardenfell, not once had they discussed the event that had been the catalyst for their arrest. In fact, since reuniting, they had barely talked about any aspect of their old lives at all. But, in Fahjoth’s case, this wasn’t for lack of wanting to. “Look… are we ever gonna talk about—”

“No.”

“Ribyna—”

“I said no, Fahjoth. I don’t want to.”

As uncomfortable as Fahjoth felt, he knew better than to provoke Ribyna by antagonising her further. So he let the matter drop and quietly accepted that they would not broach the subject again any time soon.

It was Ribyna who broke the silence next. “Eugh, can you smell that?”

Fahjoth cautiously sniffed the air, instinctively wrinkling his nose as a foul smell, putrid and oddly sweet, suddenly hit his senses. “Ew… well, we are in a tomb,” he pointed out. “It’s bound to smell a bit rank down here.”

“I suppose…”

The path into the crypt continued on, angling down a mild incline, while Ribyna’s flame casted dancing shadows along the narrow corridor. As they went on, a quiet buzz reached Fahjoth’s ears, and the stomach-churning smell only continued to grow worse with every step. Finally, they reached a larger chamber at the base of the corridor, and from the light of the fire they were able to see the source.

Fahjoth recoiled as his eyes fell upon a large, dark shape lying prone on the floor, with indistinct black dots swarming around it — fleshflies. Ribyna raised her hand to angle the light more precisely on the mass, casting every wrinkle of clothing and detail of armour into sharp relief. The head was concealed by a leather helm, and for that, Fahjoth was grateful; only a withered, decaying hand crawling with insects gave any indication of the condition of the corpse underneath its garments. A dried, dark brown stain pooled out from beneath the body — whether as a result of old blood from a fatal wound or simply tissue decomposition, Fahjoth couldn’t tell.

“Ew…” Ribyna said, drawing her scarf up to cover her mouth and nose in an attempt to ward off the smell. “Looks like we’re not the first ones here. Reckon your Orc woman sent him here to do her favour, too?”

Fahjoth was silent, staring at the cadaver with horror — a feeling which only vastly amplified as he watched Ribyna crouch down and, with a kind of repulsed detachment, tugged something out from under the body’s arm.

“Ribyna, what the fuck are you—?!”

“Look, it’s a lantern,” Ribyna remarked, holding up the cracked glass casing and sounding so utterly nonchalant about stealing from a corpse that Fahjoth was floored. She popped open the door and held her conjured fire out towards the candle wick, letting it light before allowing the flame in her hand to die. “There, now I can stop wasting brainpower. I don’t have much of that to spare in the first place.”

Fahjoth was dumbstruck, and eventually managed to shake his head in total disbelief. “I can’t believe you sometimes,” he said, though he couldn’t hide a wry smile nonetheless. Ribyna simply flashed him a wicked grin in response before carrying on, holding the lantern out at arm’s length to light their path.

The deeper they went into the tomb, the colder it seemed to become. A thin blanket of mist hung just above ground level, smokey tendrils creeping around doorways and stone caskets that bore collections of urns and jars. Some chambers featured circular pits set into the ground which contained mounds of ash, and judging by the shards of gleaming white jutting out of the grey dust, most of these held numerous bones. Fahjoth shivered, feeling the chill seeming to seep into his own bones, but Ribyna seemed to be handling it well, staring from wall to wall with curiosity on her face.

“D’you reckon we’ve got an ancestral tomb somewhere?” she asked suddenly, her mind evidently in a much different place to Fahjoth’s. Momentarily stumped by the question, Fahjoth eventually responded with uncertainty.

“I suppose so, I mean… Dad told us about his family before, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but…” Ribyna grimaced, the next words appearing to cause her some discomfort. “They wouldn’t really be our ancestors, would they? Not properly.” She heaved a sigh, her breath appearing in the air before her in the form of a tiny cloud. “I dunno, it’s just… being called ‘outlander’ by every bastard makes me wonder if we even actually have any real ties here.”

Taken aback by Ribyna’s uncharacteristic poignancy, Fahjoth merely shook his head and shrugged. “I dunno, Beebs. I don’t suppose it really matters, we’re gonna get called outlanders either way. It’s definitely the accents,” he added as an irate afterthought, prompting a dry chuckle from Ribyna.

“Yup. Oh well, suppose we’ll just have to d— Oh, Fahjoth, look!”

Ribyna’s exclamation was accompanied by a pointing of her finger as she drew Fahjoth’s attention to another pit of dust in the chamber just ahead; this one was set apart from the rest by the skull and dagger placed so meticulously on a stone stool situated just in front of the pit itself. Fahjoth trotted over alongside Ribyna and, as the two crouched down to get a closer look, Ribyna turned to look at Fahjoth expectantly.

“Is this it, d’you reckon?”

“I think so...” He glanced back at his twin before focusing his attention back on the skull. Sure enough, it bore the telltale ritual markings that Sharn gra-Muzgob had described. “Only one way to find out, innit?”

Despite his words, Fahjoth hesitated. Now that he had located his prize, all of his misgivings had returned and he was conscious of the weight of the enchanted sword that hung from his belt — surely it had been lent to him for a reason.

If— no, when he picked up the skull, what would happen? Would he trigger a trap that would cause the roof to cave in over his and Ribyna’s heads? Would he suddenly be struck down by a powerful curse? Or perhaps he would wake the souls of the ancestors that rested here, and be besieged by an army of vengeful ghosts?

Ribyna seemed to be getting impatient with Fahjoth’s dithering, for she suddenly gave his shoulder a rather forceful push. “Come on, what’s the hold up? Just pick it up, don’t be such a fucking pussy.”

“Alright, alright!” Fahjoth huffed, reaching into his pocket for the cloth sack he had brought for the occasion. He shuffled both hands into the sack, wearing it like an oversized mitten as he tentatively scooped up the skull and let the sack invert itself over it, still afraid of touching it with his bare skin. For a few seconds, he held his breath, remaining in a motionless crouch while he waited to see if anything would happen following the skull’s removal. The seconds ticked by and, to his elation, there was no cave-in, no sudden pox or plague upon him, and no horde of angry spirits rising to tear him limb from limb. Nothing untoward occurred whatsoever. They were safe!

“There we are!” Ribyna jeered, patting Fahjoth roughly on the back as he stood up, feeling almost giddy with relief. While he bobbed on the spot, thrilled with this one tiny achievement, Ribyna crouched down to pick up the dagger that had been left behind on the stool. “I’d say that’s a job well done. Looks like you didn’t need me after a—”

Her words died in her throat as, with a subtle fshk, an arrow pierced the air between them — whizzing directly over Ribyna’s head — and ricocheted off the back wall of the chamber. Spinning frantically to locate the source, Fahjoth let out a choked gasp as he clapped eyes on their attacker.

“Fuck-a-doodle-doo!” Ribyna yelled, wide-eyed as she stared with horror at the skeleton while it drew another arrow into its bow, the telltale creaking of its bones providing a quiet hum that seemed to echo through the chamber.

“Shit, not again—!” Fahjoth exclaimed, already beginning to descend into a state of panic. The chamber was cramped and, without much in the way of large objects to take cover behind, he and Ribyna were essentially sitting targets for the undead archer who was taking aim once more.

“Ribyna, just keep moving!” Fahjoth yelped, using the limited space available to dart from spot to spot as erratically as he physically could. Ribyna, meanwhile, seemed to have other ideas.

Fahjoth’s jaw nearly hit the ground as he watched his twin lunge and grasp a nearby urn tightly in both hands. He felt his stomach drop, knowing full well what was coming next.

“Ribyna, don’t—!”

“Get fucked, you bony bastard!”

The urn was launched through the air, flying up in a graceful arc — spilling its ashy contents in a cloud of dust in the process — and collided with the skeleton’s skull, shattering both itself and the bone on impact. The skeleton crumpled, its bones falling apart as whatever magic had been fastening the joints together dissipated, filling the chamber with a deafening clattering as both bone and pottery shards went spilling onto the ground.

As Fahjoth stared mutely at the chaotic scene, a thick silence fell upon the tomb for a second or two; until an eerie hissing began to reach his ears, seeming to turn his blood to ice in his veins. Was it just his eyes, or was the mist that drifted above the ground growing thicker?

“Oh, Ribyna...!” Fahjoth groaned, turning to look at his twin with despairing exasperation. She merely stared back, wide-eyed and alarmed, before she snatched the lantern from where she’d put it down and rushed to grab Fahjoth’s hand.

“Well, come on then!” she barked, rushing out of the chamber and dragging Fahjoth along in her wake. They barely made it to the next chamber up before they found a figure, pale green and gleaming with an ethereal glow, blocking their path. Bright smoke seemed to billow along their path as they glided towards the twins, reaching out with unnaturally long, spindly fingers topped with deadly sharp nails.

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve woken the whole bloody tomb up!” Fahjoth complained, dropping a hand towards his sheathed weapon. But Ribyna got there first, whipping out her trusty chitin dagger and slashing it at the spirit — only to watch as the blade sailed right on through.

“Fahjoth, we can’t touch them— Shit!”

The ghost, undeterred by Ribyna’s dagger, had retaliated with a vengeance by slashing its claw-like nails across her chest. She leapt back to avoid the strike, gasping as it left tangible scores in her leather armour and for a moment, in the mixed light from the lantern and the ghost’s cold luminescence, fear flashed across her face.

“Fahjoth—!”

“Hold on, Ribyna—! Get back!” he cried, drawing his own sword from its sheath at last. His eyes widened as his face was suddenly bathed in the fierce heat of the flames that flickered along the blade, and in that moment, it clicked. He charged and swung the sword with a ferocious yell, watching as, with a searing blaze of scarlet fire, it carved a gash through the ghost’s midriff from which thick smoke began to spill. The spirit emitted an ear-splitting shriek, drifting towards Fahjoth again with its spectral features twisted into a grotesque snarl, but Fahjoth was ready this time. He sprung forward again and plunged the sword straight through the spirit’s chest, stopping it in its tracks and causing it to let out another piercing screech before it suddenly dissolved, disappearing in a matter of seconds and leaving behind nothing but a sinister puddle on the ground.

As Fahjoth paused to catch his breath, he turned to Ribyna and held up the sword by means of explanation. “Enchanted,” he puffed. “The weapon’s got to be enchanted.”

Ribyna opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off by another chilling howl that echoed through the corridors behind them. Without a word the twins snatched each others’ hands once more and fled through the tomb, guided by the limited light of the lantern that Ribyna still carried and hounded by the sinister whispering and shrieking of infuriated spirits. After a mad dash through the crypt, the entrance was finally in sight, spilling glorious daylight into the otherwise pitch blackness ahead of them.

With one last burst of speed they cleared the exit together, and once outside, Fahjoth slammed the tomb door behind them hard enough that it rattled in its frame before becoming still. With a cool rain now battering them, Fahjoth and Ribyna stood in silence, leaning against the damp stone wall on either side of the tomb door and panting as they struggled to catch their breath. Eventually, Fahjoth broke the silence.

“I can’t believe you chucked someone’s grandma at a skeleton.”

Ribyna squinted, still leaning over with her hands on her knees and puffing heavily from a combination of exertion and adrenalin from their daring escape. Once her breathing had calmed, she finally straightened up and stared back at Fahjoth with her hands on her hips.

“I s’pose the locals are right,” she said, her tone even and measured. “Turns out ancestors are useful.”

A moment of silence followed this statement, before Fahjoth couldn’t hold it in any longer. With a grin curling at the corners of his mouth he began to laugh, quietly at first but quickly coming down with hysterics at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Ribyna quickly followed suit, catching his contagious laughter and breaking out into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.

Once the laughter died down, Fahjoth rolled his eyes and extended an arm towards Ribyna, who accepted his offer and linked it with her own. In unison they began the lengthy stroll back to Balmora, neither of them complaining about the drizzle leaving their clothes soaked through and their hair dripping and plastered to their faces.

Despite a few blunders, Fahjoth felt that his second task had been at least somewhat of a success. Emboldened by the little victories, it was then that he dared to hope that perhaps this Blades business wouldn’t be so bad after all — especially when he had good company to help him see it through.

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfiction #tes iii: morrowind #elder scrolls fanfic

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 9: Outlander Avenger

this took too long to post heehoo ive noticed that sometimes italics don’t save when im posting on tumblr? might have been a glitch idk but in that case it’s better to read on AO3 where the formatting is actually proper lol

summary On their arrival to Vivec City, the twins part ways and Fahjoth finds himself drawn into the investigation of a very serious crime.

content warnings violence, blood, minor character death

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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“Ey, Ribyna, have you ever heard of Ashlanders?”

“Yeah, why?”

Fahjoth paused, pulling a disgruntled pout. The sun had well and truly set now; the last vestiges of warmth had evaporated entirely, replaced by a nipping chill and creeping shadows that submerged their surroundings in deep blue blankets. Vivec City loomed in the distance, unlike anything Fahjoth had ever seen before. Instead of individual houses like he had seen in every other town he’d been to so far, the city was populated by rows of colossal cantons, square and blocky yet towering over them with a kind of intimidating grandeur. Walkways bridged the gaps between the cantons, stretching over the rolling waters of the Ascadian Isles’ open bay, and several flags and tapestries fluttered from the sides of the cantons, embroidered with differing patterns and art that Fahjoth couldn’t make out from a distance.

