Note/L10N/Myths_and_Legends_Weapon2/2.4.8/Books/BookMALcho?
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<BR>Myths and Legends:
<br>Volume 6
<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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Argonians are quite possibly the least understood people of all the various men and mer of Tamriel. Their traditions and cultural beliefs remain a mystery to everyone but their own people. Even less is known about their legends and mythology, for the people of the root are distrustful to anyone not of their own kin. However, being the curious scholar that I am, I was able to come into the possession of such a story, a tale of the secrets of Black Marsh and the vengeful passion they harbor.
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- Hides-In-Shadow -
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Somewhere an animal howled in the night, sending chilling tendrils of terror up the man's spine as he ran blindly into the shadows, fleeing a greater darkness. He could feel the dreadful aura of his pursuer closing in behind him, permeating the thick air of the damp forest and exuding a dismal sense of consternation, the alarming apprehension of which chilled his very soul.
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Stumbling through the dark forest, the nameless and soon to be forgotten man fled from this frightful demon, knowing nothing of its nature or motives except for the raw enmity he could feel flowing from its tall, shadow-laden form, a rancorous and malevolent presence whose malcontent towards him was almost tangible.
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Had the man known from what he was fleeing, perhaps he would have simply ceased his useless attempt at salvation and spent the last seconds of his life praying to the gods for mercy, for the cold clutch of death was at his heels.
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Looking back, the man caught a brief, terror-filled glimpse of his pursuer, a dark creature garbed in exotic armor that was as black as night when surrounded by darkness, but now, with the faint moonlight streaming down upon it through the dense foliage, shone brightly with an amber glow through which peered an image of Oblivion itself.
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This atramentous apparition carried with it a large pole arm known simply as Herleif, a twisted, organic staff to which was attached a beautifully crafted and deceptively resplendent blade cast completely out of the rarely seen resin of the Hist Trees of Argonia.
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As he kept running, the shadow pursuing him growing ever closer, the man tripped over a large, decrepit log, tumbling to the moist ground in a tangle of limbs and fear. He tried to get back up and keep running, but an icy wave of trepidation swept over him, and he knew it was too late.
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Looking back one last time, his final vision was that of the chillingly dark form, halberd held high over its head in preparation, its eyes glaring at him with the fiery malice of eternal hate.
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Silently, the elegant weapon descended, its auburn blade slicing cleanly through its mark, spilling the rubicund treasure of the man's blood onto the dark ground. "One more joins those in the void," whispered a quiet voice in the shadows, "and so revenge draws ever closer."
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This draconian demon, now unknown to the world by all but its shadow, had once had two names. Okan-Ru was the name of its past, given to him at an early age in his native tongue. But now he was Hides-In-Shadow, a name that perfectly suited what he had become through his actions, a name he laughed at when thinking of his past.
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Wiping clean Herleif, he returned to his mount and rode west, leaving the swamps of his homeland and entering the fringes of Cyrodil, just east of Leyawin, towards his final burden, a cavern named for the colorful rocks forming it. Here he would finally find the solace of fulfilling his revenge and the peace he hoped it would bring.
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Inside the damp cavern, which had now become a gathering place for bandits, was a small band of four Dunmer slave traders who laughed and reminisced about nostalgic memories from their past, clueless to the revenant of vengeance that came to them now because of those very memories. The leader of these elves was named Dedaves Ralen, the ringleader and most cruel member of these slave trading bandits, who had destroyed countless lives and innumerable families without regret.
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At the moment he was recalling a particular Argonian child, a small girl whose pitiful eyes had been imprinted in his mind, laughing about how he never knew a lizard could could cry so much. She was so weak and useless, he couldn't even remember why he had taken her, as she certainly would not be able to serve his clients sufficiently. The group laughed sadistically, not noticing as a dark figure crept silently into the cavern, swiftly maneuvering its way through the flickering shadows produced by their crackling campfire.
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The jovial mood was ruined as one of the men fell over screaming, a large carmine gash running across his back, revealing a tall Argonian warrior standing behind him, garbed in black armor, a now bloody halberd in hand, fiery red eyes staring back at them with burning fury.
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The other two men tried to run, knowing who was standing so close to them, but the warrior was blocking the exit of the cavern. With a swift and fluid movement, he spun Herleif in two wide arcs, and the two dark elves fell to the floor with a spray of crimson. As the figure approached him, Ralen recognized the monster, the fiery eyes recalling memories of that weeping Argonian girl, their resemblance to the reaper in front of him unquestionable.
