The Elder Scrolls
Journey
Written by Alex Claybourne
Disclaimer:
This
is entirely a work of fiction - obviously. Though I have done my best
to line it up with true Elder Scrolls canon, I can only do so much
without the help of Bethesda telling me what works and what doesn’t.
Take everything you read with a grain of salt, and don’t believe it all
to be consistent with The Elder Scrolls universe. Oh and don’t tell
Bethesda I’m using their names and world lest I get in trouble.
And yes, that is a pen name.
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Prologue I
“Easy now...”
he thought to himself slowly clasping the small Dwarven cog with his
tweezers. Carefully he directed it to the exposed side of the strange
bronze cube, making sure to not cast too much of his own shadow on the
exposed area. With a notable amount of precision that can only be
developed from seven and a half years on the sea, he eased the cog into
it’s proper place; near the center of the device, until he heard the
reassuring click which signified it’s unique connection within. “So precise... so reliable were the Dwemer...”
he thought, setting down his tweezers to enjoy another swig of his
Nordic mead he had been so fortunate to snag on the last boarding.
Marco put what little was left of the mead back onto the workbench, making sure it was in the shadow of the dwarven artifact, so as to not get warm from the torch that lit the room. Luckily for Marco and for the cold mead, it was a cool night on the seas, and Marco did not much care for warmth. The warmth of the Sun, that is. It was much more a simple task to wear more layers, to start up a fire, or to purchase a potion of warmth when you were chilly, then it was to keelhaul yourself just to provide some cool relief on an hot Sun’s Height afternoon; and much safer. It didn’t matter how much rope you tied to yourself - one rough current, hidden undertow, or gods-forbid a school of slaughterfish could easily, and probably end you - and the Redguards were not one to help a man who threw themself into the sea. Hence the old Redguard proverb, “Don’t help the man who casts himself into the sea, for they will only live to do it again.”
There was a thud, and a crash.
Perhaps the proverb didn’t actually exist. Unless of course Marco and the other’s on the Maria-Boiche had made it up themselves, but this didn’t resonate too much with Marco. The Maria-Boiche had a fine crew, but they were no poets. In fact not one member of the crew owned a journal or even parchment. They did not even have scrolls from which to cast spells, for none could read. They would agree that journals are for the weak; that reading was for Altmer and structure. Though clearly an attempt to rationalize their education; or lack thereof, it was an unspoken rule not to crush the morale of any crew-mates no matter how irrational they may be.
There was a thud, a crash, and a yell - or two.
After a brief moment to breathe, Marco took hold of his tweezers once more, this time clamping down on the larger, heavier cog and begun carefully moving it into place, which happened to be on the outside of the smaller cog. This cog required even more patience, and precision than the former, being heavier, and clunkier. It was especially hard on the small tweezers, which were not designed by a Dwemer, but by what seemed like a small Bosmer. In his other hand, Marco grabbed the pin he had fashioned out of a lockpick, and readied it along with the cog, threading it through it’s center and soon the center of the former cog. How such technology as this had lasted so many a century was beyond him. In his dealings with Dwemer technology, the construction of each piece was crafted so finely it was mind-blowing. Most of it was incomprehensible or impossible to open up, which led Marco to believe that not only were the Dwemer genius builders and designers, but they were also the best planners Tamriel had ever seen. Not even the Eight Divines had such a foresight to know how to build something so perfectly the first time that you could seal off the innards with complete confidence - never needing to worry about maintenance or it just simply not working.
There was a thud, a crash, a yell - or two, and a the clanging of steel and iron.
This was all just speculation, though. Who was to say the Dwemer had such foresight? Marco had never read anything about how good they were at predicting outcomes, not that he had read much at all. But if they had such foresight, they probably wouldn’t have all vanished at the height of their power - but that wasn’t the point. For all he knew; for all anybody knew, the Dwemer were a reckless race who prided themselves on building what they simply hoped would work, and cast what didn’t work into the sea. For all he knew; for all anybody knew, they were sailing above a massive underwater graveyard of Dwemer technology. Marco thought of how he could pay off some Argonian working a dock to swim down to the sea floor to find anything of the sort. He quickly concluded, however, that he would much rather just rob the lizard-man blind and not give him any ideas as to where some hidden treasure could be. Perhaps with enough water-breathing potions he could get to the bottom - or perhaps an enchanted ring. However, enchanted rings didn’t protect you from giant slaughterfish and any other deep-sea terrors.
