» Tue Dec 11, 2012 12:36 am Ralen Hlaalo blinked, spat his tobacco into a nearby limeware flask, and looked down at his son Llondryn, a young lad of only eight. Like his father, Llondryn had locks of blood-red hair that even Lady Ayem would covet, and a face set into a near-permanent scowl (as is the proper way for any self-respecting Dunmer to compose himself). He'd be a handsome enough mer some day, once his brow-ridges grew in fully, although he was far too inquisitive for his own good. Ralen mused on whether or not he had married into the wrong Great House.
One day, once Llondryn was older, he'd probably set his sights on Indoril or Telvanni. Although it was true that they appreciated a scholarly mind far more than House Hlaalu, Ralen was concerned that it could cause some friction surrounding his seat on the Council. In his youth, Ralen himself had courted a Telvanni, although he broke things off with Irna once it became apparent just how dangerous life in Sadrith Mora could be. The last thing he had wanted was to end up dead for the sake of politics.
"I'm sorry, could you say that again?" asked Ralen.
"I said father", repeated Llondryn, becoming increasingly fed up with his father's penchant for daydreaming mid-conversation, "why is it that we sing the March of the Doom Drum every year on the third of Sun's Dusk?"
"Well, you know, boy. Because of Lorkhan."
Llondryn rolled his eyes. "I know that father, but I was talking to Todwen, and she says that her family sings Satakal the Worldskin every year at the same time as us!"
"And," continued Llondryn, emphasizing the word as all children do, when they believe they've discovered something no-one else knows about, "she says today's called the Serpent's Dance."
Ralen considered the best way to break the news to his son. All children discovered the truth eventually, that Lorkhan was but one of the trickster god's many names, and that all the peoples of Tamriel acknowledged Him in their own way.
"Well, you see, boy, everybody has their own gods. We've got the Anticipations- you know about them. Remember when I took you on the silt strider to Vivec city?"
Llondryn nodded.
"But you see," continued Ralen, "everybody knows that Lorkhan is important, and so everybody worships him in their own way. The Raga, like your little friend Todwen, call him Sep. The Cyrodiils call him Shezarr, and sing his praises in Shezarr's Song. Even those yellow-haired Nord s'wits-" Ralen stopped himself here and spat on the ground in the traditional way, before uttering a brief a curse on the bloodline of Jorunn the Skald-King, "even the Nords worship Lorkhan, although they call him Shor and sing the Song of the Dragonborn every year. Do you understand?"
Llondryn didn't. How could Lorkhan be the same god, if every race had their own name for Him? Llondryn decided that his father really didn't understand it any better than him and was just making it up as he went along, as advlts tend to do, but decided that since he wasn't likely to get any more information out of Ralen, well, he might as well just smile and nod.
"Good boy", said Ralen warmly. "Now clean out this flask, would you? It's full of spit and tobacco. Probably that slave again. Useless lizards."
Your Speech skill has increased by 1.