Turning his gaze back to Ribyna as they crossed the bridge towards the first canton, Fahjoth gave an exasperated huff, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. “Oh, so it’s just me, then?” he questioned. “Being an idiot as per usual. D’you know, I made a right tit of myself to Cosades earlier. Told him I didn’t know what Ashlanders were, then he gave me a bollocking for being a dipshit. I mean, how was I supposed to know? Nobody’s told me!”

Ribyna’s response was surprisingly terse. “Well, maybe if you kept your mouth shut more often instead of chatting a load of shit, you’d listen and actually learn something for once.”

Fahjoth blinked, taken aback by this harsh rebuttal. He was used to Ribyna’s blunt manner of speaking of course, but this was something else entirely. He had noticed her demeanour getting more subdued and her posture stiffening the closer they got to Vivec City, and chalked it up to weariness after their long walk. Now, however, he was not so sure. Was that a hint of nervousness he detected in her voice?

“Are you alright?” he asked, then frowned sympathetically. “Bit nervous about being in the big city?”

“What?” Ribyna turned back to Fahjoth and flashed him a scathing look. “No, of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

“Then what is it?” He received no response, as Ribyna stopped walking and examined their surroundings, occasionally dropping her gaze down and squinting at the map she held.

“Right, I’ve got some shit to do,” she announced, as if she hadn’t even heard Fahjoth’s concerns. Fahjoth was certain that this wasn’t the case. “I’ll see you later.”

“Whoah, hang on a second!” Fahjoth protested, disconcerted by Ribyna’s unexpected change of plans. “I didn’t realise we’d be splitting up. What are you doing, anyway?”

“Just... stuff,” Ribyna replied vaguely. Fahjoth grimaced; perhaps it was best that he didn’t know the details after all, if she was here on business with the Thieves Guild.

“Alright, fine,” Fahjoth said, relenting. “But where should I meet you?”

“Uh...” Ribyna gestured aimlessly at the immediate canton, the details on its banners now impossible to make out in the dark. “The map says this is the Foreign Quarter. Just find a cornerclub or something in here and get a room sorted for us. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.”

“Right,” Fahjoth replied mutedly. Admittedly, he was disappointed; he had been assuming that he and Ribyna would explore Vivec City together, but now, he was resigning himself to being Billy-No-Mates for the next few hours, or however long Ribyna would take to do her mysterious errand. “See you later then.”

Fahjoth thought Ribyna may have flashed him an apologetic glance before she turned away, but then she stalked away along the path flanking the canton and rounded the corner, disappearing out of sight. Heaving a sigh that materialised in the air as a faint puff of steam, Fahjoth turned and headed up the sloping path towards the canton’s upper door, slipping inside and into the warmth.

The inside of the canton was well-lit with torches and rather cheerfully decorated, an array of potted plants sitting in the corners while colourful tapestries and banners hung from the walls. Fahjoth could see a variety of people going about their business, not just Dunmer but Imperials, Bretons, and Redguards, among others, and in that moment he felt a strange sense of almost belonging. Initially he was surprised, until he realised that he was in the Foreign Quarter, and he was left with a deep feeling of despondency instead.

This grim reminder that he truly was an outlander was accentuated by the unrelenting glares he received from the Ordinators who patrolled the corridors, striking an intimidating presence with their gleaming gold armour and helmets, fashioned into the shape of a sharp elven face with a crest of hair atop their heads.

“We’ll have no trouble here,” one of the Ordinators said in a low, rasping voice as he walked by. “Move along.”

Suppressing a shudder, Fahjoth began to wander around the upper floor of the canton, trying to look as if he knew where he was going as opposed to being totally lost. Fortunately, it didn’t take too long before he found himself at a door with a sign overhead reading The Black Shalk Cornerclub. Figuring that he was not going to find anywhere more ideal than this, he pushed the door open and stepped in with caution.

The cornerclub was quiet, with only a few punters sitting around tables or standing in the corners of the room, deep in conversation. A Dunmer stood organising a collection of bottles behind the counter, while an Argonian sat at the bar nursing a drink of his own. Fahjoth approached, plonked himself onto a stool near to the Argonian, and offered him a smile of greeting. The Argonian, who had seemed quite tense as Fahjoth sat down, suddenly relaxed and gave Fahjoth a polite smile in return.

“Can I have a mazte, please?” he asked the barman, reaching into his pocket for his coin purse. “Oh, and how much would a room be for the night for two people?”

“That’ll be twenty drakes for the room, sera,” the barman replied, pushing a bottle of mazte towards Fahjoth. “And ten for the mazte.”

“Oh, alright, cheers! I’ll take it then,” Fahjoth replied, handing over the coins with relief. He caught the Argonian’s eye and chuckled, a wry grin curling the corner of his mouth. “Ribyna reckoned it’d be more expensive than that.”

“Ribyna?” the Argonian questioned.

“Ah, that’s my twin! She’s off doing... something,” Fahjoth answered, his voice trailing off thoughtfully as a mild frown settled on his face. “I’m not sure what. She wouldn’t say.”

“I see. That sounds rather sinister.” The Argonian smirked. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Fahjoth couldn’t hold back an awkward giggle. “You’re right, sorry. My name’s Fahjoth,” he said, holding his hand out, which the Argonian shook after a brief pause.

“Huleeya,” he introduced himself, withdrawing his hand and taking a sip of his drink. “Well, I can’t blame your twin for being secretive. Not with this recent spate of attacks on outlanders.”

Fahjoth’s smile slipped from his face. “Attacks?”

“Oh, yes.” Huleeya nodded gravely. “Not just attacks, but murders. Five outlanders have been found dead this week. Not only that, but two Ordinators have been found dead too. Killed in the same way — that is, with their throats slit.”

“Gods alive... Do they know who’s doing it?”

“If they knew, they would have been caught already,” Huleeya replied. “The Justice Offices are looking for help in catching the killer, from what I’ve heard.”

Fahjoth paused. Though this had given him a lot to think about, there was something else he wanted to ask. “Is that why you looked a bit...” — he gestured vaguely with a wave of his hand — “on edge when I came over?”

“Hm? Ah, no. It’s not that,” Huleeya said. “It just wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had trouble from the local Dunmer, that’s all.”

“What do you—?”

“Excuse me, outlander. I should get going.” Huleeya finished the remainder of his drink and stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fahjoth. You and your twin should be careful if you’re out wandering alone at night.”

“Ah... we will. Thanks, mate,” Fahjoth answered, watching as Huleeya said his farewells to the barkeep and took his leave. Once again, Fahjoth was left alone with his thoughts, and he began to get some very dangerous thoughts indeed.

The Justice Offices are looking for help in catching the killer...

He bit his lip as he nursed his mazte, quietly wrestling with his own brain. To think that he would be able to go up against a serial killer who had slain two highly trained Ordinators was madness, and yet...

By the time he had drained the last of his mazte from the bottle, he had made his decision. Fahjoth stood up, trying to ignore the creeping feeling of foreboding, dropped off his supplies in his rented room and headed outside into the fresh night air once more.

——————————————

The Office of the Watch was much further away than Fahjoth had anticipated, and by the time he arrived, his legs — which had been trembling with nerves — were heavy and aching from weariness, which didn’t bode well for what he had to do. It had been a very long day already, and more than anything Fahjoth was craving a nice warm bed to fall into, but he’d come all this way. There was no going back now.

After navigating the Hall of Justice — with some difficulty, assuaged only slightly by the directions given to him from irate Ordinators on patrol — Fahjoth eventually found himself at the doors of the Office of the Watch, which he knocked gently and waited to be given permission to enter.

Peering around the door, Fahjoth was faced with a rather small and cluttered office inhabited by three Dunmer in the usual golden cuirass and boots, who were sitting at messy desks and perusing sheaves of parchment. One of them, a dark-haired Mer with a moustache and goatee, eyed Fahjoth as he crossed the threshold, the heavy bags under his eyes indicative of his tiredness.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “We’re very busy, as you can see.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Fahjoth apologised, “but I’m looking for an Elam Andas?”

“Yes, that’s me. I am Elam Andas, chief of Vivec's Order of the Watch. Are you here looking for work?”

Fahjoth bit his lip, knowing full well that this was his last chance to back out of his foolish and potentially suicidal mission, but he ploughed on anyway. “I heard you were looking for help solving these recent murders.”

The effect his words had on the office was startling. The officers stopped what they were doing, each of them fixing their red eyes on Fahjoth with dubious expressions. Fahjoth remained silent until Andas spoke again.

“We cannot officially hire you as only Ordinators can serve the watch,” he explained. “But if you can find this killer and bring them to justice, we’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your efforts.”

Bring them to justice? Now that was something Fahjoth was sure was well above his pay grade. He had been hoping to do a bit of investigation, to help the Watch with their search, but to be tasked with bringing down a serial killer himself? That wasn’t something he was at all confident he could handle.

“Oh, I—” he started in alarm, but Andas cut him off.

“I require no commitment from you,” Andas informed him. “In fact, I can’t even officially accept one. But if you’re serious about helping, I can tell you what we know so far about the killer and the victims.”

After a moment of hesitation, Fahjoth nodded, and Andas gestured to the seat across his desk. Fahjoth obeyed, sitting and listening in silence.

“There have been seven victims so far, five outlanders and two Ordinators, and all with their throats slit. Three of the victims were found in the Foreign Quarter, one near the Arena and one in the Hlaalu Compound. None of the outlanders had been on Vvardenfell for more than a week.

“Our Ordinators were found near the body in the Hlaalu Compound, and we think they interrupted the killer at work. Despite the fact that they were armed and on duty, their weapons were still in their sheaths when their bodies were found, which is unsettling. We’re likely looking at someone incredibly stealthy, or adept at illusion magic.”

It was times like this that Fahjoth dearly wished he could read and write. At least then he would have been able to make notes.

“Finally... there is the matter of witnesses. We’ve had no official witnesses come forward, but one outlander reported being threatened by a Dunmer woman with a dagger in the Hlaalu Compound, around the time of the other murders. He couldn’t give us a very clear description as he teleported himself away to safety, but he told us she was wearing a skirt and netch leather armour.”

Fahjoth nodded, frowning as he tried to absorb all of this information, all the while his heartbeat had quickened uncomfortably with apprehension. Without further ado, he stood and excused himself from the office, heading back outside and into the late night’s chilly grip.

Hearing about the victims, as well as Huleeya’s dire warning, had strengthened Fahjoth’s resolve. Someone was lurking in the shadows of Vivec City, slaughtering innocent people seemingly purely because of their foreign origins. People just like him.

His years spent away from Morrowind had left him as good as an outlander in the eyes of the native Dunmer, and if someone considered that fact alone a trait punishable by death, then they couldn’t be allowed to continue to walk free. Someone needed to deal with them, and if the city’s Ordinators couldn’t — or wouldn’t — then perhaps it would be up to him.

Although... it would probably be a good idea to find Ribyna first, Fahjoth figured as he set off towards the city’s northernmost cantons, before he went blundering headfirst to his potential death. Again.

The path ahead was dark and unsettling, and Fahjoth found himself throwing anxious glances over his shoulder every few minutes, flinching at the slightest unexpected sound and eyeing every shadow with mistrust lest he be ambushed by a dagger-wielding, skirt-donning Dunmer intent on ending his life. It was with relief that he made it to the first of his destinations and, incidentally, the last place he had seen Ribyna heading towards — the Arena.

——————————————

Unfortunately for Fahjoth, Ribyna was nowhere to be seen, so he lingered around the Arena for long enough to do some investigating, inquiring with a few inhabitants and Ordinators but turning up no new leads. Eventually he was forced to resign himself to the fact that he would be a lone worker in this case — a thought that inspired a well of dread in his gut — and moved on.

The same was to be said with the Hlaalu Compound, where Fahjoth had checked in the hope that someone would have seen something about the attempted attack, but he had no luck there either. He then moved on to the Foreign Quarter where, to his surprise, an Orc was happy to assist.

“I recall someone — maybe one of the sewer cleaners — saying something about seeing a Dunmer woman down in the Underworks. Wouldn’t be that odd, but... in the Underworks? That’s odd. Nothing down there but rats and sewers.”

Which led Fahjoth to his next point of investigation — the Underworks.

——————————————

The moment he stepped foot in the Underworks, the smell hit him like a brick to the face. Almost choking on the pungent stench of sewage water, Fahjoth lingered for just long enough to feel just a little more regret before he set off, trying to forget the misgivings he felt. He yanked his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth and navigated the Underworks as carefully as he could, every footstep deliberately placed to be as quiet as possible. He was well aware that the killer could be lurking around any corner, and the deeper he tread into the sewers the more he felt his legs begin to tremble.

It was almost silent down here, the only sounds being that of the murky water sloshing against the smooth stone sewer walls and the occasional drip of moisture from the damp-ridden ceiling. Every so often he would hear a rat scuttling around in the darkness and his heart would jolt, requiring him to take a moment to stop and let his adrenaline levels fall after an unpleasant spike that set his pulse racing.

