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Corrupted by a worm

Started by Beowulf
Post #8413

Likes Given: 45
Likes Received: 144
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Nord)
No good deed goes unpunished, that’s what I’ve learned in my life. Ungratefulness, greed, lust, gluttony, I was surrounded by these characteristics for many years, yet I tried to make the best of things. Compassion, nobility, loyalty, trustworthiness, that was how I was taught to do things, but why are those things so worthless in the World? It is a rather simple answer that needs no extra thought. Power.

A Man or Woman’s heart is as easily corrupted by power as a fruit is easily corrupted by a worm. Power is what inspires all darkness, all greed, all injustice, in a person’s fragile heart, and it will spread like a virus until it consumes you. Power is everything, but it can be a person’s greatest downfall if they are not careful, but, nowadays, they are careful. How I wish they weren’t, so somebody, somewhere, could bring them down.

Why be loved when you could be feared? That’s what they said when it went to their head. They took control of other people’s lives, not even caring for the consequences of their actions. I may seem to be rambling on, but I have a just reason for it. One Nord, who had all of these revolting qualities lurking beneath his flesh and bone, was one I hated with every once of blood that kept me alive, because his power ruined my life.

Thorek Kavern, that was his name, and it stuck in the back of my mind like sticky honey, yet without all of it’s sweetness. No, it was a bitter memory, full of hatred and bloodlust that clouded my thoughts, making it a near impossibility to think straight. But, he fully deserved any anger directed towards him, for he was a coward... and a murderer.

My family started in the land of Morrowind, the homeplace of the Dunmer and where many of my memories lie forgotten. Our village was just a group of simple farmers, commoners who loved the land and who nurtured it to grow, we had nothing of value but our own dreams. I lived with a family of four, containing my mother, my father, me, and my younger brother, whom I was very close with. We worked on growing crops such as tomatoes and corn, plants that we were used to, and were very content living a little ways from town in a small cottage. We would laugh, we would play, we would joke with each other, it was a happy life, but a past one nonetheless.

I was nine when the Slavers attacked our village, the age where questions about yourself began to pop into your head and where you begin to ask what you want to be in life. I was never given the chance to ask those questions. The village was burned and looted of what little it had; the women and children taken while the men were slaughtered in their sleep, blood seeping from murderous blades. My house was one of the last to fall, we attempted to escape before they noticed us on the edge of the horizon, but, alas, we were not as quick as we thought.

My father protected us, tried to bargain with the one in charge, but he was struck down; murdered when his heart held no evil, just the want to protect his wife and children. A sword pierced his heart, then my mother cried out in horror, which resulted in the death of her. The slavers said that she hurt his ears with her screams, but I knew all he wanted was to shed a little more blood. The chief slaver, the Nord known as Thorek Hlaalu, saw us two children, shaking with fear, and placed small shackles around our wrists and took us. We were his slaves, he never sold us, though now I think that would have been a mercy compared to him.

For fourteen horrible years, I was set to work in his house, filled to the brim with those like me and my brother. There was no specific race or gender, we were all from different lands, different towns and different standings in society, but we were all brought there to serve him and him alone. We were branded with markings, burned into our flesh as a sign of ownership, and they were what I hated most. They ran along my neck down to my shoulders, circling onto my back and up to my neck again, and to this day I can still feel the heat as they were applied to my being.

The other slaves taught me things, being sympathetic towards two young children, and I was more skillful by the end of these lessons. I was told how to sneak through the houses under the cover of night, to be one with the shadows. I was also shown how to pick a lock and how to mix herbs together for potions and salves, and I was very thankful for all of these skills, but I had never thought they would be of use to me. Yet, a few months after this, I snuck food from the kitchens and stole gold from Thorek’s private rooms, for all to share and have. I think this is where my true troubles began.

When I was a twenty years old, I was caught one night stealing some jewels, my foot had slipped into the light of the moon, and was sent to the cellar to be locked away for many days. My brother, not been taught the lessons I had, tried in vain to break me out, and in the end was thwarted by my words. I could not risk him to be caught, as well, so I sent him back. Now that I know what became of me down there, I believe sending him away was a mercy.

