Note/L10N/Myths_and_Legends_Weapon2/2.4.8/Books/BookMALANV?
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<BR>Myths and Legends:
<br>Volume 3
<br> by Draskal Ratden
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-Foreword-
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These collected volumes are the result of my travels throughout Tamriel, where I have spent my life listening to the many wonderful myths and legends that are abundant throughout our magnificent world. Though I am no adventurer, I truly do believe many of these stories are based on fact, though how much of them is true and how much the fantastical elaboration of imagination, I cannot say, for I am just another conduit through which they shall live.
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Some of my readers may recall me mentioning an episode in my traveling where I was taken hostage by a group of bandits. Though the experience was not altogether comfortable, I did enjoy it because of the numerous stories they shared with me.
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One of them that I found interesting and factual enough to share with the world concerns an unfortunate young, naive man, and the dark powers of temptation and revenge. Here it is as I first heard it, mind you it is best read during a dark night while sitting around a camp fire in the vast unknown of the wilderness.
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- The Black Axe -
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Joran was young and full of energy, a boy that had just become a man and was ready to go out and experience life and all the adventures he assumed it would hold for him. Though he was a waiter at a small Bar and Inn in the Imperial City, he had aspirations of joining the Fighter's Guild and traveling all across Cyrodil, collecting fame and fortune on his unique adventures.
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One busy night a traveling merchant entered and began to converse with some other patrons of the inn. Before long, he had a group gathered around him as he told frightening tales of adventure and glory, lost treasures and horrible monsters. Finishing his shift eagerly, Joran pulled up a seat at the man's table and listened in awe as the merchant described an ancient fort filled with monsters and beasts, haunted by an evil presence which guarded some unimaginably powerful artifact. <br><br>
When the man claimed he had been to this fort in hopes of collecting the treasure, but had never had a chance to enter, the group gathered around him laughed and joked, saying he was nothing but a liar and attention monger. But the merchant, with a shrewd grin, produced a hand-drawn map from inside his shirt, and, surely enough, it had notes and scrawlings leading to a fort marked in the mountains north east of the city.
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Deciding this was his big chance to enter the world of adventuring, Joran offered to pay the man fifty septims, a good portion of his savings, in exchange for the map. Accepting, the merchant gave Joran his map and soon left the bar for the night, along with the rest of the patrons.
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Requesting permission from the innkeeper, who, though he disliked Joran's naive attitude, was kind and accepting of Joran's adventurous soul, Joran procured a few days in which he could travel to the fort, hopefully returning with some ancient treasure and newfound riches.
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Joran was so excited and eager to get going that he set out immediately after returning to his small apartment to collect what few valuable items he had, which include the rest of his savings, a decrepit silver dagger, and an enchanted amulet passed down from his deceased father.
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Exiting from the Imperial City from the northern gate connecting to the Market District, Joran made his way east to the water's edge, then continued north passed an old sewer grating, which had been marked on the map, that supposedly led into the Imperial Prison. Looking at his map, he noticed the next landmark was almost directly north, all he had to do was swim across the lake, something that did not bother him at all, as it would only enrich the experience in his mind.
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After a good fifteen minutes of swimming, Joran finally made it across the dark water, disappointed that he had not been attacked by any slaughterfish, yet secretly happy he had not encountered any danger.
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After resting for a few moments on a rock on the beach and watching the mudcrabs scurry about, Joran continued north, crossing the road which encircled the Imperial City, and found his next landmark; the Roxey Inn. Looking at the sky, he guessed that it was now somewhere between 12 and 2 am, so he decided the least he could do was allow his body a little rest.
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After getting a few hour's sleep and contemplating what the treasure could possibly be for the rest of the night, Joran awoke bright and early. Exiting the small Inn and leaning against a nearby tree, he looked north, noticing that the ground sloped away in a steep rise which kept ascending, forming a rather daunting mountain. <br><br>
From the angle he was at, there were two apparent gouges in the side of the mountain, both possible routes to take. Studying his map, he saw that a small line was drawn through the one on his right, so he shouldered his pack and began hiking up it.
