“I shall now read the final verdict. Vadrys Daryl, for your crimes against the Tribunal, including heresy, supporting heretical factions and high treason, the council has sentenced you to permanent exile from the Temple. You shall be expulsed from Vvardenfell, never to return again. You have until evening to pack your things,” proclaimed a loud, authoritarian voice. A man, kneeling in shackles on a carpet shuddered, guards standing around him.
“Seize him and bring him to his chambers. Let me never see him again,” concluded the voice. The guards took the shackled man under his shoulders and escorted him out of the room.
It was the smell of fire and cries of help that pulled him out from his nightmare. He blinked a few times before looking out from his small window, only to see an absolute catastrophe. A house just across the street was burning, while dark, shadowy figures were moving behind his window, like a shadow theatre. Vadrys felt like a prophet, but suddenly he realized the gravity of his situation. He didn’t want to trust his gut, but now, when he saw his gut being right in front of his very eyes, it was hard to do so.
He took the spear, all the money he had in the house and put his smithing apron on. He knew that the extra leather layer could save his life – his linen clothes won’t do much against sharp weapons. He peeked from the door to see scaly figures with long tails running around, burning and looting everything in their way. He snuck out and quickly moved behind the house, before they targeted his home. Then he creeped behind the houses to remain out of sight. He saw carnage, chaos and utter helplessness as the invaders tore the city apart, murdering and looting everyone and everything in their path. It was clear that their objective wasn’t to conquer, but to destroy. Deep down, a certain feeling arose within him. It wasn’t sadness nor pity. It was anger. Pure, unfiltered anger against the Argonians. He frowned as he clutched his spear, knowing he can’t do anything.
Vadrys didn’t have military education. He only knew how to swing a smithing hammer, not a sword, a mace or a spear. And yet this hatred made him feel as if he could defeat anyone. His confidence rose rapidly, and if he wasn’t of rational mind, he would charge the invaders head on, and die a painful and horrifying death. He supressed this feeling as he was thinking about the way out. And he realized something. This city had an extensive canal network, which could be used as an escape route. But there was another thing.
When he studied the history of Morrowind, he read that Mournhold was built on an ancient Dwemer city, that should still be located beneath. Vadrys picked up a sewer cover and hopped right in. He wasn’t entirely sure whether the sewers would lead him into the dwemer city or not, but he didn’t see any other way out. But he hoped they wouldn’t.
He jumped down into the tunnels flowing with wastewater. He decided to go with the stream, since it had to lead somewhere. The tunnels branched numerous times, but Vadrys kept the direction and continued along the stream. It took him about an hour till he reached the end. When he climbed up, he found himself outside of the city walls, the city burning behind them. Around him were small farmsteads and plantations. He had to move quickly, before the vanguard comes here in search of plunder.
He ran through the fields of wheat and barley, using them as cover. He jumped over the fence and ran straight into the ashlands. He ran north, to Ebonheart.
---
He ran for a long time. An hour? Two? He wasn’t sure, but once he realized he’s already far from the city, he saw the sun rising in the east. He knew he ran for a long time, considering it was night when he woke up. It was then when fear, anger and other emotions subsided, and rational mind replaced it. He thought about the day before. How he drank with his friends, smithed at his smithy, how he went for lunch with that Nord. And how, in a matter of hours, his life drastically changed.
He gazed upon the morning sun, slowly shining over the whole land, glistening in the sky. It was strange. Mournhold, the biggest, the most magnificent city of Morrowind, the so-called “City of light and magic,” fell so easily. Weakened, it became a mere prey for the ravaging Argonians, who devoured it with gusto and passion. It was incomprehensible for Vadrys. He found himself in the ashen wastelands north of Mournhold, on an unmarked place with nothing worth noting. Just the ashlands around him, quiet as ever. He knew it won’t be quiet for long, and so he hurried up further north, hoping he’ll come across some source of water and perhaps even some wild animals or ash yams.
