The Chronicles of Indrel, Vol.3

 

hen Dagglin last spoke to Indrel, the Silvenar was a gaunt figure, with wiry hair, a gentle gait, and fast, slippery eyes. On this day, however, the city’s leader was a plump, portly Bosmer, his cheeks pink and fat with joy. As the Silvenar was said to be a mirror of his people, there was no guarantee he would cut the same figure tomorrow.

Time did little to change Indrel’s appearance. She had kept her disdain for armor, still wearing that sleeveless tunic underneath her hooded cloak. She still cut her hair with a dagger, leaving a shock of tattered black brushing against the nape of her neck. When she removed the hood from her cloak, it was the hair he noticed first, pinned back behind her ears. She claimed it was for practical purposes, to help her hear the movements of the forest, but the old bartender liked to pretend it was an affectation, if only to make her seem more feminine.

“What are you doing in Silvenar? Got tired of following that band of boots?”

“I’m always tired of something Dagglin.”

“If you want to play hero, you ought to join the Firedancers of Vindisi.”

“I would, but the Jagga in Vindisi is as bad as the bloodwine in Black Marsh.”

“So what are you here for then? You didn’t come all this way for the bloody Jagga.”

Indrel ignored the question. Dagglin could only shrug. Everything was the same as it was back then, down to the wood that lay beneath their feet. Silvenar was a city made of petrified trees, dyed centuries ago in brilliant red, blue, white and green by a spell of crystalline ichor. It was an orgy of color, so bright that you had to squint as you crossed the bridges from tree to tree. Just outside the palace was the grand Prithala Hall – made famous by the tales of Waughin Jarth – and another clear assault on the senses.

Dagglin’s tavern, by contrast, was a hovel. Moss and stray leaves littered the floor.  Stringy, discolored vines were draped haphazardly over cracks in the wall. Strangers looked upon her with bulbous eyes, while others stunk of Rotmeth and stared only at the void. To answer the barkeep’s question, Indrel wasn’t entirely sure what she came for, but whatever it was, it promised her fortune and glory. Whoever it was, he was supposed to be in this tavern. If this person was truly a man of means, it seemed like an odd choice.

His name was Syrion, and he took the stool beside her.

“Is it true what they say about the Honorable Eight? That they put honor above all else, whether it be king, province, or blood?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is it also true that the Bosmer in that company spent a hundred days in an Argonian jungle, putting arrows in any Imperial spy, soldier, or bird who dared sneak across the border to Leyawiin?”

“One hundred and seven.”

“I didn’t mean to sell you short, milady. You did the Dominion a great service. Our Thalmor cousins toast your name, even as they curse a dozen others.”

Fetching his drink, Syrion slid effortlessly off the stool and braced his elbow on the counter. He was older than Indrel in both in years and by experience, although it wasn’t entirely clear what kind. He dressed in a modest hauberk but wore a smile of callow privilege, one that couldn’t be disguised under a ragged cloak.

“It seems some of the woodland tribes don’t understand that the Khajiit are our allies. By Y’ffre, I think some of them were even alive for the Five Year War. They’ve been trying to take back the land west of Anequina. Raiding villages, slaughtering livestock…some even say they called the Wild Hunt. Even worse, their leader is said to be young, handsome, and charismatic – not to mention good with the bow. Just one of these days I’d like to kill a man and not make him a martyr.”

“Why hasn’t the Silvenar sent his men?”

“The Silvenar is a bloated toad. The Thalmor feed him a steady diet of lies, and his appearance does as much to quell the people’s fears. Still, just because the Aldmeri want everything to appear right as rain, doesn’t mean they’re going to stand by and let their alliance go to the hoarvers. At the same time, they can’t take action themselves and risk further rebellion. Basically, they want this rebel killed by other Bosmer, and they’ll pay us a fortune to do it.”

“Us?”

“You, me, and one other. A mage.”

“Why me?”

“Because I need an archer.”

“There are plenty of archers in Valenwood.”

“But I wanted the best.”

Indrel thought about what Ula-Wei would do. He would measure the stranger carefully, taking into account the motivations and events that led up to this meeting. Then, and only then, would he make a decision. Indrel, on the other hand, couldn’t put her mind that far ahead. Nor could she put her mind in reverse, to that faint, sliver of a memory that told her everything she needed to know.

“You still don’t remember me, do you?”

“Should I?”

“No,” Syrion replied with a thin smile, “I suppose it’s best you didn’t.”

The Chronicles of Indrel, Vol.2

 

 

he Bosmer was late, as was her reputation.  She never considered taking a ship to Valenwood, nor did she see any reason to avoid crossing through Elsweyr.

