theclaymorrigan
The Claymorrigan Chronicles
Elder Scrolls Character stories, lore and more
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Thirteen:
"You have stopped scribing your memoirs," Sinder managed to make a statement sound like an indictment.
"Aye," shrugged I. We were hunting together near Rivercrest, our adopted hometown on the border of Cyrodill and Valenwood. We had cached one elk and were tracking a second, wounded one. He'd urged me to put what had happened down on parchment but, after filling a dozen Scrolls, the tale was only half told and I was weary or reliving in remembrance what had been lost.
"Will you take up your quill again?" he pressed.
"Perhaps," I shrugged again.Sinder now ran a smithy in Rivercrest; repairing and tempering armor and weapons for me along with the occasional piece of jewelry. He and a fellow named Lond served the region well and made decent livings. I was considered the town hero which I found ironic since I was more like the town drunk, if you asked me.
"Much remains to be chronicled," Sinder continued. "The forging of Diindinok, Dezbomiin's betrayal, Fara's sacrifice…"
"Fara's killing, you mean!" I interrupted him. "Let things be called what they truly are."
"You did her a mercy, Clay," he reassured me for perhaps the thousandth time over the intervening years. "She wasn't long for this life at that point and ultimately being slain by Hircine's champion;...you, she was assured a place in his hunting grounds and avoided the degradations of Molag Bal's Coldharbour. What's more, this one postulates that you could heal from this heartwound if you honored her memory and, yes, her sacrifice for posterity. Every being living on Nirn owes her a great debt of which they are unaware."
I held silent for a time.
"I still feel her with me, Sinder," I confessed. "Sometimes, on my 'adventures' as you call them, when I don't know which way to proceed, that floating, blue orb appears like when she cast that Clairvoyance spell and it guides me true. She still guides me, Sinder. I didn't know how to cast it, don't even do anything and it happens right when needed. I know it's her."
"Will you return to the henge that was once Talonscar again this year on the anniversary?" He asked dejectedly, neither confirming or denying his beliefs regarding my Clairvoyance claim.
"No," I answered. "She's not there anyway. She watches over me from The Hunting Grounds. But it is too painful to write down, my friend. She didn't really do it for all of Nirn. She did it for the love of me and I will never forget her. Ever."
"Will you stop drowning your grief in liquor?" he beseeched me.
"I won't drink any more," I said and his amber eyes lit up until I added: "I won't drink any less, either. When I see her in my dreams each night, I need something to make the waking hours bearable."
He nodded and said no more. We brought back an elk apeice that night. Neither of us has broached the subject since.
TO BE CONTINUED…PERHAPS.
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(Music by The Hu)
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Eleven:
The sunset brought palatable tension to our little band. Dezbomiin would not take part in the summoning. The *jill* seemed to be the mother to my Fara that The Matron had never been, but the dragon's presence in our lives and these foreboding prophecies filled me with unease. It lent a certain credence to the extreme gravity these events were said to hold. I wanted only to live out my life basking in the love that had finally, finally found me. To that end, there was nothing I would not do for Fara.
We crested a rise that gave a good view of the moon Secunda swollen in the sky. I began the ritual without fanfare, uttering words unheard since my now-distant childhood:
"Pierce now the veil unseen,
Hear ye these words of mine.
Bathed with the moonlight's sheen
Prey and hunter's fate entwine.
Lord of Huntsmen, Prince Hircine
Heed thee to thy kith and kine."
The shape of the Father of Manbeasts manifested in the sky; unimaginably vast.
"Speak then," came the peal of his voice.
Fara and Sinder gazed agape while I said; "I come as one consecrated to you at my birth for restitution of the wrong done upon me."
"YOU DARE?" thundered the Daedric Prince.
"YOU'RE THRICE DAMNED RIGHT I DO!" I yelled back. "I have been deprived of my kin, my creed and my culture. I have been thrust into machinations of immortals without due preparation, all in your name. If you require me to be a sword, am I to see battle so untempered?"
"You are The Morrigan's sword, not mine, " Hircine countered. "The Maiden was to prepare you. She even had aid of a *jill*. I pledged a champion to oppose that of Lorkh and Bal. If you are not up to the task, just say so."
"Lorkh's champion is undead," I pointed out. "And Molag Bal has no representative in this I know of."
"Bal seeks a Daughter of Coldharbour, to replace the one hidden away by her mother, so that he might blot out the sun. He sends Dremora to champion him, as has always been his wont. You have indeed met this champion in the service of another who seeks the destruction of the mortal plane."
I had met only one Dremora. The very same who stood alongside the Thalmor Saudalf, my mother's slayer.
"Saudalf in mixed up in this," I realized aloud.