There was a thud, a crash, a yell - or two, the clanging of steel and iron, and then a click.
The cog had clicked into place with ease, and the makeshift pin along with it, which came as a shock to Marco having forgotten he was reconstructing a Dwarven cube on this cold, damp morning. It was a technique Marco liked to think he came up with on his own - distracted focus. The idea behind this was that if you were attempting to do anything that required precise actions and enough patience to rot a skeleton, keeping your mind pre-occupied with other thoughts would actually benefit your work. That his mind was always bogged down due to the hectic life of his, and that sorting out his thoughts while he worked relieved stress. Without stress - focus. And so Marco did his best not to focus, whenever it was needed. Life was like Dwemer technology. It wasn’t about forcing anything to work, for everything has it’s own place. Life was much simpler than the common man made it out to be. Always worrying about money, food, danger, and worst of all, family. Marco hardly knew the meaning of worry. Marco hardly knew the meaning of family.
Marco set his tweezers down, and sat back in his chair to look at the cube’s innards for a moment. Sucking up the last few drops of mead, he placed the empty bottle down right next to the broken window from which the mead - along with a few other bottles and jars (each filled with one poison or another) - had crashed through only minutes ago. It wasn’t the first time he had seen bottles thrown through windows like this - or the second time - or the third, fourth, or fifth. Sixth maybe? It was a desperate act of stupidity. Dumb sailors who assumed that poison will just explode in a puff of magic on impact, and infect the whole crew. And judging by the Nord mead they had chucked through the window it was safe for Marco to assume this was not an entirely pre-meditated siege of the Maria-Boiche - it was much more likely an act of desperation. Perhaps not sailors, but certainly not anybody prepared to attack the Maria-Boiche or Marco himself. The element of fear is what got Marco his mead, which was exactly why it was Marco’s personal favorite emotion despite having not known fear for seven and a half years.
Marco crossed the creaky room, stepping over the dead sailor who’s legs were sticking out from under the small end table which housed Marco’s last meal of rice, and the final piece to the Dwarven cube. Taking a handful of rice in one hand, and the final piece in the other, he stuffed as much of the grain as he could into his mouth. He hummed an old Bard’s song to himself, using the continued clanking of metal, the sticking of arrows, and the thuds of bodies from upstairs as a rhythm.
“One
Hun--dred men-- she had laid-- in bed,” Marco sang, “Not worried-- of
the feelings-- of the tears-- he’d shed, so it came-- to no surprise--
that when-- she fled, she was met - with - a - claymore that took off
her head...”
He
stepped back over the dead legs and navigated himself to his workbench.
The best part about wooden floors - especially the wooden floors of a
ship - was the blood seeping through the cracks, and the steady rocking
of the boat gently guiding it in. So much less to clean up; and Marco
didn’t clean anyways, so it was more-or-less the ship’s
self-maintenance. Marco wasn’t a fan of messes, and the innards of a
person were not exactly appetising. So, he always aimed for the neck,
and made sure to wedge a sword in between his floorboards every Loreday
to make sure they were nice and spaced. It may seem impractical to prep
one single room on a ship in this way, but when you were Marco
“Coldblood” it wasn’t exactly uncommon for an Imperial Scout Party to
try and catch him in his sleep - nor was it too shocking to wake up to
the creaking of some fool with an invisibility spell stepping on the
intentionally loosened floorboards.
