I plan to update Chapter by Chapter, weaving the Harborage Quests with the DC Questline until they merge, and going from there.
I'll include a few side quests and some random NPC dialogue where appropriate for giving perspective.
There will be spoilers for anyone who hasn't completed certain parts.
And as it's what I use day-to-day, there'll be some English spelling as well as American, so be prepared for a few extra letters.
Really, really nervous about this, but here goes....
Chapter One: Soul Shriven in Coldharbour
Gasping, disoriented, I jerked upright as I woke, vivid flashes of a dream or memory echoing through my mind. I sat on the bare stone floor for several moments, fingers splayed against the rough coldness before pressing them to my aching chest, where I could have sworn a strangely garbed Altmer had moments ago stabbed me.
Silent stillness greeted my hands, and I blinked in shock, frantically relocating them to my throat in a futile search for a pulse. Nothing but my harshly tearing breaths, and in the distance shouts and clashing weapons repeated a message of danger on the heels of my nightmare. Or was it?
Scrambling to my feet I looked around and found myself in a cell, alone except for a few bedrolls, several occupied by the pale bones of skeletons. I shuddered, turning away to stare at the flames of a small fire, and recalled the sound of flaming torches, of footsteps and chains, the feeling of a metal collar around my neck as I stumbled down a stairway, half dragged by the shackles on my wrists as the prisoner in front of me was jerked forward…. a strange red banner, behind the silhouette of a figure holding aloft a crystal in one hand as he stabbed down with the other, then green-blueish vapour rising into the crystal from his victim…. the many dark purple shards of crystal heaped everywhere…. a limp body being dragged from the stone altar before I was thrust in their place, arms pulled roughly apart keeping me prone…. whispering as shrouded figures prayed…. pale hair and cruel eyes, the flash of a blade – a monstrous face, dark, horned, eyes glowing blue as I was swept towards it -
I flinched in reflex, then tried to search further back in my mind, uneasiness spilling into alarm as I realised there was nothing to be seen, no memories prior to those glimpses of horror, nothing of myself, of family, of anything beyond darkness, pain and death. But was I dead? I decided I didn’t really want to know just yet.
A noise outside my cell, closer than the distant din of conflict, had me stumbling on a bedroll as I turned too quickly towards the source, and a tall blonde in rags similar to my own appeared on the other side of the jagged bars.
“Whoa there! Are you alright?” She queried as I steadied myself. “The name’s Lyris.” She continued, checking the bolt before she swung a huge axe at the lock on my door, sending sparks flying at the impact. “I hope you’ve still got some fight left in you. You’re going to need it.”
I hurried, more aware now of my footing, through the door to find Lyris already several feet away, near the body of a – wait, a Dremora? “Dead.” She confirmed. “Must have been the runt of the litter.”
My eyes kept straying to the odd features of the corpse’s face as I quickly stripped its body of weapons and armour, surprised by my familiarity with the leather jack and breeches, and bow. I grimaced at the too-large sabatons, hoping I’d find footwear soon, before jogging down the passageway after Lyris, unwilling to lose track of the one person in existence who I knew, even if only very briefly.
“Keep your weapon ready and stay sharp,” she advised as I caught up, amazed by how much taller than me she was. “This place is full of surprises.” No sooner had she spoken that another Dremora appeared, greatsword raised above its head to attack. I stepped aside for a better angle as Lyris parried with her axe, all too aware I needed to find another weapon for closer combat. A quick arrow to the neck staggered our opponent and Lyris finished it off. Several Dremora later I had acquired snug leather boots, a helmet, bracers, and a mismatched pair of daggers, and was feeling slightly less anxious about our chances of survival and escape. We passed other prisoners, some fighting, some fleeing, and a few pushing against a door which shuddered under the impact of a monstrous weight hitting the other side.
“Let’s get out of here, my friend,” Lyris urged me, spurred by their warning that more guards were approaching. As we stepped into the next room she stopped abruptly, staring at the glowing apparition of a hooded figure holding a staff. “The Prophet!” she exclaimed, and I paused, unsure whether this would mean further danger or bring assistance.