"Exactly so," confirmed Hircine. "The Thalmor seek to be free of Mundus and achieve Atherius as they deem their birthright. If they can destroy the towers, it may come to pass."
"That's what this whole 'Great War' is about then," I said. "Will you make me a werewolf again? Or am I to combat Briarhearts and Dremora with my bare hands?"
"You must fight with a weapon made in Reachmen fashion against the Briarheart," Hircine revealed. "To destroy a Dremora, I would advise a blade imbued with a chill that could cool the fires of Oblivion."
"Will you grant me such a blade, then?" I persisted.
"I am no Reachman, little hunter. You must fashion your own weapon by their precepts. The Maiden knows these well."
"But how could it quench Oblivion's flame, then?"
"Forge it in Shor's pyre, the name of he the Reachfolk call Lorkh. Thus shall it cool in the breath of a goddess."
"What in The Void is that supposed to mean?" I challenged.
"I have spoken," Hircine decreed. "If you had not at hand what you required to triumph, then you would truly be wronged. But if you are not clever enough to find a path to victory, it is no wrong of mine, bold one. Hunt well."
And with that, the spirit manifestation faded and filled the skies no more.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Ten:
The dawn was heralded by birdsong and the rhythmic tapping of Fara's tiny stone hammer against a bone needle. She was tattooing the design she called the wyrd's woad on my face. It's one of the several common patterns I have seen on faces across Tamriel. She told me it would allow me to share her psychic vision. I didn't know if that was superstition or Morrigan magic, but was content to be marked by her in any case.
"You did not let Dezbomiin finish her accounting of The Promises," she pointed out.
"I was starting to feel like a cock at a hen party," I shrugged. "OW!"
"You shouldn't move whilst I am tapping the needle," she told me. She was applying pigments to my eyelids and had made quite a sharp strike at my comment. "I know you 'chafe in the scabbard', my soft-skinned sword, but to enter the battlefield without knowing your enemy is foolishness."
"Droning on about theology becomes tiresome," I somewhat apologized.
"Will you abandon the hubris of summoning The Hunt Lord and allow Dezbomiin to fully educate you?" Fara asked hopefully.
"Not on my life," I doubled-down. "Knowing what options are available to me is at least as important as knowing who opposes me."
"As important as knowing who may ally with you?" She countered.
"At least as," I asserted. "I may stand alone. If I know my enemy but not myself, half the battle is lost before the start. I have been a sniper; an assassin; and a pawn of the Thalmor, but never a champion of Hircine. If he will restore my gift, I could tear Bridron the Briarheart apart. Hey, that rhymes! OW!"
"This is no game," Fara said through gritted teeth. "It is more vital than you seem to realize that the promises are clear to you if you are to be my sword."
"Tomorrow, then," I made my own promise. "But tonight I must need speak to Hircine. There must be a reckoning before I can represent he who my kith and kin gave their lives for."
"If you can't be dissuaded, you stubborn rumpskull," she shook her head at me. "I am finished with the woad and your friend returns."
"What? I don't have any…" My protest was interrupted by shouting from up the slope.
"SEYVUZ-JOOR!" Dezbomiin thundered. Fara and I dashed towards the echoing thuum.
"This one would wet himself but he is paralyzed," Sinder whimpered when we burst through the brush to find him standing immobile before the jill.
"Faracas…er,Sinder! What are you doing up here?" I asked.
"This one searched for you and the Reachfolk said you could be found here," he replied. "But Khajiit has found a dragon instead. Most unexpected."
"This kaaj was about to nock an arrow at me," Dezbomiin seethed.
"Sinder apologizes, mighty one," the Khajiit implored. He fell onto his side, flopping onto his back, as stiff as a board. Fara giggled.
I walked to the fallen feline mer. "How have you been?" I chortled.
"This one has traveled Skyrim and even Cyrodill a bit," he conversed as if seated comfortably in a tavern and not immobilized on the ground. "What have you been doing?"
"Oh, hunting, spending time with my best girl, meeting Jill Dovah, and preparing to summon a Daedric Prince."
"Nothing unusual for us, then," he tried to nod.
"Will you release him, Dezbomiin?" I pleaded his case. "He means no harm, simply surprised and reacting as we were trained."
"Paralyze Mortal is a minor Shout;" she replied, "Only two words. It should wear off directly."
"Khajiit has had stiff muscles before, but this is ridiculous…"
True to the dragon's word, Sinder was back to full mobility within minutes.
"Now then," he said, stretching the rigor from his frame, "What Daedric Prince are we summoning again?"
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Nine:
"To understand their role in the cosmic theater, one must first understand who the other players are." Dezbomiin began. "As is often the case, the ceremony that must take place in the longest night is one were the participants are proxies for the spirits they represent."