The
final piece, which had two sides to it - the outside which looked
identical to the other sides of the cube, and the inside which had what
looked like a spire in every corner, with two smaller spire-like pieces
bordering each ‘father’ spire - was carefully held over the opening of
the cube with Marco’s two hands. After taking a moment to line up all
the Dwemer symbols with each corresponding symbol, he lowered the final
piece. With each father-spire entering it’s proper insertion point, the
gears begun to spin. Not too long after, Marco was able to release the
piece, allowing the cube itself to latch on to the father spires and
pull them in. Then, with the gasping sound of all the air within the
cube becoming sealed off from the rest of Nirn, the device was prepped.
The gears had stopped turning within, and the makeshift pin was sticking
only a finger’s length out of the top.
The sounds from above grew louder the closer he moved down the creaky hallway to the wooden stairs that led to the second deck. The door at the top of the stairs had been completely smashed, leaving only a frame. This didn’t stop Marco from opening what was left of the door as he would any other time, despite the sound of battle growing stronger. Just because the door had been destroyed didn’t mean he had to abandon all sense of class. Besides, the second deck had already been the host of a skirmish, and it had the trophies to prove it. Roughly five bodies-worth of limbs carpeted the floor, while two bodies remained pinned to the walls by abandoned swords, left to slowly kill the victim with tedious suffering. One of these ornaments happened to still be alive, and coincidentally enough, was Marco’s curly-haired crewmate, Devon, pinned to the wall at the gut. Odd as Marco thought it, he had never before seen a sword as thick as a scimitar protruding from someone like some spear. He would have thought it far to messy a task to do something like that. As Marco headed for the blood spattered stairs that would lead him to the top deck, Devon called out after coughing up some crude, fresh black blood.
“M...Marc-co!
Marc-” Devon struggled to get out as his eyes started to lose color,
and his face grew pale - even for the dark-skinned Redguard. Marco just
ignored the noise, knowing quite well that despite what was written in a
children’s novel, a mans last words were never truly worth hearing, and
usually quite difficult to understand. However, Marco reminded himself
what a loyal crewmate Devon had been. They had lived on the Maria-Boiche
concurrently for a little over three years. Though they had never
shared much of what you would call ‘trust’ to any degree, Marco knew he
could count on Devon to a certain extent, since Devon was always looking
to prove himself to be second best on the ship. Second only to his
idle; Marco Coldblood. Marco stopped on his way to the stairs, and
instead decided to pay his old colleague a final visit. “May as well,” he thought, stopping before some poor sap trying to drag himself up the stairs, “There’s still some poor sap trying to drag himself up the stairs...”
“It’s.. just like you...” He managed, “...to not give.. care about-” His statement was interrupted with more of his incessant coughing, each one moving his sword-bound body enough to make even Marco Coldblood wince. When the coughing subsided, Devon’s head hung down, breathing heavy as if he were about to let out a Nord’s battle cry. Devon lifted his head, looking at Marco for a moment, and just then his eyes crunched up and his mouth opened wide as if he had just got impaled all over again. Shock had just worn off, and the true soul-biting pain had begun. Marco prayed to the Eight that his own death would be swift, even by means of beheading. At least getting beheaded would end you fairly quickly, and you would only spend a few seconds staring at your body from a basket. In Devon’s case, not only was he experiencing a slow and painful death, but he had to do so in front of the man whom he looked up to most; Marco Coldblood.
Devon let out a few disgusting cries, partially gurgling on the blood settling in the back of his throat. Marco took a step back. The pinned man shook his head and let out what started as a hardy growl... but soon turned into no more than a whimper. Mustering up the courage to speak through the pain, Devon shouted.
“It was mutiny, Marco! That bastard Dremmin-” He coughed hard enough to shut up, “... Dremmin... was working... the Imperial Legion... the whole-” He coughed once more, only this cough led to a series blood-curdling coughs that almost made Marco hurt to watch. Almost.
“I know.” Marco replied, in a dry tone.
Devons
head snapped up, looking into the wincing eyes of the disgusted
Redguard. While he sorted out what Marco had just said, Devon dropped
his head and squeezed his eyes, as another wave of pain crashed upon
him. His hands gripped the sword in his stomach, trying to steady that
which had torn him in two. How could Marco know about Dremmin? Was Marco working with the Imperial Legion too? No.
