BlueOakRogue

 He’d never been in a bed so hard in his life, or one so persistently frigid. It almost reminded him of... Prison. He sat up and rubbed his bare arms and abdomen to warm them. The floor was cold indeed, but the chill that ran over his skin went far deeper. He blinked and took in a long, heady drink of air. Metal, stone, freshness, blood and...a woman. Clanging pipes. He jerked awake. “Beruthielle!” his call bounced off the carved walls and died away as soon as it reached the next room. Gone. A kiss. A dab of poison. Typical Breton female. He shook out his muscles as the icy, paralytic poison’s final effects wore off,

 Whatever the word 'Deeps' translated to in Westron, Vaenomar was relieved to find it only meant dungeon in the Dwarvish concept. Soon, however, her relief was turned to stone-cold fear. She was quite literally thrown through an iron barred door onto the damp stone floor of the mountain. The gate clanged shut, locked and she was left in utter darkness. It had all happened so fast she could scarcely make sense of things. The coming hours of dark solitude she would face in this frigid mountain core would allow for plenty of thinking; too much, most likely. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, she noticed a faint glint of blue ligh

Pale lightning flickered above, casting huge black silhouettes against the mist. The swirling, groping arms of unnatural fog drew in from all sides, suffocating and leeching. Overhead a horrible screech sounded again, shattering hope, rending courage; its bellowing fury bespeaking vengeance. The cry of a dragon. The Dragon. Alduin’s roar froze even the hearts of those long dead, and commanded the heavens of the realm of immortals. His challenge was a scoffing boom that quaked sky and mountain, made little stones trickle from the towering statues perched, heads eternally bowed, high around all of Sovngarde. Even the Divines’ auro

His entrance into the world was marked by fate. A new star appeared in the night sky, rusty and dim, flickering with all its might as if by a faint breath of wind it might be snuffed out. The Wise-Woman prayed, the clan shook their heads, and the mother groaned. And the child breathed. Frail and tiny, the newborn’s life seemed as tenuous as the ruddy star. He should be exposed, said most, but the mother clutched her babe to her breast. It was all she had left of her husband. The winds full of ash and preying kagouti had taken him three months before. And so she named him Sul- Sehtri Sul, after his ancestors before him, all descended f

Earon's Journal Fredas, 23 Frostfall 202 4E Day of Broken Diamonds (I may well call it Broken Dreams...) When I had life, when the world was still warm, before time became meaningless... When I was a child and the greatest pleasure of the day was to be regaled with tales of heroes and days past, sitting poised on my father's knee, mother tossing in versions of her own... I was a small child when the events of Red Mountain transpired. Every tongue spoke of the Hero. Nerevar reborn. Saviour of Morrowind. Slayer of the Mad God. Some even called him a god. The Nerevarine. Most didn't even know his name. It wasn't important. He saved us.