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As the figure raised its weapon, Ralen spoke, knowing the Argonian sought revenge. "I cannot rectify what I did to you, but if you will take your vengeance now, do so without doubt or remorse. Do not carry your hate forever, lest it will ruin the brief peace you feel from killing me."
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As the figure hesitated, clearly not prepared for his victim's acceptance, Ralen took advantage of the pause and swung at the Argonian with his small mace. But the blow never hit, for the warrior quickly stepped to the side, parrying the blow with his halberd, sending Ralen reeling off balance. Ralen tried to spin around and hit the Argonian again, but again his weapon glanced off the halberd.
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The Argonian twisted his weapon in a beautifully practiced spiral, sending Ralen's mace flying, and slashed Ralen across his shoulder. As Ralen fell back in pain, he looked up to see the vengeful warrior holding the halberd high above its head, ready to strike.
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"Peace," whispered the Argonian, "I expect never again to know the comforts of. But your death will at least provide peace to those whose lives you would have ruined." Ralen tried to release a scream, but the halberd descended too quickly, its amber blade slicing through his flesh with an eerie silence.
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Okan-Ru turned and walked away, pausing at the exit to take one last look at the terminus of his revenge, taking comfort in knowing no other father would ever have to watch that man carry their child away from them, and the thought brought with it the peace he had been searching for.
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A memory returned to him of the day when he had felt so blessed to have received such a great token from the Hist, a token he would treasure forever and someday pass on to his daughter. Though it had never reached her hands, it had now at least given her something she deserved.
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Okan-Ru was never heard from again, I suspect because he had found the peace he wanted. It is interesting to note the sentimental value the weapon had for Okan-Ru concerning his daughter. Perhaps, then, Okan-Ru left Herleif there as his last tribute to his lost daughter, an eternal testament to the crimes of men and the perpetual struggle of repentance. Peace, it seems, is something that can never last so long as men live.
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The wide land of Cyrodil is rich in culture, with an abundance of myths and legends compiled from the extensive histories of each of its various peoples. In the seaside city of Anvil, which sees plenty of travel from people going in and out of the province, there are many interwoven stories and fantastical tales of heroes and buried treasures, one of which, though strange, I found quite interesting. This is a story of a poor beggar, a noble warrior, a great beast, and lucky misfortune.
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- Alluvium Affluence -
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Centuries ago in Anvil there lived a poverty-stricken beggar. His proper name was Leon Lovidicus, though to the populace of the town he was known as Leon the Luckless.
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His was a sad tale, filled with perpetual bad luck and a coinciding series of unfortunate occurrences that left the once respected ship captain broken and septimless.
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Without honor, money, or respect, Leon understandably became somewhat of a nefarious character, a sort of one of-a-kind pick-pocketing pirate who everyone detested yet was so pitied that they simply could not cast him out or lock him up.<br><br>
One early morning a ship arrived from the mountainous province of High Rock, carrying with it various oddities and trinkets. Riding amidst its cargo was a group of four Orcish warriors, equipped with strange, shining armor and beautifully exotic weaponry. They were a traveling band of treasure hunters who had apparently come across a map which pointed to treasure near Anvil.
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Hatching some deluded scheme to regain his life, Leon promptly attempted to pick pocket their leader, one Vutkul gro-Malog, a giant Orc with combat-hardened muscles.
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As he was hardly a professional thief and his quarry a battle-learned warrior, Leon was caught immediately. But Vuktul, being the honorable and noble warrior that he was, pitied the unfortunate man who would stoop so low as to steal and saw potential rather than despair in his ragged life.
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Rather than turn him over to the authorities, Vutkul offered a proposal to the poor beggar. Rather than squander his life away performing misdeeds, Leon could accompany the Orcs on their journey, helping them carry equipment and perform menial tasks, and, in return, they would give him a small percentage of their earnings which he could use to get his life back on track.
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Naive and hopeful as he was, Leon saw this as his one chance to rid himself of his horrible nickname and the poverty that accompanied it, and jumped at the kind offer.
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After being introduced to the other members of the group, only one of which Leon could properly pronounce the name of, the small band left immediately, following the road north of Anvil.
