Confessions of a Blasphemous Prophet

[raggidman]

Cool, cool, cool. Be interesting to see how you adjust yer text. I'll base a final edit on whatever you come up with - though I will pm you to make sure that all accords. Will look forward to your mystery of ST Jiub (who apparently writes his autobiography form the grave? )

As for grammar and spelling - never trust a spellchecker as you would have to adjust the language to their standards, and I don't think they have word processing in Tamriel... Plus, I edited a Razorwing special about two wood thieves and on returning to re-read my final draft several months later discovered a couple of small errors that had crept in. We don't offer perfection - we just try to push things a tiny bit closer to it.

- re the CT vs their mystery rivals - suggest that you pm KuKulzA about the Camona Tong and Balmora before you start - he is always a fount of ideas - even though you clearly have your own! Thing is there may be some inter-factional stuff that KKA has not yet pinned down or published that could add an extra dimension. It seems you want these to publish on the mainland so they will act as a teaser for Vvardenfell - whatever the Lore ends up as... given that they relate directly and unavoidably to Vvardenfell...

[Joe Venice]

I contributed a couple ideas to the Comonna Tong of Vvardenfell thread that may make it into the game (mainly the idea of the PC taking back Balmora for the CT) if they make it in, my book will be obsolete for this mod--no big deal. I'm just enjoy the chance to write w/o having the pressure to have to get it done.

As for:

Will look forward to your mystery of ST Jiub (who apparently writes his autobiography form the grave? Wink )

Its not an autobiography, its the offical "Life and Times" published by the temple and written by one of their scribes. Jiub even references it in his confessions (showing the first edition came out before his death) when he states that he "can't really remember the lies." It was their way of sweeping his real past out of the way, or at least what he claims as his real past.

And who said anything about him having a grave? You can't bury what you can't find.

[raggidman]

:lol: The PC taking back Balmora fo rthe CT - you gotta love what that will do to Hlaalu supremacy with the CT (who have to be absolute enemies of the Empire-loving Hlaalu modernists) and the Hlaalu grip on Vvardenfell as a whole.

Maybe it was the following that made me think that this was written by ST Jiub hisself - in a badly battered and somewhat enemic state of health?

[Composed on soiled parchments and in the margins of other works; written in dirt, grease, and blood]

Also if they wanted to sweep his real past out of the way why is this story so critical of the Temple's servants and their methods? are they really so sophisticated as to depict him as a fake in order to establish his veracity? Very puzzling...

As for deadlines, if you feel pushed on anything then I will just polish up whatever we have to date (assuming you are happy with that) and you can continue at your leisure, so that your ideas can be offered up as ammendments later. Natch what actually is in the mod and any changes are up to Razorwing and co...

:eek: If there is no one to see the grave in the wilderness does it still exist?

[Joe Venice]

Ahhh, I see what caused the confusion. My choice of words was very poor.

"Confessions of a Blasphemous Prophet" is written by Jiub. My intent was to have the reader imagine Jiub, knowing he was going to be forced to lead the crusade for Ald'ruhn, decides to write a confession in hopes that someone will find it and learn the truth. I must have been successful because that is what you believed until I screwed it up with later descriptions.

I have also been working on an additional/suplementary text, "The Life and Times of an Honored Saint" This will not be written by Jiub (I currently plan for it to be written by Nalosi Alari, an Ordinator) and will be the "Almsivi Approved" censored version of his life. The first adition of this text was written before Jiub wrote his confession. After Ald'ruhn, the temple issued a new, 2nd edition that includes an epilogue detailing the saint's death defeating the Daedra. I am not sure if or when I will finish it, its not holding my interest right now and is not essential for the story I am telling.

A third part to my tale of Jiub is a bare-bones sketch for an in-game quest. My plan is for the PC to recieve clues and directions to different artifacts relevant to Jiub from a NPC (possibly a temple official). During the course of your exploration you will find Jiub's confession. Further clues lead you to the plane of Oblivion where you discover...well lets leave it at that.

Hope this clears up any confusion on my or your part.

:eek:

[raggidman]

Now that does make sense in terms of what you have shown so far - smoothly planned.

Must say I like your name for the Ordinator too.

Do you want this to start on the mainland and move to Vvardenfell at some point? Or is this intended to move between the Mainland and Oblivion solely?

[Joe Venice]

Edit: To answer your previous post;
I am hoping to have any quest involve Vvardenfell, although I would not be against it spreading off the island. Second, I wish I could take credit for the name "Nelosi Alari" but he was actually an ordinator who could be found hanging around the temple of vivec (I chose him because he was one of the few ordinators who would readily talk to you.)