“Greetings, Vestige.” He seemed to be speaking to me but did not quite face either of us. “Like you I am a prisoner in this place. You must rescue me, and I in turn must rescue you.”
Lyris turned to me, her face shocked, as the Prophet’s image disappeared.
“Hold a moment.” She commanded, “Come here, we need to talk.” I took a few steps closer, curious. “The Prophet!” Lyris repeated. “He’s a prisoner here, too. It was very dangerous for him to speak to you, even for a moment. He must think you can help me.”
“Help you do what?” I asked.
“Break him out, of course!” Lyris shrugged, fidgeting as though impatient to get moving. “Believe me, I can use all the help I can get. That blind old man is the only person alive who can get us back home. Tamriel’s a long way from here.” Her words plunged through me, sinking my stomach as they did so, but again I shied away from the implications.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked to distract myself.
“These tunnels will eventually take us to the Towers of Eyes. That’s where we’ll find the Sentinels.”
“What are these Sentinels?” And why do I remember nothing, but recognise so many things once I hear of or encounter them? But I didn’t think Lyris could answer that.
“Magical constructs created by Molag Bal to guide his vision in Coldharbour. The Sentinels are connected. If we destroy one, the others will be blinded. With any luck, that will buy us the time we need to free the Prophet.”
“How can we destroy it?”
“I’ve no idea. Brute force? We’ll find a way. We have to. Be ready for anything. I doubt Molag Bal left the Sentinels unguarded.”
“I have so many questions.” I groaned, unsure where to begin.
“I’m sure you do.” Lyris, despite her urgency, seemed to understand my frustration. “And I’ll answer them as best I can.” She offered kindly.
“Who is the Prophet?” As good a start as any, I decided.
“He’s a strange one, no doubt about it, but he’s the wisest man I’ve ever met.” There were stories, layers of them, in Lyris’s eyes as she said this, as though she was reliving epic adventures. “He sees things. The past, the future.”
“What is this place? Where am I?” Although ‘Who am I?’ was a more urgent concern, I doubted Lyris would have that answer for me, either.
“You’re obviously not in Tamriel anymore.” Little did she realise I had no way of knowing that! “Think of the most miserable, depressing place you’ve ever been in your life. That’s paradise compared to Coldharbour. And to top it off, well… there’s no easy way to say it. You’re dead.”
“Then how are we having this conversation?” I asked, although I had already come to that conclusion.
“I don’t know.” Lyris admitted. “Once we rescue the Prophet, he can tell you about the Gods and the ways of Oblivion. I don’t understand any of it, myself.”
“If I’m dead, who killed me?” Memories of the cold-eyed Altmer standing over me, dagger raised, stirred, and I squashed them firmly.
“A man named Mannimarco. His Worm Cult is doing some kind of ritual back in Tamriel. They sacrificed you and everyone in this prison, to the Daedric Prince Molag Bal. After you died, whatever was left showed up here. They call you the Soul Shriven.”
“What does that mean?” Probably that my soul had been stripped from me if I took the words literally.
“It means you’re a slave and you’ll spend the rest of eternity here in Coldharbour, working under the lash of the Daedra.” A hint of impatience showed in Lyris’s voice. “Unless of course, you come with me.”
“Are you dead, too?” She didn’t seem to be, but then, I probably didn’t either, at a glance.
“No, I wasn’t sacrificed. The Prophet and I were brought here…. Conventionally, if that makes any sense. But we’re prisoners here, same as you.”
“So how can we rescue the Prophet?” I asked, turning back to the matter at hand now that it seemed I had exhausted Lyris’s knowledge, and possibly her patience, too.
“It won’t be easy. The place is watched by magical constructs called Sentinels. We won’t stand a chance unless we can blind them. I’ll tell you more when we get there. And we’ll never get there if we don’t get moving.”