"I represent one of The Morrigan's aspects, as I said." Fara pointed out.
"As does The Matron."
"Who is the third aspect, then?" I asked.
"The Morrigan herself will be reformed and become one again,"
Fara said. "There is no third aspect but rather a culmination."
"You represent Hircine," Dezbomiin informed me.
"You can likely realize why Bridron represents Lorkh," Fara surmised.
"He had his heart torn out. And he is technically dead, reanimated by The Matron. But that is the part that is not making sense."
"Oh?" Fara's eyebrows raised. "How so?"
"She wasn't chanting anything about Lorkh or any other entity save Hircine. I did not ken all of her words, but the similarities to Hercinial rites in Valenwood is unmistakable."
"She could not raise the dead by the power of a god who is also dead, silly." She laughed, "He represents Lorkh through The Huntking's power."
Something about this still seemed amiss but I put my stray thoughts aside yet again as Dezbomiin took up listing the entities represented.
"Molag Bal desires above all things to expand his domination and realm of Coldharbour to the mortal plane," said the jill. "He has pledged his power to the reunification of The Morrigan in exchange for a sacrifice dedicated to him."
"What sacrifice?" I asked, but was afraid I had guessed the answer.
"The Maiden," Dezbomiin said mournfully. "For generations each Morrigan Maiden has begotten a daughter. She then becomes a Matron. The Matron who bore her is sacrificed to The Void to join with and empower The Morrigan's essence."
"But when the time of womanhood came, I did not bleed," Fara admitted. "My body developed to the point of womanhood but not motherhood. I am the last in the line. So the time of the promises was manifest."
"These fortellings you have been mentioning since I met you." I sighed.
"This Pact was formed with peoples in eras long past, but only The Reachfolk that still practice the ancient ways of when mortals first came to Mundus," Dezbomiin said. "The old ways have not survived unaltered, but they have survived."
"What is today?" I asked.
"Fredas, why?" Fara answered and asked.
"The calendar day," I clarified. "It was the fifth of Mid Year when you found me; Hircine's summoning day, though I missed the significance at the time. I confess I have lost track of the days. How long until the rite takes place?"
"Sun's Height is ending and Last Seed begins," said Dezbomiin. "You have until the thirteenth of Frostfall."
With determination I said: "If I am to know what I am permitted to do in order to save my love, I think it time to consult the source. The source of my involvement anyhap."
"You don't mean…" Fara began.
"I do," I vowed. "I know the rituals of my tribe well enough to speak to him even if his day of summoning has past. In the morning, you shall tattoo the wyrd's woad upon me as we discussed. When the moons rise, I am going to have palaver with Hircine."
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Eight:
"Not only are you a cryptic lot, but a dramatic one as well."
Fara and her jill friend stared at me as if I had lost my wits.
"If the world is coming to an end and there is naught to prevent it, I would rather not know." I asserted. "If there is something that I can do, let me hear of that! This 'Sword Of The Great Queen' chafes in the scabbard."
"Can swords chafe?" Fara asked Dezbomiin, smirking at me playfully.
"You know what I mean," I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Is the end of this cycle somehow going to ressurect Y'ffer …er, Lorkhan?"
"It is merely the omen portending it. You use the Khajiit name for he The Bosmer call Y'ffre." Dezbomiin observed.
"If you saw my infancy, you know my parents believed Elswyre's lore and that our people were not devolved Altmer but an original creation."
"The Thalmor called it heresy," Dezbomiin nodded. "What did The Dominion teach you?"
"That 'Some had already fallen, like the Chimer, who listened to tainted et'Ada, and others, like the Bosmer, had soiled Time's line by taking Mannish wives.' That comes from the Monomyth book I mentioned."
"But now it is I who am confused," Fara told us. "Lorkh is called Lorkhaj by the people of your friend Sinder. What has this 'Y'ffrer' to do with this?"
"The Dead God was made into the very world itself," Dezbomiin informed her. "What some call the 'Earthbones'. Have you not heard Nords cry out 'Shor's Bones' in exclamation? Their version of the tale is what that expression references."
"Y'ffrer was chosen by Nirni, a personification of the natural, material world. Nirni was also loved from afar by Lord Hircine.The oldest tales claim that Nirni was slain by Y'ffer during a bout of madness after he was corrupted by Namiira and that her presence is said to be still felt in the unsullied wilds of Nirn. I was assuming she was the goddess you speak of."
"Namira? She is ruler of the spirit realm but she is not The Morrigan: The Great Queen." Fara said.
"As I was telling you," Dezbomiin put forth,"beings may be merged who were sundered before the wheel of time first spun. Her tale is not told because it predates the Monomyth. Though not necessarily evil, she was of the infinite Void, a daughter of Sithis. Namira is another such daughter who was not sundered. The Great Queen's aspects were divided into other creations which became Daedric Princes in their own right at the beginning of time."
