Author's Note: I would like to start off by thanking Ambrose51 for all his help in proofing that he's done and will do by the end of this story. I don't know what I'd do without him and his skill at finding typos or invalid punctuation.

Also, I am writing this in the style of an actual novel so I've included an introduction. Most of you however will not have to read it as you are already acquainted with The Elder Scrolls. This is also being copied directly from MS Word so there might be a few formatting problems due to the way the forum reformats text. Just bare with me in that regard and I'll try to sort out any kinks that appear.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Dragon and the Three

An Elder Scrolls Tale

By:

A.M. Sapp

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction

I would like to begin by thanking you for devoting your time to reading this construction of my imagination. I have been planning a tale on this scale for quite some time, though I never found the inspiration to sit down and put pen to paper. Finally the time has come to begin constructing this idea that has been brewing in the back of my mind for years.

This tale will follow the lives of many characters wrapped up in events that will forever change the face of Tamriel, a place I’m sure you are familiar with. However, I will provide a brief introduction to those of you who are less familiar with the wondrous land of Tamriel.

To begin with the majority of this story will take place in the Imperial Province of Morrowind, the homeland of the Dunmer (called the Dark Elves by other races). Morrowind is situated on the eastern coast of Tamriel, bordering Skyrim to the west, Argonia (Black Marsh) to the south, and Cyrodiil, the Imperial Province, to the southwest. Morrowind appears almost as an alien world. It is inhabited by species of insects that tower over even the most giant mushroom trees, another defining feature in the land of the Dunmer, floating creatures that look like the combination of a blimp and an octopus, and much more.

Its animal and plant life isn’t its only defining feature. The people inhabiting this far eastern land are just as exotic as the land itself. Called the Dark Elves by other races, the Dunmer are the natives of this strange and alien land. Characterized by their ash colored skin, crimson eyes, abrasive personalities, and a tendency to be quite xenophobic, they aren’t the friendliest of people.

Dunmer society, traditionally, has been a sort of kratocracy (a form of aristocracy where rule is shared by the strong and cunning), wherein the remaining five Great Houses (Hlaalu, Redoran, Indoril, Telvanni, and Dres) have each been ruled by their own “House Council” consisting of nobility and those who have shoehorned themselves into positions of leadership through means other than birth. While the House is officially ruled by the House Patron and the Council, many other influential individuals have a say is what goes on. This is most evident in House Hlaalu where many rich plantation owners, while not members of the council, have a say in how things are run.

In the current time Morrowind is a province of the Septim Empire and is ruled over by a monarch put in place by said empire, currently King Hlaalu Helseth (in Dunmeri Tradition one’s house name goes before their own name with their surname following. Though, some omit their surname when not needed). Under the King, Morrowind is then divided into six districts, Velothis, Narsis, Mournhold, Deshaan, Telvannis, and Vvardenfell, which are governed by Imperial Dukes. However, in an attempt to retain some Dunmeri heritage, the House Councils have remained as well as the Grand Council, a council of representatives from each Great House.

Another point of great importance in the land of Morrowind is religion. Traditionally the Dunmer worshiped their ancestors and the three good Daedra, Boethia, Mephala, and Azura. However, at that time they were still the Chimer, a golden skinned religious sect of the Aldmeri. In the War of the First Council three of Chimeri generals, Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil, acquired the tools of Kagrenac, a Dwemer (Dwarven) architect and engineer bent on using the heart of Lorkhan (a fallen god), to gain divinity. They used these tools against the council of their leader, Nerevar Mora of House Indoril (formally called Indoril Nerevar). Nerevar betrayed by his three companions and killed. Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil then used the tools to grant themselves divine powers. Azura was not pleased by their actions and cursed the Chimer for their treachery. Their beautiful golden skin faded to ash and their eyes turned the color of blood. From that moment on they have been known as the Dunmer. It is at this time that the transition of religious beliefs within the Dunmeri faith happened. When the transformed Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil emerged from Red Mountain and destroyed the enemies of the Chimer they were idolized and worshiped as living gods and from then on jointly called Almsivi. This was the birth of the Tribunal Temple.