I nodded my agreement, and we made our way through the next door, into what seemed to be a forge of sorts, just as a huge Dremora threw a man several yards through empty air, screaming, to be impaled onto spikes taller than I was. Horrified, I fired arrow after arrow, moving obliquely to keep a clean shot as Lyris rushed forward, her axe aloft. We made short work of him, but I was guilt stricken. If I hadn’t delayed us, hadn’t needed so many questions answered, we may have been in time to save the poor wretch on the spikes from his terrible fate.
“Well played friend!” Lyris must have seen some of my self-recrimination, and she was making an effort to lift my spirits. “Arkay’s beard, you’re good in a fight!”
I attempted a smile in response, and as we headed for the far passageway, the Prophet’s disembodied voice startled me.
“The God of Brutality knows of your escape. Hurry!”
We picked up our pace, pushing through the next door so quickly I almost tripped.
The chamber beyond was vast, the ceiling far above us, with jagged outcroppings thrusting up from the ground. I stared in awe, wondering how we would find anything in so large a space. But wait, 'the Towers of Eyes' Lyris had said. That must mean the highest points. I quickly scanned the chamber for stairs or a ramp leading up one of the outcroppings, and decided to head for the closest, hoping there might be some hidden behind its bulk.
“The God of Schemes can see every part of Coldharbour.” Lyris cautioned me. “We need to distract him.”
Thankfully a path appeared to our left, and we raced up the slope, killing any Dremora we saw before they could raise an alarm. The Soul Shriven here were mindless, shuffling, practically corpses, other than a few aggressively feral ones who attacked if we strayed too close. Killing them felt like a mercy.
Off to our right, a narrow stone walkway curved into midair, leading up towards what I fervently hoped to be one of the Towers we sought.
“Try to be inconspicuous.” Lyris murmured. “We just got free of this place. The last thing we need is to get recaptured.”
Considering our options, I dropped to a crouch, slowing my approach to the summit, moving as silently as I could.
Lyris nodded in approval and halted just short of the top. “I’ll keep watch.” She whispered, and I moved forward, trusting her to guard our escape from anything following us. Peering over the edge of the walkway, I found a small plateau ringed by jagged stone, with what could only be described as a disembodied, enormous eye, glowing with blue, suspended under an archway. Its gaze swept back and forth as it spun in place, and I froze.
You can’t see me, I thought as hard as I could, look away, look away. As if it had heard me, the eye spun away, and I rushed silently forward, dagger drawn, and stabbed it from behind. It froze, darkening, before dissolving into nothingness, and I turned and fled back to Lyris.
“Quickly!” She urged me, “We must get to the Prophet’s Cell!”
We raced back down the walkway and onto solid ground, then through a shallow, glowing stream and into the middle of the chamber. Before us was an ornate gateway, and I paused near it, wondering if I was going the right way.
Suddenly blue flames erupted over the gate, then settled into the pattern of an arcane ward, locking us out. “Fool!” thundered a deep voice, “You will never escape my realm!”
“Herma-Mora’s wagging tongue!” Lyris swore, “The door’s warded. We’ll never get in this way.”
I turned to face her, to see that she was beyond frustrated. “Damn it!” she continued, “Destroying the Sentinel must have triggered these wards. We’ll need to find another way in.”
I sighed at this, hoping Lyris had something more up her sleeve, and was rewarded when her expression turned thoughtful. “Hmm. Maybe Cadwell can help us.”
“Who’s Cadwell?” I asked, wondering if finding them would prove any easier than our current task.
“Cadwell is the oldest of the Soul Shriven.” Lyris explained, almost fondly. “After years of torment, Soul Shriven usually go insane and turn feral, but not Cadwell. He was already insane before he left Tamriel. Mad as a box of frogs, but completely harmless. You’ll see.”
“How can a madman possibly help us?” I decided not to pursue my possible fate of insanity by concentrating on the here and now instead.
