User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/The Eighth Trial (Blog: Part 1)

Prelude
Okay, so, in the lull between my next chapter of "Nine Masks for Mother Ashna" (yeah, I'm getting to it Emma, cool your teets.  Remember, I'm a slow thinker), I decided to start hype me and Sunny want to do in the future (distant or near.)  I'll be releasing blogs to show what the world of said RP'll be like, how to acclimatize to it, etc., so that anyone interested in joining can get characters ready.

Background (This is optional reading, a lot of this is explained in the blog)
Over a millennium ago, the Nerevarine walked into Red Mountain to fulfill his destiny- and never returned from it. Dagoth Ur instead, with all three artifacts in his possession, harvested the Heart of Lorkhan’s power, and achieved the god-hood he so desired. From there he led his Ash Vampires down into Morrowind- and slew the Tribunal.

The Dunmer people, however, were not so eager to accept his rule. Instead of seeming him as a liberator, they saw him as a devil, and a conqueror. Thus, they were the first race he subjugated. All the other races of Tamriel followed- except the Summerset Isle. The Altmer remained a free nation, although Dagoth Ur would later crush their armies and frighten them into never challenging his power again. During this war, Dagoth Ur revoked Magicka from all but a few choice people, demonstrating his power. Without magic, the Altmer were defeated.

Once he and his Akulakhan had conquered the world, he reshaped it into what he saw fit. He took the Imperial’s nobility and deposited it into the Dunmer house system. Telvanni, Hlaalu, Redoran, the other Great Houses- all of their ranks were now filled with Imperials, those who had always been in power. The races of Tamriel resisted again, and Dagoth Ur punished them. They were made lower than low, surfs to the Imperials who now ruled this new empire. Only a few ever managed to rise above the status of commoners, and even then they were barely freemen, only scraping by. There are a few Imperial down on their luck who have become commoners as well.

We now reach the seeming end of the 4th Era- an era that began with the domination of Dagoth and the creation of his Ashen Empire. The Ashen Empire. For it is the only one left.

The Sharmat holds his power with an iron fist- resistance is futile. No rebels have managed to raise a force to match his since the beginning. Imperial Nobility are allowed free reign of society, some cutting down commoners simply because they may be under foot. The Houses even fight amongst each other, waging wars of subterfuge, wars that the Emperor allows so that they are kept in check, so that no House grows too powerful. It is not a happy era, but it is one of order.

Part 1
''I do not think it is any wonder the world is like it is today. When the prophecy was not fulfilled, there was no other outcome. When the Sharmat was the one who returned from Red Mountain, Nirn’s fate was sealed. But Dagoth Ur’s claimed god hood is not so unbelievable. For the the prophecy states:'' First Trial: On a certain day, to uncertain parents, incarnate moon and star reborn.

''Second Trial: Neither blight nor age can harm him. The Curse-of-Flesh before him flies.''

Third Trial: In caverns dark Azura's eye sees, and makes to shine the moon and star.

''Fourth Trial: A stranger's voice unites the Houses. Three Halls call him Hortator.''

''Fifth Trial: A stranger's hand unites the Velothi. Four Tribes call him Nerevarine.''

''Sixth Trial: He honors blood of the tribe unmourned. He eats their sin, and is reborn.''

Seventh Trial: His mercy frees the cursed false gods, binds the broken, and redeems the mad.

''One Destiny: He speaks the law for Veloth's people. He speaks for their land, and names them great.''

''Does Dagoth Ur not fulfill these requirements? If so, then would the people have to say of their supposed savior?''

