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vosh-rakh · 4 years

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the scathing bay

Malacath stands at the almost perfectly circular coast of the crater, and the sea struggles not to become steam. The air smells of sulfur and char, choked with fire and ash from the mountain, shaken to violence. It has been thousands of years since he has been here, but no amount of time could lessen the shock of the change. He stands near the only landmark he can decipher, a twisted, molten mockery of a dragon, once decor to Castle Ebonheart. All the rest of the Ascadian Isles are either obscured by ash and steam, or they are gone.

As always, many fall, but one remains. She is on her knees by Malacath’s feet, and the blackened stone beneath is covered in discarded faces. She peels each one away, tearing at her features with thirty fingers, trying to remember from behind all the masks how to cry.

Malacath says nothing for a while, and does Mephala the courtesy of not looking at her. But finally he asks, “What happened?”

Mephala has given up, and every one of her muscles, usually so tightly-strung, hang limp from her bones as she stares blankly at the wreckage. Her lips cannot form the words sharply enough. “The fools. Ruined the machine. Vile admits no fault. I believe him. For once.” Mephala’s loose form slumps over, leaning against Malacath’s legs. “It is always the children who fail. Shortsighted. Stupid.”

Malacath sighs. He places his hand softly on Mephala’s head, the seams red and tender from the tearing. “I know,” he says.

Mephala’s claws suddenly grasp at the flesh of Malacath’s hip, pulling herself up. “I tried! I tried to fix this!” Her crimson eyes stretch themselves so wide, almost to bleeding. “I saw this coming and I should have been able to…” Her nails dig into Malacath. “Blast that damned s’wit! Playing at our games! ‘Hang over their heads’ ... ze understood nothing, nothing at all!”

Malacath tries to scrape the black hands off his skin, but they latch on again, desperate. He manages to wrest his leg free and steps back. “Have you never lost before, Mephala?”

“Of course I have!” Mephala jumps to her feet, her six arms splaying out like a threat display. “More than you or anyone knows! But there is always a plan bedt, a plan cess, a plan doht, through every damn mortal alphabet!” Her hands move as if independent entities, some clutching her head, one gripping her throat, the others wringing the air. “There are failsafes upon failsafes! This does not happen! I do not allow it!”

Malacath says nothing, but turns back to look at the steaming crater.

“Shut up!” Mephala screeches, and launches herself onto Malacath’s head, latching every limb around him and scratching, sending them both to the ground.

Malacath tries to detach her, and shouts to object, but fingers attack his open mouth. He bites them and rolls over onto Mephala, headbutting her into the stone to loosen her grip. The Webspinner spits and kicks but Malacath manages to wedge a hand between them, pinning her to the ground. “Stop!” he yells as Mephala scratches at his wrist. He points with his free hand towards the center of the crater. “Look.”

Mephala glances quickly in that direction, not giving up her assault just yet. But then she whips her head back in a double take. There, in the very center of the bay, shimmering in steam, was the shadow of a figure, standing on some rock that was spared obliteration.

She screams again and pulls on Malacath’s wrist, swinging him over her head, sending him crashing into the stone behind. And then she crawls like a demon on eight limbs, her rage burning the waters so quickly underfoot that she seems to run on water. Even the steam makes way, clearing a path for her rampage, and whips up an opening around the island, a peak of ash rising from the waters.

And it is Vivec. Ze stands barefoot in the ash, hir head turned to see the Daedra Lord approach. Hir head is bald of flame, and the gold in hir skin is fading grey. If ze is afraid of Mephala in her most horrifying aspect towering over hir, ze does not betray it.

“I came because I felt it,” Vivec said unprompted, turning hir head away from the gasping Prince. “I am sure you know what that is like.” Ze rotates, surveying the rim of the crater. “It was not just a symbol of my body; it was my body. And it has been destroyed.”

“You dare to come here, after what you have done?” Mephala skitters closer to Vivec’s exposed back in a blink. “To feign innocence? Paint yourself a victim?”

“Oh. This was the High Fane,” Vivec says without answering. Ze picks up one of hir feet and examines the ash clumping between hir toes. “Ground zero, of course.”

“Do not ignore me!” Six black hands reach from behind and spin hir around to face Mephala. Tears streak down hir grave face.

“I cannot,” Vivec says, placing a hand on one of Mephala’s. “I never could. You have always been a part of me. I tried to make you a part of me, in times of weakness, so that I would know the way. But I could never admit it.”