"So not Namira, more like her elder sister?" I asked.
"That is as close to the truth as a joor might comprehend," answered Dezbomiin.
"And I am her sword?" I asked.
"I represent an aspect of The Morrigan." Fara stated. "Have The Sight, like all women of my line and was titled Queenspeaker. You are my Claymorrigan, my sword, because of the aspect I represent. I am The Maiden; the beginning. The Matron is the mid-part, and The Morrigan; the end."
"Now you know why the end nears," Dezbomiin said. "Now on to what must be done…"
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Seven:
Fara, as only I had ever called her, was tearful at Dezbomiin's proclamation of the coming end.
"The end of what?" I demanded of the dragon.
"The cycle of her clan," Dezbomiin told me. "The ending of the Maiden-to-Matron-to-Morrigan lineage."
"That doesn't sound so bad," I sighed in relief."It means F…,er, The Maiden won't become a hagraven like The Matron, right?"
"I will become a Daughter of Coldharbour," Fara said sadly.
I was unsure of what that was but her tone of woe conveyed that it was nothing good. Instead of questioning the particulars, I asked Dezbomiin: "You have seen this? You are the source of these prophecies?"
"*Niid*, Claymorrigan," replied Dezbomiin. "I see things that were and things that only may be. Fate is not immutable and each action taken may alter what the future holds. It was I who saw you as a babe. There was only one path for you and it led here; now. The prophecies you refer to were the Promises of The Old Gods made long ago."
"Why must everyone in these lands speak in cryptic riddles?" I huffed.
My ire was short-lived because this managed to draw a smile and giggle from my Fara. I could not hold onto my anger in the face of that as Dezbomiin leaned her great head down to nuzzle The Maiden.
"Your confusion is understandable, my new friend," Dezbomiin sympathized. "Our Maiden has known naught else but these 'cryptic riddles' as you call them. It is likely difficult for her to conceive of any other way to live. To Reachfolk, there are only two worlds; flesh and spirit, and they do not distinguish between Aedra and Daedra as most cultures do."
"So The Old Gods are not The Divines," I reasoned.
"Are you familiar with The Monomyth?" the dragon asked.
"I have read a book with that title," I said. "It spoke of commonalities between the creation stories of almost all the races of Tamriel."
Dezbomiin nodded. "And do you know what a Dragon Break is?"
"A time paradox or some such," I shrugged. "There is branching in time in which sometimes contradictory events occur and are somehow all still true at once."
"Very good," the she-dragon told me. "Imagine then how much more profound the branches of such events were before linear time began. All that the *joor* refer to as Creation Myths occured and are true. And some others of which mortals have never been aware. Certain aspects of powerful entities can possibly come back together. You know the common archetype in the mythologies known as The Missing God or The Dead God?"
"Lorkhan, Lorkhaj, the Moon Beast to the Khajiit. Lorkh, the Spirit of Man, the Mortal Spirit, or the Sower of Flesh to the Reachmen." I took Fara's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Sep to the Redguards. Sheor to the Bretons. Shor to the Nords, and Shezarr to Imperials."
"You are quite learned for one so young," Dezbomiin sounded impressed.
"If I busied myself in study, it was the closest thing I could find to solitude among The Thalmor." I confessed. Then the implications of the Jill's questions dawned on me. "Are you saying…"
"Yes, Claymorrigan. The Dead God could live again. At the expense of your world."
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Six:
By now, reader, you can see that I was in love. As Strange and sudden as it was there is no denying the truth of it. Despite my frequent reminiscences of those summer days, I will not bore you further with their details. It wouldn't likely have the same significance to one who did not live them and live them after knowing neither love or kindness for a dozen years leading up to the experience. I must also confess that it would almost seem to sully their purity, as if these fond memories of mine would be less my own by sharing their intimacies with anyone.
One morning Fara woke me and told me it was time to meet… someone. I attempted to shake off my deep and contented slumber and asked her to repeat herself.
"Huh?" I murmured, "I must meet *Who*-Bow-Mean?"
"*Dezbomiin*," she reiterated. The name sounded odd to my ears, as if there were some power in it I could sense but not touch upon.
Fara made a hand gesture; a tiny dance of her fingers, and then seemed to follow something with her eyes though I saw nothing. "She must be at the Tarnfalls this day."
"What did you just do," I asked, "prophesy were your friend is?"
She chuckled. "A Clairvoyance spell," she told me. "A minor illusion magic. I will paint the wyrd's woad on your face again and it will give you sight to see it."
"You should tattoo it on my face and save the trouble of painting it each day," I offered.