“Cadwell sees things as he wishes them to be. To him, Coldharbour is a wondrous place. It’s his home. And he knows it like the back of his hand. He’s usually down by the river. Let’s go find him.”
I nodded my agreement, and Lyris led me to a campfire where one of the prisoners sat, playing a lute and singing a rather nonsensical song. He had the milky eyes and gaunt features many of the other prisoners shared, but unlike them he seemed sprightly, animated, although possessing an odd choice of headwear….
“Hello, what’s this? Out for a stroll, then?” He greeted us. “Lovely day for it.”
“You must be Cadwell.” I ventured, bemused, as the pot on his head slipped further over one of his eyes.
“Sir Cadwell, yes indeed.” He corrected. “A pleasure! And fair Lyris! Good to see you m’dear! How are you, then?”
“We’re trying to get inside the Prophet’s Cell.” I interrupted. “The door is sealed.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” The odd man hid his face behind his lute in alarm. “Well, that is inconvenient, isn’t it?” Lowering his lute, he brightened a little, continuing. “Tell you what – I happen to know another way in! Much more of a scenic route. Rather a fun little jaunt, actually. Full of traps, and corpses, and nasty beasties filling up the bits in between.”
I stared at him, bemused. “How do we get through all of that?” I asked, wondering just how bizarre his response would be.
“Rather cautiously, I expect.” Was his reply. “Watch your step, hold your nose, and do mind the traps. There’ll likely as not be a fair dose of running and skull-bashing as well.” Well, I had asked….
“Where’s the entrance?” I thought to check.
“Follow the river.” Cadwell advised us. “You’ll find the door to the Undercroft at the water’s end. Once you’re inside, stick to the light and you’ll find a ladder that will take you right up to the Prophet, straightaway. Do give him my best!”
“Thanks.” I offered drily.
“Best of luck.” His white eyes seemed to twinkle merrily. “Do check in now and again, won’t you?”
Not if it means coming back here, if I can help it! I thought to myself, then realised that was rather ungracious of me. “Tell me about yourself, Sir Cadwell.” I invited him, wondering how much like this odd fellow I might yet find myself becoming in time.
“Well, there’s not much to tell, is there?” How could someone sound so delighted and self-deprecating at the same time? “It’s the same old pish-tosh.” He continued. “Gallant knight, epic quests, rescued maidens. I came to this land when my head was quite unceremoniously separated from my body. Bad luck that, but you make the best of things.”
“How long have you been here?” I encouraged him.
“Oh, quite a long time.” He mused. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the oldest of the Soul Shriven. Of those who didn’t go feral, that is.” I supressed a shudder, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “I know every tunnel and path, every nook and cranny. The others look up to me, I suppose.”
I glanced at the other Soul Shriven nearby, remembering that one had been pressing his hands to his ears as we approached, clearly not a fan of Sir Cadwell’s singing. But there were several nearby, little more than shuffling corpses, milky eyed, silent. How long does it take to become like that?
“How do you know Lyris?” I changed the subject.
“Ah, Lyris. Girl’s as mad as Sheogorath’s jammies.” I blinked at that. Pot, kettle? “Heart’s in the right place, I suppose. Says she’s going to rescue the Prophet to save us all from eternal torment. How an old blind man could do that is quite beyond me!” I had my own doubts, but considering my other options for escape were exactly nil right then, I deemed it prudent not to mention them.
“How do you know the Prophet?” I asked.
“An Imperial gentleman.” News, but not relevant. “Apparently he was once a powerful mage, but the years haven’t been kind. Lyris says he knows of a path back to Tamriel. I rather think that if one existed, I’d have found it by now.” Sir Cadwell sounded a little miffed at this.
“You don’t think there’s a way to get home?” I asked, my silent heart sinking.
“I hadn’t actually given it much thought. Anything’s possible, I suppose.” And he sounded distinctly disinterested in that possibility. “Truth is, I’ve been here so long, this place feels like home. But a good uprising now and again is a pleasant diversion, so where’s the harm, eh?”
