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I woke up in a cell dressed in rags, neither warm nor cold, neither hungry nor full, neither energetic nor tired. I paced one circle on the rough ground, and the vision of an elderly blind man with a voice full of empathy and authority came to me.
He called me Vestige, and that gave me a name, as my own had slipped from my memory. I had no mirror, either, in that place, but my fingers could feel the scars that run from my waist up past my hairline on the left side of my body. The strands of hair I could see were caught in between gold and red, and my skin was so pale that in this place I looked like a corpse more than anything.
His voice followed me out of the cell. I saw others running as well. Mer-- elves-- dark, light, and wood elves. The Khajiit, cat people from the deserts and wild places, and the scaled Argonians from Black Marsh. Humans there were, too. Imperials from the great city and its surrounds, Redguards from the south and Nords from the north. My own people-- is that right? I can't remember -- the Bretons-- were also represented.
I found at his call a woman named Lyris Titanborn, taller than any I have known (and I am tall), and together we gathered weapons and gear, and found our way to the old man's (the Prophet's!) cell, where Lyris gave her freedom to release him.
He and I fought the footsoldiers of Molag Bal, and I felt something again, as the power in me was channeled through an icy staff and defeated our foe. I felt joy, I felt power, and anger, and a deep sadness, the source of which I could not identify. I had no soul, I was told, but the husk that remained still felt.
I followed the Prophet up a beam of light and out of this horrible prison, this Cold Harbor. I found myself on a boat off the shore near the city of Vukhul Guard, a city of the Altmer, the High elves. Why here, and not home in Wayrest? I wondered-- and then remembered, in a flash, the fire, crying for my papa, crying knowing that it was he that set the fire, drugged me and laid me down to die, a child of twelve, for the sin of having magick in my veins like my mother.
I remembered fleeing south, living in Daggerfall and catching rats until I heard of a ship going to Skywatch, carrying supplies to the mages and scholars that lived there. I had bargained my way on board with that little bit of pride I still had, and climbed the masts and kept watch for my keep as we sailed.
My home had been Skywatch since. It was there I was trained, there I met-- her name escapes me, and her form too, but she was warmth and light and home to me, my little Bosmer love. There is so much more to remember, and I must push ahead until I do...
He called me Vestige, and that gave me a name, as my own had slipped from my memory. I had no mirror, either, in that place, but my fingers could feel the scars that run from my waist up past my hairline on the left side of my body. The strands of hair I could see were caught in between gold and red, and my skin was so pale that in this place I looked like a corpse more than anything.
His voice followed me out of the cell. I saw others running as well. Mer-- elves-- dark, light, and wood elves. The Khajiit, cat people from the deserts and wild places, and the scaled Argonians from Black Marsh. Humans there were, too. Imperials from the great city and its surrounds, Redguards from the south and Nords from the north. My own people-- is that right? I can't remember -- the Bretons-- were also represented.
I found at his call a woman named Lyris Titanborn, taller than any I have known (and I am tall), and together we gathered weapons and gear, and found our way to the old man's (the Prophet's!) cell, where Lyris gave her freedom to release him.
He and I fought the footsoldiers of Molag Bal, and I felt something again, as the power in me was channeled through an icy staff and defeated our foe. I felt joy, I felt power, and anger, and a deep sadness, the source of which I could not identify. I had no soul, I was told, but the husk that remained still felt.
I followed the Prophet up a beam of light and out of this horrible prison, this Cold Harbor. I found myself on a boat off the shore near the city of Vukhul Guard, a city of the Altmer, the High elves. Why here, and not home in Wayrest? I wondered-- and then remembered, in a flash, the fire, crying for my papa, crying knowing that it was he that set the fire, drugged me and laid me down to die, a child of twelve, for the sin of having magick in my veins like my mother.
I remembered fleeing south, living in Daggerfall and catching rats until I heard of a ship going to Skywatch, carrying supplies to the mages and scholars that lived there. I had bargained my way on board with that little bit of pride I still had, and climbed the masts and kept watch for my keep as we sailed.
My home had been Skywatch since. It was there I was trained, there I met-- her name escapes me, and her form too, but she was warmth and light and home to me, my little Bosmer love. There is so much more to remember, and I must push ahead until I do...