"Tomorrow," she agreed. "But that would take too long just now. Nor do I have the proper tools prepared." With practiced ease, she applied pigments to my face in her usual pattern. Then we set out from our camp and ascended the mountainside along a wide stream's course.
At a point rather high up, waterfalls had carved small bowl-like lakes; one overflowing and cascading to the next below. Fara looked around and said "She is near."
I slipped into one of the pools. The chill of the snowmelt from atop the mountain lent a bracing, refreshing chill to the water that felt good after such a climb in the summer heat.
Fara; my Morrigan Maiden joined me.
After a few minutes, I heard something large making it's way through the foliage. I shushed at Fara and trained my hearing. An elk? Too heavy. A bear? Even larger.
With a supple grace belying it's massiveness, a dragon emerged and began to scratch it's cheeks between a pair of closely grown trees.
"By The Hunt," I gaped, "that's a fecking *dragon*!"
Fara giggled. Dezbomiin, this is my Claymorrigan. Claymorrigan; Dezbomiin."
"Charmed," purred the dragon in a resonant, feminine voice. "Long has the Maiden anticipated you."
Fara and I climbed out of the water and stood near the mid-joints of her wings that doubled as her forelimbs for walking.
"I…I am honored," I managed to tell Dezbomiin.
The great *Jiil* nodded respectfully.
"And now," she intoned,"The End is near…"
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Five:
When we descended the stair, I looked about for my Khajiit companion but did not see him. "Where is Sinder?" I asked The Maiden.
She shrugged but one of the Reachfolk who overheard informed me: "Your hunting beast said it was going to warn some camp of a coming attack. Since we are attacking no one this day, we did not hinder it."
My mind raced at the news. Was the mental conditioning so strong that Sinder was compelled to report to Saudalf? That did not track because The Reachman did not know of the Thalmor's encampment so there was no attack to warn of. But Saudalf did mean to attack the Imperial envoy…
"He defects to The Empire!" I realized.
The Maiden took me by the hand. "I shall take you to the place where I have lived apart and alone ere now," she promised me. "I have made it ready for us."
I still had a legion of questions but had grown weary of interrogating her. I simply allowed her to guide me away from Talonscar Redoubt and up the mountainside towards a treeline. Without my queries, we walked in comfortable silence for a ways before she said; "You bring the tales of mountain lions to mind. They left these parts long ago. It is said the encroachment of men combined with competition from bears, wolves and sabercats caused many to be killed and the rest to seek less contentious hunting grounds."
"Half the time, I don't know what you are talking about," I told her, "and when I do, l don't understand *why* you are saying it."
She smiled. "I think the spirit of the lion is still here. And you have come to channel it. You are smaller than a bear like Bridron or a sabercat like your departed friend. But you are sleek, agile, and most pleasingly symmetrical in form."
"I would have thought you would liken me to a wolf," I offered.
"You were a wolf as a little boy," she asserted. "You have grown to be my little lion man."
You are most pleasingly symmetrical in form yourself," I said, changing the subject.
"I'd hoped you would think so," she giggled. Her laughter was sweeter than birdsong to my pointed ears.
We came to a copse of birch and junipers. She had a camp lain within the island of brush and foliage and beckoned me into her tent. My heart pounded.
"Why do I feel as if we have always known one another?" I felt the need to speak as she removed garments and I followed her lead, stripping to my clout. She wore doeskin undergarments. We sat cross-legged and she anointed my face with pigments, getting me accustomed to her touch.
"Why must you continually question?" She chided. "It was foretold and made known to me since my first memories that you would come to me; prophesized and promised when you were but a babe named Tham by your mother."
I was shocked into silence.
"Tham, which means 'sunrise' because of your eyes; always so bright and golden."
"You ... speak Bosmeris?" I stammered.
"No," she shook her head, "I was told this."
"Unfair," I said to her, "that you know my former name but will not give me yours."
"I have none other than I told you," she insisted. "If you insist I have one, you must give it."
Without hesitation, I said: "Fara. You are Fara."
"What does it mean?" she inquired.
"It means 'beautiful girl', in my tongue," I answered. "No other name would fit you."
The moment stretched out as we gazed into each other's faces and our hands intertwined. "What are promises that…"
She released my hand long enough to cover my mouth. "No more questions today," she ordered, "I have a problem and I need your help with it immediately."
"Anything!" I swore earnestly. "What is the trouble?"
"I can't taste my lips," she smiled coyly.
"Then I must taste them for you, Fara."
And I did.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Four:
The Reachfolk bore the fallen warrior's corpse and escorted Sinder and myself to a place called Talonscar Redoubt.
