Posted in Asset Browser – 10Kaziem

Forlorn Bal-Hlarren 

In the infancy of my arrival to Morrowind I was ambivalent of what the province had lurking in store for me; as was tradition for any Cyrodiil growing up on the border, I was bombarded with tales and bits of mischievous lore as a child from people in my town. Thicket-cutters who worked their way west, towards the Imperial City to cut out paths with their long, broad machetes where dirt and soil would eventually be packed into to form various detour roads that veined and slithered across the land in case the main roads flooded, would stop through consistently and tell tales of seeing the roaring smoke from Red Mountain rising above the ridge of the mountains. They would speak of the humming of the large beetles that the barbaric natives herded, troves of them scuttling along in a trance-like harmony. They would weave a narrative of the dark skin of the Dunmer, of their strange masks they wore to filter out the harsh air that was polluted by the ash wastes that ravaged the isle of Vvardenfell and the Armun Ashalnds that were situated on the mainland.  

My young eyes and ears would be out of ambit with reality as these tales were a wanderlust for my young imagination. For years I stayed in my town, mere miles from the peaks of the Velothi Mountains. Where just over the other side there was some extrinsic landscape that even the Nine couldn't comprehend in the fullest extent. Locals would exchange a novella's-worth of stories about their friend-of-a-friend who had just returned back from Morrowind, and how they had seen the ends of Nirn; how the ground was made of living organisms that would swallow up cities whole and spit them back out into the ocean. How the Dunmer were a race of vampire-kin who ate the souls of Moth Priests and lived in giant rock hives with windows and door frames carved out with the teeth of young children like myself, how they worshiped a trio of Daedra who wore the skin of the past Emperors after they had tunneled their way into their crypts and broke into their gold-lined casks and ripped their flesh clean off their corpses and then retreated back to their homeland.  

I now know that there was perhaps a bit of truth to a few things they said, though of course it was mostly blown out of proportion all the way to Atmora and back. I finally decided to one day scratch the itch of adventure that had been growing from within my bones for years once I left adolescence like a terminal case of Red Rage and I sold what farming tools I had, visited my parents grave one last time, left an offering of an amulet stamped with the face of Dibella, and headed off east. Now, there was a series of circumstances that transpired between then and where I am now; the least of them involving a pack of wild Nix Hounds, a naked Nord, and three empty bottles of Kavatch Wine found inside a ravine in the wilds of the northern wastes; but perhaps the most estranged prevarication that just happens to be apodeictic is the incident I can only refer to as 'Stumbling Upon the Outre Chagrin of My Physical Self at Bal-Hlarren', or more simply put, 'Forlon Bal-Hlarren'.  

Bal-Hlarren itself is quite unremitting. Some sort of local legend about a priest who circumvented the tricks of a lesser Dremora who was trying to ruin a pious bloodline or some such at the top of the mountain. But what was situated there now is what I still have trouble trying to comprehend. It was late at night, Masser and Secunda hanging overhead in their eternal game of tag with the sun; I was on my way to unmake the life of a necromancer hiding out in the dense mires of the Lan Orethan. It was a contract I picked up from an Orc I had met shortly after I first arrived in Morrowind. Khortag gro-Mamduba. A tower of slime-tinted flesh. He must have drank thereabouts a gallon of Mazte in the daytime and fought about half the Legion's worth of guards at night. I'm still not entirely sure how I managed to befriend him, considering I don't think he ever remembered anything other than how to purse his lips up to swig from the bottle and how to swing an axe; but through some marital tides of fate I was on his good side and he was just as eager as I was to find his grail of coin in the dangerous and oft xenophobic backwoods of this territorial division of our consecrated empire. I had met him in a berated tavern off the road somewhere near Old Ebonheart after I had to step over him to get in the door; he was sleeping off the rough night right outside in the dirt. I paid my rent for the night, clamored into the sheets that felt as stale as week old bread atop a mattress as hard as a Guar's skull and hours later became cognizant to the sound of what I could only guess was an all out war that broke out downstairs.  

Khortag was stringent that he get a bottle served to him before the sun even arose fully and the barkeep denied him. I mused to myself that he was probably still drunk; and nevertheless I was soon inducted into the insight that he never wasn't. I still believe he would have killed that poor mer had I not intervened and offered to pay the rent for his nights stay outside and for the bottle as well. The barkeep chortled under his breath and looked the two of us over slowly, cautiously, and then slid the Orc a jug of some cheap-but-powerful alcohol and told us both to vacate. I walked with him for a bit, he thanked me for being, and I quote, “...the only pale skin with a sense of brevity and honor,” while gobbling down his pungent liquor, and we got to know each other a bit. A nice fellow, once you got past his miles-long outer layers that were more brash than beautiful. Years went by, we both went out to still find our fortunes, and we would rendezvous at random points in time, in and out of temporal relation to one another. One day he actively sought me out and told me he trusted only I to assist him in a contract he got from the Ghazmitan Tong, some start up that scavenged for people willing to lose a limb for a little coin. I guess he got into some torrential debts in Almalexia due to his addictions and had to turn to the tong for the coin to keep a poisoned dart out of his neck. It was a suicide mission, but I was just as hard-pressed for luck as he was. We both headed into a Daedric ruin by a lake and somehow managed to keep our heads attached long enough to clear out the cultists that writhed within, and he split the payout with me. My eyes lit up and I ate my first good meal in a long while. It was right before my first bite into the succulent Nix Roast that it hit me; this was the reason I ventured out here with no reckoning as to why – for the thrill of the hunt.  

