Morganatic
Kinetically-Interlinked Nirnian Multi-User Exoform
Grey dawn breaks imperceptibly over Skyrim. A thick fog's been blowing off the Sea of Ghosts for about a week now, and it's been days since you've seen the sun. Weak light suffuses the cloying mist, stealing upon you without warning, but it fails to banish the murk. It's as if Magnus himself is recoiling from his own creation.
~~~
High above, on a mountain crag, the mothering hawk cocks her head, looking curiously at her nest. She hops to the left, thickly feathered downy legs expertly shifting to keep her precipitous balance, then hops to the right. It's still there. There, in the midst of her nest, in the middle of her eggs, is a cuckoo-egg. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that most certainly wasn't there before.
~~~
The few members of the camp who are still remained asleep are awoken by the harsh cries of the sergeant-at-arms who's in command of the Pass. Miss gra-Den-Sul is not a particularly pleasant woman, and her voice has the rough sound and volume of a spoke snapping on a cartwheel. It carries, and it pierces.
'Come, now, come one and all - wake the Daedra-damned hell up! First light was hours ago, get moving! The others have gone on without you!'
You're all here for your own reasons, blown by winds of trade, winds of magic, of politics or of your own fancy and whimsy. Some of you are outcasts, some of you are occult masters, but, before the terrible might of a political bureaucracy, you are all alike in your weakness. The Heddskaali dynasty of Skyrim keeps its borders tightly guarded, with walls of paper as much as walls of stone, and so, to obtain permission to leave via the passes across the Velothi Mountains, you've had to submit to the authority of its border guards. In that case, that means Sergeant Murzuth.
~~~
The strange egg is not like the others. It is not a perfect ovoid, it is not a periwinkle blue, it is not hard-shelled. It's a leathery sac, soft-shelled and blue-brown in colour, pulsing faintly as if with a heartbeat. The hawkhen pecks at it suspiciously, but finds that even her sharp raptor beak can't cut through its surface. She moves to toss it out of the nest, but stops when the whole construction rocks unexpectedly. This new intruder-egg is cemented to the nest by some sort of foul, rubbery, secretion! Reluctantly, she sits atop all the eggs, her own and that of the invader, giving of her life's heat to her children and whatever parasitises off them.
~~~
The sergeant patrols the camp, a drab figure in her grey-blue Eastmarch uniform. She nods to some of the gathered party, acknowledging Chahin as a fellow constable of the land, but looks daggers at some of the more outlandishly attired members of the reconnaissance team - Alistair gets a particularly vile look. Nonetheless, she swallows her disgust at particular members of the group, replacing it with a generalised disdain for the mercenary party as a whole, mismatched bunch of shambling amateurs that they so clearly are. Murzuth stands, hands on hips, waiting for them to gather in the staging area beneath Dunmereth Tower.
'Gather round, friends, I won't repeat myself.
We all know why you're here. Morrowind, sulphurous volcanic gem of the East, a land of infinite riches, treasure, and esoteric power, riven by war, blasted by the fall of Red Tower, yours for the taking. Whether you seek riches, knowledge, or simply purpose, you would plunder the secrets of Ald Resdayn for yourself - that much is clear.
Empress-Claimant Myra I doesn't particularly care about what happens in Morrowind. Her gaze, for better or worse, is turned South and West, to the Aldmeri Dominion and what's left of the illegitimate Cyrodilic High Council. But the recent silence from the Eastern Provinces? The fact that no-one who's crossed the border has been seen again? The complete lack of warning with which this has all happened? Well, it's just a little bit unsettling. Just a little.'
She shrugs.
'Are we looking at a plague, that's killing or quarantining everyone who ventures across into Morrowind? A return of the Blight? A new eruption of Red Mountain? Has everything east of the Velothi Mountains simply vanished into Oblivion? It's difficult to say - it wouldn't be the strangest thing to come out of the East, that's for sure. Of course, the troubles could be a lot more political in nature. King Helseth or the Councils of the Hist might simply be killing off any n'wahs who stray onto their turf, thinking they're spies or mercenaries fighting for one side or another. In a way, that would be worse - that would be a declaration of war, and a violation of the ancient codes of hospitality laid down by Aedra and Daedra alike. We just don't know.'