Down in the deep, I found old, abandoned rooms blocked by faggots of wood and broken furniture, almost unseeable in the dark. I pushed them aside, with much effort involved, and found an old book, surrounded by objects of unknown origin that glowed and sparked when I drew near. When I first saw the book, it looked locked, but when I picked it up I opened it with surprising ease. In what dim light there was, I read the musty pages and found words, runes more like it, which I read aloud, and in my hand flames danced upon the skin. At first, I was so shocked I screamed, waving my hand until the flame was put out, then when my mind had adjusted, I knew what I had done. I had done magic.

My excitement got the better of me, and not knowing the dangers before me, I read on, rehearsing lines and watching in wonder as frost, fire and lightning shot from my fingertips, and though they were small they were quite deadly as a few wandering rats found out. Most scripts in the book were a jumble of penned runes which I could not read, but that which I scavenged was useful to me. I never imagined in all my years that I would learn the mystical arts which so few possessed, but I knew I had quite a ways to go from there. So, for the next few days I studied the runes and trained the few spells I had learned, and when Thorek and his guards came for me, I stashed it underneath my cloak.

That was my life for the next few years; eating, sleeping, tending the farmland, cleaning the house and studying spells in secret. Only my brother knew of my magical abilities, and he waited anxiously for when I would agree to teach him, but that day would never come. My brother, neither quiet nor secretive, was caught muttering his awe of magic under his breath, and Thorek disapproved of that greatly. I was wandering by when I heard Thorek yelling loudly at him, demanding to know the one of whom his was speaking of, when I took a look inside. It was a brief argument, for not two minutes after it had started, Thorek grew impatient and struck my brother down, kiling him with one blow from his blade. After that, I can recall but a little.

I remember an intense anger raging within me, and heat swirling about my body and tossing my hair in flurries of silver colors. There was intense fire, swirling snows and lightning strikes upon the building. I could hear screams and smell burning wood, taste the damp air upon my tongue. To me, my emotions of rage and sadness were feuling my powers, and were not soon letting up. The last thing I had seen was the terrified expression on Thoreks face before my whole world went black.

I woke within ruined walls of charred stone, fallen and cracked beyond any repair. The wind was howling and the birds flew low, and I could feel the slightest of raindrops upon my skin. When I looked around to gather my senses, I was horrified by what I saw. Burned corpses of black and oozing red, laying scattered upon the ground like fragile shards of a broken mirror. When my thoughts returned, I scrambled to where I had last seen my brothers corpse, and found it was protected within a ring, safe from what deadly disasters which I had unleashed. I can remember tears running down my cheeks as I looked upon him. He was so young, so innocent, and he had been taken so soon.

I buried his body by three large stones, him in the middle of them, and marked his grave with a tree sprout. From his death, he would give life. My sadness was short, for it had to be cast aside quickly. When the slavers in league with Thorek knew of his demise, they would hunt me down, I had no doubt that one or two of his guards escaped to go and tell them. I needed to run, to be miles away before the found me. I packed what little I had; a mortar and pestle, my spell book, a few scavenged clothes, a rusty blade and a food from the farm. I then set off to the west, for Morrowind was no longer safe for me.

I traveled many miles, but still I knew they would track me. A Dunmer in Morrowind was common to say the least, but one with markings could stand out completely. I had not noticed, but I had actually come to the borderline between Morrowind and Cyrodiil, and crossed it without knowing. I was running along the roads, swift on my lightly padded feet, when bandits sprang upon me. They had superior weapons and armor, but I quickly overcame them with fire and frost, and they fell to my feet. I was right to defend myself, but the Imperial Guards did not think so. Two of them, on horses of a deep chestnut color, rode up to me and accused me of murder. They had not known that the ones who had fallen were bandits, but they would not listen to my words. They shackled me and pulled me towards the Imperial City, where they threw me in prison.

The cell, which I am currently in, would not be melted by fire, or the lock frozen off by frost, and lightning would not do a thing. I was helpless, trapped in a small space where I could see my spell book just a few feet away, sitting upon a wooden stool and only just out of my reach. I could, and can, do nothing at the moment, and I only hope that when the guards come, I can explain the situation.
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