Anyway,
I finished my editing of the confessions, I am unsure whether or not I should post it here, this thread is long enough already.

Here is the opening section of the temple's biography of St. Jiub:

----------------

The Modern Life and Times of an Honored Saint (2nd Edition)
By Nalosi Alari (Forward and Epilogue by Lord Helseth of Morrowind)

Forward

I have been given the honor of recording the words of Lord Helseth, maythe Almsivi bless him, on this inauspicious occasion. Though our land -Yet, even the whole of Tamriel - cries out with the lamentations for those who fell driving back the Daedra, Helseth wishes to remind us that to each mer there is a higher calling. In no way was this made more tangible than in the sacrifices and devotion shown in the late servant of the Almsivi, Saint Jiub.

What follows is the tale of a soul who?s devotion transcended the shackles and fears inherent to the flesh and mind. A mer who, by the Grace of the Ever-living Gods, joined his ancestors while defying those demons of Oblivion. Jiub?s lessons and prophesies, drawn from the mouths of our beloved Almsivi, are teachings that must be preserved and passed on to future generations. To that end, Lord Helseth recognizes this volume as the official study on the life and works of the venerated Saint Jiub. Three gods, one true faith.

(From the spoken words of the wise, Lord Helseth as dutifully recorded by his faithful servant, Ferri Sar.)

The Old Mer

On the streets of Necrom, under the grace of the Almsivi and our hallowed ancestors, hobbled a mer of such advanced age that even the tips of his ears had begun to wrinkle under the wear of years. His weakened muscles, used up in younger days when he would sludge through muck to harvest his meager crop of saltrice, strained to carry his hoveled frame across the stones of the holy city. The faithful Ordinator who guarded the way inquired as to his desired destination, to which the soul responded simply, ?The catacombs.? The Ordinator offered to deliver the winnowed mer to the depths himself, for fear that the ancient dunmer would become a permanent resident of that city of our ancestors. On the journey down, he explained his reason for coming to Necrom.

?My wife and I used to come here, to watch the remains of a day spent off the top of the temple. My second child drowned in a river when he was little. My oldest boy was killed by bandits while coming back from town, somehow I made it home. Then my wife got sick. Now I?m by myself. I couldn?t afford to bring any of them to be buried here, but I still come back every now and then to leave an offering and to watch the sunset. The way the light filters down, in colors I never even seen before, makes me think.?

?I?ve had a rough life,? he said, gasping his way back up the steps, his simple token sitting on the cold floor below. ?I outlived the rest of my family and no cures have helped numb my aching back. But all things considered, it was fair. I can?t blame the Gods for what happened; any one who can make the sun do that,? he observed as he limped down the street, ?every dusk, and different each time, will always have my devotion.?

As I watched that mer make his way out of the city, I was touched by his faith. Mer of his sort seem to be growing rarer, and their devotion to the Almsivi should be venerated as much as any ancestor. As I returned to my post I was reminded of another mer, who suffered all the worst fates that flesh is inherent to, but remained strong in his love for the Almsivi. This is the tale of the prophet of the Living Gods, and now martyr of our temple, Saint Jiub.

A Slave

It seems that all great mer must suffer within their own time before they may achieve that which they were meant to do. Some wised mer have suggested that this is no coincidence, that it is the will of our ancestors to separate those that are weak and unworthy of power from the few who are chosen. In his time before sainthood, and even after, misfortune has never been far removed from the world that Jiub knew.

Jiub was born in the far south of Morrowind. He did not often recall his youth, it is doubtful that it would have been easy for him to do so. His parents were poor farmers who were often seen at the temple and who faithfully served the Great House Dres. Life was not easy among the fields and swamps, and many mer were forced into a life of vagrancy and begging. But the young Jiub and his family were generous with what meager possessions they had gathered. They paid penance at the temple and gave whatever food they could to those unfortunates on their door step.

The kindness shown by this poor family was not to be answered in turn. A gang of bandits, to all appearances simple beggars, appeared at the pitiful farm one night. Upon being presented with simple food and drink, they pulled sharp knifes from under their cloaks and slaughtered the kindly family. The only one spared was the young Jiub; he returned from the field to find his family gone and, what little wealth they possessed, pilfered. Jiub once told me that he had learned to forgive the attackers for these transgressions, though his gorge still rose at the cruelty. He believed that the Almsivi would punish those responsible and that it is the task of the common people to live in accordance with the temple?s doctrines.