This story revolves around these two key characteristics of Morrowind: the struggle for supremacy in both religion and politics between the Dunmer and Imperials. I hope to capture this grand battle of ideals in this story for your enjoyment so sit back and enjoy a tale of The Dragon and the Three.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prologue

The funeral drums beat a somber tone as the procession slowly made its way through the jade streets of Mournhold. The day was dark and carried a deathly gloom, a fitting day as ever for the death of a king. Eight honor guards clad in the crimson plate of the Royal Guard carried him through the city, behind them fifty more of their order. His palanquin was gilded in gold and encrusted with gems of all shapes and sizes, as was the crown that sat nestled upon his cold grey brow. Though, no matter the luster or brilliance of each embellishment, they could not lift the deathly pallor of the city. Like a star hidden behind a cloud, their beauty was not seen. The city was silent, save for the light pitter patter of rain and the rhythmic booming of guarskin drums, a stark contrast to the usual ruckus; it was unnerving. Conspiracy was spreading, plots were being conceived, and murder was on the tongue of every citizen. The King was dead.

Alyn Valeron watched the dead King pass by from the slits in his crimson helmet, listened as the rain tapped at the steel, chiding him, asking him why with each plink. Because it was the right thing to do, it was time. He gripped his spear a tighter with a mailed hand. Not much longer and I’ll be out of this damned rain. His fingers were beginning to chill. He had been one of the few hundred tasked with keeping the crowd at bay during the funeral. Like they needed to be kept back in the first place, they look almost as dead as the King. The rain had driven everyone back to the safety of awnings or roofed plazas, and those that couldn’t fit stood by silently, watching. Alyn could feel their eyes as they watched the body of King Llethan pass. Some were mournful and glassy with tears, others were disappointed, and some were blank, blank and cold. Five more minutes and this will be over with. Alyn had things to do, people to see, important people.

After the procession passed through the towering, ornate doors and into the Plaza Brindisi Dorom, Alyn made his way through the grand, tiled streets of the city and back to the barracks, eager to rid himself of his cumbersome armor. Varvur had made it clear to come unarmed and unarmored. Arriving in uniform would draw too much attention, especially in the current situation.

To his delight the barracks were almost empty. Only a few of his fellow guardsmen were lying about on their beds, ones recovering from the night’s watch. Alyn made sure to pick his most modest of attire, a blue linen tunic with dark green trousers and a grey cloak to keep the rain off. Two of his brothers in arms were timidly spooning up bowls of soup as he passed the dining table at the far end of the barracks.

“Alyn, come and sup with us,” the voice came from Travyn, a burly Dunmer with a snaking tattoo across the left side of his face. Travyn was formidable sight in or out of armor. His arms looked as though they could crush the life from you in seconds. Though, that was all it was, a sight. Travyn was as mean as a scrib. To his right was Decius Andradas, a young Imperial with a reputation as a fierce fighter. He was a legionnaire before the guard got ahold of him.

“Myrla,” a young Dunmer girl poked her head out from the kitchens, “Get Alyn some soup will ya, he looks a bit pale.” She nodded and disappeared through the curtained door. “You alright, Alyn? You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Myrla appeared with a bowl of soup and a half a loaf of bread. She was a pretty girl, lithe in build and fair haired. Alyn accepted the soup with a courteous nod, it had been a long, wet day and some warm food was appreciated.

“It’s just this whole thing with the King,” he dipped a piece of bread into the bowl and let it soak up the broth, “I had watch when he was found dead. People are saying it was an assassination, that we didn’t do our job, that I didn’t do my job,” he looked down at his soup and took another spoonful.

“Alyn, the King died a natural death. Let the common folk spread their tales, but don’t think for an instant that it was your fault.” Travyn gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You did your job.” Alyn took a bite from the loaf and looked back down into his bowl. For a second he thought he saw the King looking at him in his reflection. I did what was asked.