Something was telling Devon two things: It said that Marco didn’t
defect, and said that these would be his last few seconds alive. And in
that moment all Devon cared for was to know that his dying wish would be
heard. Marco would have to do as the recipient.
“Kill
him Marco! Kill Dremmin!” Devon shouted with the last of his strength.
Marco never had the honor of a dying wish before, let alone one he could
fulfill so quickly.
“I
already did.” replied Marco, and only seconds later, Devon lost the
strength to hold himself up any longer. His knees buckled, his body fell
forward only to get caught on the hilt of the scimitar that had him
staked to the wall. His lungs filled with blood, as could be heard in
his final breaths which became deeper, and thicker with each ounce.
Soon, the body went entirely dead-weight, leading to Devon’s corpse, to
hang ‘ragdoll’ while his curly hair brushed up against Marco’s knee.
Marco was thankful he had backed up earlier. Leaving the scene, he made
his way up the blood spattered stairs where the body of a crawler now
lay, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs, Devon’s body
weight had finally pulled the sword out of the knot in the wall, and
joined the carpet of dead on the floor.
The
sounds grew louder as he ascended the stairs, and were only slightly
muffled by the door at the top. Marco kicked open the door with the cube
under his left arm, and was greeted by the starless, deep blue sky of
the early morning along with the view of two dozen Redguard and Imperial
in the skirmish Marco had heard so much about. He picked out about 5 or
6 duels going on amongst the battle, and a few archers on either side. A
little disappointed in the battle skills of his crewmates - knowing
they could do better, Marco took a few steps out the door. As the battle
continued, Marco remained invisible to the gladiators at war, who were
focused on their target. Marco breathed in the salty morning air of the
sea, and took a stroll into the crowd.
A
short extension of walls created an arch around the doorway. As Marco
walked he gently ran his hand across the surface of the wood - feeling
the artwork carved into it. He could feel the flowers in the woodwork;
the vines that winded and twist around the buds, and was reminded of
seven and a half years ago when he didn’t need to imagine what they felt
like, he could simply reach out and take hold of the thorny vines. He
never loved flowers by any means, but just the thought of something so
grounded, so ‘Nirn’ gave him a luxurious amount of nostalgia to swim in.
Ironically, most of his memories of flowers were quite negative, and
spawned from a much more innocent time - when he was just a boy in his
second life. Marco could recall one particular time as a boy, picking a
red mountain flower. The flower passively told him to back off when he
pricked his finger on the thorn. He could see the small trickle of blood
run down his index finger so vividly that he actually began to bleed
from that very finger.
Despite
Marco slightly flinching from the splinter, none of the pirates, nor
Imperials so much as glanced in his direction - still in the heat of
battle. Shouts of the Empire’s glory and the laughing of the confident
pirates reflected off the wooden sides of the ship. Steel and iron
clashing, the roar of the small battle engulfed Marco’s ears in a wave
of pain and torment. As Marco neared the center mast, a few confused
glances were shot in his direction followed by a loud whistle, which
brought a swift end to the conflict - the Imperials collectively going
on the defensive, until the pirates were curious enough to see what all
the fuss was about. A man whom Marco assumed to be the Commander of the
Imperials stepped forward from the bow. The tall light-skinned Imperial
wore a face of anger and frustration as he looked down at the man he
assumed to be dead; Marco.
“Damnit, what’s he still doing alive?!” the Commander asked to nobody in particular.
“You can’t kill ‘im, he’s Coldblood!” yelled a pirate from behind Marco, directing his exclamation at the crash Imperial.
“So
Dremmin is...” The Commander said, leaving his sentence unfinished. He
turned his back to the battle, staring off into the sea gritting his
teeth, swallowing his emotion.