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The sun had just begun to light the sky with golden light when they reached their first marker, a small cavern known as Hrota Cave on a hill east of the road. Though they had only been trekking for a half hour, Leon was already quite tired from carrying the massive amount of gear they had strapped to him, but he was too ashamed to mention his fatigue to any of his muscular companions as they turned north west, veering off the road and into the Colovian Highlands.
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It was a good two hours of steady hiking through the arduous countryside dotted with spiny plants and large boulders before they reached another turning point. Leon let out an awed gasp, for the hazy sea stretching lazily to the azure horizon greeting his tired eyes as he mounted the hill behind his companions.
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Coming to a stop next to them and panting, he was relieved to hear one of the other Orcs, one Wogort gro-Nagorm, a relatively small and seemingly compassionate Orc who wielded a giant hammer, request a brief rest break.
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As he sat there on the flat hilltop overlooking the serene ocean, the fresh smell of seawater attributing a calm to the mid-morning air, Leon listened to the harsh cawing of some nearby crows, which circled indifferently high above this haven of peace, their black feathers reflecting the golden sunlight as if to signify Leon's renewal of hope.
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Though he had lived his entire life in Anvil and had once been the captain of a small merchant vessel, Leon had never actually taken the time to simply observe the sea in all its peaceful beauty, and now that he had, he was convinced that he would spend the rest of his life trying to procure a home in this very spot so he could respect it forevermore.
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Leon was snapped out of his tranquil revelation by one of the Orcs shaking him, motioning towards the others who had already started moving northwards, walking along the coast.
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As they hiked along the relaxing beach, Leon remarked upon his life, the three-hour's journey providing him plenty of time to wheedle the desire for change into his mind.
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For too long he had squandered away the best years of he life, wallowing in his wretched self pity, awaiting some miracle that would save him, and, now that it had appeared, he was determined to ensure it did indeed do just that.
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It was noon when they reached what Leon presumed was the next landmark, a small Ayleid ruin perched peacefully upon a hill overlooking the ocean, but they simply continued north passed it rather than stopping.
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A little while after passing the ruin, they reached a small peninsula which jutted haphazardly into the sea before them, forming a small gulf to their north.
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Signifying that they should change course here, Vutkul led them onwards, making his way east, back into the rocky terrain. As they began climbing a steep, grassy hill, Leon glanced back forlornly, reluctant to leave behind the ocean and the calm it had brought him, but he realized if the Orcs were successful in finding treasure at their destination, he would have more than enough money to purchase a home to live happily there for the rest of his days.
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The sky was beginning to get dark, though they still had at least four good hours of sunlight left, when the group reached their next destination. As they reached the top of the hill, the Orcs let out an ecstatic yell and ran down to the small valley where there was a large statue of some Daedric prince.
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Slowly descending down the hill, Leon was confused when he found the Orcs each kneeling in front of the statue, each one silent as they revered the god. After waiting for a few moments, Vitkul got up and walked over to Leon, who was sitting in the dirt contemplating his recent revelation.
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"This is an ancient statue of our patron deity, Mauloch, or Malacath as you likely know him. The map showed that there was a Daedra statue on our way, but we had no idea that it would be of our god. Surely this is a good sign for our trip," explained Vitkul, turning back and rejoining the others as he spoke. "Allow us a few more moments to offer our praise, and then we will continue onward."
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Once each of the Orcs had finished praying to the god, the group continued, changing their course northeast and traveling once again through the rocky terrain of the Colovian Highlands. Leon was simply glad they had no more steep hills to climb, for this was by far the longest part of their journey.
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As they hiked, parallel to the Brema River according to Wogort, the Orcs told stories and reminisced of their other adventures, keeping Leon entertained on the long journey.
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Slowly the sun began to descend from its golden zenith in the sky, tainting the hills with tranquil violet shadows and bringing a new calm to the dry terrain.
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Shortly after the sun has gone down, the ruin where the map had led them came into view, the only significant piece of its architecture a strange statue rising from the hallowed ground, depicting an elvish hero holding a sword .
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Despite Leon's wishes to continue into the ruin immediately, the Orcs were stubborn in their decision to make a camp slightly south west of the ruin and get a good night's rest before entering the ancient ruin.
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After a restless night of anticipation, they set off again, quickly arriving at the eerie ruin. After stumbling around in confusion for a few moments, they discovered that the entry was beneath ground, at the end of a small stairway which spiraled around the strange statue. And thus they descended into gloom.
