» Wed Jul 28, 2010 10:15 am
This is what I've been working on for awhile.
Note of warning, any names in here that may be from the Elder Scrolls aren't the same.
Chapter 1: The Death of King Aratan
Dorlas stood outside the door with his mother, Celebrain standing by him. He was taller than the average Imperial, and had the blonde hair and blue eyes more commonly associated with a Breton. His mother taller than average, with golden hair and brighter eyes. The aging of her face was clearer than ever, yet she had retained her beauty. They both waited anxiously, Dorlas pacing backward and forward. Celebrain simply sat; a look of hopelessness on her face.
Suddenly, the door opened. Dorlas stopped pacing and wheeled around. Celebrain simply raised her head. An aged healer stepped out of the room.
“Is he...” began Dorlas, but he was unable to finish his sentence.
For a moment, the healer said nothing. Celebrain hung her head.
“I’m sorry my lord.” the healer said “He has passed into the hall of the ancestors. May the spirits guide him.”
Dorlas reeled back in pain. His mother remained silent. He walked through the door and entered the room of his father. He lay in a white robe, laced with gold, and wore a peaceful expression as though asleep. But his father’s eyes would never open again. The consequences of his death were strange. He had fallen ill two weeks previous of a mysterious disease that’s origins were unknown. It was the belief that it was the work of the Demon Prince of Helcaraxe, but to the Imperials, he was simply known as the enemy. Dorlas did not believe them at first, but given the nature of the illness, thought that they may hold some truth. Whether curse or not, one thing was for sure, King Aratan II was dead.
“Father.” said Dorlas, able to look at him no longer. His eyes were drawn to his father’s mighty blade nearby.
“You are not ready to bare that blade.” said Celebrain, who had just stepped through the door. “Nor is it ready to be borne by you.”
“A sword I have mother, and I doubt I will ever be ready to bare it.” replied Dorlas.
But his mother, who possessed the gift of foresight said “One day, you will bare that sword, and you will have the armies of many races behind you.”
Dorlas was unsure how to take these words. His mother was wise; there was no doubt about it, but the things she saw were anything but clear. Only she really knew what her visions meant, and try as she might to explain them to him, Dorlas was unable to understand.
His father’s death could not have come at a worse time. The Kingdoms of Men, Vardenfell included, had been attacked in what was called the Dragon War, when a mighty host of dragons had emerged from Uruloki, and razed the world around them. For many years this war had lasted between men and Dragons, and the Northern Kingdom of Narda had almost been wiped out and its armies crushed until Aratan II had slain the Dragon leader with the very blade Dorlas now gazed at. Despite the victory, the once abundant wealth and strength at arms had never fully recovered. And now, after twenty five years of peace, Helcaraxe had began to thunder, and the dark clouds of smoke and fire had risen again. Something was at work in Helcaraxe, and the orcs’ raids had turned into calculated conquest. With evil stirring, many had looked to King Aratan’s guidance, and ambassadors, emissaries, nobles and other representatives had gathered to his side upon hearing of his ailment. Now he was dead, and Vardenfell was without a leader.
Dorlas watched as Celebrain gently kissed her husband, and then said “Farewell Aratan, my king and my lover. Though your death came too soon, may you live on in the halls of your fathers and guide us as we wander this world without you.”
She then turned to Dorlas.
“We should go and inform the council that King Aratan has died.”
Dorlas nodded his head and followed his mother, holding her hand and hoping that she would never let go.