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As he wandered through, he realized the whole south must’ve fallen. Narsis, Tear, whole House Dres must be gone, if they reached Mournhold. And how quickly it must’ve happened! It happened so quickly that barely any information reached the Mournhold garrison. Vadrys thought of Reynis, Ardyn, Hlaren and even Brunwulf. Did they survive? Or…
He didn’t want to think about such a fate. Nevertheless, it was a possibility that kept nagging him in the back of his head. He clutched his spear as he oversaw the vast ashen expanse. The volcanoes, the wastelands, the mountains – it all seemed so hostile and unwelcoming. Lava could be found in certain places, usually with high volcanic activity. No wonder settlements were scarce here. Volcanic soil is usually fertile, but not when it’s permanently covered in ash. At least, Vadrys thought so – he wasn’t much of a farmer. But he had some basic knowledge, thanks to his education. He digressed and moved on, towards Ebonheart.
He trekked the whole day through the wastes, surviving only on moss and lichen he found on some rocks. He also found a small creek, which sated his thirst, but having no flask, in which he could pour some of the water, he was thirsty yet again. His weakened legs stumbled in the ash, which offered no stable ground on which he could walk. The sun was beginning to set, and so he searched for some refuge where he could rest for the night. He needed it.
---
It was still night when it woke him up. He lay under a cliff, sheltering him from rain and ash storms, trying to rest for a while, when he heard footsteps and banter. But there was something strange about them. The talking sounded strange, and the footsteps had a weird rhythm. Vadrys instantly clutched his spear as he slowly sat up, listening to closely to the sounds. He hid behind a rock, camouflaging himself under the cover of night.
At first, he thought that those could be other survivors, refugees like him. But that was more of a naivety than a rational thought. Considering the squeaky voice and the weird rhythm of walking, this couldn’t be neither an elf nor a human. And that meant only one thing. He focused his eyes on the direction, from where the sounds were coming. They were two, and they most probably had no clue about Vadrys. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see them. Walking slowly and bantering. They had some light armour on them, one clutched a spear and the other a sword – they were most probably some scouts, trying to find somewhere to stay the night. They slowly closed on Vadrys’ hideout, bantering without a care in the world.
He became anxious. What if they find him? What is he supposed to do then? He has never killed another person and had no idea if he could do it. But something swelled inside him. He recalled what he saw in Mournhold. Carnage. Massacre. Without mercy. He knew that to answer these feelings calling for revenge, he had to kill. And it might as well be right now.
As the first Argonian was close enough, Vadrys jumped out from his hideout and stabbed through him, killing him instantly. The other Argonian was so surprised and shocked, that he wasn’t able to react in time to Vadrys’ another plunge, which made Vadrys’ spear go right through his ribcage. Vadrys felt the resistance the flesh and bones posed to the spear. He instinctively let go of the spear and stumbled backwards, before throwing up what little he had in his stomach.
That was it. He killed another person. And the only thing he felt was disgust. Disgust at these creatures that massacred his brethren. No remorse, only a swell in his stomach when he felt the bones and muscles with his spear. He looked down. He threw up all the contents of his stomach, which wasn’t much, but he has let go of precious water and the small amount of food he had in him. He looked at the corpses, and noticed a small satchel one of the Argonians wore. He reached for it and opened it. Inside he found a small pouch with septims, but mainly, a water flask and some dried meat, which he immediately ate. The flask was half empty, but served its purpose well, as the severely dehydrated Vadrys drank almost the whole flask, before realizing that he should’ve kept some for later.
It got to him an hour later. Shuddering, anxiety and unceasing thoughts on the fact that he killed someone. He wouldn’t call it remorse, for he wasn’t sorry he killed them. It was the shock from the fact that he killed someone. As the adrenaline subsided, he realized how heavy of a burden it is. The corpses were still there, lying on the ground. And they were still immobile and cold. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep anymore, and so he decided to continue on his way. He oriented himself according to the stars and continued north.
It took him another two days before he reached Ebonheart. As he saw the walls from afar, a surge of energy and happiness soared through him. He quickened his pace, hoping he will find haven and refuge there in these trying times.