 In Morrowind, a short distance from Mournhold…

Ash fell from the sky. There were once myths that it had caused disease, but they were no more. If the ash ever had, it was harmless now. Lord Sotha frowned, glancing up at the ruddy, mid-day sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Sotha and his distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren’t that uncommon in the Ashen Empire, but Sotha had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via Silt Strider from Mournhold itself. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind—the parasol would likely be effective. Sotha stood with his guest on a small hilltop patio which overlooked the fields. Hundreds of people in brown smocks worked in the falling ash, caring for the crops. There was a sluggishness to their efforts—but, of course, that was the way of the commoners. The serfs were an indolent, unproductive lot. They didn’t complain, of course—they knew better than that. Instead, they simply worked with bowed heads, moving about their work with quiet apathy. The passing whip of a overseer would force them into dedicated motion for a few moments, but as soon as the overseer passed, they would return to their languor. Sotha turned to the man standing beside him on the hill. “One would think,” Sotha noted, “that a thousand years of working in fields would have bred them to be a little more effective at it.” The Dunmer turned, raising an eyebrow—the motion done as if to highlight his most distinctive feature- the silver mask he wore. It was very well decorated and inlayed, showing off the man’s status. All Ordinators wore golden or silver masks, inlaid with other metals to show their rank. This was an important Ordinator- a very important Ordinator indeed. Sotha had his own Ordiantors, of course, but they were minor functionaries. This man had arrived from Mournhold on the same Silt Strider that had brought Sotha’s new suit. “You should see city serfs, Sotha,” the Ordinator said, turning back to watch the serfs workers. “These are actually quite diligent, compared to those inside Mournhold. You have more... direct control over your serfs here. How many would you say you lose a month?” “Oh, a half-dozen or so,” Sotha said. “Some to beatings, some to exhaustion.” “Runaways?” “Never!” Sotha said. “When I first inherited this land from my title, I had a few runaways—but I executed their families. The rest quickly lost heart. I’ve never understood men who have trouble with their serfs—I find the creatures easy to control, if you show a properly firm hand.” The Ordinator nodded, standing quietly in his gray robes. He seemed pleased—which was a good thing. The serfs weren’t actually Sotha’s property. Like all serfs, they belonged to Dagoth Ur—Sotha only leased the workers from his God, much in the same way he paid for the services of His Ordinators. The Ordinator looked down, checking his pocket watch, then glanced up at the sun. Despite the ashfall, the sun was bright this day, shining a brilliant crimson red behind the smoky blackness of the upper sky. Sotha removed a handkerchief and wiped his brow, thankful for the parasol’s shade against the mid-day heat. “Very well, Sotha,” the Ordinator said. “I will carry your proposal to Lord Indoril, as requested. He will have a favorable report from me on your operations here.” Sotha held in a sigh of relief. An Ordinator was required to witness any contract or business deal between noblemen. True, even a lowly Ordinator like the ones Sotha employed could serve as such a witness—but it meant so much more to impress Straff Indoril’s own Ordinator. The Ordinator turned toward him. “I will leave back down the canal this afternoon.” “So soon?” Sotha asked. “Wouldn’t you care to stay for supper?” “No,” the Ordinator replied. “Though there is another matter I wish to discuss with you. I came not only at the behest of Lord Indoril, but to. . . look in on some matters for the Canton of Inquisition. Rumors say that you like to dally with your serfs women.” Sotha felt a chill. The Ordinator smiled—he likely meant it to be disarming, but Sotha only found it eerie. “Don’t worry yourself, Sotha,” the Ordinator said. “If there had been any real worries about your actions, an Ash Ghoul would have been sent here in my place.” Sotha nodded slowly. Ghoul. He’d never seen one of the inhuman creatures, but he had heard. . . stories. “I have been satisfied regarding your actions with the serf women,” the Ordinator said, looking back over the fields. “What I’ve seen and heard here indicates that you always clean up your messes. A man such as yourself—efficient, productive—could go far in Mournhold. A few more years of work, some inspired mercantile deals, and who knows?” The Ordinator turned away, and Sotha found himself smiling. It wasn’t a promise, or even an endorsement—for the most part, Ordinators were more bureaucrats and witnesses than they were priests—but to hear such praise from one of Dagoth Ur’s own servants. . . . Sotha knew that some nobility considered the Ordinators to be unsettling—some men even considered them a bother—but at that moment, Sotha could have kissed his distinguished guest. Sotha turned back toward the serfs, who worked quietly beneath the bloody sun and the lazy flakes of ash. Sotha had always been a country nobleman, living on his plantation, dreaming of perhaps moving into Mournhold itself. He had heard of the balls and the parties, the glamour and the intrigue, and it excited him to no end. I’ll have to celebrate tonight, he thought. There was that young girl in the fourteenth barrack that he’d been watching for some time. . . . He smiled again. A few more years of work, the Ordinator had said. But, could Sotha perhaps speed that up, if he worked a little harder? His serfs’ population had been growing lately. Perhaps if he pushed them a bit more, he could bring in an extra harvest this summer, fulfill his contract with Lord Indoril in extra measure. Sotha nodded as he watched the crowd of lazy serfs, some working with their hoes, others on hands and knees, pushing the ash away from the fledgling crops. They didn’t complain. They didn’t hope. They barely dared think. That was the way it should be, for they were serfs. They were— Sotha froze as one of the serfs looked up. The man met Sotha’s eyes, a spark—no, a fire—of defiance showing in his expression. Sotha had never seen anything like it, not in the face of a serfs. Sotha stepped backward reflexively, a chill running through him as the strange, straight-backed serfs held his eyes. And smiled. Sotha looked away. “Egbert!” he snapped. The burly overseer rushed up the incline. “Yes, my lord?” Sotha turned, pointing at. . . . He frowned. Where had that serf been standing? Working with their heads bowed, bodies stained by soot and sweat, they were so hard to tell apart. Sotha paused, searching. He thought he knew the place. . . an empty spot, where nobody now stood. But, no. That couldn’t be it. The man couldn’t have disappeared from the group so quickly. Where would he have gone? He must be in there, somewhere, working with his head now properly bowed. Still, his moment of apparent defiance was inexcusable. “My lord?” Egbert asked again. The Ordinator stood at the side, watching curiously. It would not be wise to let the man know that one of the serfs had acted so brazenly. “Work the serfs in that southern section a little harder,” Sotha ordered, pointing. “I see them being sluggish, even for serfs. Beat a few of them.” Egbert shrugged, but nodded. It wasn’t much of a reason for a beating—but, then, he didn’t need much of a reason to give the workers a beating. They were, after all, only serfs.