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After a good hour of climbing the steep hill, Joran finally found it leveled off slightly. On his map, he saw there was an odd object marked a little ways to the east of him. Searching in that area, he found a peculiar statue of some weird goddess, presumably some four-armed Daedra, that was surrounded by frightening worshipers who, when he asked them where he was, told him that he should return at night with some Nightshade if he was searching for the Webspinner's blessing. Glad it was not night time, Joran quickly consulted his map and continued onward, trying to put as much distance between the cultists and himself as possible.
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Continuing east, he found the mountain dropped off into another small gouge-like valley and then rose again on the other side. Carefully crossing the small valley, Joran ascended the other side of the mountain, finding that it continued rising on his left, to the north, and descended with a clear, beautiful view of the White Gold Tower on his right, to the south. The map, however, pointed east for a good three hour's worth of hiking, so Joran continued on in that direction.
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As he hiked, the sun slowly rose to it's apex in the sky, turning the sky a rich, golden blue and signifying that it was now noon. Not long after noon, Joran arrived at another drop off, where the mountain again descended into a valley, this one wider and less steep than the previous one. Here, on the edge of the mountain, there were numerous boulders strewn around the edge of the cliff, and, according to the map, this was where he should change his course, turning directly north.<br><br>
Now the trip was much more difficult, for Joran was now hiking up the mountain, and there were large rocks and boulders obscuring his path everywhere. Not long after the sun had begun its descent to the west, attributing a slight darkness to the sky, Joran passed another landmark on his map, which showed an open mouth ringed with teeth.
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Confused, Joran inspected the landmark more closely. Surely enough, it was a cave that seemed to resemble a large mouth, as if that of some great beast who was prepared to swallow him whole. Not wanting to find out what might live inside that great beast's maw, Joran continued passed it to the north, as his map directed.
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Now the rise was becoming steeper and the boulders less frequent. Joran could also feel a cool and crisp mountain air blowing down from the frozen peaks, which he could see off in the distance. The tree's leaves had begun to change to yellow, making Joran feel like he was in an eternal land of autumn.
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Just after the sun had descended beyond the mountains, the sky now dark and violet in its absence, Joran's eyes fell upon the end of his journey; a magnificent fort constructed into the side of the mountain. The ancient fortress was truly remarkable to behold, its old rocks still intact, the foundation seeming to lie in the exact spot where the ground became sleek and cold from the snow just north of the fortress.
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Immediately forgetting his worries and fatigue from the enervating day, Joran bounded forward, entering the beautiful fortress and ready to discover the treasure which awaited him. But when he entered through the heavy door, he did not find a golden hallway leading passed countless treasure chests, but rather a cramped, bleak, echoing stone corridor. And in this damp aisle there were no treasure chests, but rather three mean looking men, who glared at him sadistically.<br><br>
Confused, Joran did not have time to draw his small dagger before the three men surrounded him, knocking him out with a heavy wooden club. When he awoke, he found they had taken everything from him but his raggedy clothes, which were torn from the men dragging him into some chamber deep under the fortress, where they had tied him up. Instantly regretting the trip, Joran screamed for help and was met with the face of the merchant who had sold him the map. Around the man's neck was his father's amulet.
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Grinning, the man said nothing, only patted Joran on the head, which made him wince from the large bump which had resulted from the club. Joran tried to say something, to insult the cowardly man and demand his things back, to spit in his face and tear free of his ropes and strangle him to death, but all he could do was cry.<br><br>
The men left him there, bruised and beaten, tied tightly to some heavy stone to either be found by some horrible monster or die of starvation. Slipping into a miserable, malevolent stupor, Joran began to sleep, dreaming of horrible things, and in these nightmares a dark voice came to him, whispering to his deluded mind thoughts of revenge and satisfaction.
