Oblivion Mod:Order of the Dragon/Valen Telvanni - Memoirs, Volume 3
 Valen Telvanni - Memoirs, Volume 3 |
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After the death of my father in 3E 152, I cannot stand it in Morrowind. Whether home or not, the barren land and the mushroom towers gradually began to disgust me. While I also grew up within one of the most powerful families in the country and was a favorite and pampered, don't blame me because I began to yearn for other strange places and cultures. As the attentive reader of the first two volumes of my memoirs know, I already discovered in early childhood my talent in necromancy by a nasty accident with auntie's cat, and had made a name for myself as a skilled necromancer at a young age. Why, when grabbed wanderlust grabbed me at the age of 34, I just moved to Cyrodiil, I can not understand so well today. Necromancers have always been warmly unwelcome in this country, to say the least - perhaps, or more likely, that was exactly the reason that prompted me to undertake this journey. Finally, I was in search of adventures and challenges. And those are rarely found in places where one is not undesirable.
I regretted my decision exactly three weeks after my arrival. In Morrowind, my reputation brought me women and power; in Cyrodiil, however, an extremely unpleasant prison stay, including a death sentence.
They had caught me when I was just about to dig an old hag out of her grave to perform some experiments. Assuming my noble birth would stop them from punishing me in some way, I did not resist as they arrested me. It would soon prove to be another false decision. Ironically, they put me in dungeons in a fortress in the icy north that were so filthy the armor of those resident shone like castle knights. Like most of my countrymen, I'd never in my life get to face a real Paladin, but they are actually so repulsive as it is in the book. They remind me of the guar I had as a child: faithful and obedient, but ultimately rather silly and stupid beings with opaque designs. Who is hiding in a thick armor of polished steel, must probably depend a lot on his life. However, anyone who goes about stubbonly [sic] enforcing ridiculous, long-outdated principles, cannot have a beautiful life.
They wanted to hang me at the end of the week. Until then, I had to hold in my bitter cold prison cell. Much to the annoyance of the jailer, I whiled away the time trying to awaken the ill-fried rats that were given to me to be devoured, to undead life. As a vegetarian, I would have nothing better to do with them anyway. Later, I was weaned on the mushrooms that grew in my cell. Since they addled my mind, it was easier to bear the shame. I had to stop thinking about my father. Had he known that his favorite son was vegetating in the basement of a Paladin, he would have turned in his urn.
So I sat (or lay, if there were too many mushrooms at once) day after day in my cell and waited for the end. When one morning the door finally opened, I thought it would finally come. They would hang me and let my body rot at a crossroads to deter other members of my guild. But it was not to be. An armored guar entered hesitantly and wrinkled his nose.
The guar introduced himself as Paladin Marcus and looked down at me. He continued and said he had an offer for me. But what can a dull guar offer a blue-blooded Dunmer? No sooner had I said the question than by the effect of the fungi was driven from me by a violent kick in the stomach. The thick Paladin waited until I was halfway back in my right mind and then commented that he would give me the chance to save my life if I would agree to help him with a particular issue. You, dear reader, can safely think what my decision turned out to be.
I was assigned to clean quarters, and I also got fresh clothes and something real to eat. While I was suspiciously eyed by Marcus and two of his cronies, who had introduced themselves as Roderick and Wilbur, I bolted down two servings and let me go. What exactly they wanted from me, they still had not told me. Just that I should accompany them on a mission the next morning and to get some rest until then.
Of course, I burned to learn why the fat paladin and his friends needed the support of a Necromancer - their armor was obviously clean without outside help, and even reading and writing did not seem to be completely alien to them. Still, I preferred to not get involved with them and sought to run away at night. But unfortunately I did not get very far because I soon discovered that they had locked my room door. So I had no choice but to support the Paladins for real.
Early the next morning I was torn from sleep by Roderick. After a meager meal with him and his comrades (they still looked as grim as the day before) I could not stand it any longer and asked them what exactly they were doing with me. "You can find out when the time comes", but that was all they said.
I watched as the three paladins (Roderick seemed to have held a kind of leader position) packed equipment and supplies together. The idea of marching with these three people in the freezing cold disgusted me. That I would be be recognized and my reputation ruined, was unbearable for me. I discreetly grabbed the small bag in which I had stowed the remaining mushrooms from my cell.
To my surprise, we did not leave the fortress, but marched towards the dungeon. I've already mentioned the fact that paladins are quite strange beings, but now I wondered even more. Did they want to get rid of all the rats through a major offensive?
The Paladins were in full gear on the way and caused a loud, rattling noise with every step. Each rat would be long gone before any of the three sheet metal comrades would ever come to draw his sword. Yes, they were well armed. In addition, they wore different things. Roderick had a bag full of provisions and a strange elongated item wrapped in leather with him. Wilbur had an additional pocket. Marcus had only a small wooden box; obviously it was already hard enough for him to move his own massive, armored body. I'd been condemned to wear a backpack in which were food and some torches.
"We must go deep," Wilbur said to me after we had entered the dungeons. How deep that was became clear to me later.
Ever deeper and deeper we descended into a dark, dirty and cold world. I started to feel bad. And yet I felt a certain familiarity that I could not correctly identify at first. Meanwhile, we had left the dungeons behind and found ourselves in a natural cave system. The paladins seemed to know the way. Roderick preceded us, followed by Wilbur and myself. The rearguard was formed by Marcus, who seemed to slowly but surely get in trouble with the weight of his chest and probably his body. I was afraid that he could crush me underneath, should he suddenly fall forward. Concerned, I realized that my mushroom stock was depleted.