The farm?s debts had to be paid and his family had to be properly buried, but Jiub had money for neither. He chose a life of servitude to ensure that their ghosts would rest easily. Industrious even as a youth, Jiub toiled even into adulthood. It is doubtful that any of his former owners would recall the young mer who had tended their crops or cared for their beasts.

---------------

Finally, I have part of the Jiub quest squared away. Given a flyer on the streets of Ebonheart, you are directed to talk with the official agent of the Imperial Scholarly Board's Morrowind branch. After making it to the back corner of a warehouse (or some other out of the way place) you find a Breton named Wallace Brim surrounded by piles of papers and books.
He is surprised to see someone answer his job listing and is more than willing to quickly put you to work, his resources are stretched painfully thin, he swears the Imperial Guard Guild is purposefully ignoring him.

?With all the trouble in Cyrodil, I would have expected the grant money to dry up; but last month another stipend arrives from the Imperial City. I knew it was my duty to perceiver-- at least until they realize their error.?

He is very interested in cataloging the lives and activities of the Temple's saints, especially the apparent gaps in the official records. The quests that follow start off with you recording the lives of several saints but your study faulters once Wallace notices several contridictions in the life of St. Jiub.

"Curiouser and curiouser. We must delve deeper, much deeper. I want you to give this your full attention, I will give you all the resources I have at my disposal. Its probably nothing. Or it may mean something, which is...something."

From here on you search for the truth about Jiub, including a trip to High Fane, burial crypts and even Oblivion. I have a bare outline set up but am working on the logisitcs, lore and dialogue. I'm assuming it would be a good idea to find out if KuKulza and the Vvardenfell team would be interested in adding it to their mod (conversely, I may try and create it myself once they release their final version) Now that I'm thinking such, it would probably be a good idea to post a request on the Vvar. forum.

Everybody, feel free to add your criticisms, ideas, and gripes-- But no kudos, my egos big enough already.

[raggidman]

Great News, don't worry about the length of this thread, stuff can be moved if required. All the space here is to help people work together, so make yourself at home! - offers Joe Venice choice of smoking cap, cigar and brandy with deep leather armchair or tea and scones at a table on the lawn under the willow tree...

[Joe Venice]

Gentlemen...Behold!

Confessions of a Blasphemous Prophet
[Composed on soiled parchments and in the margins of other works; written in dirt, grease, and blood]


To the finder of these pages, know that these are my confessions. They have passed freely from my lips to these pages, but I write them with a great pain. Not for those who have been hurt by what I did or suffered for what I led them to believe, but for my own fate that was wrestled from my control. Collected here is my life, and while it was not always clear what turns it would take, I now find it at its logical end. Let this be my first lesson to you:

Take what you can, when you can and make sure you don?t get caught.

My early life was a lot like that, it was the only way to be in my household. The old crones didn?t have enough money for all the mouths yammering and crying up in their attic, so it was only the strong or smart that would get food in their guts. Truth is, I wasn?t either of those, so I left. I doubt I was missed though; they weren?t my parents and those runts weren?t my kin.

I lived those early years hand-to-mouth with never a thought to where it would lead me. I ran with the local gangs and thugs from the seediest towns and darkest alleys of Morrowind. In time I made up for my former deficiencies; my arms grew strong, my mind grew sharp, and my knees no longer quaked at the sight of a little spilt blood. No matter how quick you are though, no matter how smart you may be, no one lives long on those streets. I took what I needed from them and passed through the gates onto the dusty road.

The miles between any cities of even minor stature are always crowded. You can set yourself down on a yard of grass and see all kinds of strange startlements to entertain the eye. Caravans loaded with the finest goods for the finest merchant houses. Foreigners with odd tongues and peculiar garments. Dashing adventurers wrought in armor that wove the noonday sun into a tapestry of colors. Figures cloaked in shadow, speeding to points unknown or unrecalled.

And all it takes is the flick of a knife or a vicious word to relieve them of their worldly goods, their exotic clothes, their hard won spoils, or their precious secrets. It was easier on the road. You never had someone yelling, ?Thief!? or some other nonsense to call the watchman down on your head. Even if they did, who would hear? Or care? Man and mer are far to busy with their own business to worry about the troubles of another, they?re just lucky it wasn?t them. This time.