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Joran submitted, and listened eagerly to what it had to say, telling him that he could have his vengeance and be free to take whatever else he wanted if he only allowed his madness to control him. The offer was too much for him to refuse, and Joran let his rage fill him, wanting nothing more than to slaughter the men who had taken his naive innocence from him and left him to face the cold world alone.
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In his blind rage, the ropes that were binding him fell away, as if cut, and he ran further into the fort, guided by darkness and shadow to the deepest room in the dungeon, where he found the treasure he had come for. Grasping it in his hands, he exited the fort and stalked off into the night to find his enemies, the pale moon shining dimly in the dismal night. With his new token, an axe as black as the night itself, formed into gruesome, malignant curves, with gold symbols etched into its twisted form, Joran would get his revenge.
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Some time later, an Imperial Ranger found the bodies of three wanted criminals somewhere north of the Imperial City lying mutilated and broken in the forests, their faces deformed in horrible screams, their blood seeping into the ground, bestowing a crimson stain onto the earth. On each of their chests, the word 'revenge' was reputedly carved in large, bloody slashes. Nobody ever saw Joran again.
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Supposedly this fort still exists, in the exact spot Joran found it, its dark treasure still awaiting a new wielder somewhere below the shadowy fortress. Perhaps the axe feeds on negative emotions, like an evil avatar of the gods, and it seeks out those whose emotions reign supreme. Regardless, one would be foolish to seek it out, however powerful it must be.
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Very few stories exist that speak of the Khajiit, the mysterious mer of the sands and jungles, and even fewer referencing any weapons they wielded, for they are usually thought to prefer their claws. In the jumbled city of Bravil, however, I found such a story.
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- The Priest, the Khajiit, and the Mace -
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The sun shone ruthlessly down upon the open sands, perpetually intensifying the harsh desert with baking heat, and a lone figure stumbled through the blinding sands. He was a young Khajiit that went by the name of Khadunm. He had ventured forth on his own into the vast unknown after being expelled from his own tribe in Elsweyr for refusing to abide by the common laws. Khadunm was an Ohmes Raht, and, as such, was mostly accepted by other men and mer, though many racial stigmas still prevailed in the region his path had led him into.
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After a long period of traveling and seeking temporary shelters, Khadunm had finally made his way completely across the blistering desert of northern Elsweyr and had crossed the Cyrodillic border into the Imperial human region. Khadunm had no prejudice or enmity towards these frail men, and he simply sought out shelter.
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Walking along the lonely road he was greeted by a kindly old man by the name of Glasvryn, who was a humble priest in the chapel of the nearby town of Bravil. The priest noticed the young Khajiit's rough condition and offered him shelter in his Church. Khadunm had never been to a human village and knew very little about their culture, but he appreciated the benevolent gesture all the same and accepted the offer gratefully.
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Several weeks had passed and Khadunm was able to discuss many of the things that had happened to him and led him on his adventure to Bravil.. He had quickly become friends with the old priest and had decided he would stay and assist his new friend in the Church by doing any task he was able. In return, Glasvryn had offered to train Khadunm in the art of blunt weapons.
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Khadunm was very weary of this fighting style, as his race is known for using their bare claws to rip an shred, more dangerous and vicious weapons than most men could make, but he did not want to disappoint his new friend, so he accepted the kind offer.
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Weeks went by as Glasvryn taught his student how very small weapons could be used to surprise the target. Sneaking and stealth came to Khadunm very easily, his feline physique attributing agility and speed to his movements naturally, and Khadunm quickly became very skilled at combat.
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After Glasvryn had taught all he could to Khadunm, he presented his pupil with a gift. It was a humble mace, carved to look opulent and magnificent without the need of embellishments or finery; the perfect defensive weapon of a priest. It was light and strong, perfect for Khadunm's new fighting style, and he cherished the present from his friend as a tangible token of his own redemption.
