Prologue: The Master's Orders



The cool night wind blew through Tholer Saryoni's hair as he stood before the door to the palace of Vivec. His heavy breathing was the only sound in the calm night air. A flash in the troughs of water ringing the palace drew his vision, breaking his concentration on the door that stood in front of him. Annoyed, he whipped his head towards the disturbance, but saw naught but the sparkling reflections of the purple star belts lining the sky. He turned back toward the door. I can do this, he thought to himself. I have nothing to fear? Similar thoughts wound their way through his mind, though he could not convince himself of this. He grimaced, and finally said the words that would untangle the magickal binds that held the door closed. "A mitta Adonai Emero," he spoke softly into the air, his breath forming a yellowish mist that floated swiftly to the door, encasing it in an arcane embrace. The door glowed briefly, and he entered.

Vivec floated in a meditational position above a platform in the center of the room. Directly across the room from Tholer stood a podium holding three parchment sheaves. He had been in this room many times before, enough to know the titles of the papers. The first was entitled, "The Threat That Lord Nerevar Poses to the Temple," the second, "Prevention of Destruction," and the third, "His Holy Plan." The patriarch knew not what was contained within the pamphlets, only that he did not want to be the one to read them.

"Why are you here, my servant?" Vivec's voice cut through the chilling air, His voice as smooth as a well-used staff. "Did I not instruct you to only return with news of the Neravarine?" The god slowly lowered himself to the ground, letting his legs fall to catch himself on the marble floor.

Tholer gulped. "Y?Y-yes my L-lord. I h-have news. Th?there are rumors that the Nerevarine has r-returned. S-someone from the Urshilaku Ashlander c-camp told a merchant th-that someone has been n-named friend of the tribe and is w-working with the wisewoman to b-be proclaimed Neravarine,"

Vivec took a deep breath, and turned to face his priest. "Then why are you here?" He asked, his voice devoid of the melodic calm.

"M? m-my L-lord?"

The man-god flashed to being but two feet away from Saryoni. "You have your orders. There is no reason for you to be disturbing my peace." His voice had lost all semblance of serenity, and was beginning to take on a malevolent tone.

Tholer cringed away from the god. "But, I'm not s-sure I understand."

Vivec's eyes began to blaze with a demonic fire. "I told you, when there is any news of the existence the Nerevarine, you are to take your Ordinators, track him down, and kill him! AND YOU ARE NOT TO QUESTION MY WORD!" He added as Tholer opened his mouth to speak. Vivec raised his arm, pointed to the door, and commanded, "Go! NOW!" as four bolts of lightning shot from his fingertips and struck the corners of the door. Tholer took one last glimpse at his Master's face, and fled from the room.

A Vivec inclusive Fan Fic :drool: Finally!

That aside, I would like to get a few spelling and grammar issues taken care of:
magickal -> magical
sheafs -> sheaves
Vivecs -> Vivec's

Grammar poking aside, you have laid bare the entire plot in one fell swoop. Zero mystery and we know exactly what is going to happen. Now all you need to do is tell us whether the Nerevarine lives or dies, and how. Unless, of course, you intend to offer up some plot twists, which are always welcome.

Other than that, can't really see any problems. Nice writing, overall. I won't go into the specifics, but you did well. I await further detail so we may look at the plot a bit more, and thanks for writing. I look forward to more and welcome back to the Tes Fan Fiction ^_^

EDIT: Excellent. I won't contend you on magical versus magickal, or magic versus magicka. I heard somewhere that the rule of thumb is that magic refers to the casting of spells and spells having already been cast, while magicka is the energy reserves associated with magic. But I could be wrong :shrug:

Thanks for the fast response.

EDIT AGAIN:
Hmm, nope. Just MS Word, it seems. Oh well, I got rid of my comment, thanks.

Well, I used 'magickal' to refer the use of the word 'magicka' as magical power. As you can see, I'm using Ayleid words as words of magic. I knew something didn't sound right about 'sheafs'... Anyway, this isn't exactly the plot. It has to do with the plot, but the actual plot is more extensive than just the hunting of the Nerevarine. It only shows one space between those two words when I look, so it must be something wrong with your browser, or something.

V2, do you want me to post my comments here. I gladly will.

Doesn't really make a difference, as I've already seen them, unless you want to post them again. Go ahead.