By the time he had eaten, Masser and Secunda had risen behind a sheet of dark clouds, their outlines barely visible in the blinding darkness of the night, and the drizzle had turned into a downpour.

Alyn stood in the threshold outside the barracks in the palace courtyard, cursing the weather as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and set off into the night. Even though he knew the streets of Mournhold as well as any other guard, the rain was causing quite a delay. When he came upon the massive bronze doors that lead out from the city proper he found them barred as usual. Four knocks, left door. He thumped a fist against the cold wet bronze four times and waited. His cloak was beginning to soak through now. He could feel a light trickle down his spine. Damn it. Varvur said… The rasp of the bar being withdrawn interrupted his thoughts. Seconds later the mighty door cracked open. A crimson gauntlet, barely illuminated by a covered lantern, waved him through.

“Red door, twelve shacks down on the right. Look for the lamp. You know the word,” the voice was rough and muffled by the rain, but Alyn knew it none the less.

Dalvas was in too? If he knows then who else? He pushed the thought from his mind as he trudged off into the wretched downpour again, chiding himself for not bringing a thicker cloak.

Outside of Mournhold was Almalexia, a massive city of flowing bazaars, extravagant estates, and rundown hovels. The poor district was clung to the eastern wall like a black cancer, a sea of shacks and half buried ruins from the old city. The already muddy roads had turned to rivers with the rains, making Alyn’s trip even more unpleasant. As he sloshed through the filth ridden streets the wind picked up, throwing the hood from his head and pelting his face with stinging beads of water. With another string of curses he pulled the hood back on and turned down the twelfth alley. The lamp was easy to spot as it swung back and forth on an iron rung. It was the only one still waging war against the cold blackness of the night. He quickened his step.

The door was old and the hinges were almost rusted off, but a thin layer of cracked and faded paint could be seen from the light of the lantern. Red. Alyn sighed. All of his work was about to pay off. He knocked three times, a thud replied.

“Bal,” he managed to stutter the word out. Stone…like a stone we will stand for the King, unmoving, unwavering, and vigilant until we weather to nothing. His vows came back to him like a ghost, a phantom of mockery. Stones can shatter. Apprehension seized him in its cold grip. He hesitated, and for a moment he was hell-bent on turning, running as fast as he could away from this place, but he didn’t. I have not shattered. I am a stone for the King, the true King. His clothes were almost soaked through and the wind was chilling him to the bone.

With a click the door swung open. Alyn entered. There was a dim fire burning in the hearth, shedding some light across the one room shack. Standing by the door was a Dunmer in a burgundy tunic.

“Saryn,” Alyn had not expected the lieutenant, “What happened to Varvur? He said he would be here.”

“Varvur got drawn for watch. There wasn’t anything we could do without raising suspicions among the others,” his voice was smooth, convincing, but Saryn had always rubbed Alyn the wrong way. Anyone who was higher in rank rubbed Alyn the wrong way, especially Helseth’s favored lieutenant.

Alyn pulled the cloak from his shoulders and hung it on a peg by the fire. “It’s for the best then,” he tossed a few more sticks on the embers and set about warming his hands. Not long and I’ll be on a boat headed for Seyda Neen with a river of gold flowing from my pockets. Alyn was eager to be rid of this place. “Are all the papers in order? Varvur said I would-“

“Relax, Alyn. The papers have been drawn up and signed by his majesty. You will have your gold and discharge soon enough,” the lieutenant placed his hand on Alyn’s shoulder; the hairs on his neck bristled. “You’ve done fine work. Morrowind will prosper because of you.”