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Leon had never before been within an Ayleid ruin, and he was certainly not prepared for the sudden change in mood. Within the dank, dismal dungeon, Leon suddenly felt all of his new hope depart, as if with the pale sunlight streaming through the door, which was cut off abruptly as the Orcs closed the doors behind them.
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But, unable to convey his fears to the brave warriors, Leon followed them as they crept into the depths of the dungeon, the long flights of stairs only adding to his accumulating trepidation.
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Finally emerging into the main chamber, Leon let out an astounded gasp, for he was suddenly standing in a massive room, empty but for a giant pillar rising from the ground to the hazy ceiling.
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He suddenly wished that he had not, for a loud roar emulated from a chamber behind the obscuring pillar in retaliation to him disturbing of the serenely creepy silence. The ground thumped, the walls shook, the pillar trembled. It was as if an earthquake were happening within the ruin.
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The roar came again, and a massive, dark figure emerged from the shadows behind the pillar, causing Leon to gasp once again. The Orcs immediately readied their weapons and charged towards the beast without hesitation.
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With one swipe of its massive forearm, the creature sent the two Orcs whose names Leon could not remember flying, their bodies striking the walls with resounding thuds.
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Wogort, raising his massive hammer high over his head, smashed the heavy weapon into the beast's great leg, producing a dry crack as the monster's skin shattered into jagged fragments, as if it were made of stone. With another roar, the creature knocked Wogort across the room with its massive fists, his body and hammer falling near Leon.
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With an enraged yell, Vitkul plunged his long sword straight into where the heart of the beast should have been, leaving it there, lodged within the creatures hide as he jumped away, narrowly avoiding a crushing blow. But he was not safe from danger, for the beast was truly angry now.
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With another deafening roar, it sent a bright ball of magic flying at Vitkul, who was unable to avoid the projectile in time. As his body crumpled to the ground, Leon suddenly realized with dry disdain that he was alone.
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Grasping Wogort's hammer from where he lay nearby, Leon ducked through the gloom, unsure why he was moving towards the monster rather than fleeing as he should have. But bravery was finally on his side, and, though he did not know it, so was luck.
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Sneaking up behind the beast, which was still bellowing at Vitkul, Leon raised his hammer to bring it down on the creature's exposed back. Just as he was about to strike, Wogort sputtered from behind him, and the beast spun around with another harsh roar.
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Without thinking, Leon swung with all his might, knowing his blow could not possible slay the monster and that he would be dead with one flail of the creature's arms.
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But, for perhaps the first time in his life, he had a change of luck. The hammer, with all the force of Leon's hope, struck the hilt of Vitkul's sword, which was still lodged in the beast's chest.
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The resulting effect really was like an earthquake, for the great monster's body suddenly erupted in stone fragments, which fell to the ground around Leon. As the beast splintered into pieces, light erupted from every crack of its body and enveloped the room.
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Dropping the hammer, Leon fell back and covered his eyes. When the light subsided, the creature and the weapons were gone. In their place was a single metallic hammer, shining brilliantly even in the gloom.
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As he grasped his prize, Leon was shocked when he heard a loud gasp from behind him. Spinning around, his face lit up with wonder when he saw Wogort standing before an open chest, he face lit with golden sparkles reflecting off countless pieces of treasure.
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And so Leon's luck was restored, for Wogort kept the promise Vitkul had made, and Leon was given a share of the riches, as well as allowed to keep the hammer.
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While the other two Orcs perished, it is unclear whether or not Vitkul survived, for, though records indicate a family of Orcs living in poverty in Anvil with the name gro-Malog, the story does not give further mention of his fate. As for Wogort, he supposedly returned to High Rock with his riches.
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As historians may note, in year 399 of the Third Era, an Orc by the name of Gortwog gro-Nagorm constructed a new city where Orsinium once stood. Perhaps he is a descendant of Wogort who used his ancestor's treasure to build a future for his people, though this tale is likely nothing more than a fanciful attempt to explain the unknown.
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As for Leon, as the story goes, he once again became Leon Lovidicus and, using his new found wealth, had a house built in the very spot he has chosen in his journey. He supposedly spoke often of his hammer, and it was never seen again when he died.
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His burial place is now unknown, but, if there is any truth to be found in the story, perhaps the first clue will begin not in his burial place, but that of the beast who created the weapon.
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