Lyris was right, I decided, Sir Cadwell was most definitely insane.
Thanking him, we bade our farewells and followed the river towards the Undercroft, Lyris muttering her misgivings as we ran; “Cadwell seems to think this Undercroft is a delightful place. That probably means it’s a death trap. We’d better be careful.”
Finding a locked door barring our way, Lyris shrugged at me as though to say her axe wouldn’t be of much use on its less exposed mechanism, and I dug through the pockets of my pilfered armour in hopes of a key. What I found instead was a handful of lockpicks, and I was glad of the extras as my clumsy attempts broke more than one.
“The sooner you get that door open, the sooner we can get out of here!” Lyris urged me, and I clenched my teeth, hardly daring to breath as the final tumbler clicked into place. Whatever secrets my past held, I doubted picking locks had been a frequent past-time.
Through the door, the Undercroft was a twisting tunnel complicated by dead ends, littered with corpses, glowing puddles, and spurts of blue flames interrupting our progress. Stick to the light? Which light? My indecision was interrupted by yet another skeleton attacking us, and after it was defeated, Lyris bellowed out a challenge.
“Come get some more, you skeeving Horkers!” she shouted, and I winced her volume. Deciding to follow the burning torches as the only things emitting light that didn’t glow blue, and finally reaching the ladder Sir Cadwell had promised us, I followed Lyris into a much larger room than I had expected.
“The Prophet’s cage should be just ahead. Quickly now! We haven’t much time.” She urged, racing ahead. In the centre of the room was a strange arrangement of glowing sigils and blue-flamed candles, and hovering above them was the Prophet, suspended in an orb of swirling dark blue.
Coming to a halt, Lyris examined everything. “All right.” She announced. “The good news is, we made it here in one piece and the Prophet looks unharmed.”
Surely nothing could be worse than what we’ve already faced to get here. I thought privately.
“Now the bad news.” Lyris continued, and I wished I hadn’t tempted fate as she spoke. “It’s going to be up to you to keep him safe and get him back to Tamriel. I’m not going with you.”
Wait, what?
“There’s a trick to opening the Cell.” Lyris turned to face me as she explained. “The only way for a prisoner to leave is for another living soul to take their place. I need to swap places with the Prophet.”
“There’s no other way?” I asked, horrified by the thought of leaving her here.
“Believe me, I wish there was.” She said ruefully. “But… I don’t see anyone else here with a beating heart, do you? If Molag Bal isn’t stopped he’ll destroy everyone and everything we’ve ever loved.”
I couldn’t remember having loved anyone, I couldn’t remember anyone but her at all, but what she said, the conviction with which she said it, convinced me she felt her sacrifice worth the possibility of preventing something catastrophic from happening.
“I’m ready when you are.” I offered, hoping she could hear in my voice the respect I felt for her bravery, the regret our lack of options caused me.
“Once it’s done get moving,” she advised. “The Prophet will know where to go, but he’ll need your eyes, and your protection.”
At my nod, Lyris stepped onto the glowing sigils, and was lifted into the air. I couldn’t keep watching her as several Dremora arrived and I drew to my daggers, slicing as I stepped nimbly between and past them, turning and twisting in a dance of death that my body was finding itself unexpectedly fluent in.
From the corner of my eye, I could see glowing strands weaving between Lyris and two angular pinions, before they snapped open to reveal smaller versions of the orb which held the Prophet. Trying to block out Lyris’s cries of pain I closed each of the pinions and the light filled her, before dragging her towards the orblike Cell as the Prophet was expelled through her somehow to fall to the floor before me.
“Freedom!” He exulted, “I remember this feeling. It will be fleeting though, if Molag Bal has his way.” Straightening and brushing himself off, the Prophet somehow turned to face me despite my silence.
“Thank the Divines, you are safe!” He continued. “There is that, at least. Lyris sacrificed everything, that we might go free. Her sacrifice must not be in vain.”