“Dead.”
he continued, “Well, so be it then. If Dremmin couldn’t finish the job I
suppose I will.” he finished, turning around only to find Marco holding
the bronze cube above his head. In a rare occurrence, both the Imperial
Legion and Marco’s Crewmates took aim at Marco. Swords, axes, bows and
spears all pointed towards their new enemy - a common enemy. A small
smile grew on Marco’s scarred face just before he dropped to one knee,
and slammed the cube down to the wooden deck subsequently. The tension
grew to a staggering amount, and only by the orders of the Imperial
Commander did the archers not fire upon Marco. Confidently, the Imperial
Commander, arm still outstretched commanding his archers to cease fire,
walked down the couple stairs that led down from the Bow. He approached
the mast that Marco had managed to position himself behind. The
Imperial cautiously halted a few paces before it, making certain to not
fall into any trap that the legendary pirate was planning.
Marco
remained hunched over on one knee, expecting a round of arrows to
pierce him. The amount of restraint in his opponents intrigued Marco,
which led him to believe they would not only be smart enough not challenge him in close combat, but would also be dumb enough to provoke him in an act of over-confidence - the Imperial Commander did both.
“I
don’t know malarkey you’re planning, Marco, but I ain’t buying it.” he
said intensely, attempting to intimidate the Redguard. He did not expect
any results, but confidence was his only weapon.
“Don’t
go provoking him ya’ idiot you’ll get us all killed! Don’t y’know what
that is?!” another Pirate yelled at the Commander. The Imperial quickly
glanced at the pirate, making sure not to lose track of the slippery
Marco, who was still shielded by the mast.
“Yeah,
it’s a ‘mysterious’ golden box. We’re supposed to be ‘scared’ right?”
the Commander said with a most condescending tone, “I’ve dealt with the
likes of you before, Marco, your little tricks won’t work on me. What do
you fancy yourself a Master of Illusion or something?” Marco rose, his
head still held down, finally speaking to the confused men and women.
“Look
around where you stand.” he directed. Nobody complied. Marco continued,
“I’ll bet all my coin none of you looked. Far too afraid of one man I
see.”
“Not
afraid of ‘ou, Marco, afraid of one’a those ‘tings!” one of the pirates
yelled, pointing at the cube with his scimitar. “Now by the Eight
Marco, what are ya’ doing?” he asked. To much of the pirate’s annoyance,
Marco didn’t give much of an answer.
“You
all switched sides. Moments ago you all fought along side your friends
and spilled the blood of your enemies. Now your enemies have become your
friends, and you all face me - your enemy.” The crowd listened, growing
increasingly aware that many Imperials stood next to a Redguard, and
many Redguards stood next to an Imperial. The Imperial Commander slowly
fascinated his hand around the handle of his sheathed blade.
“How
can one befriend your enemy - even for an instant - when any given
second...” Marco paused for effect, “...they might just turn on YOU?” he
said with much emphasis. At almost the exact moment, the men and woman
of the Imperial Legion and the Maria-Boiche turned to face each other
with their blades once more. It ended in a stale-mate, with most
instances one person holding their weapon to the throat of their enemy,
while their enemy did the same to them. The Commander, having nobody but
Marco to match him, only drew his steel sword. With a mast in his path,
there was no sensible route to Marco. He began to conjure up a few
plans of attack, shifting his eyes, but he was interrupted by the Legend
once more.
“And
in the beat of a heart, you are all enemies again. You have no honer;
none of you. The proud Nords of Skyrim would shun you all for your
cowardice.” Marco scolded. The men and women of the battle found
themselves more confused than ever, and the Commander had enough.
“We?
The cowards? It is you who fights with mere words hiding behind the
safety of a mast, rather than with his sword! YOU are the coward!” He
yelled at Marco, now holding his sword up high, and his shield readied
in defence. He awaited some support from his men - or at this point even
the pirates. None spoke up, though. All stayed at a stand-still,
considering what Marco had pointed out. In a quick instant, Marco had
entirely taken control away from the Commander, and this only made the
Commander more furious.
“Mistake
one: You sent the low-life Dremmin to assassinate me.” Marco directed
towards the Commander,” “Mistake two: You actually believed he got the
job done,” The Commander’s face grew red with embarrassment and anger,
“Mistake three and worst of all: You were confident. Face it Commander,
this battle was lost the moment you thought you could win.”