You can only last for a short time in that life. If you get too greedy or too successful, they?ll find you. Either the patrols will get wise to an rash highwayman or someone will come along wanting some of the action; and if the later happens to have a sharper knife, you?d better hope it?s the guards. Because if the law doesn?t get to you first, the competition will. That was how they found me; lying face down on the roadside, naked, with a gash running across my eye. My attacker was even nice enough to leave a note with my confession on it. I don?t deny what he wrote, it was uncannily truthful. I just wish the damned n?wah had been illiterate.

~~~

Luckily I was nabbed in Cyrodil, the Imperials are more lenient with criminals. Rather than kill you outright, they like to leave that business to time. What else would you expect from savages that worship a dragon with a clock? It doesn?t take long though, when you?re squatting in a dank cell with only the previous occupant for company. I thought I should have died there, in the dark, but that was not yet my fate. This leads to the second lesson:

Be certain of where the first step out of the pot takes you, your situation may not improve.

The unlocking of my cell door was heralded by a jangle of keys and witnessed by a low groan. The light did not brighten as I was pushed into the passage, but the air, to my numbed brain, seemed fresher. I was shackled, like the others, to my neighbors in the front and back. Our line was led up the slick steps to a dimly lit hall. The warmth of Sun?s Height did not reach our chilled bones still, and several of the sicklier prisoner?s were visibly shaking. The guards pushed the prisoner?s roughly against the damp wall and each of us was chained in place, arms over our heads.

A small side passage was opened and in stepped two men. One was a little Breton, his spectacles tried their best to escape from his nose but, given its length, they were having a hard time of it. From the sleeve of his robe he retrieved a collection of papers. While he withdrew to a distant corner with the captain of the guards, obviously having a difficult time convincing him of the situation, the other man approached the first prisoner. He leaned over, quite a feat with his advanced age and stately posture, close to the Nord?s ear and whispered too quietly for even his bodyguards to perceive the words. As he passed from prisoner to prisoner he left each one either shaking or lost in thought. Most of the prisoners were then led back to their cells, but a choice few were led up the steps to a greater unknown.

The only two left were myself and the prisoner on my right. The old man stood before us, staring deep into both of our eyes, I matched his gaze with as much courage as I could muster. With only two left, he did not bother to whisper his questions. Both of us were compelled to answer truthfully, there seemed to be nothing we could hide from this man, nothing gained in deceit. The Breton jotted each of our answers down, nodding and muttering as he scribbled.

He asked us about our lives. When were we born. What were our parents like. How was our youth. I was unaccustomed to this sort of questioning, not only were the questions innocent, but the inquiries would have normally been preceded and concluded with rougher treatment.

The old Imperial, in his rich clothes, reminded me of those souls I had accosted on the darkened roadside. He seemed pleased to learn neither of us knew our true parents; I would have been equally pleased to get my hands around his fat, wrinkled neck. With a nod from the Breton, we were both led up the stairs.

Upon rejoining the now smaller group of prisoners, we were led through an empty, twilit town to a ship waiting at the dock. Loaded into the hold, we knew not our fate nor destination. A glance over a stack of barrels answered part of that question; the rats in the hold had made short work of whatever meat encased the bleached bones scattered on the other side.

As we crossed the rolling waves, time passed slowly. The men and mer in the hold seemed to grow old beyond their years. As they collapsed from sickness and hunger, they were either thrown to the sea or left for the vermin. I passed the time relatively peacefully, in another lifetime I may have made a passable fisherman. My nose told me when we neared the shore, its scent was familiar and filled the lungs. When they came to pick up the last casualty, I heard one of the guards mention a single word; only a name, a destination, yet so much more.

A groan near me in the darkness announced I was not truly alone. In the corner, on a sac of spoiled, moldy grains lay a sleeping form. It mumbled in its dream, as if answering a command. I shook the silhouette and realized it was the same prisoner who had stood next to me during the interrogation. Pulling the invalid to unsteady feet I tried to find some friendly words.

?Well, not even last night's storm could wake you.? They did not seem to understand me, the mind was slurred by fever and exhaustion. I gently propped them against the wall. I could be kind when I knew nothing would be gained from cruelty.

?I heard them say we've reached Morrowind. I'm sure they'll let us go.?

I was wrong. I recognized the sound of approaching feet and warned the n?wah to remain silent. The guard looked both of us over and then grabbed the sickly prisoner and roughly shoved them above deck, I never did learn of the poor bastard?s fate. The prison ship left Seyda Neen with only one of us left onboard. After heading back to the open water, I was told that our next stop was the slave market at Suran. I was going to toil and sweat. Here is the next lesson:

There is no satisfaction in a hard day?s work.