Yes, it was the right thing. He had to go. It wasn’t his to begin with. Alyn wiped the water from his brow. It’s all over. I did my job and now I’ll get my reward. Saryn’s grip tightened. Adrenaline coursed through Alyn’s chest. He tried to turn, but the blade found its mark. Alyn let out a gasp as he sank to his knees, his mouth agape. Why? I did what was asked of me. He promised... A shuddering cough brought the metallic taste of blood to his mouth. Every heartbeat sent a thundering pain through his chest. Varvur said…he said…


“The King thanks you for your service.”

The fire began to dim, and then the world turned black.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elmera

Spring in the Ascadian Isles was paradise. The world had turned into a drug, euphoria for the senses, and Elmera Arenim was intoxicated with it. She rolled about in the golden kanets, breathing in their sweet aroma and drinking in the warmth of the sun’s gaze. Her fine auburn hair was a mess and her dress was askew, but she didn’t care. This was spring. The town strider was chirping his tune and dragonflies of a million colors lit up the bright blue sky like Sentillian fireworks. She could hear the auctioneers in town bazaar, shouting and calling prices, but they were only a whisper to her, an echo from some far off world. Everything but nature was abstract, wrong, and pushed to the back of her mind. This was spring, and she hadn’t a care in the world.

She wished she could jump up into the sky, soar through the clouds and look down at the world, watching the people as they went about their lives, doing what she wanted, going where she pleased. She let her imagination take hold of her, allowed her thoughts to drift off on the cool Ascadian breeze. One moment she was soaring over the twisting mushroom towers to the east, watching the wizards as they read their tomes and practiced their arts, and then she was over the Ashlands, gazing wondrously at the snaking caravans of the nomads as they picked their way through the wastelands. With a blink of her eyes she was gliding above the Deshaan plains, the lush grasses flowing back and forth in the wind like a swirling river of greens and yellows. She watched a pack of durzog stalk their pray from afar, planning their attack. Just as the beasts broke into a sprint, thunder boomed through the sky, rocking the world. Again and again it sounded, bursting the seams of the sky, rending the land asunder in cataclysmic shakes. Every time it thundered through the sky it sounded as the voice of a god. Again it came, shouting its message to the world, shouting…her name?

“Elmera, Elmera Arenim where are you?!” And then she came hurtling down, down from her lofty place among the plush white clouds, down from her throne of flowers, down to Suran and the angry voice of her mother. “Elmera!”

The weight of the world came crashing down onto her chest, she sighed, “Here, mother.” Elmera pushed herself to her feet, brushing the petals from her dress. Another beautiful day turned sour by life. Paradise had turned to home once again.

“Look at you. You’re filthy,” Felyse Arenim, wife to Governor Relas Arenim, was obviously not pleased if the look on her face was anything to go by. Elmera had grown accustomed to contradicting her mother’s stupid ideas of what was proper. It seemed as though she could never retreat far enough to be rid of her mother’s shadow.

“It’s just flowers,” replied Elmera in a halfhearted attempt to turn her mother’s contempt.

She was not convinced. “I’ve told you it is not fitting for a young woman to be prancing about in such a manner.”

“But I-“

“Come now, your father wishes to see you and I will not have you in such disarray,” her mother was adamant; there would be no use in arguing.

Reluctantly the young Elmera followed, brushing the flowers with her fingertips as she passed. Why can’t she just leave me alone? This was spring, a time to be enjoyed, a time for fun, and a time to not care. To her it seemed like that’s all anyone wanted to do, was care. Everyone was caught up in life, a prisoner to its devices. They continued their meager existence, always caught up in what came next. She wanted adventure, to roam the fields, to have fun, to get out of Suran, and most of all to not care.

The Arenim manor was situated on a ridge above Lake Masobi at the far end of town. A four story manse of adequate size within a walled compound, it was the largest home in Suran. The first floor had been converted into a shop run by her father’s cousin, Ravoso Aryon. It was also home to the kitchens and servants’ quarters. Rav, as Elmera liked to call her, was the young girl’s gateway into the unknown. Before opening her shop, Rav had been a caravan guard for the East Empire Company. Over the past few years she had filled young Elmera’s head with accounts of the thousands of places she had been and the wonders she had seen. This no doubt accounted for a fraction of the young girl’s restlessness at home. The second floor housed the master bedroom, the dining room, and her father’s office, the third an exterior patio, and at the top of the tower on the fourth floor was Elmera’s bedroom.

