Tes3Mod:Tamriel Data/The Unseen People
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Erur Dan cursed his own folly and staggered his way through the barren tundra of Skyrim, attempting to stay warm under his crumbling bonemold armor. He shuddered at the thought of those regulars at the End of the World in Dagon Fel, heartily enjoying their fine food and drink as well as making him the laughingstock of the entire island of Sheogorad. Or perhaps it was just the bitter cold. How foolish was he to believe that he could brave the very winters of Skyrim, known to have caused the demise of many a swarthy adventurer, just for the mere glimpse of the fabled Falmer? And even if he found them, how could he prove it to his tavern-mates back in Dagon Fel? These thoughts swam icily through Erur's head causing him to fall to the ground in almost utter hopelessness. But he was determined to return to Morrowind, hopefully in one piece, to tell his tale to the entire town. Perhaps he could be an author and write a best-seller about his experiences and of his near death at the hands of the Skyrim winter only to press forwards and find the mythical mer. Sadly he was never a writer of sorts but there was plenty of room to "improvise" in his story if need be. Regardless, he would surely be contacted by Cyrodiil and asked to teach at the University, and the folks at Dagon Fel finally would give him the respect he had deserved all along.
Wallowing in his soon-to-be success, Erur soon forgot he was lying in the snow until the bitter coldness piqued his sense. He gracefully tried to lift himself from his prostrate position but he found he could not. Again and again tried the unfortunate Bosmer, but to no avail. He was stuck and his only option to escape the very clutches of death was to shed his only instrument of survival, his thick winter robe. He was out of his robe quickly but a sharp icy gale soon brought him humbly to his feet. The very encounter would question one's own capacity to press forward although simply giving up would certainly be a more appealing route. Erur simply had too much to lose by giving up in such an early stage of his journey. Sure his tavern mates would beg on their knees to Queen Almalexia for mercy if he was found dead during his journey, but what good would that serve, lying in a lonely crypt underground? Rather, he would like them to bow and service his every need when he came to the tavern for his daily flin. Needless to say, his success in life was firmly in check. So the unfortunate outlander trudged onwards through the wilderness at a fast walk hoping that civilization was in the distance. Day passed to evening and still Dan found himself drowning in desperation. He had already had two close encounters with treacherous pitfalls and snow-covered ponds but he had not expected the howls that soon began to emanate from the wilderness all around him. They were isolated at first, often scaring Erur from his possessed march through the wild, but they soon they were louder, more clear, and were growing ever-closer. Dan began to run, unconscious to his position on the island, afraid of death from the winter but fearing death at the jaws of unknown creatures much more.
Alas, Erur Dan was in no shape to run; even from the slowest of enemies he was easy bait and before long he had to right himself up against a tree to catch his breath. He thought to himself that he had cheated danger for the moment and began to collect some wood in hopes of starting a fire. Wood certainly was not in short supply in these parts and before long he had all the provisions ready for a grand fire fit to warm the cold-hearted King himself. However the wood was simply too damp and he could only muster a few wisps of flame before the fire was snuffed out. At this juncture, Erur decided to wait, although his chances for survival were growing slimmer by the moment, until the wood had dried sufficiently for a long-lasting fire. His rag-tag shell of a cuirass did not offer much protection against the cold, and Erur was resigned to pass the night shivering from the eternal cold of the wintry weather. Several times during the night he imagined seeing people pass by his location and he called out to them, but no adventurer would dare be in these parts during the dead of night. Several poachers had ventured into these very woods just days ago and their mutilated bodies were last spotted floating downstream through Winterhold itself.
Erur sat in the very heart of the forest, oblivious to the dangers around him and assuming the red lights in the distance were towns that would offer him the security and comfort he had not felt since leaving Morrowind. But the lights were creeping ever closer and the intensity of their glow amplified with each passing moment. They approached silently like barbaric assassins and before long their bodies began to take form; the lupine predators from which he had vehemently ran earlier that day had finally cornered him. Much as Erur would have loved to flee the scene, his body would not comply; he must stand and fight. The pack of three wolves approached malevolently, teeth gleaming for bloodlust. As Erur drew his dagger they drew their fangs and jumped in unison, thirty needles poised to end the life of yet another mer. He stood his ground and nearly toppled over when the impact hit his fragile frame. He had expected all to be lost at this point but his fears were unfounded. The sound of claws breaking met his ears simultaneously followed by howls of agony. Erur was quick to react, thrusting the dagger deep inside the closest two wolves while stumbling towards the third, but it was too quick for him. Soon he found himself in the same predicament as he had been for the past few hours; he was still the prey. A rustling in a bush behind him caused him to swivel before being plowed into by the last of the pack. The wolf attacked the delicate region between the cuirass and helm, wanting to bite the neck region, but was denied consistently by the stubborn armor of Erur. In his throes, Erur lashed out at the wolf, gashing his throat and soon all was over.
He wept at his victory knowing that though he could pass the night safely, hunger and thirst would surely overcome his body in the coming days. He fell into a fitful sleep, waking at sunrise only to see its splendor for perhaps the last time. He made a quick check of his provisions, which seemed to be untouched despite the attacks just hours ago. It was then that his eyes fell upon his armor, investigating the damage that had been dealt to it and deeming it destined for uselessness. However the armor was patched solidly where the cracks once were and the gaping holes were filed sturdily with ice. Such was this twist of fate that the cold that Erur had once regarded as an evil now came as a blessing. The thought was rejuvenating in itself as Erur quickly thought otherwise of building a fire and instead began to clean out the carcass of the biggest wolf and tailor himself a wooly drape. When the final product was achieved hours later, Erur was a fearsome sight, clad in an outfit suited for the most dangerous of war chieftains. With the robe providing the warmth he needed to sustain him through the forest without melting the ice that kept his armor together, Erur continued his crazed march through the wilderness fearing neither sounds, creatures nor death itself. Days and hours passed and there was no sign of any residence from the cold winter, and Erur seemed only to be marching towards death.
Then it came, the godsend of every lost adventurer. First it was small wisps of smoke, then the occasional remains of human ventures. He heard the occasional laugher in the distance and soon the sounds of industry. He began to run, illusions filling his mind as his feet rapidly pounded the snow-covered floor. When he came upon it, he hardly knew what he was looking for. He had arrived in Windhelm, one of the great winter cities of Skyrim. The euphoria he expressed was silent, erased by the numbing cold as his body stabilized from his frenzied run. His senses would not render themselves active and he knew his best shot at recovery lay with much-needed rest and several bottles of Flin. He waltzed along like a drunkard, frostbitten in several places and finally made his way to Windhelm's Inn. He entered, and much to his displeasure found all eyes staring at him. But the looks were not of disgust; instead they were of wonder, of the fabulous excitement that must be tagged alongside each successful adventurer. Two pretty girls escorted him inside and paid for his Flin. Odd as it was, he did not object nor did he turn down their offer to show him their rooms upstairs. As he walked calmly alongside the two eager women, he could not help to suppress a smile and a laugh regarding his future. He knew he had an unseen benefactor alongside him throughout his journey, and that benefactor was already treating him to good luck even though his quest had ended. In the distance he was sure he heard a laugh, a tinkle to be exact, something strangely unfamiliar and inhuman. So, indeed they do exist.