Not to long ago, I had stood waiting at the shrine of Mara for many long hours. My scales were dry, and the paint on my face had begun to crust up at the corners of my eyes and mouth. The sun fell past the tops of the buildings, the spreading shadows spelled out to me that the Dunmer woman I had been betrothed to was not coming.
She had taken my dowry and fled to Deshaan, for reasons I suppose were too unimportant to bother so much as sending a letter. I stood in the darkening streets in my ceremonial robes, horns braided with flowers, weeping hysterically while passersby tried not to make eye contact.
The guards pummeled me in the gutter and I was thrown out of Davon's watch, into a ditch. The mud on my scales rejuvenated me, and I decided to go adventuring, since I had nothing better to do.
The field not 50 feet away from the front gates of the fortress is haunted, in case you hadn't notice. That is when I saw them. Warriors of unmatched skill and precision, having mastered one attack so well that it was all they did. They wore only rags, but as a wave, they stood unopposed by the spectres of the night.
I joined in their silent crusade, dressing as they did, using only one of my techniques over and over. The power of our phalanx tore through these ghosts like a river through desert sand.
No matter how many we destroyed, there was always another to take their place. Every so often, we would rest by gathering ore, or jute, although for what purpose i could not ascertain.
I waited too long on one of our breaks, harvesting a few chunks of ore when the group left me behind. Out of thin air, one of the spectres appeared, blocking the path between the group and I. I turned to run, but two more rose to block my path.
I fought with all my might, but I knew that this could very well spell my doom. As I felt their ethereal blades pierce my chest, I was driven to the ground. I accepted my fate. I had fought bravely and it was time for my spirit to join the river that feeds the hist.
That was when I saw her. With a lance made of pure light, she pierced the phantasmal cuirasses of the three ghosts, an explosion of blue ectoplasm covering us both. My eyes met with hers and I knew I was in love again.
She was a Nord woman, powerful and light-colored. I could tell her name was "lhasfklljh", when I stared at her for long enough. I do not speak the nordic tongue, but I suspect in their language, it means "Battle-Maiden". She was perfectly silent, but I knew there was something special on her end too. I rose to my feet and we set off to catch up with the rest of the phalanx.
They were in the middle of a huge battle, and when my love and I arrived, we turned the tide against them. There was no time for revelry, as all the ghosts we had slain that night rose once more to nip at our heels. Our crusade goes on, and we, the relentless, rise to meet the endless battle.
"lhasfklljh" has never left my side since, and despite the fact she will not accept my ring of Mara, I know she loves me with all of her heart. We are now both married to this eternal struggle. We are the living wall that protects Davon's watch from an neverending torrent of the undead. We are the avengers of the Argonian slaves who died here. We are legion, and we are many.
And we are coming for your jute...
To honor her traditions, I will be changing my name to "ewqoruhyg", which I have speculated in Nord means, "Ghost-stomper". I am also honoring the traditional vow of silence, opting only to write letters. Compatriots of our cause send me mail constantly, making sure I have enough gold and crafting materials. I have never felt so important.
Still, something seems strange about all of this. Does our order have a name? Is there a leadership structure? I suppose the answers will come to me in time.
For now, I must rejoin the charge to keep Davon's watch safe. Now that you are aware of our crusade, I hope you will be more accepting in the future.
Edited by Diaboli on 17 May 2014 00:59 If I throw a dog a bone, I don't care to know how it tastes... - Brick Top