~~~

The noonday sun baked and blistered the market; the bleached tarps of the booths, like open festering sores, buzzed with the cries and calls of buyer and seller. The slavers paraded out their freshest meats as the muck brained gawkers poked and prodded the shackled n?wahs. They gasped in surprise at the last ware to be hustled before them, what a rare exotic item this was; a dunmer slave. I sneered at their surprise, what a show this had turned out to be. The noise was deafening as each mer let loose a torrent of figures, the seller?s riches growing more exuberant with each raised hand or voice.

I do not remember for what price my body was sold, my legs had grown weak from hunger and my mind was clouded for want of sleep. The mers who bought me (for it was more than one, no simple farmer could have afforded to be the sole proprietor of such a prize) tied me to a waiting guar. Given my tired state, it was appreciable that I was provided with such a comfortable and modest mode of transit. My face and knees were only scuffed the few times I fell, with my masters riding on the beast?s back and me being dragged behind.

They did not hesitate to put me to work. The plantation was large and my crew worked everyday from the sun?s first light till after the moons had risen in the sky. I was the only Dunmer slave on the plantation; all the others were either Khajiiti or Argonians. Though, even the beasts, as simple and backwards as they were, felt a basic fear for our most common assailant. It was more biting than any whip or club. It would come more silent than any disease borne through the shacks. It struck with only a moments warning, a terrible shriek that made the hair stand on end. The cliff racers would descend singly or could darken the skies with their beating wings. Not a moment of rest could be found during the day, one eye was always on the ground at our work and the other gazed warily skyward.

For my ancestors to see me like that, working upon hand and knee with those beastly creatures. They would later claim I learned shame in those days, and it is partly true that I came to empathize with those wretched betmer. My real lesson was this:

Sometimes it is best to say nothing.

~~~

The threat of being picked off by one of the many cliff racers drove me to a regrettable decision. As morning began and the slaves were woken and fed, I confronted one of the guards. I voiced my opinion that, until the racers were taken care of, he could take my pick and shove it up his ass for all I cared. By virtue of a club to the temple, I was able to have the rest of the day off.

The next morning I was awoken by a throbbing head and the taste of blood in my mouth. I looked over at my tipped cot and then up to the face of the grinning foreman. ?We got special duty for you today, mate,? as he punctuated his statement with a jangle of chains dropped inches from my face.

Two guards carried me out, past the work crews, to an uncultivated corner of the saltrice field. The mud came up to my calves and tore away my cheap, cloth shoes. They drove a stake into a small patch of dry ground. The length of chain was drawn from the head of the stake to the shackles around my ankles. After they had moved just out of the chain?s reach, the foreman turned and lofted the pick.

?We?ll check on you this afternoon,? he chortled, the pick landing at the mud before me, ?Why don?t you put this to good use?? I picked up the tool and tried my best to reach the laughing idiots. They returned, across the field to oversee the work crew, who were already baking under the early morning sun. I hefted the pick, judging my chances of striking the foreman with a careful toss, when I heard the whispered passage of leathery wings. A sudden blow knocked the tool from my grasp.

The cliff racer?s talons churned the mud as it advanced on me. Terror gripped my stomach, and I feared I would lose what few scraps of food I had received the previous morning. I backed away from the demon and began to search the ground for that wondrous pick. My foot found it first and I tumbled to the ground in a mess of mer, chain, and muck.

The racer saw its quarry fall and covered the separation in seconds. Its talons sliced my legs and its beak bit deeply into my shielding arm. My hand gripped the mud-slicked shaft of the pick, but I could not lift it. The creature?s body was too close and there was no room to swing. With my arm nearing the breaking point, I laid the tools point against the creature's chest and kicked it with my foot. To this day, I am still unsure whether the crack I heard was the sound of my broken toes or the racer?s ribs as the pick was driven deep into its heart.

The animal let out a short cry and then lay still as its comrades wheeled about far above me. After extracting myself, with much difficulty, from the carrion I collapsed to the ground with hard won exhaustion. The next morning, after being bandaged and fed, I was again taken to that corner of the field and killed another cliff racer. The day after I killed two. I have difficulty recalling the numbers and days from then on.

Eventually, the cliff racers learned my game. They knew that it was to high a gamble to come after the mer in the field. It was then that the foreman began to lacerate my arms and back before leaving me in the field. The scent of fresh blood drove the creatures to a frenzy and they would darken the sky in their madness. And each one that descended met with the pick or the club or the axe. Soon, they could find no more living in the hills by the plantation. They then rented me out to the other farmers in the area, for only a few gold pieces they would soon be rid of their screeching scavengers.

Other entrepreneurs began taking slaves and tying them to trees or leaving them in fields, but they returned to always find the racers feeding upon a fresh kill. It seemed I had a special knack for the business and my masters were well paid for the usage of their property. The news of my actions spread quickly across the province, and it was not long before we drew the attentions of those who were invested with power. And from this we can draw an important lesson:

Beware the mer who is endowed with great wealth for you can be sure that it was drawn from the backs and sweat of fools such as you.

It was not long after the last of our local cliff racers were gone that two mer appeared at the gate of the plantation. One was a priest, his robe dragging behind him as he walked. The other was a government official whose fine, tidy clothes failed to impress upon the great distance he had traveled to appear at my master?s door. They talked briefly with my owner and a large number of septims and cut stones could be seen passing into his hands. It was not long before I was brought before them. They looked me over and said that they were pleased I was a dunmer, regardless of my haggard visage. Without a farewell from my former masters or fellow slaves, I was led out unto the road to Vivec.

I was taken to the High Fane, that wayward moon hung precariously over the City for Vehk. Within its timeworn tunnels I was imprisoned once again. I was kept there for several days, receiving generous portions of good food and local spirits. Despite my uneasy feelings, I found myself enjoying this new life. Then the damned cell door opened.

In strode a new figure, clothed in rich robes and flanked by two golden Ordinators. I was roughly unshackled and thrown before the mer. He looked down at me, staring across the bridge of his nose. He introduced himself as Attendant Sar; and what a sight must have greeted his eyes. The dunmer before him was ill clothed, unkempt and foul smelling with scars running across every patch of naked skin. I might also have been drunk; it was really all but a certainty. I met his gaze with a crooked smile.

?Offensive.? A whisper of a smile crept across his cold lips as he observed a sneer on mine. ?I will give a maggot such as you a choice,? the smile faded, ?much more than your kind deserves. You can either rot here in the dark or you can serve better ends that will surely benefit yourself and my master.?

The smile now appeared on my lips. He seemed to grow flustered, he was not used to having to make deals with highwaymen. ?I will put it simply, we need a con man. Does that sound enjoyable and within your limited faculties; a con??

The room grew quiet as a tomb. I looked at the Ordinators, their gaze hidden behind those lifeless gold eyes. Something rotten was up and it smelled like a trap. And gold.

I looked up at him and licked my dried lips, ?Sounds lovely.?

~~~

You may be expecting some lesson here, dear reader. Do you wish for some nugget of insight drawn from my pain and perspiration, and that I then give to you freely and without sacrifice? Read on then, you will get no such alms from me. Later I may indulge your curious mind, but not now. Remember that I feel no remorse for the crimes I have 'til now, and will later, commit. I would gladly chose my path again if fate would place me once more at those crossroads. Enough.

After my interrogation, I was taken from the High Fane. It would not be the last I saw it and the time removed from its rocky walls did not make it any fonder to the eye. The Ordinators led me to the temple complex below, the city of Vivec stretched out to the north with all of Vvardenfell resting on its shoulders. I was taken to the healer, and she cleaned and clothed me and fulfilled those needs a mer?s body is inherent to.

My new job was then explained to me. The priest who described my duties was nervous and fumbled through the words, but the jist was this; I was to pose as a new prophet of the Tribunal. My exploits as the ?Scourge of the Winged Plagues? (my characterization of ?squaking bastards? was not well received) had obviously spread across much of Morrowind. Luckily for my new employers, my past could easily be swept away. I was to be an upstanding citizen, who revered the living gods and licked their boots while they handed down rosy tinted teachings. Of course this was impossible, the gods were either dead as a bonewalker or so weakened they had become recluse. Whatever the case, we had the Nerevarine to thank for it. I wish I could have met them and properly thanked them for what happened to me.

Helseth had just completed his ascension to the throne of Morrowind. Without the Tribunal there was no opposition to rule, but he had no Tribunal to control the people. By reforming the Almsivi around his will, he could weld the power of not only the sovereign but of faith. He could end slavery, exploit trade and wrestle power from the Great Houses themselves. All this with a false prophet.