“Silence
you rotten bastard!” The commander yelled. With one big step to the
right of the mast, the Commander swung at Marco’s unprotected neck with
all of his force, only to have Marco crouch beneath it. The sword
traveled through the air with enough force, to get it stuck in the mast.
When the Commander failed to pull the sword out from the wooden mast,
the shocking realization of what just happened hit the Commander. Marco
had tricked him; had used his emotions to ensnare him in his trap -
exactly what the Commander told himself to avoid. Now it was finished.
With only the slightest effort would Marco be able to plunge a sword
directly through the exposed side of him, and so, in the wake of his own
disappointment, he awaited such a fate. But the fate never came. Marco,
who still remained crouched down, had only one thing to say to the
Imperial.
“In
the beat of a heart...” and Marco kicked off the Dwarven Box, his toes
pushing the pin into the device with more than enough force to start the
mechanism. The gears inside began to spin. The color in the faces of
just about every man and woman on the ship grew three shades saturated.
The pirates knew what this device was, and couldn’t believe Marco had
betray them too. The Imperials only knew only to be as afraid as the
knowledgable pirates, whose stomachs just about fell out of their
mouths. As the gears continued to spin, a gyrating mechanism on the
inside of the artifact began to glow, and spin. As the pace of the gyro
grew faster, the top of the cube raised itself and fell off to the side
of the cube. The gyro floated out of the device and began to hover above
the mysterious contraption.
The
Commander, let go of the blasted sword, and begun to back away from the
gizmo towards the bow of the Maria-Boiche. One Imperial charged the
gyro and swung as hard as he could, only to have his steel fly out of
his hands, and far back into the distant ocean. Once the shocked Pirates
came to their senses, they quickly looked around the ship for an escape
route that would avoid the water, of course, as it would provide little
protection from what terror was to come. By the time one Pirate had the
idea to jump to the Imperial ship stationed next to the Maria-Boiche,
it was too late. He turned only to find that Marco had cut the ropes
that held the ships together, and had used the cool morning wind to sail
far enough away to be a hopeless consideration.
In
an act of desperation, the Commander, along with several of the Pirates
and Imperials alike, ran to the edges of the ship to take a leap of
faith into the murky ocean. In the few seconds they ran, the hovering
gyro began to shake and crack, letting a red light shoot out from every
open orifice on it. The few Imperials that got to see this were
hypnotized by the brilliant light. A red glow so powerful it consumed
their vision until all they could see was a black silhouette of the
gyro, ripping itself apart in a sea of red. Those who ran for the edges
lost their way once the light consumed their vision, leaving the rest of
the path to their imagination. Many tripped on themselves and fell
before they reached the edges, while some ran until their legs were
swept out from under them by the lips of the ship, sending them tumbling
overboard towards the sea. None would actually fall far enough to make a
splash.
Marco,
who now commanded a new ship, looked back at the chaos to admire his,
and the Dwemer’s, handy work. He was greeted by a familiar sight, as
everything within a large, red sphere of light about 5 ships large, was
consumed. There would be no ship, no survivors, no artifact. Even the
water that had been caught in the red light would be completely gone.
Once the brilliant crimson light had faded away to leave behind an empty
void in the realm of Mundas, Marco could only smile. The crimson
morning sun was beginning to rise over the empty horizon. “A fitting sight.” Marco thought, as he put the last seven and a half years behind him.
Marco
checked the on-board compass to find his way to the nearest dock, and
took a swig of the Nordic Mead sitting next to the wheel. “It’s about time for a change of scenery.”
he thought to himself. Too long had he spent on that gods-forsaken
ship. The boring, dull times greatly outweighed any excitement. Knowing
only that he was somewhere South of Hammerfell and West of Cyrodiil, he
set a course for Rihad, the nearest city of Hammerfell. There he could
dock his new ship he dubbed “Son of Light” an end his campaign. A
successful seven and a half year campaign though it may have been,
thirteen ‘voided’ ships and the impressive nickname ‘Coldblood’ was
enough for this Redguard’s lifetime, and Marco had already lived twice
before.
End Prologue I