As he progressed, however, more unpleasant thoughts began to surface in his mind. One possibility kept presenting itself to him, and as hard as he tried to reject it, he found that he couldn’t wholeheartedly dismiss it.

“What are you doing, anyway?”

“Just... stuff.”

He remembered that strange look on Ribyna’s face when he mentioned going to Vivec City. He could tell easily when his twin was apprehensive, and as brief as it was, it had been only too clear to see on her face back in Balmora. Was she nervous about returning to the scene of the crime?

But that was ridiculous! His twin wasn’t a murderer!

What reason would she have to kill outlanders, anyway? The more Fahjoth thought about it, the more illogical it seemed. Least of all because he had never even seen Ribyna wear a skirt for as long as he could remember. So why couldn’t he simply disregard it? The fact that he even had doubts in the first place said enough, and he was even more nervous as he crept through the tunnels, dreading the possibility of seeing his twin around the next bend.

So wrapped up was he in his own thoughts that as Fahjoth rounded a corner and exited a smaller tunnel into a larger section of the sewers, he didn’t even notice the figure standing at the end of the tunnel until he was looking straight at them. With a choked gasp, he flung himself back around the corner from which he had just emerged and pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest and his stomach tied up in knots. After pausing to listen for any sign of the stranger’s approach, he deemed it safe enough to peer around the wall again and get a better look at the figure ahead.

Even in the low light, he could tell that it was a Dunmer, and they were indeed wearing a skirt with what seemed to be a leather cuirass. This particular corner of the sewer almost looked like a base, with a scruffy bedroll laying on the ground near evidence of where a makeshift fireplace had been lit in the form of a charred mound of wood scraps. A pile of dilapidated crates and debris were strewn haphazardly around the alcove, in some cases holding — or failing to hold — contents like food and bottles of alcohol. Evidently, this was someone who had stocked up for some time.

Fortunately, she hadn’t noticed Fahjoth yet. She sat atop one of the crates, perusing some sort of book or journal and occasionally making notes. A dagger — stained an ominous rusty hue — sat by her side, and Fahjoth’s suspicions were all but confirmed.

How was he going to do this?

He could call it a day, back out quietly the way he came and return to the Office of the Watch with what he knew of the killer’s whereabouts. But even then, would anything get done? Would the Ordinators get here in time before the killer made another move, and claimed another victim?

Perhaps if he could sneak up behind her, he could get the advantage. He knew better than anyone that he was no master of stealth, but she looked fairly preoccupied. Perhaps if he was quiet and quick, then—

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did he become aware of a weight suddenly pulling vigorously on his foot. As he looked down, he silently squirmed and grimaced at the sight of a large rat digging its teeth into the chitin, shaking its head as if determined to pull his boot clean off. It made no noise other than a soft, squeaky growl, but the splashing of the water beneath its paws was unsettlingly loud and echoed due to the circular tunnel’s acoustics. If this kept up, it was only a matter of time before the killer would notice him.

“Get off!” Fahjoth hissed, frantically shaking his foot. “Get off! Get off, you little c—!”

Unfortunately, the rat refused to budge. It was dragged along in the wake of Fahjoth’s mild kicks, which gradually grew more and more vigorous as he fought to free his foot of the rat’s vice-like grip. Leaning on the wall for balance, he raised his foot up off the ground, now aggressively kicking at the air when all prior attempts at gently shaking the rat off failed. The situation would have been comical had Fahjoth not been so painfully conscious of the murderer sitting barely 20 yards away from where he stood.

At last, after what felt like hours, the rat let go. However, the momentum given to it by Fahjoth’s kicking motion caused it to gracefully soar away as it was flung off his foot and land with a tremendous splash in the deep sewer water in front of him.

Instantly, Fahjoth froze. He pressed himself back against the wall, his breathing fast and laboured as he strained his ears for any sign of movement. Apart from the splashing of the rat as it swam away, apparently done with terrorising Fahjoth for the time being, all was silent. Then, as he dared to peek around the corner to evaluate the situation, a pair of red eyes stared into his own as he made direct eye contact with the Dunmer.

Her reaction was instant. She leapt up from her seat, dagger in hand, and stormed the length of the tunnel towards him, already screaming abuse and profanities in his direction. Kicking hard off the ground, Fahjoth threw himself into motion, and with the Dunmer hurtling closer his options for where to go were limited. A brown and grey blur in his peripheral as he passed indicated that the Dunmer was giving chase, but with the advantage of having longer legs, Fahjoth half-sprinted and half-leapt over a nearby bridge spanning the sewer water before pelting down to the tunnel’s end. Whirling around once he came to a stop, the Dunmer was mere seconds behind him, so Fahjoth drew his sword and stood fast.

Wielding a dagger which seemed to emanate a sickly red glow, his opponent lunged, landing a glancing blow against Fahjoth’s armour as he leapt back. But she was much faster than he had anticipated. He stumbled back and threw himself from side to side to avoid the Dunmer’s aggressive strategy of repeated jabs and slashes, breaking into a sweat and feeling his flanks ache with every shallow pant. One thrust of the dagger slid between the gap in the chitin protecting his arm, slicing through the sleeve and nicking the skin beneath.

With a gasp, Fahjoth flung himself backwards. There was a dull thud as his heel collided with something on the ground and his balance was completely thrown off.

His stomach lurched as he began a sharp descent, hitting the ground with a painful bump. The scraping and groans of the crates he fell against rang in his ears as the Dunmer was suddenly filling his vision, dagger poised ready to plunge into his throat.

With his sword arm raised in a vague attempt to defend himself, Fahjoth reached to the side, grasping at nothingness in a frantic search for something, anything, that could—

The cold sliminess of damp wood brushed against his fingertips. He fastened his grip, braced himself and flung the broken chunk at his assailant with as much force as he could muster.

The jagged lump of wood, a deadly weapon in its own right in the right circumstances, struck the Dunmer square in the face. She staggered back with a howl of pain, clutching her eye while blood seeped from a fresh injury above her brow. With adrenaline coursing through him, Fahjoth sprung to his feet, clutching the hilt of his sword with fingers now damp from his own blood.

The Dunmer lifted her gaze to Fahjoth again, her uninjured eye blazing with a chilling hatred, but before she could make another move Fahjoth had sprung. He rushed forward and thrust his sword into the Dunmer’s midriff, the tip of the blade piercing the thin, aged leather of her armour with surprising ease. Then he continued pushing forward, until his sword had been buried up to its hilt into her stomach and protruded out from her navel.

The Dunmer froze, paralysed by the deadly blow, and Fahjoth relinquished his weapon and backed off, unable to do anything else but stare as she staggered to the side and fell. A sharp clang announced her collision to the ground as the sword’s blade hit the ground first, but once her momentum stopped and she lay still, total silence fell upon them.

Silence, apart from the sound of Fahjoth’s ragged breathing.

As he stared down at the lifeless Dunmer on the ground before him, Fahjoth only became conscious of how badly his legs were shaking when he tried to take a step forward and his knees almost buckled beneath his weight. Only one thought circled in his mind, over and over, as he silently watched the blood starting to ooze out from beneath her body.

He had done this.

Someone was dead because of him.

The more logical part of his brain insisted that if he hadn’t, it would have been him lying there in a pool of his own blood instead. But that didn’t make him feel much better about the fact that he had just taken someone’s life.

There was a part of him that didn’t even want to approach the body to retrieve his shortsword, but at the end of the day, he had paid good money for that. And it wasn’t as if he had a backup. So with a trembling hand he grasped the hilt, slowly prising the sword out of the Dunmer’s body and wincing at the sickening sound of the blade gliding against flesh, squelching and wet. He cleaned the metal as best he could using linen from the makeshift bed, then sheathed his weapon and reluctantly searched the camp for evidence to present to Elam Andas.

He didn’t find much of any substance. The journal the Dunmer had been reading was, of course, impossible for him to read. Quite apart from not finding any sense in the words, it was damp and smudged terribly to the point where it was barely legible. Still, perhaps the Office of the Watch would have better luck; he took it, along with an old rusty key and the Dunmer’s dagger, which left him feeling oddly nauseous and drained after his fingertips came into direct contact with it.

The damp stickiness of blood on his arm and staining his sleeve was impossible to ignore, as was the injury beneath it, so Fahjoth took a moment to attempt to heal it on his own. With the spell he had acquired from the Mages Guild in mind, Fahjoth closed his eyes and furrowed his brows in concentration; he racked every corner of his brain, searching for any spark that could ignite the spell that he could feel hesitating at his fingertips. But in his already worn-out state, the attempts only ended up draining yet more of his energy and left him with a considerable headache. In the end he conceded and admitted defeat, recognising a lost cause when he saw one.

Then Fahjoth embarked on the long walk back to the Hall of Justice, craving fresh air and a warm bed above all else. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that he had successfully taken on a serial killer and lived to tell the tale, but there was an odd light-heartedness in his chest as he traipsed back along the paths through Vivec City’s shadowy cantons, feeling somehow more confident than before.

——————————————

Fahjoth’s triumphant — albeit exhausted and bloodied — return to the Office of the Watch was met with disbelief at first, followed by amazement once he broke the news that the killer had been dealt with. Elam Andas was thrilled and accepted the dagger and journal as evidence without question, perhaps a sign of how desperate he was to believe that this Dunmer was no longer a threat. After expressing his gratitude he sent Fahjoth on his way, with a promise that Ordinators would be sent to clean up the mess and the reward of an enchanted belt to protect him on his travels, which Fahjoth accepted eagerly. Although he was pleased with the response to his daring deed, he was now more than ever looking forward to collapsing into bed after a very, very long day.

With thoughts of only soft pillows and warm sheets on his mind as he entered the familiarity of the Foreign Quarter, it wasn’t until he came face-to-face with someone approaching the hallway to the cornerclub from the opposite way that he realised he had forgotten something — or rather, someone.

“Ribyna!” Fahjoth exclaimed, recognising his sibling even from a distance. But something was wrong. There was no wave or call of greeting from Ribyna, who walked silently over to him with a pronounced limp in her step.

“Ribyna?”

In the light of the torch that hung from the nearby wall, Fahjoth could see that Ribyna was in a dreadful state. Her armour was scuffed and damaged in places and her hair was a mess, but most worryingly was the copious amount of bloodstains that spattered and smeared her almost from head to foot.

“Ribyna!” Fahjoth gasped, rushing over to meet her and instantly beginning to fuss. “What the hell happened?! Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” Ribyna grunted, making a half-hearted attempt to push Fahjoth away.

“You’re covered in blood!”

“It’s fine. It’s not my blood.” Ribyna paused to wince, doubling over slightly and gritting her teeth. “Most of it...”

Before Fahjoth could question her further, they were interrupted by the rapid approach of an Ordinator, his sword drawn and raised at Ribyna threateningly.

“Halt!” he barked. “Murderous scum! You violated the law, outlander. Surrender and come with me immediately.”

Fahjoth's mouth fell open with horror. Murderous? Surely there had to be some kind of mistake...

However, Ribyna's silence was not encouraging. Instead of protesting her innocence, she reached into a pocket and tugged out a somewhat bloodstained roll of parchment, which she passed over to the guard without a word. To Fahjoth's astonishment, once he had finished reading it, he nodded and tucked the note away in his own armour.

“All of your papers seem to be in order,” he said, dipping his head to Ribyna. “You are free to go.”

And then he walked away, leaving Fahjoth utterly bemused as he stared at his still very quiet twin.

“Are you gonna tell me what the hell just happened?” he questioned, and Ribyna huffed.

"In a sec. Let's get inside first," she muttered, slipping away into the cornerclub without waiting for a response. Fahjoth, left with little choice, followed her in and then led the way to their room. The moment he opened the door, Ribyna pushed past him and dropped down onto the bed with a groan — much to Fahjoth's displeasure, as he had been hoping to do this exact thing first.

“Well?” he prompted, lowering himself into a nearby chair and slouching back, relishing the chance to take the weight off his sore feet for a while. “What was that guard on about, calling you ‘murderous scum’?”

It was a moment or two before Ribyna dragged herself upright again and turned her gaze to Fahjoth.

“I joined the Morag Tong.”

Fahjoth, who had been in the process of removing his boots, froze motionless as he felt his blood run cold. “You what?!” he hissed, once he found his voice again. “You’ve— what?!”

“Yeah.” Ribyna’s tone was level as she stared back at Fahjoth, looking more tired than defensive. “Don’t start, alright? I’m knackered.”

“Don’t st—?!” Fahjoth bolted upright, keeping his voice hushed as best he could but fighting to quash the outrage that burned in his chest. “You’ve gone and joined a murder cult and you’re telling me to not start?!”

“It’s not a murder cult!” Ribyna protested. “It’s perfectly legal!”

“Just because it’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s not a—” Fahjoth stopped mid-rant, rubbing his eyes with exasperation. “Just... Ugh, what have you gone and done that for? Can’t you just do something... normal?! Like... I dunno, go join the Fighters Guild if you really wanna stab things!”

“No.” She slouched down, looking suddenly more tired than ever. “Look, maybe I’m fed up of being treated like the shit on everyone’s shoes, alright? Maybe I just... wanted a bit of respect for once.”