Mephala stares at hir wet face, and at the hand on hers. And then she flips over her hand underneath and crushes hir hand within. Vivec screams and falls to hir knees, clutching hir wrist and hir shattered right hand.

“You insolent fetcher,” Mephala screams, looking down at hir, “I made you! Did you really think yourself so clever, all this time? That all your successes were anything more than convenient outcomes for me? Inflated like a netch, this whole time.” She grabs hir broken fingers and pulls hir up by them, making hir howl louder, hir tears turned blubbering. “Ever since you and the Sotha had the ‘idea’ to use the tools anyway, despite your oath. I even let you play at this game with the rock in the sky, even after the first time it almost fell. I assumed you would one day deal with it proper.” She throws Vivec back down to the ash. “That was my mistake. Now I make it right.”

Mephala reaches out to grab Vivec by the skull, but a hand grabs her arm from behind. Vivec blinks repeatedly and then stammers, “M...Malacath?”

The Prince ignores hir. “Stop, Mephala.”

Mephala spins around to confront him. “Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I destroy hir? This is vengeance, Malacath.”

“No, it is not.”

Malacath stares into Vivec’s eyes, which widen as ze understands. “No. Wait. Let her finish it. This is vengeance. This is right.”

“Your masks are usually so foolproof, warrior-poet. But perhaps this one is your last, because it is showing cracks.”

Mephala turns back towards Vivec. “What?”

“The heart may be gone,” Malacath says, stepping forward, “but you know Vivec is not this weak. Ze could easily put up a fight … if ze wanted to.” Mephala begins to understand.

“Shut up, shit prince! Let her - ”

Hir voice is cut off by a black hand around hir throat. Mephala sniffs around hir. “I see...You don’t ignore your guilt. You reek of it.”

“Just kill me already! I’ll find more ways to ruin them if you don’t. I enjoy it! Every life lost today, I relish it, their pain and misery, all by my hand - ”

The hand tightens, and a smile stretches across Mephala’s face. “You used to be such a good liar, scamp. It’s so sad seeing how desperate you must be...carrying all this mortal pain. Ran out of all the justifications that make it easier on your conscience?”

“Please,” mouths Vivec, hir voice unable to escape hir throat.

“You aren’t a god. And you never really were. All you are is disappointingly...mortal.” Mephala relinquishes hir throat, dropping hir in the ash. “If you want to die so badly, do it yourself. I won’t do it for you.”

Vivec heaves on hir hands and knees. “If you’ll excuse me,” Mephala says, turning to leave, “I have to go take care of cleaning up your mess...and go help my people.” She taps Malacath on the shoulder. “You’ll come help, won’t you dear? Could use the muscle.”

Malacath looks into Mephala’s face and sees it is fresh, a mask whose eyes glisten with plots anew. He nods silently, and she begins to walk across the waters towards the mountain.

Vivec sits on hir knees, weeping quietly, clutching the wrist of hir broken hand. Malacath approaches until he is standing right above hir. But ze does seem to acknowledge his presence.

“‘The one-handed king finds no remedy,’” quotes Malacath. This causes Vivec to lift hir face, hir eyes wide and brow furrowed. “Yes,” answers the Prince, “I read your books. Waste of time.” And then he walks away to follow Mephala.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #malacath #mephala #vivec #morrowind #vvardenfell #baar dau

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mazurah · 6 years

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Journal of a Buoyant Armiger in Valenwood

First - Previous - Next

31st of Sun’s Height

The most unbelievable thing has happened. Azura wants us to rescue her priestess.

When we got to the ruins of Laeloria, it was already late afternoon, and we only had an hour or so of sunlight left. I told Fayrl we might as well check the place out while there was still some light left, and he agreed. Better to see what we are dealing with than be ambushed in the dark.

The rumors of Daedra were not exaggerated. It was obvious as we approached that the place was crawling with clannfear and scamps. I was ambushed by a clannfear as soon as we entered, but Fayrl was kind enough to rescue me.

The place was not quite how I imagined it. It was almost completely walled, and in amongst the ancient crumbling Ayleid ruins there was a house of more modern architecture. Directly in front of the house was a domed arbor with a statue of Azura.

As soon as Fayrl and I stepped closer, Azura spoke to us. I am not sure if the voice we heard was actually audible or if the Prince merely projected directly into our minds, but it was obvious from the look on Fayrl’s face that she was speaking to both of us. Fayrl immediately went forward and knelt in front of the shrine and began praying in what sounded like Velothi.