As he spoke, I stared up at Lyris floating in the swirling orb, her expression stoic, almost blank, before turning back to him. “Can we find a way to take her with us?” I asked, hardly daring to hope.
“I wish that were possible.” The Prophet’s voice was pained. “But I promise you, once we escape Coldharbour we will find a way to rescue her together, Vestige.” He vowed.
“Vestige?” I queried, remembering he had called me that earlier, too.
“That is the name I have given you.” I considered that reasonable, given that I couldn’t remember any other name I might use instead. “You are but a trace of your former self. A soulless one. An empty vessel that longs to be filled. It is as the Scrolls foretold, but not exactly as I imagined.”
“Why does Lyris call you the Prophet?” I asked, wondering what the Scrolls were, and why he mentioned them with such…. reverence?
“That is what I have come to be called. My true name is lost- even to me.” At this I felt an odd kinship with him. “Years of torment have taken their toll. Quickly now, we must make haste to the Anchor!”
“Anchor?” I repeated, wondering what a ship might be doing in these tunnels, even if this place was named Coldharbour, it didn’t seem very nautical. So, I have some experience with sailing, perhaps? I wondered as the terms sprang to mind unexpectedly.
“The Anchors are Daedric machines of the darkest magic.” He explained. “Their chains bind our world and pull it towards Coldharbour. I can use one of these Anchors to return us to Tamriel, but you must lead me to it.”
“Alright.” I agreed. “Stay close then.”
“Up the stairs, quickly!” The Prophet instructed, turning and moving faster than any blind man should be able to. “We must get to the Anchor mooring!”
Following the Prophet to the stairs, I led the way up out of the Cell’s chamber and along a passageway, praying silently to whichever Divines might be listening that we could by some miracle navigate a safe route through Daedra-knew-where to find Daedra-knew-what. Upon reaching a door I was surprised by the vast chamber we entered. Massive gears turned in place around some esoteric pattern of raised circles and glowing sigils in the floor, with a ring suspended above stairs leading to midair above a chasm, secured by barbed chains, each link larger than my torso.
“There it is! The Dark Anchor Mooring!” Is this man really blind? I wondered. He seems to see fairly well…. and no, not a ship to be found after all.
Breaking into a run, we crossed the space only to be halted by an eruption of blue flames from the chasm and the roaring apparition of Molag Bal himself, eyes and gaping maw glowing with the blue of stolen souls.
“The mortal thinks it can defy me? Futile! Soon your world will be in my chains.” With that the God of Brutality faded from view, summoning an enormous skeletal construct to prevent our escape. The bones seemed held together by those blue flames alone.
“Come, I will protect you!” The Prophet promised, and I began firing arrows as quickly as I could before the monstrous skeleton closed the distance, switching to my daggers as it drew too near to fire upon safely. Twisting and ducking, I drew the hideous summons away from the Prophet, surprised by the blind man’s accuracy as he shot glowing bursts at our foe until our attacks finally caused it to crumple, defeated, in a pile of bones.
“A moment, Vestige.” Snatching up an amulet from the remains, I approached the Prophet, who appeared unharmed. “The Dark Anchor’s portal is high above us.” He explained, “I will prepare a spell to lift us to it. But first, you must re-attune yourself to Nirn in order to regain your physical form. To do this, you will need a skyshard.”
“A skyshard?” I repeated, unsure what he meant. I could be alive again?
“A shard of Aetherial magicka that carries the essence of Nirn. Some link them to Lorkhan, the missing God of Creation. If you collect and absorb its power, it should restore your corporeal form. I will summon one of these shards for you to absorb.”
“I’m ready.” I couldn’t adequately express how anxious I was to be gone from here.
With this the Prophet turned towards the chasm, raising his face and staff upwards. “Shard of Aetherius, fall upon us now, and anoint us with your blessing.” A blue glow suffused him, and a large crystal, shining with a pure, clean blue light, appeared in the centre of the nearby glyphs. “There, quickly! Collect the skyshard!” The Prophet exclaimed, and I stepped up to the skyshard obediently, before pausing in uncertainty as to what I should do. Pick it up?