Fahjoth faltered, experiencing a flicker of sympathy for his twin. He knew that feeling all too well. “Beebs, you don’t need to become a murderer to be respected.”

“I was already a murderer,” Ribyna pointed out bluntly. Fahjoth felt a twist in his gut, memories from that horrendous day threatening to resurface in his mind. “At least this way I can get paid for it.”

Fahjoth paused, struggling to find an argument and fighting to put into words exactly how he felt about Ribyna’s new career choice. Eventually, he heaved a sigh. “But... it can’t be safe. Look, you’re injured! I’m... I’m worried about you, Ribyna.”

“Well, don’t be. Turns out I’m half-decent at killing people.” Naturally, Ribyna’s answer didn’t reassure Fahjoth in the slightest, but she ploughed on anyway with a change of subject. “Anyway, what about you? What have you been up to?” Now that she was evaluating Fahjoth properly, her eyes soon fell on the bloodstains that still blemished his clothes and armour. “Is that blood?!”

“Yeah... and this time, it is mine. Honestly, you won’t believe the day I’ve had, Beebs,” Fahjoth said, before he began to regale the whole story; meeting Huleeya, learning about the outlander killings, going to the Office of the Watch, venturing into the Underworks...

By the time he had finished, Ribyna was staring at him with an incredulous look on her face.

“Hang on,” she started, “you killed someone and you’re having a go at me for joining the Morag Tong? Hypocrite, much!”

“I— but— what?!” Fahjoth spluttered, affronted. “Th-that’s different! I’m not an assassin, I was stopping a serial killer—”

But he promptly shut his mouth once he noticed the wry grin curling at the corners of Ribyna’s lips.

“I’m only messing,” she chortled, her smirk quickly becoming a proud smile. “Holy shit, that’s amazing, Fahji. Shame they didn’t pay you for it, mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Fahjoth replied honestly, calming down again. “I’m just glad she can’t hurt anyone else.” He paused, feeling heat rising in his face as he prepared himself to confess to something. “Honestly for a little while, I was worried that the killer was gonna be you.”

Ribyna promptly cocked a brow. “You fucking donkey, why would I go around killing outlanders? I am an outlander!”

“I was just freaking out!” Fahjoth protested. “I was tired, and nervous, and you’d been acting proper shifty, and— well, I obviously wasn’t that far off, was I? Might not’ve been outlanders, but you were planning on killing people after all!”

Ribyna rolled her eyes, busying herself with removing her own armour. “Yeah yeah, alright, you’ve already said your piece. Come on, let’s get cleaned up and get some sleep. I’m absolutely wrecked.”

Though he still had plenty more to say on the matter, Fahjoth agreed, for both their sakes. He was looking forward to crashing just as much as Ribyna was, and once they had finished helping each other tend to their injuries and settled down for the night, Fahjoth was asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillows.

—————————————————————————————

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfic #TES III: Morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 4: Arkngthand

summary After a few days of guild work and running odd jobs around Balmora, Fahjoth’s thirst for adventure continues to grow. On being given an assignment to venture into a Dwemer ruin, he is elated — but is he getting ahead of himself?

content warnings mild threat/violence

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

—————————————————————————————

“I joined the Mages Guild.”

“You what?”

Fahjoth stood there, knee deep in the Odai River and grinned back at Ribyna, who was sitting on the bank sharpening a chitin dagger. He knew he had the dopiest, silliest smile on his face, but he couldn’t help it; Ribyna’s incredulous expression was tickling him.

“The fuck have you done that for?” Ribyna asked. “The only thing you can cast is a shadow.”

“Oi!” Fahjoth laughed, too accustomed to Ribyna’s mean teasing to take offence. “That’s why I joined it. I want to learn! You should join, too.”

Ribyna grimaced. “Nah, you’re alright. Didn’t you join the Fighters Guild as well?”

“I did! I think that’s where I’ll be most useful,” Fahjoth admitted. “I might not be any good at magic, but turns out I can swing a sword decently.”

In the days that had passed since Fahjoth arrived at Cosades’ house, he had done as advised and set out to build up his strength. In addition to securing membership in — and running a few menial jobs for — the Fighters Guild and Mages Guild, Fahjoth had visited several of Cosades’ recommended trainers to get some practise in moving in armour and using larger weapons than the daggers he was used to. With the gold he had been gifted, he had even purchased a set of chitin armour and a gleaming steel shortsword for himself, which certainly came in handy when exterminating rats from old ladies’ homes.

Today, he was to meet Cosades at noon to receive his first assignment. Fahjoth was even beginning to feel a little excited; this was the very reason he was here, after all. Who knew what thrilling mission Cosades had lined up for the newest Blades recruit?

But for now, while the sun was up and basking Balmora in a warm early light, Fahjoth had taken the morning off and met with Ribyna to catch up and relax. She squinted at him, finally paying attention to the fact that he was standing in the shallows of the river.

“Any particular reason you’re going for a paddle?” she asked, finally setting down her dagger and nodding towards his feet. “It’s not that hot today.”

“I’m practising a water walking spell I got from the Guild,” Fahjoth answered happily.

Ribyna raised a brow. “You sure that wasn’t a water sinking spell instead? ‘Cause if it is, you’re doing great.”

“Oh ha ha. It’s a hard spell!” However, Fahjoth was ready to admit defeat for now, emerging from the river and sitting beside his twin to let his feet dry off in the sun. “So, what’ve you got planned for today?”

Ribyna shrugged. “Not much. I’ll see if Habasi wants anything doing. What about you? You off to see this Cosades bloke?”

“In a bit,” Fahjoth said. “He’s got my first job for me today, apparently.”

“Juicy. So are you gonna tell me what it is you’re doing now?”

“You know I can’t.”

Ribyna turned to Fahjoth, her face falling into a rather petulant frown. “You‘ve never given a shit before. Come on, can’t you just tell me? Not like I’m gonna tell anyone, is it?”

Fahjoth sighed, trying to look as sincere as possible. “I’d love to tell you, Beebs, honestly. I would. But Cosades made me swear to secrecy. I’m not allowed to tell anyone.”

Ribyna was quiet for a moment. “Is it really that serious?” Then she laughed. “I mean, it’s not like you’re a secret agent for the Emperor, is it?”

Fahjoth forced a laugh, feeling wildly uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Hah! Wouldn’t that be mad?” Partly for a distraction, he shielded his eyes and glanced up at the sky. “Anyway, I should probably get going. Don’t wanna be late for Cosades,” he said, as he replaced his boots and hauled himself to his feet.

“Alright.” Following Fahjoth’s example, Ribyna stood up and stretched with a dramatic groan. “I’ll see you later then. If you’re free, meet me in the South Wall Cornerclub this evening? I’ll get the first round in.”

“Sounds good!” Fahjoth agreed with a grin, patting his twin on the shoulder as he set off for Cosades’ house. “See you later.” He turned and waved over his shoulder as Ribyna called back to him.

“Bye, Fahji. Good luck!”

—————————————————————————————

As Fahjoth let himself into Cosades’ house, he was unsurprised now to find the older man completely shirtless yet again. In fact, it was a rarer sight to see him actually wearing anything over his chest.

“You’re early,” Cosades remarked. “Good, that shows eagerness. Are you ready for your first task?”

“Yessir!” Fahjoth confirmed, trying to curb his enthusiasm and resisting the urge to salute.

“Excellent. Here’s what I need you to do.” Cosades handed over a scrap of parchment, upon which instructions had been neatly scrawled — fairly useless to Fahjoth, as his reading ability was no better now than it had been when he had first arrived. He took it regardless and waited for Cosades to continue. “Go talk to Hasphat Antabolis at the Balmora Fighters Guild. Ask him what he knows about the Nerevarine secret cult and the Sixth House secret cult. You'll have to do him a favour first. Probably an ugly favour. But do it. Then get the information from Antabolis and report back to me.”

Fahjoth paused, the spark of excitement that had been burning in his chest shrivelling up and dying within seconds. Disappointed didn’t even begin to cover it; he had been expecting daring missions full of adventure and maybe a little bit of danger to get the blood pumping. Instead, he was being sent to... gather intel?

Well, there’s a bit of glamour in that, in a way, Fahjoth reasoned to himself as he made his way over to the Balmora Fighters Guild. Learning about secret cults was sure to be fascinating — not that he had any idea what the ‘Nerevarine’ or the ‘Sixth House’ even were. Still, it must have been important — to Cosades at least, if nobody else — and Fahjoth was determined to make his first assignment a success.

Hasphat Antabolis was, thankfully, easy to locate, standing in the base of the Guild in discussion with another member. Trying his utmost to seem polite and professional, he approached the Fighters Guild’s Drillmaster and waited for Antabolis’ conversation to end.

“Good day, Associate,” Antabolis greeted, turning to Fahjoth once he had finished. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, sir. I’m actually here on a job from Caius Cosades,” Fahjoth explained.

“So you're with Caius, eh? Let me guess, he wants information?”

“Yes sir.”

“I see.” Antabolis didn’t seem overly surprised. “Of course, there's a this-for-that involved here. I’d like to ask a favour first, and then I'll tell you what you want to know.”

Fahjoth had been expecting that. “Of course, sir,” he said, wondering what kind of favour Antabolis was looking for. Maybe to run some shopping errands, or to take some armour to be repaired?

“There are Dwemer ruins nearby called Arkngthand. I need you to run over there and find me a little copper cube. It's called a ‘Dwemer puzzle box’. Bring me back the box, and I'll tell you what you want to know.”

Fahjoth’s smile slipped for a moment as he realised what Antabolis had asked of him. “A Dwemer ruin?” he repeated, beginning to feel that flicker of excitement again — accompanied by apprehension, of course, but he pushed that aside. After the rigorous training he had received, an expedition into some Dwemer ruins was bound to be a breeze!

“Yes.” Antabolis began tracing the approximate shape of the cube in the air with his fingers. “It’s a little cube, about the size of a fist, maybe a little bigger. It will have a circular design, symbols on one side and some lined marks on the others. That's all I want, that little cube. You probably won’t even need to go venturing too deep into the ruins. Can you do that for me, Associate?”

Fahjoth nodded, feeling a wave of hopeful determination flooding his chest. “Yes sir! I’ll head there right now.”

After lingering for long enough to commit the instructions regarding Arkngthand to memory, Fahjoth set off, stopping at Cosades’ to collect his armour and sword before strolling out of Balmora on his next adventure. The sense of trepidation persisted, but it was drowned out by Fahjoth’s overwhelming curiosity and eagerness to explore new places and put his new skills to the test. It was just an old, uninhabited ruin, after all — as long as he was careful, he should be just fine.

Plus, he did have some experience with old ruins; he and Ribyna had ventured through the weathered stone doors of ancient Ayleid ruins back in Cyrodiil, with a group of friends from the Waterfront. Granted, they had barely gone deeper than the entrance hallway, but still! That had to count for something.

Fahjoth’s good mood only continued to grow as he reached the crest of an earthy hill, the vegetation having grown more and more sparse the nearer he got to Caldera. Once he spotted the Dwemer bridge, he couldn’t hold back a jubilant grin. He’d made it! Perhaps it was his euphoria at having successfully followed directions, but even the broad metal bridge itself had a certain rustic charm to it, despite being coated in a layer of dust and dirt built up over the years. Each footstep caused a reverberating clang to echo over the crevasse beneath, which Fahjoth peered down at with interest as he crossed, running his fingertips over the brass handle and feeling its mild, sunkissed warmth against his skin.

Once he reached the other side, he was plunged into the shadow of Arkngthand. For a few moments, he was struck silent with awe at the sheer scale of it, the surrounding hills dotted by colossal turrets jutting out of the earth — and that was just the part he could see. From his position outside, all seemed still and quiet, but if he strained his ears and listened, he could hear something from deep within the ruins; the soft whisper of steam and a slow, gentle rumble that caused the hairs along his arms to stand on end with anticipation. And here was a scent that hung faintly in the air, growing more potent the closer in proximity he got to the ruins — a strange earthy yet metallic tang that lingered in his nose and even left a hint on his tongue.

He recalled Antabolis giving him advice, suggesting that there would likely be an external mechanism to power the door. Fortunately, Fahjoth didn’t have to look too far before his eyes fell on a rusted metal wheel protruding out of the ground, which was somewhat stiff but still mobile. And once Fahjoth succeeded in twisting it, he heard the unpleasant groaning of metal and looked up just in time to see the ruin’s spherical entrance gliding open, revealing a door leading into what he assumed was the entrance hall. To his alarm, the rotating sphere began to slowly shut again, and so Fahjoth leapt into action and hurtled in through the entrance before it was sealed once more, assuming — and hoping — there would be some kind of opening mechanism on the other side.

Once inside, Fahjoth’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. Along the dim hallways, strange elongated lights were fastened to the walls, casting a warm orange glow with which he was able to navigate. It didn’t escape his notice, however, that several wooden boxes and containers lined the halls, upon which candles sat — many flickering with a small flame. That seemed very unusual for somewhere that was supposedly uninhabited…

Then, he froze as it slowly dawned on him that Antabolis had never once claimed that Arkngthand was uninhabited. That was entirely Fahjoth’s own assumption.