The sergeant points out each of you in turn, looking into each of your eyes, trying to take your mettle.
'And that's where you come in.'
~~~
Trying to put the guttural squawking of the men and mer below her out of her mind, the hen tries to sleep atop her eggs. But it's a restless sleep. Something surges, something moves beneath her body, giving her dreams of a churning stomach, of sickness. She feels something wet beneath her, a blood-hot sticky sensation that startles the her into wakefulness. She flutters up, expecting that her eggs may be hatching, but then recoils in horror. Her own eggs are intact - it's the intruder that's changing. It's splitting open, and something inside it is thrashing about, trying to worry open the rent further.
Whatever it is, something about it arouses the hawk's maternal, protective instinct. She hops back a few steps, raising one talon to lash out at whatever's about to emerge.
~~~
'We've sent in a few groups so far. Before we even realised that something was happening across the border, there was a surge in the usual bandit and smuggling activity - we can't stop it all, don't have the manpower, but we certainly noticed when they didn't come back. The Thieves' Guild couldn't do without the trade with their Vvardenfell brethren - their criminal empire endures even during the worst civil war, evidently - and so we let one or two of their caravans through. They told us they'd be back within the week - it's been four. We even brought in a couple of Ysgramor's Companions, sent them in with some sellswords we rounded up from local inns and prisons. Nothing. And so, in the absence of any better plan, the commander of the Windhelm Guard has retreated to the traditional refuge of bewildered authority - adventurers.
You're a motley lot, but the hope is that between you, you'll be able to cross the border, find out what's going on, and, ideally, come back alive. You know danger, know the risks involved, have got experience with every conceivable damnation, from Daedra to debt-collectors,'
She smirks at Valus.
'and so might be better placed to deal with whatever dangers await you on the other side. Besides, we can send you out without any liability on our part. You get your chance to explore the lost provinces, to get whatever glory or treasure you feel entitled to, maybe sow a little chaos in the ranks of any rebels you find - and, when, if, you return to report back on your findings to your esoteric superiors, liquidate your loot in a more stable economy than whatever exists over there, or simply decide to head back somewhere that's not covered in a thick choking fog of volcanic ash - we debrief you. We find out what's been going on, and begin our plan to re-establish Imperial control over our Eastern border, and the two seccessionist provinces.
Last word we heard out of Morrowind, Septim coinage had lost its value, and so we've issued you with one hundred Resdayni Drakes apiece to cover travel expenses. In the event that there even is any civilisation left out there, you ought to be able to buy passage, bribe guards, and obtain supplies while you're the other side of the border. We can't offer you any more support than that, though, and, to be honest, we can't even lend you the official sanction of the Dragonborn Throne if you're caught. You're independent operators, each and every one of you, and for the purposes of this mission, you're just carrying out a little marauding under your own banner. Expect no backup - we're not sending any of ours after you.
Anyway, I've talked long enough. You're losing daylight, and every hour you delay is an hour we don't know what's happening over there. Guardswoman Thorlda will provide you with your stipend, and mark your papers - I'll be staying in Dunmereth Pass long enough to see you off and answer any questions you might have - but make them quick!'
Thorlda, a heavy-set Nord aide to Murzuth, begins handing out little canvas bags filled with unfamiliar currency, and encourages you all to mingle and get to know each other - much to the frustration of the Orc, who seems intent on sending you all off to your apparent doom with the utmost haste.
~~~
But even the hawk's predator's senses are too slow to see what's coming. A long, yolk-slick, membraneous tentacle uncoils from a split in the egg-sac, its barbed tip burying itself in her breast. The newborn creature - a mess of flapping skin and flailing tendrils - uses the bird's body as leverage to drag itself out of the collapsing leathery spawn-pod. It spears each other egg in turn, shattering the shell each of its competitors and gorging itself on the foetal chicks inside. This gives it strength - vile bladders inflate across its body, and obscene fluids pulse across a decidedly non-mammalian vascular system, stiffening great sail-like wings that strain against the breeze. Cephalopodic eyes peer out across Skyrim, gleaming with a predatory intelligence.
The first Cliff Racer to grace Tamriel's surface in over two hundred years draws itself up to its full height, flaps wings twice the height of a man, and emits a piercing 'SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!'