Her voice had a quality to it, not unlike that of Lord Vivec, which sounded as though many voices were layered into one. As best I can recall, she worded her request as follows:

“Mortals, you stand above the sealed ruins of Laeloria. Within is a gateway to Coldharbour, where my priestess Culanwe suffers at the hands of Molag Bal. Her pain is so great, it has torn a hole between worlds. This injustice must end. I would have you end Culanwe's endless torment. Long ago the wizard Vastarie came to Laeloria. She sought to end Culanwe's suffering. But Vastarie failed, and was lost. Go to Vastarie's tower. Retrace her path into Laeloria. And mortals, set Culanwe's bones to rest. Vastarie kept careful records of her struggle to pierce Laeloria's seal. They remain scattered in her tower. Find them. Use them to breach the seal and recover Culanwe.”

“Hang on…” I said, “with no disrespect, why is Laeloria sealed?”

“I sealed it away from your world,” Azura said. “Laeloria is the mouth of a bottle that floats through Coldharbour. My seal is the cork. Should I release the seal, Molag Bal's servants will pour into Laeloria until they have nowhere else to go but here. Vastarie found a way to slip past the seal. As must you.”

Fayrl then said something else in Velothi that sounded like a question.

Azura responded, “The wizard Vastarie was able to slip past my seal. Her notes should contain all the information you need to replicate her method.”

Fayrl said something else in Velothi, and bowed very low, touching his head to the ground.

That sounded like enough information to get started to me, so I said we would go do that, and retreated out of the arbor.

The door to the house, presumably Vastarie’s ‘tower’, was locked when we tried the door, but I used my birth gift to get it open. The inside was incredibly dusty, but thankfully Daedra free.

At that point I was still in a state of amazement at having received a request directly from a Daedric prince, but I was slowly starting to analyze our options.

This request means we will need to go to Coldharbour again. That fact is a double edged sword. On the one hand it gives us the opportunity to search for our lost souls in addition to fulfilling Azura’s request, but on the other, we will have to brave the terrors and dangers of Coldharbour, and risk being trapped again--not an experience I am looking forward to. I am not even sure if I am prepared enough to undertake it yet. We could decline, but declining the request of a Daedric Prince is a perilous thing.

I tried to convey my line of thinking to Fayrl and he accused me of being heartless. How could I even consider letting someone suffer in Coldharbour like that, he asked. We only had to suffer in Coldharbour for a few weeks, but this priestess has likely been there for decades. He wanted to know if I was considering this because the priestess follows one of the Anticipations.

I assured him that was not it at all, but that I was simply not sure if I was prepared to enter Coldharbour again so soon. On the other hand, I am aware that it is always a bad idea to ignore a Daedric Prince’s mandates unless they’re telling you to do something so terrible that you couldn’t live with yourself if you followed through with it. This is not one of those situations.

Fayrl admitted he was afraid of returning to Coldharbour as well, but he empathized with the priestess too much to walk away. He also pointed out that perhaps this priestess might be able to help us find our souls, and the pathway to Coldharbour is perhaps one that we can continue using in the future as a safer, stable means of entering Oblivion.

Of course, he is right. Fantasizing about running away gets us nowhere and is simply indulgent cowardice on my part. Running away from problems never solved anything. This is an opportunity we can’t pass up for a multitude of reasons.

So I changed the subject and asked Fayrl what he was saying to Azura in Velothi, and he told me it was a lot of small prayers that the Ashlanders taught him. He said that he had made a promise to the Farseer that given the opportunity he would make the proper Ashlander rites to Azura in exchange for the teaching he received about their culture and religion, which they do not normally share with outsiders. He also said that he does not speak much of the Ashlander tongue, only a few words and phrases, but now that I think about it, not everything he said must have been a prayer, because he asked at least one question. I’m not sure what to think about that.

In any case, we agreed to split up and search the house. By the thickness of the dust, it has been undisturbed for decades, perhaps longer, but all the books and papers are in fairly good condition. The interior is remarkably waterproof, and managed to keep the humidity of the jungle out, so the worst we have to contend with is cobwebs.

It is a wizard’s tower though, and like most wizards, this one seems to have been obsessed with the written word. We have what must amount to a veritable tonne of papers and books to sort through, many of which are not in a language which either of us can read. Fortunately, most of the notes the wizard herself kept seem to be in Cyrodiilic common.

I left Fayrl sorting through a pile of them and went to make dinner. In fact, it should be about ready by now.

Fayrl’s Corresponding Entry Qau-dar’s Corresponding Entry

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