And with that his confidence evaporated in an instant, to be replaced with a heavy apprehension that he could not shake. The ambience of the ruins only exacerbated his nervousness; now that he was inside, he could hear the clanking and groaning of ancient Dwemer machinery all too clearly, along with the occasional hiss as a puff of steam escaped from a loose joint in a brass pipe, both of which provided a constant, repetitive backdrop of noise that was impossible to ignore. Every so often, a much louder clunk or creak echoed through the tunnels, and Fahjoth flinched and froze, half-expecting the rusted supports holding up the dense stone walls to finally give way and collapse overhead. But there was no turning back now. He needed that cube.

The air now was stifling; warm, stale and thick with the acrid taste of metal, and only getting worse the further and deeper he delved into the ruins. Fahjoth began to feel beads of sweat gently dripping down his forehead and back, making him cringe with discomfort. With caution he pressed onwards, frequently pausing and straining his senses to listen out for any sign of life. And soon, it reached him; voices, coming from an area just up ahead, chatting amongst themselves and apparently oblivious to his presence.

Fahjoth soon left the corridor and found himself overlooking a vast chamber, cut into the ground itself with stone slopes leading down to the base and up again on the opposite side to a second floor built into the cavern wall. Neither slope looked particularly structurally sound, and he grimaced at the thought of trying to sneak down undetected. So instead he stopped to listen, hoping to glean any information from the two men — an Imperial and a Redguard — loitering around a collection of boxes on the rough, stony ground beneath him.

“How long are we staying in this shithole anyway? It’s fucking roasting in here.”

“No idea. Long enough for us to find enough Dwarven shit to make a profit off of, I guess. Since Crito’s found that weird cube, he reckons there’s more lying around that the right people will pay a fortune for.”

“Really? He’s still holding onto that junk?”

“Yup. Keeping it in the safe room up there. He seems to know his stuff, so maybe he’s right.”

“Maybe. I still think we’d have been better off raiding a tomb, though.”

As the men continued to debate the merits of sacking an ancestral tomb over looting Dwemer ruins, Fahjoth had his answers at least. The Imperial below had pointed upwards as he spoke, gesturing to a doorway on the upper floor of the chamber across from where he stood, which was as good a hint as he was likely to get. But even armed with this information, he was still faced with the issue of how to actually get himself over there without being noticed. He’d never been a particularly skilled sneak, but just maybe—

“Come on, I’m sure there’s some flin ‘round here somewhere. I’m sure nobody’ll miss it if we just take one or two bottles.”

Fahjoth could scarcely believe his luck. As the men began to amble further away and rummage around in some crates in the alcove beneath the second floor, he took his chance. As light-footed as a cat, but with less than half the grace, he scrabbled down the slope to his right, occasionally gasping and half-running as he felt rocks and soil shifting beneath his boots. It was with relief that he reached the ground, but there was no time to hesitate — within seconds he had crossed the chamber and was ascending the second slope, having to use his hands for balance as he clambered up the dilapidated ramp. At last he reached the next floor, where he was faced with another circular bronze door which he fully expected to be locked, but to his surprise, it swung open as enthusiastically as he pushed it with scarcely a creak. Clearly it was in frequent use.

But as Fahjoth took a single step into the room, he found himself face to face with the largest Imperial he had ever seen in his life, whose broad shoulders were barely contained by the iron cuirass he donned. For a few moments the two simply locked eyes and stood in silence, both rather stunned by the sudden appearance of the other. Then, with a ferocious yell, the Imperial grasped the gleaming handle of a nearby battleaxe and swung it at Fahjoth without hesitation.

With only a second to react, Fahjoth threw himself to the ground, panic wiping his mind completely blank. His first instinct was to flee, but now the man stood between him and the doorway, and there were no alternative means of escape that he could see. As he scrambled to his feet, Fahjoth leapt back as the man came lunging at him again and again with his axe, horrified by the determination on the Imperial’s face as he made one attempt after another to cleave him in half.

The room, cluttered as it was with crates and stacks of shelves, was definitely not spacious enough to keep up these kinds of manoeuvres. Fahjoth’s only saving grace was that the man, in his heavy armour and wielding his cumbersome battleaxe, was far slower in comparison to him. But the man also had the advantage of both facing ahead and knowing the layout of the room. Continually driven back by the pendulous momentum of the blade, Fahjoth’s heart leapt into his mouth as his heel suddenly collided with a small box on the floor. With an almighty crash, he plummeted straight to the ground, bashing his shoulders on a brass pipe mounted on the wall behind him.

He risked a glance upwards. The axe blade was poised high in the air once more, ready to come crashing down over his head and split his skull into two. With blood pounding in his ears and adrenalin flooding his system, Fahjoth launched himself into a clumsy barrel-roll, tumbling past the Imperial’s legs a mere heartbeat before the axe fell upon the pipe that he had been leaning against.

There was an ear-splitting shriek of metal on metal, but that barely measured up to the scream of the Imperial as a scalding jet of steam suddenly erupted from the broken pipe, filling the room with a hot, dense white fog within seconds. Fahjoth didn’t stop to check on the state of the man as he heard the axe fall clattering to the floor — his only goal was to escape. Squinting through the mist, he dashed around the scattered shelves and crates and hurtled towards the door, but as he neared it, something caught his eye.

A small bronze cube sat innocuously on a row of shelves to his right, and Fahjoth’s heart skipped a beat. Without pausing to examine it, he grasped the little box tightly in his hand and threw his whole body weight against the door to shove it open.

What he hadn’t been expecting was the door to smack the Redguard from earlier in the face, knocking him back against the wall with a yell and leaving him in a dazed slump, blood already pouring from his now crooked nose. Which meant that—

Sure enough, the first Imperial stood slack-jawed at the top of the slope, flabbergasted by the sudden appearance of a strange Dunmer. It didn’t take long for him to recover, however, and Fahjoth’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the man reaching down to his waist where a dagger hung in its sheath. Fahjoth didn’t hesitate; driven by sheer desperation, he charged straight ahead like a wild guar, bashing his shoulder hard against the Imperial’s as he legged it haphazardly down the rocky slope. There was a yell and a dull thud from behind him as the Imperial, pushed clean off the edge of the slope by the force of Fahjoth’s bash, collided with the ground, and Fahjoth could hear only too clearly the enraged shouts of a number of men from behind him as they began to give chase. He didn’t look back.

With his gaze fixed ahead of him and mouth dry, the beating of his heart as well as own footsteps ringing in his ears, his face feeling hot and his lungs cramping as a result of the sweltering atmosphere in the subterranean ruins, Fahjoth put his every ounce of strength into fleeing. With the head start he had secured he was able to bolt up the opposite slope, clambering up into the entrance tunnels and sprinting the length of the dimly lit corridors to the exit. At last, he turned a corner and Arkngthand’s entrance, his passage to the safe haven that was the outside world, suddenly popped into view. He stopped only to twist the copper wheel powering the entrance mechanism, his hands slippery with sweat yet whizzing around faster than they had ever moved in his life until, with a telltale groan, the spherical door ground open and daylight flooded the gloom.

The voices behind him were getting louder, their vicious insults and threats echoing through the tunnels, and though Fahjoth’s muscles were screaming for respite, he didn’t halt. He took off, rushing out into the fresh air, where a cool breeze caressed his clammy skin as his hands worked to spin the outside wheel powering the door machinery. Glancing up, he saw two figures come loping through the darkness of Arkngthand’s tunnels — before the door rasped shut once more, obscuring them from sight completely.

As dearly as he wished to collapse into an inert heap on the dusty ground, Fahjoth knew he couldn’t relax yet. It would be seconds before the men — looters? bandits? smugglers? — reopened the door and resumed their pursuit of him. So it was with trembling legs that he trotted down the hill back towards the bridge, breathing a sigh of relief as no sound to indicate that he was still being chased reached his ears.

Finally, he began to feel as if he could slow down. Now, with the adrenalin beginning to subside, he was left acutely aware of the stitch tearing up his midsection and each step felt almost torturous. The fog of panic was beginning to dissipate from his head, leaving him able to think clearly at last.

He glanced down at the cube in his hand, cold and surprisingly heavy now that he really focused on it. He examined the inscriptions donning the sides, feeling a stab of anxiety— what if, after all that trouble, he had picked up the wrong cube? But the more he scrutinised it, he realised it was more or less a perfect match for Antabolis’ description. And then came the overwhelming euphoria.

He’d done it!

A grin spread across Fahjoth’s features as he gazed at the cube, so wide it almost hurt his cheeks. His first mission had been a rousing success — alright, it had been far from perfect, but besides a few scuff marks on the chitin of his armour, it was near impossible to tell that he’d even faced a struggle at all. And surely his superiors didn’t need to know about his unfortunate encounter. Why, he hadn’t even used his sword—

Suddenly, Fahjoth threw up a hand and slapped his forehead, eyes squeezed tightly shut in annoyance and embarrassment. Blinded by fear, he’d completely forgotten about the perfectly good weapon that hung in a sheath from his belt. But the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he and his shortsword may not have been much of a match for the brute of a man wielding a battleaxe anyway. At least, not yet. That was something to focus on in training.

An echoing clang roused him from his thoughts and announced that he’d set foot on the bridge, but as Fahjoth looked up, he was surprised to see a man standing ahead. He’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’d completely failed to realise that he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alarmed to see the grey-haired Imperial, but he did wonder what the older gentleman was doing out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Ah, don’t mind me!” Fahjoth called to announce his presence, holding up a hand to signify that he was not hostile as he began to stride across the bridge. “Just, uh, heading home—”

His words abruptly died in his throat, however, as a pulsating ball of blinding light suddenly erupted from the man’s outstretched hand, hitting Fahjoth square in the chest and flinging him to the ground like a ragdoll. He yowled in pain as the electricity coursed through his body briefly before dissipating, leaving him gasping for breath and struggling to regain full control of his limbs. The Dwemer box had been thrown from his hand as he fell; it lay around two metres away, between himself and the battlemage, whose hand pulsed with a sinister indigo aura as a walking skeleton clutching a war-axe suddenly materialised into thin air beside him.

“What are you doing—?!” Fahjoth yelled, wheezing after the collision with the hard metal base of the bridge knocked the air out of his lungs. “I’m not— I don’t want to fight you—!”

But the Imperial didn’t seem to be paying any heed. He summoned another spell, a blistering ball of flame that he launched at Fahjoth, who managed to avoid it by a whisker by frantically rolling to one side, although he still felt a scorching wave of heat as the fireball exploded on the spot where he had been lying a mere second prior. Scrambling to his feet, panic building once more, Fahjoth was faced with the man preparing another spell and the skeleton, an actual intact human skeleton, loping towards him, brandishing its rusted blade and its bones creaking as they scraped against each other with every movement. For a split second, Fahjoth’s hand twitched towards his sword — but another convulsing ball of sparks coming his way dissuaded him from that idea completely. This was certainly not a battle he had any chance of winning.

He lunged for the ground just as the skeleton swung its axe for his head, and Fahjoth felt the blade skimming the top of his hair as he narrowly missed being struck by it. With fumbling fingers he grasped the cube and heaved himself back to his feet, dancing backwards to avoid the spells still being flung in his direction and to put as much distance as possible between himself and the skeleton. Except, now, he had another issue; his opponents were in the middle of the bridge, obstructing the way ahead and preventing his escape. Thinking fast, there was only one thing for it; Fahjoth clambered over the metal railing at the side of the bridge, desperate for an alternative escape route. He was close enough to the start of the bridge, it probably wouldn’t be too far a fall—

But the moment he put both feet on the railing, he felt himself losing his balance on the rounded surface. He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of the side of the crevasse below, the walls of which were much steeper than he had anticipated, before he lost his balance completely and felt himself plummeting down, his stomach lurching up sharply as he descended. With a strangled yelp he hit the rocky sides of the cleft and tumbled down the rest of the way to the base, almost choked by the dense cloud of dust he had disturbed on impact with the soil. Once again adrenalin overtook him, lending him the strength he needed to drag himself to his feet and stagger the width of the crevasse and over to the other side, his grazed fingers still firmly clutching the precious cube. He felt more than heard the crackling of spells as they went whistling past his head, and a scuffing against the ground behind him indicated that the skeleton had followed his path down into the chasm. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself into beginning the arduous climb back to the top of the crevasse, scrambling up the rock face and skidding on loose dirt before finally emerging at the top. From the corner of his eye he could see the battlemage running the length of the bridge, trailing Fahjoth like a hungry wolf while still firing hostile spells at him as he gave chase.

With one last burst of energy Fahjoth broke into another furious dash, bolting down the hill and sprinting along the path he now found himself on. He didn’t stop to look back, to check if he was being followed. His only objective was to return to Balmora as fast as possible. His lungs screamed with every frantic gasp of air he drew in, his heart hammering against his ribcage and reverberating dully between his ears. It was only once he passed under the arch at the town entrance and fled into the sanctuary of Balmora did he finally stop, and, in a haze of pain, exhaustion and sickening dizziness, he promptly fell to his knees.