It was a small room, stuffed with books, candles, and other trinkets, but to Elmera it was her haven, her sanctuary. It was her escape from Suran, a place where she didn’t have to care. When there wasn’t fun to be had elsewhere, Elmera was no doubt cuddled in her bed with her nose in a book.

It was here where her mother drug her, invading her world. She was stripped of her soiled clothes and her fine auburn hair was brushed of tangles and petals. She didn’t mind dressing up on occasion, but right now all she wanted to do was run back to her field of flowers and spend the day gazing at the sky, imagining herself soaring amongst the clouds with the birds and dragonflies.

She found her father in his office. It seemed as though it was the only place he stayed nowadays. Relas Arenim was always huddled over some ledger or book of accounts, sliding ebony beads on his abacus and striking lines on a sheet of paper. He was a businessman, and any kind of business in Suran was always about slaves.

Suran was the hub of the slave trade in the Ascadian Isles. They came and went like the tide, a tide of living things. The shallow drafted Dunmeri longships would sail up from the coast and into the lake twice a week, laden with hundreds of slaves. Their chains would clink like a thousand chimes as they were driven onto the docks by whips and spears. Most were beasts, the lizard-like Argonians from the south and the furred Khajiits from the far west. There was always a show to be had when the slaves came in. With every boat there were a few that had the courage to try and make a run for it. The whipping posts where soaked with their blood. Sometimes Elmera wondered why they didn’t chain all the slaves together to keep them from running. One time she even suggested the notion to one of the grizzled slavers as he stood by the docks smoking his pipe. All he did was finger his whip and ask her, “Now where’s the sport in that?”

From the docks they went to the pens on the north side of town next to the auction house, a large building with a wooden platform extending from the side. One by one they were sold off. By the next day only the lame and old were left in the cages. They always disappeared after a few days.

Her father was busy at his ledger when she entered. He turned his head at the sound of her footsteps, setting his quill on the desk.

“Ah, Elmera, I was beginning to wonder where you were,” he said with a smile on his face. Elmera loved her father’s smile. She loved her father period. He was a kind man, and was always happy to see his daughter. “I’m leaving on a trip today. I have some business matters to resolve in Tear.”

“Oh…” Elmera’s tone carried a note of disappointment. Her father was always going on trips. She rarely spent any time with him when he was home, but at least there was the hope of a few moments when he was here. A trip to Tear meant he’d be gone for a month or longer.

Anytime spent with her father was good time to Elmera. He was always letting her do things her mother wouldn’t. From fishing in the lake to hiking within sight of the Daedric ruins of Bal Ur, every moment with her father was treasured.

Relas lifted her chin up with is finger. “I thought you might want to come with me,” his smile widened.

Elmera could not believe what she was hearing. She had never even left Vvardenfell before, and now she was going to Tear. Tear! That meant travelling through the Deshaan plain. She would finally get walk in the sea of swaying grass that she visited in her books and day dreams. If her father was taking her to Tear maybe he would take her other places as well? Perhaps she might get to see the white walls of Necrom or even the twisting towers of Port Telvannis. The thought of finally getting out of this thrice damned town and out into the world was more than she could bear; she was speechless. The smile on her face was one that outdid even her father’s. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed so tight that when her father stood she was lifted off the ground.

He laughed as he set her back on her feet. “Alright, now go and pack your things, and don’t speak a word of this to your mother. She’ll have me whipped at the post if she finds out,” he smiled again and gave her hair a tussle.

Elmera darted from the office like an arrow, running up the stairs to her room as fast as her feet would carry her. She still could not believe what was happening. The young Dunmer girl began to shove her things in a leather satchel, books, clothes, and all. This was going to be a long trip.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------