But the crystal seemed to understand my hesitation, suffusing me in its glow and holding me aloft as I seemed to somehow absorb its light, until I dropped with a cry back to my feet to find it gone. The Prophet had wasted no time, stepping up to the base of the stairs, he thrust his staff aloft.
“Great Akatosh, Dragon-God of time, I require your strength.” He entreated, lowering the staff and tracing glowing patterns with his other hand. “Let the way be opened. Let these wandering souls return home, let the will of Molag Bal be denied!”
A blinding light emanated from the Prophet, and I shielded my eyes until it faded.
“Hurry!” The Prophet called as he ran up the stairs, “We must go now!” Fearlessly the blind man leapt into the void, but instead of falling he hovered briefly before rising into the air. Following him I, too, was swept upwards, through the series of inert rings to the active portal ring above them, and into Akatosh’s blinding light.
I must have lost consciousness, as the next thing I knew I found myself waking on the floor of a ship’s forward hold, a glowing projection of the Prophet nearby.
“The Vestige awakens, once again.” He observed. “Come here, we must speak.”
Rising, I approached his ghostly form.
“As I feared, we arrived in different locations.” He greeted me. “I am in a city of industry, where men speak of intrigues and plots beneath layers of innuendo and pleasantry. It matters not. You have awakened once again and we must set you on your path.”
“How long was I unconscious?” I asked.
“Days? Weeks? I cannot tell. The voyage between worlds disrupted all sense of time and space.” He shrugged as if to dismiss this as unimportant. “I know only that you were deposited into the sea, and some charitable soul fished you out and brought you to dry land.”
“What should I do now?” I asked, blanching at how close to death I had come once again, and wondering where I would have found myself if I had drowned. Or perhaps I had? I had already died, then been reformed, so what would death now mean for me, if I wasn’t truly alive? I touched my neck to find my pulse as absent as ever.
“I’m afraid you will have to decide that for yourself.” The Prophet’s apology cut through my musings. “I must focus on searching for a way to repay Lyris’s bold sacrifice. I cannot simply abandon her to the wrath of Molag Bal.”
This I had no trouble agreeing with, and yet… I felt a responsibility to help in some way. “When will I see you again?” Somehow, I didn’t feel that our time had come to part ways, despite our current separation.
“I cannot foresee that. But we will meet again.” His promise eased any lingering doubts I had. “There is still much we need to accomplish. Be wary, Vestige.” The Prophet continued. “Our very plane of existence is in peril. The threat of Molag Bal looms across all Tamriel, and chaos spreads in its shadow. Danger roams the land and will assume many forms. Do not let it catch you off-guard.”
“Where should I go?” I wondered aloud, feeling completely adrift, without anything familiar left to me except this blind old man.
“You must find your own path.” He told me, still refusing to offer a directive. “But perhaps there is a reason for the place in which you find yourself. Explore. Search for a cause to lend your hand. Join with others. You might even seek out those who rescued you from the sea. The choice is yours.”
Finally, a glimmer of a path forward took shape in my mind. “You think there are many who need my help?” I asked, unsure what help I, with no memory of who I might be, could offer anyone.
“Indeed.” He assured me. “I sense that even now there are good people near you who face grave danger. They need your assistance should you be willing to give it. To thwart the will of Molag Bal, we must be willing to skirmish with evil wherever it rears its head.”
“And there are others who would join me in this?” I pressed, anxious for some sense of purpose, or belonging.
“We do not face these troubled times alone.” He promised me. “Many shall rise up to fight this tide of darkness. Wherever you go, you will encounter others who share your courage and valour. Help them if you can, and enlist their aid if you have need of it.”
With this we bid each other farewell, and squaring my shoulders, I walked through the open doorway without a backward glance.
Edited by ZOS_Kevin on November 7, 2024 11:09AM