As he kneeled there on the dusty ground, struggling to get his erratic breathing back under control, it was a few moments before Fahjoth could even begin to process his thoughts again. The first thing he noted was that he was safe now; he was back in civilisation at last. Numerous guards patrolled the streets, their helmed faces occasionally turning to look at the outlander collapsed into the dirt — probably with disdain but that was the least of Fahjoth's worries right now. With his chest feeling as though it was on fire, burning up from the inside with every inhalation, he closed his eyes and let the pleasant warmth of the late afternoon sun wash over him, easing the tension in his aching muscles. Finally, his breathing began to slow, allowing for more thoughts to surface in his troubled mind.

The truth had hit Fahjoth like a warhammer to the face. Today had been nothing short of a disaster. It was almost laughable to reminisce on how excited and confident he had been when he initially departed from Balmora. He struggled to believe that mere hours ago, he thought he was prepared for anything. What a ridiculous notion that was. How could he have been so naive? If that was only the first assignment Cosades had given him, he believed wholeheartedly that he needed the blessing of the gods to survive what else might lay in store.

His eyes fell down to the little cube he still clutched in his bloodied hand, the sight inspiring bitterness in his sore chest. First things first, he needed to return it to Antabolis; truthfully, he would be glad to see the back of it. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of how disastrous his little mission had gone. With embarrassment and misery now settling in his gut and pain racking him with every movement, Fahjoth dragged himself to his feet and finally limped his way back to the Fighters Guild for a less-than-triumphant return.

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #caius cosades #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfiction #tes iii: morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Prologue - pt 4

content warnings strong language, blood, violence, death, all that fun stuff

next coming Friday!

i suppose i should add now that this is substantial enough - if anyone wants to be added to a taglist for this and future chapters/works, lmk?

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

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After a restless night’s sleep for many, daybreak arrived much too quickly, and with it came a biting chill that felt out of place for the average Midyear morning. A thick fog lay upon the Waterfront, ensuring the mood was one of apprehension for the approaching showdown. For the number of people eager to see it done — whether to ensure their safety or motivated by self-interest, or the simple desire for aggression in their frustrating world — there were just as many who were fearful for whatever the eventual outcome would be. Fahjoth was among the latter, and he spent much of the dawn hours pacing around the Waterfront, observing the actions of his friends and fellows.

Not like Ribyna, who had been up as the first vestige of sunrise shone through the thick grey clouds and had immediately begun preparing with Merrick, insisting that he helped her practise what little magic she was capable of. Fahjoth was envious — he was unable to focus that much even if he tried.

After what felt like too much and too little time simultaneously, the sixth hour arrived, and after Cassius had taken the initiative in gathering as many people as he could find to attend the meeting, Fahjoth winced at how few they were. Their numbers boasted no more than fifteen individuals; evidently the others had made themselves scarce so as to avoid the conflict. Fahjoth couldn’t blame them.

“Right, now remember,” Cassius had warned them all. “We aren’t looking for a fight. But we’re also not gonna be pushed around. This is our home and it’s hard enough to live without those wankers fucking things up for us. Remember what’s at stake.”

And then they were gathered by the docks, barely able to see more than five metres in any given direction due to the persistent mist. Fahjoth stuck close by Ribyna and Merrick at all times, feeling a kind of sober responsibility to keep an eye on them both as they stood hand-in-hand on the edge of the crowd . Ribyna, in an attempt to ward off the cold, tightened the fabric slung around her neck and shoulders, tugging it up over her nose to cover the lower half of her face. The early hour meant that guard patrols had not yet begun, and the gathering were left alone.

Standing, shivering.

Waiting.

If anyone — like Fahjoth — had been hoping that the cult would be a no-show, they were left severely disappointed by the arrival of a crowd of people suddenly materialising through the fog as they approached. Fahjoth felt his heart sink and his stomach tie itself up in knots, but there was still hope. As long as nobody acted rashly, there was still a chance this could all be smoothed over...

“We heard you wanted a word with us,” someone called as they stepped forward to stand at the head of the cult, the majority of whom were swathed in richly coloured robes and cloaks and, in some cases, wore masks to conceal their faces. Following the cultist’s statement, there was a ripple of discontent among the gathered crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Fahjoth saw Ribyna take a tense swig from the bottle of whisky she’d brought with her.

Cassius took his cue and spoke up in a cool tone that carried a distinctly hard edge. “We’ll only give you one warning,” he said. “Piss off. Nobody wants you in this city.”

“And why should we listen to you?” the cultist replied smoothly. “It’s a free country, wouldn’t you say? We aren’t doing you good fellows any harm.”

“Of course you are!” Cassius snapped back, the frustration beginning to creep into his voice. “With the whole city on alert, you’re fucking up all our livelihoods!”

“Livelihoods? Is that what they’re calling thievery and pilfering nowadays?” This comment incited a laugh from the cult, and Fahjoth could feel the indignation radiating from many of his comrades. “Yes, sorry, as... moving as your dilemma is, we aren’t going anywhere.”

Cassius’ jaw clenched. “Then maybe this will change your minds.” In one fluid movement he snatched out a dagger, triggering a wave of movement from the attending Waterfront residents as several of them did the same. Fahjoth, however, hesitated. Things suddenly seemed to be going downhill, and fast.

For a moment, the cult did nothing. Then, to Fahjoth’s horror, several of them revealed their own weapons - ranging from blades of their own to majestic wooden staves. The tension shot up countless notches, but still, nobody dared strike.

The standoff continued. It seemed that neither side was particularly willing to make the first move. Fahjoth reminded himself that the longer they went without any physical aggression, the better; the guard patrols would soon begin, and then nobody would dare attack another in their presence. He willed the morning hours to progress, desperately pleaded with time to hurry up and offer them some form of respite.

However, they weren’t to be so fortunate.

The pressure finally boiled over and, sick of the vague threat posed by their opponents, one of the crowd finally moved. Fahjoth’s heart shuddered as he registered that it was Ribyna.

“Why don’t you cunts just fuck off?!” she snarled, brandishing her bottle of whisky at the cultists. Without waiting for a response she reached into a pocket, but instead of a weapon she pulled out a rag instead. By the time Fahjoth realised what she was about to do, it was much too late to stop her.

“Ribyna, no-!”

But his twin had already stuffed the rag into the neck of the bottle. Already shaken it to soak the fabric through with the alcohol still inside. Already ignited the end of the rag with a bright orange flare produced from the centre of her palm.

Already thrown the incendiary at the opposition.

Time seemed to stand still as the flaming bottle spun through the air, hurtling relentlessly towards the cultists, many of whom weren’t quick enough to realise what was happening before the Ribyna’s makeshift firebomb reached them.

On contact with the ground, the bottle exploded in an eruption of blistering orange fire. Shards of red hot glass and blazing droplets of alcohol radiated out from the blast, burning the skin and clothes of anyone who wasn’t swift enough to clear the area. Outraged yells and shrieks of pain filled the still morning air, and it was then that the quiet docks broke out into complete chaos as the cultists — those who were uninjured enough to do so, or who weren’t helping to heal the wounded and extinguish the flames — immediately launched their retaliation.

With no other option left, the group responded in kind, and Fahjoth could only watch as the confrontation finally descended into violence. The sound of clashing blades now came from all sides, as well as the unearthly rush of magic as spells and staves were cast, the majority of which originated from the cultists. It was impossible to know where to focus; everywhere he looked, friends and loved ones were embroiled in physical combat with their adversaries and it didn’t take long for blood to begin to be spilt.

Glancing around, Fahjoth tried to focus but the sheer chaos of the brawl was throwing him into a mindless panic. Focus! he tried telling himself, frustrated with his own inability to concentrate in the midst of the furore. He had to do something. Then, something caught his eye through the frenzy. A Dunmer, coming to blows against a cloaked cultist, frantically blocking their sword with her own dagger and dancing around to avoid the gleaming silver blade. But, in one swift strike, Ribyna’s opponent got the better of her. They brought the sword sharply down onto Ribyna, who had no choice but to throw an arm up to protect herself. She gasped as, even with a mere glancing blow, the weapon gouged a deep incision in her forearm and in her haste to throw herself back out of harm’s way, she tripped and fell, landing with a harsh thud onto the unforgiving stonework.

Instantly, Fahjoth felt his blood boil. As the cultist advanced on Ribyna, sword held up and ready to strike again, Fahjoth’s feet were carrying him as fast as he could go towards them, propelled forward with the power of pure fury and the will to protect his twin. Weaving his way through the fray, barrelling carelessly past friend and foe alike, a chilling realisation gripped his heart. He wasn’t going to make it there in time.

With seconds to spare, Fahjoth saw Ribyna cover her head with her arms — one of them badly bleeding — and curl up in a vague attempt to shield herself from the cultist’s attack. But then from seemingly out of nowhere, the cultist’s face was blitzed with a cloud of ice, causing them to recoil and stagger back. As Fahjoth drew near, he realised it was Merrick, blasting the cultist with a frost spell and warding them off. Making a mental note to thank Merrick for that later, Fahjoth finally reached them, raising his fist and slamming it into the cultist’s frost-coated face before he even had time to think.

The cultist was knocked to the ground, dazed and blinded by snow, but Fahjoth was livid. He dropped over the cultist and again and again his fists collided with their face, with Fahjoth ignoring his knuckles becoming bloodier and bloodier with every hit.

Gradually the mental fog of aggression slowly cleared, and as he stopped to catch his breath, Fahjoth heard someone calling his name. Looking over his shoulder, his chest heaving with ragged pants, he faced Merrick and Ribyna, the two of them watching him with blank looks on their faces while Merrick was healing Ribyna’s arm injury. It was only then that Fahjoth realised the mess he had made. His fists were coated with a thick, sticky spattering of blood, but he had no time to dwell on it.

Even over the ruckus, a deafening, unnatural crack suddenly rang out over the docks, and Fahjoth instantly snapped his head up to look for the cause. A single masked cultist, their dark, flame-singed robes billowing about them even in the absence of any wind, was brandishing a tall staff. Fahjoth was by no means an expert, but he’d never seen anything like it before; the body was kinked and dotted with curved thorns, while an elegant rose head sat at the top, stark and red against the rest of the staff which was dull in comparison. The strange crack seemed to have been as a result of the staff’s magic — a rippling sphere of indigo light hovered above the rose, and a swirling blue and black vortex suddenly ripped apart the very air in the middle of the docks, right in the midst of the brawl. And from that vortex, a towering figure stepped out, raising the largest, darkest greatsword Fahjoth had ever seen.

As the surge of colour faded, and the figure’s features became more apparent, Fahjoth was distracted for long enough that he failed to notice the cultist beneath him — their nose crooked and still streaming blood — struggle and reach up, before then slamming their elbow into Fahjoth’s face. His vision exploded into white stars as a blinding pain radiated from his right cheekbone and he yelled out and rolled back, barely noticing the cultist staggering up and making a hasty escape. Once Fahjoth’s eyesight had returned, albeit still somewhat blurry, he focused again on whoever or whatever the staff had summoned — and his jaw almost hit the ground.

Fahjoth was staring at a creature he’d only ever heard described in Vykstrus’ horror stories. Vaguely humanoid in shape, yet sporting curved horns upon its brow and beady black eyes that glinted maliciously. Its black and red skin was the same colour as its armour, which was as jagged and spiny as a dreugh’s cartilage. And when the creature opened its mouth, it spoke in a guttural, echoing rasp that chilled Fahjoth to the bone.

“I smell weakness...”

Using the distraction to their advantage, many cultists began to retreat, choosing to watch from a distance while the Waterfront group flew into hysteria at the sight of the Dremora. While a few turned and ran, the others remained to fight, all attention now on the most critical threat.

But not a single one of them, without armour and carrying only tiny daggers, was a match for the Daedra in their midst.

Vykstrus was the first to get too close. Though he approached the Dremora with caution, attacking it with a basic Firebolt spell, the Daedra appeared to be entirely unaffected. Then, in one swift motion, it swung its greatsword down in a devastating blow. Fahjoth wasn’t fast enough to avert his eyes as the blade cut through Vykstrus’ shoulder like butter, gouging a deep gash through his torso amid a fine shower of glistening red droplets.

Vykstrus crumpled into a broken, bloodied heap and the outcry was instantaneous. In an attempt to get revenge, some of their friends charged at the Dremora with furious shrieks; one by one they were all cut down, the Dremora utterly remorseless in its brutality. Aerlewen, Taneen-Mil, Nari... among the bodies slumped and bleeding on the stonework, it was impossible to tell who was still alive and who had been granted the mercy of a quick death.

Then, another voice rang out, loud and clear even over the pandemonium of the Dremora attack.

“Fall back!” Cassius yelled, the usually unflappable Imperial looking completely petrified.

It may have been too late for those who had already succumbed to the Dremora‘s wrath, but anyone who was still able to had very little hesitation about fleeing. The flagstones of the Waterfront docks were stained a grisly red, the occasional bloody boot print now visible spread across the ground as everyone began to withdraw. In a bid to buy some time, Abik snuck up behind the Daedric monstrosity and threw a linen sheet, snatched from one of the many wooden crates stacked against the dock walls, over the Dremora’s head, temporarily blinding it before darting away.