I soon became a symbol for the abolition efforts in Morrowind. They played up the angle of me becoming a slave in order to pay off my father?s drinking or gambling debts; I can?t really remember their lies. Helseth was very interested in freeing the slaves held by the Houses Telvanni and Dres. After a show of resistance, they complied upon bearing the full pressure of the other Great Houses. Besides, tenant farmers are cheaper to bully.

My life became a tedious cycle of servitude. One day I would be spreading the good news of the Almsivi and the next I would be leading raids on cliff racer flocks. Unlike before, there was no real danger; I was more at risk of being crushed by deluded pilgrims than falling to the beaks of racers already poisoned by ordinator archers. I was well compensated for my involvement, and under better circumstances I would have never wanted for coin.


As it was, I couldn?t spend any of it, not a damned septim. Riches are not meant for saints and they do not get to throw around handfuls of coin at the local tavern. My handlers explained that a certain appearance must be maintained. If it wasn?t for the companionship of my healers I would of never have gotten to blow off any steam. My life as a con man was not what I had hoped and I found myself searching for escape. It had always come before. The highwayman had been freed by a Dragon. The slave freed by a living god. And now the saint was to be freed by something...worse.

~~~

I awoke out of a Sujamma induced slumber to find my temple caravan crossing the northern Grazelands. I rubbed the hangover from my eyes and asked one of my guards as to our destination. They were gruff mer and seemed to prefer I keep my mouth shut. Between telling me to keep my nose out of temple business and to mind my words, I discerned enough to learn we were headed to an ashlander settlement.

For a long time, the Great Houses and the Almsivi had attempted to bring these nomadic Velothi within the fold of civilized Morrowind. A waste of perfectly good time and booze if you ask me. No matter how drunk they got, they were always more interested in raiding the odd settlement rather than wiping each other out and ridding us of their troubles. Our journey was just the latest in a long series of diplomatic exchanges interspersed with genocidal crusades. I was supposed to be curing an outbreak of chills that had been spreading through the damned guarbacks. In reality, I was to be on my best behavior and leave the real work to my healers.

We arrived just before dusk despite being waylaid by an ash storm. We were informed by the Hetman that most of the afflicted mer had died the previous night, but there was one yet alive. I was taken to a yurt removed from the rest of the camp. Inside were the family?s meager possessions and sitting on the bedroll was a young child.

His eyes were a sickly rust and what little skin was left had bleached to stark white. I tried to avoid his pitiful gaze but soon found my eyes locked with the parents. ?Please,? said the Ashkan with great difficulty. The full impact of the moment then hit; these people, who did not even know or trust me, expected me to cure the one thing they valued in this world. I knew I was helpless.

My healers and I worked all through the night and into the next day. We tried every salve, potion, and prayer we knew (and several others I made up), but it was all for naught. With his pain growing ever greater, I made him the only potion my hands knew. He quickly slipped out of consciousness and his breathing stilled. That evening his body was wrapped in sheets and taken to the burial crypt. I stood near the entrance for I know not how long. The sun had already dipped into the Inland Sea when they returned. The child?s parents exited the tomb, bearing no signs of their sorrow except the added redness in the corner of their eyes.

That night, after my healers had fallen asleep by my side I made my way out of our tent. After retrieving a stashed satchel in the brush I attempted to steal away. My footfalls betrayed me, inactivity having robbed them of their former stealth. My ears barely warned me of the guard?s approach before the hand appeared on my shoulder.

?And just where...,? began the mer as he turned me around. I plunged my knife into his fool gut as I smothered his breath. They can lay his carcass on the cold slab by that child for all my cares. I crossed the grassy expanse until I reached the feet of rolling hills that climbed up into the sky and to the slopes of Dagoth Ur. Storm clouds rolled in from across the Sheogorad, bringing rain that mingled with the dirt on my cheeks. I climbed higher into the ash choked mountains. Here is the promised lesson:

Gods and demons are separated only by the token of a chance and their necessity in the mind.

~~~

I traveled the paths between the peaks and into the ruins of the Dwemer. Time lost meaning there and the needs of the body became silenced by a new craving; freedom. I needed to escape, to avoid this fate and this life. I could contemplate few avenues but found myself yet unwilling for the next step. I could not find death, but it was stalking me.

One night, it stole up behind me, its tattered robes hiding its deformed visage. It had heard his master?s call, the haggard creature, and like many before it had searched him out in the mountains. There it had been perverted, its flesh had melted away and mind turned to mush. In its place, its benefactor had promised him power and life unlimited. He had taken the offer, only to see it tarnished by the fall of this lost house. It had been long since it had known the scents and tastes of living flesh.