The caves were fascinating. They seemed to be partly made of ice, and they shone and glistened in the light of our torches. As nice as the scenario might be, we always had to be careful not to slip on the smooth surfaces.
When we came upon the first dead bodies, I realized what seemed so familiar to me - as a necromancer you develop a feel for the dead. They seemed to be very old. They were neatly laid out on pedestals or in niches, many of them buried with jewelry, semi-dilapidated weapons, or armor. A closer look was enough, and I realized where we were: in the midst of an ancient Nordic tomb. My interest was piqued, and more than once Marcus had to continue pushing, as I bent down or turned the dead to be able to inspect them more closely. Now I was very excited and anxious to see what the paladins were doing, and what role I should play. My taciturn companions had still not put off their tense, grim countenances in any case.
We came to a small underground river. The sight fascinated me, like so much in this seemingly strange world we had entered. A kind of natural bridge of white ice led across the river, and with horror I realized that the paladins were actually about to cross it. A fall into the icy water would be fatal. Roderick stopped and looked behind him. My unease probably clearly showed in my face; with a serious and determined expression, he just said: "This is the only way" and had already begun the first step on the narrow path. Slowly and carefully we crossed the bridge, and more than once I was on the verge of slipping into the dark, cold waters.
Finally we reached the other side. Relieved, I turned around and saw that Marcus had just made the last step towards the shore. Just at this moment, it happened. The cumbersome paladin lost his balance, slipped, and landed in the water. Wilbur and Roderick rushed distraught to the shore, but it was too late. Marcus was immediately drawn into the icy depths by the weight of his heavy plate armor before he could utter a sound. Bubbles rose from the bottom and marked the point at which the paladin had his inglorious end. His two companions knelt, stunned, on the shore and stared into the murky water, when suddenly something shot up from underneath them. It was the wooden box that Marcus had been carrying. Reluctantly Roderick approached it and fished it out of the water. Without a word and without looking at me, he pressed the box into my arms. The two knights went further forward and I followed them, but not without a look at the dark water, where isolated bubbles still ascended.
It was brighter. In anticipation, I imagined us in the open, but I soon discovered that the light in the hall of ice in which we stood had a different origin than the sun. Again, ancient corpses were piled together with the remains of their belongings.
"We are on target," Roderick said quietly next to me. He took off his backpack and took out the elongated, leather-wrapped object. It's quite possible that my eyes were playing a trick, but I thought I could make out a bright, silvery shine under the worn leather. Quick and certainly, Roderick strode up to a stone thing in the middle of the hall, a mighty monolith such as I had never seen before. He laid the object in a kind of altar in the middle of the stone circle, brought out an old scroll and murmured some words. I could not understand what he said, plus I was too far away, but when he became silent and lowered the battered parchment in his hands, I saw the tops of the monoliths briefly light up. The paladin stowed the scroll under his armor and came toward me. Meanwhile, Wilbur had snatched Marcus' box from my hands and began to open the lock.
Roderick fumbled around with one hand still under his armor and stood before me. He looked me in the face, took his hand out again, and then said the phrase I'll never forget. "I want you to wake the dead."
Wilbur, meanwhile, had opened the box and spread its content in front of me. There were valuable elven Varla stones, those which one uses to channel and amplify magic, at least a dozen of them. A few years ago, I would have done anything to get at least three of these artifacts in my possession.
In disbelief I stared back and forth between the faces of the paladins in front of me and on the stones on the ground. Finally, I asked what I wanted to know the whole time: "What is this thing that you have placed on the altar?" It appears that Roderick was now willing to give me at least part of the explanation. "We want to hide it. The undead will guard it so that it's safe here. That's all you need to know."
Hesitation and facial expression showed all too clearly that I very much wanted to know more. Wilbur drew his sword and held it at my throat. Obviously, it would not cost him much trouble to just end my life, as he had probably it often enough done to my 'colleagues'. "Do what he says." Arguably, this would be clear enough.
At a sign from Roderick, the sword fell again and was pushed back into its sheath.
I tried to dissuade the two paladins of their plans. I knew the undead would be uncontrollable and would turn against us. But it was no use, my pleas and arguments met with defiant rejection, as I had learned often enough of them in the meantime. They seemed to have long since planned and accepted not only their deaths - but mine also. As you, dear reader, can certainly think the latter fact especially applied to me. But, did I have a choice? Yes, I actually did. The choice between death by a dead claw or by the sword of a paladin. I did not think twice until my decision was clear. After all, I was going to die as one of the greatest necromancers, one who had desecrated a whole Nordic cemetery. So I set to work, while the two paldins [sic] withdrew and watched me from a distance.
When it began, Roderick and Wilbur just knelt in a corner and prayed to their gods. The vault was filled with scratching and shouting, angry sounds emitted by decaying throats whose owners were torn from their eternal sleep. I was at the end of my rope and was just able to watch as the two paladins drew their swords and spoke some puny wards to prepare for their final battle. What happened next, I cannot explain with the best intentions. One last spark of energy seemed to stick fast in me, and so I ran off into the dark corridors inside. Without being able to see anything, and without a clear mind, I ran aimlessly - and found my way somehow into the open. How I managed that is beyond me to this day. I think Azura personally stood by my side on that fateful day and led me through the darkness.
When I came to, I was deaf and numb in the snow, and the sun was shining down on me. I dragged myself semiconscious and returned back to Morrowind in the following days.
I have never left my home since.
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