"You are my Claymorrigan now," the girl who had so infatuated me stated. "I will present you to The Matron and then we shall fulfill our destiny together."
"What is your name?" I asked her.
"I am The Morrigan Maiden," she responded. "I am about to present you to The Morrigan Matron, as I said."
"I don't understand this," I told her. "Who, or what, is this 'Morrigan' you speak of?"
"The Goddess, of course," she answered patiently; as if to a child. "She is the deity of our clan. The Matron is about to fulfill Bridron's destiny and that is the last phase until the harvest moons."
"But…I killed Bridron," I reminded her.
"Yes," she shrugged. "So you did. As was foretold."
As if all had been satisfactorily explained, she followed the bearers of the fallen Bridron up stone stairs and beckoned me to follow.
There were scores of stone steps. The morning sun was well risen by the time we had followed the corpse's carriers to the pinnacle where the body was placed on a stone table and those who had borne it made a quick withdrawal back to the stairs.
A nearby rattle in the brush heralded a new arrival. If The Maiden was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, the scales were now balanced by the hideousness of her Matron.
It is not only that she had the visage of a withered crone. Her hands were literally claws and her tridactyl feet indistinguishable from those of some great, black bird. She was attended by two young Reachmaidens. One of the girls bore a primitive-looking sewing kit while the other carried a wooden bowl with some sort of tuberous plant bulb in water.
"This is he?" The Matron squawked.
"It is, mother," The Maiden confirmed.
"Unexpected," clucked the crone.
"The portents decreed that The Last Claymorrigan would be no Reachman," my Maiden reminded her.
"He is no *man* at all," sneered The Matron. "He is a mer. He does not know the old ways."
"He will fulfill the promise of The Hunt Lord," The Maiden countered. "If you doubt this, recast the bones and see."
The Hagraven waved a claw dismissively. "We are all bound by the promises. See you do not forget this yourself, my too-bold daughter. I have sacred work I must attend to. You and your paramour may stay so you may witness the power of the old ways."
As if we were no longer any consequence to her, this Hagraven Matron moved to fallen Bridron and, with a demon's strength, pulled on the arrow shafts in his chest and plucked his heart out. As the girl with the bowl stepped forward and poured its contents into his chest cavity, The Matron pulled out all the arrows but one. She cast her baleful gaze on me as she began to eat the heart like it was a honey nut treat at a street festival.
Considering the customs of my Valenwood ancestors, such a cannibalistic display held no power to shock me, even if I had not seen the gruesome realities of war up close. So, I merely smirked and seemed to rise in the witch's regard to some degree.
Once she finished her gory repast, she took the sewing tools from the other girl and the pair of attendants withdrew. Then, The Matron stitched Bridron's chest closed around the thorny plant bulb. She muttered arcane rites under her breath as she did so and afterward circled the table, waving her claw-hands in eldritch passes. To my astonishment, Bridron rose from the table on his own accord; some form of life or undeath now instilled in his powerful form.
"Bridron," I greeted him, "No hard feelings, I hope."
"Feelings?" He replied. "No."
"We are done here," The Maiden said, lying her hand upon my shoulder.
"Yes," The Matron crooned. "You shall see my new Briarheart again in good time, Claymorrigan." I almost questioned the implications in her tone but the desire to be out of her presence won out.
"The time until the harvest moons is ours, as I said" The Maiden reiterated. *Come, Claymorrigan mine; let us make the fullest of it."
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Three:
Sinder and I showed the encircling figures out open palms. I was calculating which targets would be best to drop in order to break the circle. The Thalmor had built up on my natural archery skills and combined them with stealth. I was able to draw and fire as a continuous act by my parents. The Thalmor had honed this to firing multiple shafts simultaneously and intimate familiarity with vital spots to place them in an opponent's anatomy. If these Forsworn were mortal, I could possibly fell then all before any could reach Sinder and I. But they were not closing in and seemed as perplexed by us as we were of them.
When we had spotted them from the ridge earlier, The Wild Hunt had come to mind. Some of the masculine figures had shillouettes reminiscent of Hircine, resonating with the chord struck when Sinder had asked for my Bosmeri name and I momentarily had recalled my childhood. Hircine was known to lead what was known as a wild hunt. The same term was applied when Wood Elves invoked a final option in times of dire peril and became shifting, nigh-unstoppable beasts. But this band was neither. Sinder's nostrils scanned the breeze.
"Bretons," he whispered to me.