The wood near the Xylo River was much calmer than the jungles of Falinesti. There were no wild hoarvors feeding on drunks, no glittering snakes blending into the soup of decaying leaves.  Still, whether she was in the jungles or the forest, Indrel was like a spider crawling through the web of trees. Even as she slept, she dreamt she was awake. She could feel the breeze wading through the bark, the creatures slithering up the vines, and the birds nesting on the boughs. When the Bosmer was in her element, no assassin could ever take her by surprise.

The Khajiit may have claimed this land, but the trees belonged to her.

The trees in Black Marsh were hers too, but there was often little to be had. Arnwulf used to say they were upside down, the way the branches looked like roots. In Valenwood, even the smallest of oaks touched the sky, their heavy crowns drinking in the sun. The trees were so large and so voluminous that the entire province could easily be shrouded in darkness, yet the path was always lit by thin blades of light.

In Valenwood, you could stop at any moment, and find yourself woven into a living tapestry. Yet those moments never lasted for long. And when the trees shook Indrel from her slumber, she knew this day was no exception.

The Bosmer reached for her knife. Something was approaching from behind her, and moving fast. In fact, she had barely unsheathed the blade when the figure continued to move right past her, darting swiftly from branch to branch, stopping only briefly when his pupils caught the glint of Indrel’s knife.  Their eyes met for a moment before he continued on, maneuvering deftly through the chamber of trees.  He was a Wood Elf, like her. He was also in a hurry. Seconds later, she knew why.

A pride of Cathay-Raht followed suit, at least a dozen by her count, trembling the forest in their wake. Indrel put away the knife and reached for her bow. Two of the great beasts caught sight of her, but she saw them first. The Cathay-Raht were incredibly fast, but her arrows were faster.  She trained a third on another, but it only hissed its displeasure before continuing its pursuit.

The remainder of her journey to Silvenar was uneventful. She hitched a ride with a local caravan in exchange for a handful of gold, nearly a quarter of what the stranger had sent her, but for her legs it was worth every septim. As she lay in that wagon, her thoughts occasionally drifted to her friends in Skyrim, the scent of Jagga, and the prospect of home. She even had a dream about the Bosmer in the trees, and the curious eyes that met her own.

As fate would have it, they would soon meet again.

The Chronicles of Indrel, Vol. 1

So I figured I should add an occasional story just so I’m not constantly writing dialogue. These tales will focus on characters who for whatever reason will not be included in Interesting NPCs, nor can they be included as books as they are involved in current events.

I realize it is Monday and I don’t have an update this week, although I did finish another quest. As it’s part of a questline, there’s no point releasing it until all the parts are finished. Hopefully 2.43 will be fully voiced before then, depending on the availability of the voice actors, but they are a capricious lot. In any case, here is the first volume of a series on Anum-La’s companion, Indrel, I hope to make this a thing.

This story contains minor spoilers for the quest Honor’s Calling:

The Chronicles of Indrel, Vol. 1

 

 

ndrel should have been a thief the way the shadows fit her like a glove. Moon-Tail once called her a compass, because when she napped in the trees that gnarled out of the swamp, her feet always managed to point north.

North is where the others were, at the end of the world, and it couldn’t have been far enough. Indrel was never good with numbers, but she understood the arithmetic. The Honorable Eight had been whittled down to five. Speaking with Dalum-Ei did little to assuage her suspicions that it would eventually stop at one.

Yet for all her suspicions, the Bosmer was incapable of worry. Or rather, she was unable to put forth the effort. So long as they knew to suspect the bard, Elia, Dalum-Ei, and the Swamp Knight could take care of themselves. Satisfied, she crumpled into the shade and stopped short of breathing a deep sigh, before reminding herself she wasn’t in Black Marsh anymore. Three days beyond the border, and the air no longer felt like syrup in her lungs. It felt good to breathe.

Two birds circled overhead, wings spread, gliding weightlessly over the trees. Licking her fingers, the Bosmer silently drew an arrow from her quiver. She never liked to wear gloves. Even in the winter, she preferred to keep her hands naked. If the bow was an extension of her body, then she wanted it touching her flesh like a bone.

The arrow dropped the bird like a lump of iron. Indrel sighed again. Her eyes could count the spears of a nightshade fifty paces away, but her mind was always failing to look ahead. Here was another example. She had slain her breakfast, only to realize she was too lazy to climb down and retrieve it.

The Bosmer yawned as a pack of wolves sniffed out her kill. If Dalum-Ei were here, he would laugh and shake his head. With the Honorable Eight, everything was planned, mapped out, and accounted for.  By herself, Indrel traveled the road with her eyes half closed. This journey was no different. All she knew was that someone had sent her a purse of gold, and a promise of more.

Somewhere in Silvenar, there was a man waiting with a job.