“Come on!” Abik shouted to the group at large, hesitating as he noticed some individuals still remaining. Fahjoth’s blood ran cold as he realised who was still lingering.

Merrick was dashing over to the piles of bodies around the Dremora — still entangled up in linen in a way that was almost comical had the situation not been so dire — with Ribyna hot on his heels. Fahjoth felt sick with fear. There was no way he would be able to restrain both of them, but he could at least secure one of them. Fahjoth lunged as they drew near, grabbing his twin firmly around the chest and beginning to drag her back out of harm’s way.

“Ribyna, don’t-!”

“Get off, Fahjoth-! Merrick!”

The next events almost seemed to play out in slow motion. While Ribyna struggled, Fahjoth succeeded in hauling her back a safe distance, but he still wasn’t able to let her go for fear that she would rejoin Merrick. As Merrick knelt down beside Nari, Fahjoth noticed that she was in fact still alive, despite the deep, open tear running the entire length of her abdomen and soaking her clothes with a dark scarlet stain. It was mere seconds before Merrick was also covered in blood as he began to attempt to heal Nari’s wounds with trembling hands, more than aware of the Dremora staggering about less than five feet away from them.

“Merrick, get back!”

Ribyna, held firm in Fahjoth’s grip, was yelling for Merrick but he paid no heed. Fahjoth saw his already pale face totally drain of colour as, at last, the Dremora tore through the linen and tossed it aside, soulless eyes now fixed on its next victim.

The Dremora raised its blade once more, offering no mercy. Merrick, his hands still glowing with restoration magic, had no time to escape before the blade — already slick with blood — fell upon him and struck his head, cleaving through his skull with one clean blow.

As the blood spattered on the flagstones anew and Merrick’s lifeless body toppled to the ground, Fahjoth was frozen. An icy numbness flooded his chest, rendering him almost deaf to Ribyna’s screams. Someone else was yelling, their cries of anguish seeming to reverberate in Fahjoth’s head. It took a few seconds before he realised it was him.

Then, terror struck him mute as his streaming eyes met the Dremora’s own, the Daedra beginning to make its way over to where he and Ribyna stood. Its sword trailed red droplets as it walked, an expression of pure malice on its sneering, inhuman face. Just as its pace began to quicken, however, the Dremora was staggered as Abik lunged at it, bellowing himself hoarse with tears cascading down his cheeks as he plunged his dagger into the side of the creature’s neck. The Dremora turned to retaliate, but its time was up. Quite without warning, it suddenly disintegrated and crumbled into dust, leaving nothing behind but a pile of gently smoking silvery blue ash; along with the blood-soaked flagstones and the mangled remains of its casualties, standing to serve as a grim reminder that it had even been there at all.

Abruptly, silence fell over the docks, the only sound being that of the waves gently lapping against the stone walls. A chilly wind slipped past, brushing over Fahjoth’s wet cheeks as he struggled to process what had just happened, his breathing rapid and shallow. He had almost forgotten that he was still restraining his twin, and it was only too easy for Ribyna to break away from his clutch, taking him quite by surprise. He blinked as she ran, and his stomach dropped as he realised where she was heading — towards the cultist bearing the rose-like staff.

“You bastard!!”

“Ribyna, stop-!” Fahjoth called, immediately giving chase. He just about caught a glimpse of his sibling’s tear-soaked face before she lunged at the staff-wielder, who seemed almost frozen at the sight that lay before them, their head fixed in the direction of the carnage left behind by their summoned Daedra. As Ribyna tackled them they dropped the staff, falling back onto the stonework with a strangled yelp. Ribyna then whipped out her dagger without hesitation and began trying to plunge it into the cultist’s throat, while they held her wrist in both hands and tried desperately to keep the blade at bay. As Fahjoth sprinted over, dread overtook him as he heard the familiar sounds of clanking steel armour and furious voices.

The guards had arrived.

With the oncoming force of the Imperial City guard heading their way, the remaining cultists took that as their cue to scatter, receding into the fog as swiftly and silently as ghosts. A few guards gave chase, but a small group descended upon Ribyna and her adversary, the former completely oblivious as she continued to attempt to stab the cultist struggling beneath her. Fahjoth gaped in shock; trying to haul Ribyna away from the cultist was none other than Captain Rusant, snarling threats and instructions to cease and desist while Ribyna flatly ignored him. The ramifications of this would be damning, Fahjoth was painfully aware of that, but Ribyna showed no sign of stopping.

She was unyielding; at first, it was as if she wasn’t even aware of the guards now dragging her away from her would-be victim. But as they were both pulled to their feet she began to flail and shriek like a frenzied ghoul. The dagger blade glinted in the muted morning light as it was swung wildly with careless abandon, Ribyna’s only drive being to free herself and finish what she had started with the cultist, who stood by with a guard firmly gripping their arm. But they weren’t facing Ribyna — their gaze was back on the gruesome scene left behind by the Dremora, completely motionless and silent.

With Ribyna making such a tremendous fuss, it seemed that nobody paid any attention to Fahjoth yet. Perhaps he could do something useful. He figured that maybe he could help calm his twin down, try to smooth things over with the guards. But the moment he put one foot in front of the other, he felt his heart skip a beat as the scene before him suddenly escalated into even greater turmoil.

He almost missed it. In one moment, Ribyna was struggling and thrashing about in an uncontained rage. In the next, her dagger had been embedded into the throat of the guard captain before being withdrawn, leaving a deep puncture wound in his neck that immediately began to spill blood.

The Captain choked and relinquished his hold and Ribyna slowly turned to look, her face blank and eyes wide. Occasionally she glanced down at her hand, now blemished and damp with the same deep red stain that painted the stonework of the docks. As the rest of the guards immediately rushed to attend to Rusant, Fahjoth noticed the cultist taking their opportunity to bolt and make a bid for freedom. Fahjoth wasn’t interested in giving chase; instead he dashed to Ribyna’s side, grabbing his twin by the shoulders and desperately pleading with her. To flee the scene of the crime was their only option.

“Ribyna, we have to go, now!”

But Ribyna was frozen. She didn’t even look up at her brother, her gaze transfixed on the bloodstained dagger that she still tightly grasped the handle of as if her own life depended on it.

“Ribyna, come on!”

The Captain’s blood began to spread across the flagstones, slipping down the cracks in between and creating deep red rivers that ran parallel to the grey. Rusant choked and spluttered, more blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth as he struggled to draw breath. Fahjoth tore his eyes away and gave Ribyna a violent shake.

“Ribyna-!”

“Stop right there, you murdering bastard!”

Fahjoth’s head snapped up. With his fear levels peaked, he realised that he and Ribyna were now surrounded on all sides. Two guards still remained by the Captain’s side, but Rusant seemed to be beyond help. His skin was now deathly pale, and blood drenched both his skin and armour as well as the ground around him. He struggled to draw in wheezing, gurgling breaths; it appeared they were soon to be his last.

The guards were advancing on them, swords raised with their tips pointed threateningly at the twins. Fahjoth could barely think, but something had to be done. Noticing that Ribyna was still clutching her bloodstained dagger, he smacked it out of her hand in one hard strike. Ribyna didn’t resist. She barely even responded, still staring without really seeing at the spot where the dagger had once been as it went clattering to the ground.

“Alright, alright! We surrender!” Fahjoth cried, holding up his arms to yield. He grabbed one of Ribyna’s hands, raising it up to join his own in the air while she remained unresponsive. “We surrender!”

He glanced down again, noting that the Captain had taken his last few shuddering gasps and now lay lifeless upon the cold stone, atop a mosaic of his own blood. Looking up, Fahjoth’s eyes darted around frantically as he desperately searched the docks for any sign of anything that could help - Abik, Cassius, anyone.

But they were completely alone.

Fahjoth’s shoulders sagged with the crushing realisation, and he stood still to allow the guards to wrangle him into manacles. His eyes welled with tears as he watched them do the same to Ribyna, knowing full well what lay in store for them both.

Both twins were silent as they were escorted away from the docks by the guard patrol. Fahjoth wondered if Ribyna was even aware of what was happening as they were marched through the city and across the bridge, towards where the shadow of the Imperial Prison loomed over them. It had once stood an ever-present threat on the distant horizon, a mere reminder of what would await them should they be careless enough to get caught, but now they found themselves being forced through its heavy wooden doors and into the gloom that lay over its threshold.

And it was with a bitter hopelessness that Fahjoth found himself wondering if they would ever make it out again.

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfiction #tes iii: morrowind

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lake-arrius-caverns · 3 years

Text

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 3: Balmora

summary Fahjoth finds himself back in a place he once called home. He has somewhere to be, but first, a chance encounter makes his day.

content warnings none explicit for this chapter

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

—————————————————————————————

The road northwest to Balmora turned out to be quite a long one. Fahjoth was on edge for much of the journey; he had departed Seyda Neen with nothing but the prison rags on his back and the delivery he was to take to Caius Cosades. He was unarmed, unarmoured and weak with hunger and exhaustion. By some grace of the gods, however, he encountered no real danger on the way. The worst thing to cross his path was a bloated maggot-like creature that hopped after him with a surprisingly sprightly gait and attempted to fasten its gaping, circular mandibles around his ankle. A few good hard kicks and stomps were fortunately enough to deal with the disgusting creature, and Fahjoth continued on his way.

By the time he neared Balmora the rain had finally stopped, but a thick mist, stained a fiery amber with the setting of the sun, lay over the town and surrounding wilderness. The first thing Fahjoth noticed was the towering legs of the town’s silt strider, occasionally emitting its melancholy howl that caused the hairs on Fahjoth’s arm to stand on end.

Filled with awe, he passed under the archway at the town’s entrance, and his eyes were wide as he strained to catch every detail that Balmora offered. It was just as he remembered it. Shops and houses lined the streets, with the town’s residents going about their business and the golden-helmed guards pacing to and fro, brandishing flaming torches that cast an aura of orange light as the sky continued to grow darker. He made his way through the town, his feet almost carrying him automatically along a route that had been committed to memory long ago until he found himself facing the Odai River that cut through the centre of Balmora. Now, which way was the South Wall Cornerclub?

As he began wandering onwards, the sound of rapid footfalls reached his ears, growing louder and louder in a matter of seconds. And before Fahjoth could even think about reacting, a figure suddenly burst out of the alleyway to his left, taking a sharp turn and running straight into him. His shoulder exploded with pain as the figure collided with him, hard, knocking him clean off his feet and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

With his nerves already frayed and tiredness hitting him hard, Fahjoth was quick to berate the clumsy bastard. “Watch where you’re going, mate! Nearly fucking took me out!”

“Yeah, well you—!” The Dunmer’s retort died midway through being uttered, as Fahjoth suddenly grabbed them by the shoulders and turned them to see their face. The moment he had heard that voice, his heart began to race. But he had to know for sure.

Sure enough, his jaw nearly hit the ground as he locked eyes with his twin.

“Ribyna?!” he gasped, barely able to believe what he was seeing. She donned a loose cloak over her head and the lower half of her face was concealed by a scarf, but she was unmistakable.

“Fahjoth?!” Ribyna seemed just as shocked as Fahjoth did, but as Fahjoth pulled her into a hug, she was strangely reluctant to participate and instead endeavoured to free herself. Fahjoth was having none of it, however.

“You’re alive!” he cried, his eyes already welling up with tears of relief and joy. “Gods, I thought you were dead! What happened? What are you even doing he—“

Soon he could no longer ignore Ribyna’s struggling, which was at first rather hurtful — but then his eyes fell on something glittering on the ground a short distance away that Ribyna was desperate to reach.

“Is that a diamond—?!”

“Shut up!” Ribyna finally managed to escape and hastily scooped up the sparkling gems that she had dropped, spending a moment to dust both herself and the diamonds off. It was then that a cry was heard ringing over the otherwise quiet town:

“Thief!! I’ve been burgled! Guards!”

“Shit.” Ribyna extended an arm towards Fahjoth to help him to his feet, an offer which he accepted, albeit with bemusement. “Okay, play along, alright?” she requested, pulling her scarf down so that it hung casually around her neck. Fahjoth opened his mouth to question her, but Ribyna interrupted him, speaking loudly while throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Ah, so where was it you wanted to go? The South Wall Cornerclub, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, actually,” Fahjoth started, but Ribyna didn’t seem to be paying attention. She had already set off, dragging Fahjoth along with her and steering him over the bridge, going at a deliberately relaxed pace so as not to attract the attention of the patrolling guards.

“Yeah, I can show you where that is. Come on, it’s just over here.”

The twins walked in silence for the remainder of the short trip, and only once they reached the cornerclub and slipped inside did Ribyna finally let go of Fahjoth. “Oh, thank the gods for that. I was hoping to be back here before she noticed — you proper fucked that up for me, Fahji boy!”

“Ribyna, what the fuck’s going on?” Fahjoth started in bewilderment. Ribyna dropped her hood, staring up at Fahjoth with a small grin.

“I can explain. But first of all, I think I owe you a hug, don't I?”