But it had found it, and followed it until it was too weak to resist or run. I awoke to see its eyeless stare affixed on me, its trunk almost reaching my chest. I was resigned to this death and made no motion to remove myself from danger. Its fingers crackled with power, as it prepared to deliver its final blow but it grew limp as it slid to the ground; its body writhing as it burned and smoked. My savior, my demon, had chosen to remove me one last time.

She stood there, her hands still shone with otherworldly light, her red eyes burning into my skull. Her mouth did not move but I heard the voice. Many of its words were strange or confusing, many so unfit as to be difficult to repeat or replicate in these broken lines. It told me that my pain was nothing, that my worries were unimportant. She was N'spr and spoke for the Dawn and Dusk, and she bore a message of warning and hope. A war was drawing near.

The Dragon had fallen and the Throne sat empty. From it would spring a burning arch and across its threshold would advance the destruction of not only Morrowind but all of Nirn. She told me that I had a part to play and all but its end was unclear. I have begun to discern the meaning, but at the time I comprehended not a word, except the last, ?Death.? I would find my freedom.

~~~

It was there that the Ordinators found me, my body lying next to the charred remains of the Dagoth worshiper. My pilgrimage of Vvardenfell was cut short and I was returned to the city of Vivec. At the High Fane, I was again locked in my cell, for how long I do not know. Ferri Sar has just now appeared to inform me that my contract will soon be voided, they have no need to pretend there is any Almsivi now. Vivec has vanished and the Nerevarine has disappeared-- some say into Akavir. A dead saint now has more use as a tool than a blasphemous prophet.

?Ald?ruhn has been razed,? he stated, no emotion shook his stone face, ?the city is lost but Lord Helseth believes its symbolism is still powerful. A crusade has been formed to drive out the Daedra. We have need of one last con, highwayman.? A smile cracked his lips. ?We need a martyr.?

The Ordinators have arrived to fit me to my ebony burial shroud, the helm leaves me deaf and the sword slips from my grasp. I do not know if this will be my end or if there is more for me to yet endure. Have I only been a symbol for an ancient lie? Or have I served something nobler than any gods? Here then is my final lesson, the words of the ?False Prophet? thus recorded:

Even when a lifetime has been wasted, there are still things worth dying for.

Jiub wrote this.

Edits in Red, any future edits by me will be edited into this post.

I have also finished part of the dialogue for the discovery of the confessions;

You hear rumors of a prisoner (?Mo?Kafii?) being removed from the High Fane. He has been labeled as crazy and preaching heretical doctrines. The rumor is accompanied by a pamphlet listing his beliefs and qualms; one is relevant to Jiub (Plainly titled ?The Saint Jiub??) Each temple official will turn you away upon requesting an interview, stating he has been undergoing treatment and is now fine. After completing a favor for one ambitious inquisitors, you are given access to the High Fane to meet with the prisoner.
Just before reaching the cells, you encounter an old khajiit being led by a pair of Ordinators. A brief questioning filled with muddled, nervous responses leads the Khajiit to whisper, ?Beware my friend, these rocks have many eyes and ears...and mouths.?

You question him about 'the mouths'. ?Yes! Yes! But rocks, they say nothing. Like teeth that clamp down on the words before they can be heard...but behind the teeth the seeker may find a tongue; and it speaks volumes.?

Conversation ends and he looks to one of the Ordinators, ?Let us hurry, Mo?Kafii wish to feel the sun and see his prayers answered. But if it rests on the horizon, will Mo?Kafii know whether to give thanks to the Dawn or the Dusk??

The player enters the now vacant cell. One stone in the wall seems loose and if activated will yield the prompt, ?Your eyes do not deceive you, this one is weaker than the rest.? By pulling on the rock (the same as picking up clutter) the rock falls away revealing the confessions.

[raggidman]

:lol: I see you have your own ideas. I have scanned a couple of paras and cannot decide if wrought in armour is allowable poetic license... hmmm... :thinks: ... :goodjob: so far so good!

[Colest]

It took me several times to read it all the way through but it was well worth it. Great story and my only complaint is that I am not up to par on the lore enriched in this piece. Homework I have and thank you for this enchanting tale into my favorite saint of Vvardenfell.

BTW what is the name of the demon/goddess who approaches Jiub? N'spr doesn't seem to bring up anything in the Elder Scrolls lore, but maybe you just made her up for the story.