It was the year 145 of the Fourth Era. The politics were beyond field agents such as Sinder and I but, from what I understand, the Empire, spread thin with war against the superior forces of The Aldmeri Dominion, had been expelled from the region of Skyrim known as The Reach. The Reachmen had petitioned The Empire to recognize their sovereignty, but Titus Meade II and his Empire were a bit preoccupied at that moment. To my Thalmor masters, this was a perfect opportunity to gain yet another foothold to strike at The Empire of men from. If this unrest could cut Cyrodill off from their Nord reinforcements and possibly gain for The Dominion this Reach region, so much the better. They were quite willing to parley with the occupiers of Markarth. Cerum Saudalf led my special forces team to intercept an Imperial envoy and its escorts. Having spotted this unknown band during our reconnaissance of the Imperials, we tailed them into ambush. Or had we?
The silence stretched on uncomfortably. Weren't Reachmen of Breton ancestry? Was Forsworn how the rebels of the Reach called themselves? All our briefings had focused on Imperials and their Nordic vassals. Sinder and I were operating blind. This band appeared barbaric by Altmer standards but, again, I was reminded of what had once been home. My conditioning from over a decade of torture and indoctrination began to teeter.
"Is this forseen, Queenspeaker?" asked a burly warrior. They spoke the Tamerelic language but I still didn't understand.
"Perhaps, Bridron," answered the most beautiful female I had yet beheld as she stepped forward.
Perhaps it was the time of year (Summer Solstice) or perhaps the glow lent her in the gloaming. Perhaps Sinder's unintentional prodding of buried memories combined with the wilderness aspects of these Forsworn clad in hide, bone and feathers. Perhaps it was my still young age, burgeoning into adulthood. Make your own choice; all that matters is that I was deeply smitten and any chance I would nock an arrow against her was immediately nonexistent.
"Speak if you were consecrated to The Lord Of The Hunt at birth; to He you would call Hircine," she commanded.
"I was!" I was compelled to answer after a moment's realization that this was precisely the case.
"Then we have come for you," she stated.
"But, Morrigan, er, Queenspeaker," objected the warrior, "This is but a wisp of an elf and his hunting beast!"
"You doubt the prophecy?" She retorted. "The Matron bade us come to this point on the river at this designated time and, no sooner than we arrive, he appears. If it is not who we seek, dispatch and disprove him in the name of The Maiden, The Matron, and The Morrigan."
"With relish," he leered and strode at me. He wore the antlered headdress, bore a facsimile of a sword crafted from wood and bone, and was half again my size. The gathered circle watched impassively. It was to be one on one. All I had was a hunting bow, a quiver of arrows and a dagger.
"In The Names!" He shouted as he swung his weapon. I instinctively parried with my bow as I drew the dagger. I expected to swat his cut aside and end the fight with a dagger stroke at the opening then provided. But the Forsworn Sword belied its primitive appearance and cleaved my bow easily. I was forced to turn the attack aside with the dagger instead. The strength behind his blow was barely turned aside at the cost of the dagger being knocked from my grasp. He raised his arms and readied an overhead strike to cleave me in twain.
Unfortunately for mighty Bridron, I was quicker. My hand flashed to my quiver and I pierced his heart with a handful of arrows. He clutched at the cluster of shafts and fell dead upon the rocky riverbank.
"Behold our new Claymorrigan," the beauty proclaimed. "The new Sword Of The Great Queen."
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll Two:
"Do you have a name?" my Khajiit partner whispered. "Aside from 'Canvaroth', this one means."
"I *am* Canvaroth," I answered in my own whisper. "You are Fanacas. What other names do we need?"
It was the waning hours of darkness. We were lying in our bellies upon a ridge overlooking an Imperial encampment. We spoke under our breath so as not to wake the sleeping soldiers.
"Those are not our names," he persisted. "Canvaroth means 'scout'. That is your function, not your name. The Dominion call khajiit Fanacas or 'white'. That is khajiit's fur color. These are not names, they are labels as if for tools in a smithy."
"We *are* their tools," I droned in monotone. "Their *weapons* to be more precise. I have been trained as a sniper and assassin as long as I care to remember."
"But what of that which you do not care to remember?" chided the one I knew as Fanacas. "Such as your name?"
I coldly met his gaze. "The name my parents gave me has not been spoken since they were put to the sword. I will not hear it spoken again until they greet me beyond the veil."
"It is not that you don't care to remember," he smiled sadly. "It is that you care too much to do so."
"Be silent," I growled, which he promptly ignored.
"This one is named Sinder," he said mildly. "Khajiit would have you know this in case he falls in battle."
Part of me felt ashamed of snapping at him but I seldom listened to that part in those days. "Sender of what?"
He chuckled. "Just Sinder. This one was conscripted into the army of The Dominion because he achieved mastery of Vrin Thak."