“Damn right you do!” Fahjoth agreed, grabbing his sibling and pulling her into another tight embrace, one which she didn’t pull away from this time. For the first time in many weeks, Fahjoth felt at peace. To discover that his sibling was still alive, and to be reunited at last as free people filled him with complete and utter joy.

After a few moments they pulled away, and Ribyna gestured for him to accompany her as she made her way through the halls and down the stairs of the cornerclub. Fahjoth followed suit, and she led him down to a dimly lit room which he surveyed with interest; several tables and chairs were spread throughout and an older man stood at the bar, wiping down the surface with a cloth. The cornerclub’s patrons sat or stood with their drinks, all of them eyeing Fahjoth as he entered the room with either suspicion or curiosity or a combination of the two.

Ribyna sat down at a nearby table and Fahjoth followed suit, already opening his mouth and chattering away. “I honest to the gods thought you were dead, Beebs. How did you end up here, of all places? And...” He dropped his voice to utter the next question. “Did you really steal those diamonds?”

Ribyna shrugged. “I’m working.”

”Working? What kind of job has you running around robbing people?”

“Don’t go mad, alright? But I joined the Thieves Guild.”

“You what—?” Fahjoth leaned across the table, his voice a low hiss. “Haven’t you had enough crime for one lifetime?”

“Well, I had to make some coin somehow!” Ribyna dismissed Fahjoth’s protests with a wave of her hand. “Anyway! You wanted to know how I got here? Well, when they took me from my cell, I thought that was it, y’know? I thought I was gonna die. Then they put me on a carriage, and then a boat, and then I ended up here. Well, in Seyda Neen.”

Ribyna’s story was sounding ominously familiar. “And then what?” Fahjoth prompted her.

“Well, then they told me I had to be recorded at the office. They asked for my details, and get this... they asked if I was you.”

Fahjoth blinked, baffled. “You what?”

“Yeah, I know right? I know we’re twins but we don’t look that similar, for fuck’s sake. Anyway, they said I was the wrong prisoner — which was just fucking lovely — and they were gonna send me back to Cyrodiil. Well, I wasn’t having that, so I legged it. Makes sense that they finally hauled you over here as well.”

Fahjoth was silent for a few seconds as he mulled over Ribyna’s tale. “That’s mad,” he said eventually. “So it was just a big mixup?”

“Yup. So I suppose, in a way, I owe you my life!” Ribyna flashed him a grin from across the table. “Maybe one day I’ll pay you back for that.”

“Well, you can start by buying me a drink,” Fahjoth groaned. “I’m knackered.”

“Yeah, you look it,” Ribyna agreed grimly. “You got anywhere to stay?”

“Not yet,” Fahjoth admitted. “But I’ve got to find someone. Bloke called Caius Cosades. I need to give some stuff to him.”

Ribyna raised a brow. “So that’s what this whole thing is about? They pulled you out of prison just so that you can be an errand boy?”

“Maybe. Nobody’s told me fuck all,” Fahjoth huffed. Now that he was feeling relatively comfortable, he was ready to vent his frustrations. “I’ve just been told what to do and sent on my way. I’m so confused! And apparently, these orders have come from the Emperor himself. He’s the one who dumped me here — well, the both of us, technically.”

“Bastard. Well, I s’pose we shouldn’t complain too much,” Ribyna reasoned. “If he hadn’t, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“That’s true. I’m just...” Fahjoth waved a hand in exasperation. “I just wish someone would explain to me why I’ve been sent here. Surely anyone could be Caius Cosade’s delivery boy.”

“Aww, don’t put yourself down, Fahji, I’ll bet you’re a great little delivery boy,” Ribyna teased with a wicked grin. “Who is this Caius fella, anyway? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Well, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. D’you know who might know where to find him?”

“Have you tried Bacolus?”

“I— you know I haven’t, I’ve only just got here.”

Ribyna pouted in thought. “Huh... oh yeah. Well, maybe try asking him — he’s the owner, he should know. Bacolus Closcius. He knows everything else that goes on around here. He’s probably upstairs.”

“Alright. Cheers, Beebs. I’ll do that.” Fahjoth dragged himself to his feet as Ribyna did the same. He didn’t hesitate to pull her into another hug, which she gladly returned in kind. “Gods, it’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, bro.” Ribyna pulled back, giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder. “I’ll be here if you need me, alright? And I’ll get you that drink, too. You’ll have to fill me in about this Caius bloke!”

“I will!” Fahjoth promised, constantly looking over his shoulder and waving at Ribyna as he departed. He was reluctant to leave her again so soon, but the knowledge that she was there and very much alive reassured him immensely. Besides, it was already late — he should at least try to find Caius Cosades before nightfall. “See you!”

“See you later.”

———————————————

As Fahjoth left the cornerclub there was still a thin veil of mist hovering over Balmora, but the sky was almost completely dark now, and the light breeze that slipped between buildings brought with it a slightly bitter chill. The directions given to him by Bacolus Closcius were relatively straightforward to follow, and for that Fahjoth was relieved. All the walking he’d already done today — as well as the violent collision with Ribyna that had knocked him off his feet — had left him aching and desperate to finally find somewhere to settle for the night.

But as he reached what he assumed to be Caius Cosade’s abode, he suddenly stopped, feeling as though he had been punched in the gut. He recognised that tiny house, sitting so nonchalantly at the end of the street. How could he not? Though it had been well over a decade since he last clapped eyes on it, it was unmistakably the same house that he and Ribyna had grown up in. Fahjoth was motionless as he was suddenly bombarded by an onslaught of resurfacing memories.

“Dad, can we go down to the river again today?”

“Hmm... ah, why not. Let me finish brushing your sister’s hair first, then I’ll have to do yours.”

“Nooo!”

“Fahjoth, we have to, it looks like something a guar coughed up. Right, come here!”

“No! You can’t catch me!”

“Haha! Maybe not, but I know someone who can. Get him, Ribyna!”

After taking a moment to recover himself, Fahjoth raised a hand and rapped his knuckles against the dense wooden door. For a few moments there was no response, and in the silence that followed Fahjoth began to wonder if he had tried the right house after all. But then came the sound of a muffled lock clicking and the door was cracked open an inch, and he took that as his cue to enter, cautiously pushing it open and stepping inside.

Fahjoth was yet again thrown a curveball, freezing for a few seconds as he was halfway over the threshold and quickly averting his eyes. What was it with Morrowind throwing buff, shirtless men at him every few hours? But the man in question, who seemed completely unabashed, ushered him inside and closed the door after him.

“Sorry— sorry for walking in on you,” Fahjoth began to babble, embarrassed. “I can come back later, or tomorrow—!”

But the balding Imperial silenced him with a single wave of his hand. “Nevermind that. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

As he scanned the room for a distraction, Fahjoth began to notice what kind of state it was in. Books and empty bottles littered the floor, and even in the low light of the lantern on the table, he could see something very suspiciously pale and grainy in a bowl sitting next to it. Fahjoth grimaced; this surely couldn’t be the right man. Not who the Emperor had sent him to Morrowind to find...

“Sorry,” he apologised again. “I was looking for a man called Caius Cosades. I was told to report to him.”

To his immense surprise, the man folded his arms and nodded. “Yes, I’m Caius Cosades. Who told you to report to me?”

Once again, Fahjoth was floored. His eyes darted once more around the room, taking in the sheer mess he was faced with, which said more than enough about its occupant. Then, finally, his gaze returned to the man — Caius Cosades himself. Why in Oblivion had he been sent to report to an old skooma addict?

“I’ve... I’ve got something for you,” Fahjoth mumbled, holding out the package he had been entrusted with. He was still somewhat hesitant to believe that the man he was looking at was indeed Cosades, but what was he supposed to do? Argue with the man over his own identity? That would go down well.

Cosades took the package, shooting Fahjoth a brief squint before turning his back and busying himself with inspecting and opening the package. Fahjoth waited, wringing his hands and feeling almost afraid to so much as breathe in this cramped, cluttered room; quite frankly, despite being much older, Cosades looked as if he could easily break Fahjoth’s neck, and considering the amount of alcohol and skooma lying around he couldn’t completely discount this possibility. So he waited, until at last Cosades turned back, his expression stern.

“Very interesting. So. You’re Fahjoth Vetharys, correct?”

“Yessir.”

Cosades waved a scrap of parchment as he spoke. “It says here the Emperor wants me to make you a Novice in the Blades. And that means following my orders. Are you ready to follow my orders, Fahjoth?”

“The Blades...?” Fahjoth had a feeling he already knew exactly what the Blades were, but he had to be sure. But Cosades’ response confirmed his suspicions.

“We're spies. We're the Emperor's hidden eyes and ears in the provinces. We watch the Emperor's enemies. We look for opportunities. We make reports. And, when the Emperor commands, we obey. Now... Are you ready to join the Blades and follow my orders, as the Emperor commands?”

“Right…” Fahjoth dropped his gaze to the ground, his brows furrowed in a deep frown. So not only had he been released from prison and sent to another province, but he was expected to join what was — by the sounds of it — the ranks of the Emperor’s top-secret, elite agents? Fahjoth, a Dunmer who could barely read, had spent six years in prison and had no specialist training or magical ability?

Fahjoth tried to put into words how ridiculous this seemed, how incredibly outlandish the concept of recruiting him to the Blades really was, but instead, infuriatingly, what came out of his mouth was “Yessir.”

“Excellent. Welcome to the service, Novice Fahjoth. Now you belong to the Blades. I’m sure you and I will be friends in no time. You can sleep here if you need to rest, but leave my personal stuff alone unless I say otherwise.”

The look on Fahjoth’s face said more than enough, and Cosades was quick to notice. “You’ve got questions, then? Let’s hear it.”

Fahjoth nodded, clearing his throat to gather his nerves before he spoke. “Yeah, um... I just... Why?” He struggled to hide the frustration he felt now, and winced as he heard it creep into his voice. “Why have I been sent here, and why am I joining the Blades? I don’t mean to sound rude, sir, but nobody’s told me nothing at all since I got here. I’m not... I don’t have any real strengths or skills or anything like that. I’m really just... nobody.”

“All in good time, Novice. First of all, we should get you settled before we start on your orders.” Cosades paused to prop open a strongbox on the shelf behind him, from which he fished out a rather fat coinpurse and tossed it over to Fahjoth, who struggled to catch it without dropping it. The sudden weight was surprising, and Fahjoth felt his stomach lurch as Cosades went on. “First thing, pilgrim. You're new. And you look it. Here's 200 drakes to get yourself a decent weapon. Or armor. Or a spell. Or whatever it is you feel most comfortable with.” He stopped again to evaluate Fahjoth, eyeing him from head to foot with a frown. “Get some proper food in you as well, you’ll no doubt need to be in top physical condition for some of the tasks you’re given.”

The slight insult that came from Cosades’ insinuation was completely overridden by Fahjoth’s sheer amazement at the amount of gold he now held in his hands. 200?! That was more gold than he’d ever laid eyes upon in his entire life!

“Thank you, sir,” Fahjoth said, still in a state of disbelief following the night’s events and developments.

“Secondly, you’ll need a cover identity,” Cosades continued. “Around here, ‘freelance adventurer’ is a common profession, believe it or not. Or, you can join a guild for some proper work. Sign on with the Fighters Guild, or Mages Guild, or Imperial cult, or Imperial legion, and gain skill and experience. Or go out on your own, look for freelance work, or trouble. What you do makes no odds to me, as long as you come back in one piece with more experience than you went out with. When you're ready, I'll have real orders for you." He stepped forward, closing the gap between them and clapping Fahjoth rather forcefully on the shoulder. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Vetharys. But first of all, you should get some rest. Like I mentioned, you’re welcome to stay here, as long as you don’t touch my stuff.”

“Alright,” Fahjoth replied with haste, more than willing to agree to that. Cosades intimidated him slightly, though he would never admit that to anybody — least of all Ribyna, who would no doubt have had a field day teasing him about it. How he was ever going to explain any of this to her remained to be seen, but he decided to ponder that tomorrow; the itching of his eyes reminded him of how desperate he was for a nap. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’m gonna try and get some sleep then. Been a... bit of a long day, y’know?”

“Certainly. Here.” Cosades grabbed some of the sheets and pillows from his bed, tossing them over to Fahjoth — again, without any warning, leaving Fahjoth to scramble desperately to catch them all. “It’s not much I’m afraid, but it’ll do for now.”

“Course, sir. Thanks.” Though he was still feeling rather apprehensive as he arranged his new bed on the floor in the corner of the room, Fahjoth was in deep reflection as he bid his new boss goodnight and settled down to sleep. Although things weren’t much clearer now compared to when he had first been taken from the Imperial Prison, he had a lot to be thankful for; his twin was alive and well, and on top of being a free man, Fahjoth now also had a job, an allowance of gold and a roof over his head — a far cry from the life he used to live, even before his six-year-long incarceration. With this in mind, his last thought before he drifted off was to just take each day as it came — no matter how much more confusion or how many surprises may yet lay ahead.

#oc: fahjoth #oc: ribyna #caius cosades #tes #tes fic #morrowind #dunmer #dunmer oc #nerevarine #elder scrolls #elder scrolls fanfiction #tes iii: morrowind

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