Old Morrowind - the ancient soul of a land that's seen entire civilisations rise and fall, that's played host to the birth of strange gods, that anchors Mundus' very existence - grumbles fitfully in its slumber, and stirs. It's close to waking, and, as it wakes, its bestial past wakes with it.
~~~
High above, on a mountain crag, the mothering hawk cocks her head, looking curiously at her nest. She hops to the left, thickly feathered downy legs expertly shifting to keep her precipitous balance, then hops to the right. It's still there. There, in the midst of her nest, in the middle of her eggs, is a cuckoo-egg. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that most certainly wasn't there before.
~~~
The few members of the camp who are still remained asleep are awoken by the harsh cries of the sergeant-at-arms who's in command of the Pass. Miss gra-Den-Sul is not a particularly pleasant woman, and her voice has the rough sound and volume of a spoke snapping on a cartwheel. It carries, and it pierces.
'Come, now, come one and all - wake the Daedra-damned hell up! First light was hours ago, get moving! The others have gone on without you!'
You're all here for your own reasons, blown by winds of trade, winds of magic, of politics or of your own fancy and whimsy. Some of you are outcasts, some of you are occult masters, but, before the terrible might of a political bureaucracy, you are all alike in your weakness. The Heddskaali dynasty of Skyrim keeps its borders tightly guarded, with walls of paper as much as walls of stone, and so, to obtain permission to leave via the passes across the Velothi Mountains, you've had to submit to the authority of its border guards. In that case, that means Sergeant Murzuth.
~~~
The strange egg is not like the others. It is not a perfect ovoid, it is not a periwinkle blue, it is not hard-shelled. It's a leathery sac, soft-shelled and blue-brown in colour, pulsing faintly as if with a heartbeat. The hawkhen pecks at it suspiciously, but finds that even her sharp raptor beak can't cut through its surface. She moves to toss it out of the nest, but stops when the whole construction rocks unexpectedly. This new intruder-egg is cemented to the nest by some sort of foul, rubbery, secretion! Reluctantly, she sits atop all the eggs, her own and that of the invader, giving of her life's heat to her children and whatever parasitises off them.
~~~
The sergeant patrols the camp, a drab figure in her grey-blue Eastmarch uniform. She nods to some of the gathered party, acknowledging Chahin as a fellow constable of the land, but looks daggers at some of the more outlandishly attired members of the reconnaissance team - Alistair gets a particularly vile look. Nonetheless, she swallows her disgust at particular members of the group, replacing it with a generalised disdain for the mercenary party as a whole, mismatched bunch of shambling amateurs that they so clearly are. Murzuth stands, hands on hips, waiting for them to gather in the staging area beneath Dunmereth Tower.
'Gather round, friends, I won't repeat myself.
We all know why you're here. Morrowind, sulphurous volcanic gem of the East, a land of infinite riches, treasure, and esoteric power, riven by war, blasted by the fall of Red Tower, yours for the taking. Whether you seek riches, knowledge, or simply purpose, you would plunder the secrets of Ald Resdayn for yourself - that much is clear.
Empress-Claimant Myra I doesn't particularly care about what happens in Morrowind. Her gaze, for better or worse, is turned South and West, to the Aldmeri Dominion and what's left of the illegitimate Cyrodilic High Council. But the recent silence from the Eastern Provinces? The fact that no-one who's crossed the border has been seen again? The complete lack of warning with which this has all happened? Well, it's just a little bit unsettling. Just a little.'
She shrugs.
'Are we looking at a plague, that's killing or quarantining everyone who ventures across into Morrowind? A return of the Blight? A new eruption of Red Mountain? Has everything east of the Velothi Mountains simply vanished into Oblivion? It's difficult to say - it wouldn't be the strangest thing to come out of the East, that's for sure. Of course, the troubles could be a lot more political in nature. King Helseth or the Councils of the Hist might simply be killing off any n'wahs who stray onto their turf, thinking they're spies or mercenaries fighting for one side or another. In a way, that would be worse - that would be a declaration of war, and a violation of the ancient codes of hospitality laid down by Aedra and Daedra alike. We just don't know.'
The sergeant points out each of you in turn, looking into each of your eyes, trying to take your mettle.
'And that's where you come in.'