Chapter I: An Unlikely Reunion




The light grating sound of a lute sauntered through the air, performing a mystical dance with the chirps of a wooden flute. The short, cheerful notes were clearly audible over the din of pvssyr in The Eight Plates. Heceril slipped through the intricately carved wooden door, his fingers sliding smoothly along the brown whorls, pausing only to gain him a firm hold along the doorframe. His tall, boyish face swiveled right and left, checking for any presence in the entryway. Seeing none, he launched himself through the door, into a melody of music, people, and the sweet smell of fine wine.

In his hurry to gain asylum from the biting winter chill, Heceril nearly collided with a High Elf. Heceril himself was a High Elf, born and raised in Valenwood, his parents being childish explorers. He had inherited much of his father's thirst for adventure, and quite a bit of his mother's love of simple fun. The prime example of a High Elf, his tall face glows with the yellow of the morning sun; the only mars to his elegant face are his sunken cheeks. His face belied his age, however; though 43 years old, he looked no more than 20.

Heceril quickly apologized for his carelessness. The other High Elf merely looked at him with disgust, and gestured for Heceril to move away. Clearly a mage, Heceril thought, from the looks of him. And damned if I've ever met someone with such a bad attitude who wasn't one. The Altmer did happen to be wearing a plain brown robe, and was carrying a silver staff, intricately carved in the shape of a snake. However, this fit the description of nearly everyone who went on a pilgrimage to the Fields of Kummu; not that Heceril knew much about the Temple or even gave a rat's ass. To him, they were just a bunch of lunatics, placing their trust in gods who didn't care enough about their worshipers to even show themselves once in a century. The Daedra, now there were the true miracle workers. Heceril did not worship any one in particular, but rather all as a whole. Many a shrine go-er had criticized his view of such things, but he was quite content to continue his ways.

Finally being in warmth, Heceril noticed that he was terribly thirsty from his walk in the dry, gnawing wind. He found a seat at the bar, between a muscular Imperial garbed in dazzlingly polished steel armor(A Legion type, without mistake) and a young looking Dunmer woman with long hair as dark as a raven's feather draqed behind her shoulders. The way she sat, with her feet laying sideways atop the highest bar on the stool, and her chest drooped over her drink was very familiar to him, though he could not place it. There were only four Dunmer he had ever gotten to know well enough that their behavior would register with him, and two of them were fellow members of the Fighter's Guild, Valenwood division.

The thought of who she might be dug deep into the pit of his heart. His mind's logic was irrefutable; it couldn't possibly be who he thought she was. He was so intent upon his thoughts that he did not notice the barkeeper staring at him.

Hellooo? Anybody there? Don't have all day, you know?

The words erupted in his head with force enough to make him exclaim and give him an intense headache, one that caused his entire brain to throb continuously. He looked around quickly to see the bartender staring at him with wide eyes, and he realized he must have done something abnormal.

"What was that?" He asked, desperately attempting to recover his conscious mind.

"Umm? I asked what you would like to drink, sir," the young barkeeper replied, still keeping his distance.

Heceril thought for a mere second and replied "Sujamma, please." The barkeep quickly turned away and hurried into the storeroom, from which he quickly emerged with the wine.

"Forty drakes, sir." The barkeeper said, still staying five feet away from Heceril.

Heceril was shocked by the price and did not hesitate to reply, "That is exceedingly overpriced. What have you to say to 30?" Heceril asked, hoping that the barkeeper was young enough to be inexperienced with haggling.

The barkeeper looked unsure, but then silently agreed with a nod of his head, swiping the money away as it was placed on the table.

Left alone to think again, Heceril deliberated his arrival in Vvardenfell and subsequent affairs on the piece of rock with the occasional patch of grass or swamp on which he found himself. For some unknown reason that he was probably never to be found worthy enough to hear, the Emperor(Mephala bless his soul) had decided to release him to the wild lands of Morrowind, on the condition that he be enlisted into the Blades and basically decipher history for his Skooma-addicted Spymaster, Caius Cosades. What he believed the Emperor didn't know, however, was that this humble Altmer Spellsword was actually the reincarnation of Saint Nerevar. Or at least he had convinced himself of this, no matter what the wisewoman of the Urshilaku thought. According to her, he was not the Nerevarine, though he 'may become the Nerevarine,' as if that made any sense at all. The old hag obviously did not understand that he can't suddenly become the reincarnation of some war hero, he must be born it. It just showed what a whimsical education was to be had without civilization.

Chuckling to himself, the swordsman's thoughts finally returned to the woman sitting next to him. He decided to take the chance, knowing that if he was right, he was certain to be quite joyful, and if he was wrong, it could not harm him.

"Aralin?" He said softly, his ears ringing at the sound of her name.

The Dark Elf whipped her head to look straight at him, and asked incredulously, "How do you know my name?"