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Time passed and things went on as they do. The small town of Bravil had gradually started aging a bit more and had become home to many rough types of people. <br><br>
Skooma, a horribly addictive drug, had taken its hold on some of the townsfolk and crime had increased quite dramatically. Several people were hurt in fits of madness brought on by the so called moon-sugar and eventually Glasvryn attempted to evoke changes to the laws to aid his town and cleanse the populace of the rampant drug.
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Naturally, this idea was not well received by those actually enjoying the drug, and, after a long night of indulgence, a group of ragged thugs decided they would scare the old priest into giving up his crusade against the drug so they could enjoy their precious skooma in peace.
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Early in the dismal morning on a calm, apprehensive Fridas, the small band of skooma-laden men moved through the quiet dark towards the church. Breaking in, they made their way to Glasvryn's chambers and began their assault. Though they had only meant to warn him, the impaired men had beaten the poor priest to death in their intoxicated stupor.
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Khadunm's chambers were directly across the hall, and, after being awoken by a loud crash and the sound of scuffling in his friend's room, he grabbed his new mace and silently entered the room, prepared for the worst.
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Peering through the open crack of the doorway, Khadunm saw the drug-addicted thugs standing dumbly over the mangled body of Glasvryn, speaking in frantic tones to each other. In a fit of rage, Khadunm readied his mace, not thinking about what he was doing, his only thought how his poor friend had been murdered by these fools for doing the right thing.
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Striking the nearest thug, who stood with his back to the door, directly on his head, Khadunm was on his feet and ready to fight the rest even as the first man fell to the ground with a muffled scream. As the remaining thugs backed up against the wall, their frightened faces reflecting the surprised horror of the chilling apparition they saw, that of a demonic cat creature baring a bloody mace and dagger-like fangs, Khadunm advanced.
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The next day several bodies were found lying outside the church. Khadunm was gone and so was Glasvryn, assumed dead. Many stories of gossip filled the town that the strange Khajiit had murdered the poor priest and those men, either for gold or drugs.
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A few search parties were organized in an attempt to find Glasvryn?s remains, but no trace was ever found. Some stories state that a guard saw a shadowy figure running into the woods, carrying something large on its back. Many believe he was simply hallucinating, as the skooma was rampant even in the town guard at that time.
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Being the curious scholar I am, I sought out this guard and was lucky enough to meet him, though he had aged quite a bit since the events had taken place. He proceeded to tell me what he had seen that night.
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"It was early in the morning, and I was about to be relieved by the next watch, when I was making my rounds near the main gate. Some movement out of the corner of my eye attracted my attention, and I looked over to see a dark figure run into the forest with something large and heavy on its back."
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"It headed straight west, staying parallel to the road in the shadows of the trees, and, as the road turned south and went over the river, the figure kept on going into the forest."
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"Rushing headlong into the forest, I was not able to catch up to the figure, despite its burden. Eventually, I came to the point of the river where it turns sharply south."
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"I could see fresh tracks leading up the mountainside to the north, along one of the gullies, but I did not want to follow anything into that part of the woods. So I gave up, returning to the town to report my findings. It was only later, when I heard the story of the murders, that I realized exactly what I had been chasing."
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"Now I had met that Khajiit, and, though I cant really say I knew him, he didn't seem like the criminal sort. I don't think he murdered the poor priest... I think he was carrying his body into the woods to bury him."
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Perhaps this strange tale of redemption and the passion of the soul may seem out of place with the rest of these fantastical legends, but the mace it revolves around certainly is not.
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Perhaps it is still there, deep in the forest, resting either on the unfortunate body of the Khajiit... or perhaps the Khajiit realized the blood he had spilled had been unjust, even considering his reasons, and thus relinquished the mace forever, leaving it along with his friend and savior before embarking on another unknown journey, a hallowed memory of the darkness within us all.
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