~~~
Trying to put the guttural squawking of the men and mer below her out of her mind, the hen tries to sleep atop her eggs. But it's a restless sleep. Something surges, something moves beneath her body, giving her dreams of a churning stomach, of sickness. She feels something wet beneath her, a blood-hot sticky sensation that startles the her into wakefulness. She flutters up, expecting that her eggs may be hatching, but then recoils in horror. Her own eggs are intact - it's the intruder that's changing. It's splitting open, and something inside it is thrashing about, trying to worry open the rent further.
Whatever it is, something about it arouses the hawk's maternal, protective instinct. She hops back a few steps, raising one talon to lash out at whatever's about to emerge.
~~~
'We've sent in a few groups so far. Before we even realised that something was happening across the border, there was a surge in the usual bandit and smuggling activity - we can't stop it all, don't have the manpower, but we certainly noticed when they didn't come back. The Thieves' Guild couldn't do without the trade with their Vvardenfell brethren - their criminal empire endures even during the worst civil war, evidently - and so we let one or two of their caravans through. They told us they'd be back within the week - it's been four. We even brought in a couple of Ysgramor's Companions, sent them in with some sellswords we rounded up from local inns and prisons. Nothing. And so, in the absence of any better plan, the commander of the Windhelm Guard has retreated to the traditional refuge of bewildered authority - adventurers.
You're a motley lot, but the hope is that between you, you'll be able to cross the border, find out what's going on, and, ideally, come back alive. You know danger, know the risks involved, have got experience with every conceivable damnation, from Daedra to debt-collectors,'
She smirks at Valus.
'and so might be better placed to deal with whatever dangers await you on the other side. Besides, we can send you out without any liability on our part. You get your chance to explore the lost provinces, to get whatever glory or treasure you feel entitled to, maybe sow a little chaos in the ranks of any rebels you find - and, when, if, you return to report back on your findings to your esoteric superiors, liquidate your loot in a more stable economy than whatever exists over there, or simply decide to head back somewhere that's not covered in a thick choking fog of volcanic ash - we debrief you. We find out what's been going on, and begin our plan to re-establish Imperial control over our Eastern border, and the two seccessionist provinces.
Last word we heard out of Morrowind, Septim coinage had lost its value, and so we've issued you with one hundred Resdayni Drakes apiece to cover travel expenses. In the event that there even is any civilisation left out there, you ought to be able to buy passage, bribe guards, and obtain supplies while you're the other side of the border. We can't offer you any more support than that, though, and, to be honest, we can't even lend you the official sanction of the Dragonborn Throne if you're caught. You're independent operators, each and every one of you, and for the purposes of this mission, you're just carrying out a little marauding under your own banner. Expect no backup - we're not sending any of ours after you.
Anyway, I've talked long enough. You're losing daylight, and every hour you delay is an hour we don't know what's happening over there. Guardswoman Thorlda will provide you with your stipend, and mark your papers - I'll be staying in Dunmereth Pass long enough to see you off and answer any questions you might have - but make them quick!'
Thorlda, a heavy-set Nord aide to Murzuth, begins handing out little canvas bags filled with unfamiliar currency, and encourages you all to mingle and get to know each other - much to the frustration of the Orc, who seems intent on sending you all off to your apparent doom with the utmost haste.
~~~
But even the hawk's predator's senses are too slow to see what's coming. A long, yolk-slick, membraneous tentacle uncoils from a split in the egg-sac, its barbed tip burying itself in her breast. The newborn creature - a mess of flapping skin and flailing tendrils - uses the bird's body as leverage to drag itself out of the collapsing leathery spawn-pod. It spears each other egg in turn, shattering the shell each of its competitors and gorging itself on the foetal chicks inside. This gives it strength - vile bladders inflate across its body, and obscene fluids pulse across a decidedly non-mammalian vascular system, stiffening great sail-like wings that strain against the breeze. Cephalopodic eyes peer out across Skyrim, gleaming with a predatory intelligence.
The first Cliff Racer to grace Tamriel's surface in over two hundred years draws itself up to its full height, flaps wings twice the height of a man, and emits a piercing 'SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!'
Old Morrowind - the ancient soul of a land that's seen entire civilisations rise and fall, that's played host to the birth of strange gods, that anchors Mundus' very existence - grumbles fitfully in its slumber, and stirs. It's close to waking, and, as it wakes, its bestial past wakes with it.