"Aren't you a bit young for that?" I was about to ask but fell silent at a faint sound behind us. Fanacas; or Sinder as I now knew him, heard it as well. A small force of warriors was moving along the riverbank that footed the ridge we lay upon. To their credit, the force moved stealthily enough that the Imperial Sentries had not noticed it any more than they had detected Sinder and I. What little could be seen by the waning light of the moons revealed what appeared to be monstrous creatures; antlered or feathered or both. We expected to see them circle our position and converge on the Imperials but they made their way downriver.
Sinder and I shared a gaze. If the creatures simply followed the river's course, they would bypass the cold base-camp we had embarked from. But if they deviated only a few hundred yards northeast, the camp full of Thalmor and Dominion troops would be discovered, resting in anticipation of their dawn ambush of the Imperials.
We were a few leagues from a city called Markarth far behind the enemy lines of what was being called The Great War. A local uprising had wrested the walled settlement from Imperial control. The Thalmor party of The Aldmeri Dominion saw this as an opportunity to divide our enemies from within their own borders and foster dissent. But we were not to openly support the rebels. If our lean strike force was discovered, Somerset would deny all knowledge. We would be 'burned' in the military parlance. The force was loyal to Saudalf (who we called "Sod-Off" behind his back) the Thalmor who had burned my mother's head twelve years past. Saudalf was one of Lord Naarifin's personal entourage and a major player in something they called The Culling. He was also at the camp awaiting a report from "Fanacas" and myself. We slipped in behind the mysterious group and tailed them.
About a half-mile downstream, we rounded a bend in the river. We should have seen the band up ahead what we had judged a safe distance to follow from. There was nothing. Then they rose from concealment encircling us.
"The Reach belongs to The Forsworn!" I heard one say.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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FORGING THE SWORD OF THE GREAT QUEEN 📜 Scroll One:
I gazed at them through the bars of my cage with what I thought was pure hatred. I had yet to learn what true hate was, though my lessons were about to begin.
One looked like a distorted male of my kind; too tall, stretched and gold skinned. The other, taller still, looked as if he'd been carved from obsidian painted with blood and bore horns upon his head. I could not fathom their words. In my few years on Nirn I had learned no other languages but that of my people; The Bosmer, called Wood Elves by outsiders.
I could likely have slipped through the bars of my cage, but where would I go? I was from a small tribe on the fringes of Valenwood. We were dubbed at least heterodox by some, heretical by others. When golden elves in their golden armor came in numbers to wipe us out, none stood by us. Now I was the last and this pair seemed to be debating my fate. If I could manage The Change I might be able to defeat these two. But I had reverted too recently from the vain attempt to protect my village and the moons were not on my side.
My father believed that The Tree Sap People had lost their way and forgotten our true origins. He held with our desert neighbors, the Khajiit, and called Green Pact Fundamentalists "hairfoot kissers". I didn't know what that meant and it no longer mattered. The Aldmeri Dominion had come and the faith of my father was one they would not abide.
If I read their tones and inflections correctly, the horned one advocated my death while the gold one held a different notion. They seemed to come to an accord and stepped back from the bars. A burning brazier, the chamber's only light, now separated them from me. At a call from the one I later learned was an Altmer I heard chains being drawn and the bars were lifted away. On the other side of the brazier, the other, a Dremora, ended a question with a word I somewhat recognized: "werewolf".
The Altmer made a reply then tossed an object into the brazier as if to punctuate the statement.
I looked into the flames and saw the severed head of my mother gazing back at me.
This was their "cure" for me. By placing the head of the one who "cursed" me into this eldritch fire, the beast spirit was drawn from me. I had indeed taken the wolfblood from my mother while in her womb. She, my father and my tribe had revered Hircine, Father Of Man-Beasts and Lord Of The Hunt. I had never known another way and now paid along with my kin for such reverence.
A lupine ghost erupted from the flames that rendered Mother's beautiful face to ashes. The smell of her lustrous hair burning filled my nostrils and the hate I spoke of in the beginning filled my heart.
The Thalmor tossed an elven dagger to me. Too incensed to question matters, I strode towards him and the Dremora but found my way blocked by the ghost wolf. Snatching me in it's jaws, it shook me like a skeever and hurled me through the air even further from the spectating pair. Part of me welcomed death at the fangs of this final thing to come from my mother. But the sneering visages of my captors and her killers mocked me. When the beast leapt for me, I ducked beneath while slashing up with the Thalmor's dagger, nearly a short sword in my tiny hands. It would have spilled it's guts upon me if it had contained any but, instead, the wolf apparition howled in agony as it faded from existence. Now on top of being mangled and mauled in it's jaws, I felt something pass from me. A stillness and a void entirely foreign to my five years of experience washed over me. In more than one form of shock, I crumpled to the stones. Through dimming slits I saw the Altmer clap and The Dremora scowl. Then I saw no more for some time.
My lessons in hate had only commenced.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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