Khortag, in time, got to be a lead for a division of the tong down south and I started taking orders from him. He cut back on the drink considerably, but when he gave me this job I had to ask if he had fallen off the carriage again or not. To go unaccompanied into the unknown and hope to not become chattel to this blasphemous entity. He must have been delusional. Of course, I was eager to tempt fate. However, on this particular delegation, the camouflaged hands that move the stars had something else planned for me. No sooner than I headed out of town and into a part of the region I wasn't at all familiar with, a harsh storm kicked up with rain seemingly coming upward from the ground, and I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because I noticed something askew. I'd never deliberately step foot so far south that I would land in Dres territory. I would first rather take a dagger to the palms and a Hoom headbutt to the gut than to step too close to the border of Dres district. I heard hosts of tales about the Dres, and unlike the stories I had once heard in my youth way back in Cyrodiil, these tales were true. Relentless, ceaseless, unforgiving, fatalistic, savage, inexorable, and ingenious Dunmer. Just to use a few adjectives. They would slit a foreigner’s throat in panoramic daylight without a second thought and the guards would laugh as they dragged the body out to the wilds outside of town to be feasted on by vermin. But yes, something was askew most certainly. The ground became addled, rough, and it smelled acidic. Then the salt flats appeared under my feet. It was dark and still stormy out, but I pushed on, half hoping and half praying I was just a little off track. That the next illuminating clamor of lightning would reveal a landmark or tree or even a pile of rocks I was acquainted with. I had to find some way back to familiarity. The silhouette of Bal-Hlarren started to reach out towards me on the horizon; almost as if it were grasping at me, leading me by tugging on my legs to start climbing it's sloping appendages.  

I trudged upwards, the storm finally breaking; the gastric air broke apart and I breathed heavily through my nose as the fresh air flooded in. Thankful for my salvation, I took in the night sky. I suppose I just figured if I could make it to the top of the ridge I could look out to try and get my bearings straight. The odd flora wrapped around my feet, it was unlike any other I'd seen before. It seemed just as dangerous as the Dres themselves, almost menacing; daring me to try and pluck a leaf off of it so it could stick me with some lethal toxin that I would succumb to in mere moments. I kept evidence of where my feet were at all times, lest I was abject enough to step on one of them. When I got closer to the pinnacle I felt an odd gust of warm wind bellow out from one side of the mountain and wrap around to my face. Again I got curious and something took over my mind. I kept getting dragged back to the hazy days of yore, when I would stay up late into the night in Cyrodiil and dream of the possibilities of fate and the unknown. I thought about how I wanted to be a traversing knight, slaying monsters and rival kings. I thought about how I wanted to wear armor made from the fallen beasts I'd slain. I thought about heading down from the mountain. But I alternatively started moving towards the other side of it, tip-toeing along the diaphanous trails that spiraled to the peak like a vine growing up a fence post. I felt the air getting warmer and warmer as I rounded every corner, and I finally came to a wider dirt trail that had led up to a small hole with steam shooting out of it near the top of the mountain. It was like a forage was venting out of the hole, the air nearly scalding my eyes and skin.  

I threw a clothed veil over my head and got closer, inspecting my surroundings through stinted eyes. I drew nearer, almost close enough to extend my arm out and touch the side of the mountain near the hole, and suddenly there was a noise. Down the path I could hear faint footsteps in the dead of night crunching against the loose salt-encrusted pebbles that polluted the dirt. In my time of adventuring I've learned a few important rules of the wild; amongst the top three of them is 'Don't Rush Blindly Into A Fight'. Heeding my own wisdom I frantically looked around for something, anything I could conceal myself behind. There wasn't much I could see, just a few knee-high plants and smaller rocks. The footfall drew closer to me and I knew whoever or whatever it was had a destination of that hole, since it was the only remarkable feature up this high. Then, I saw a larger boulder I could possibly jump up to at my left. It was ample enough for me to crouch down and get behind to hide behind and time was of the essence. I belted off and made my way half way behind the rock before two Dunmer wound around the trail and right into my line of sight. I slid myself behind the boulder as gently as I could, careful to not make a sound, and I peered around the edge of the boulder where I had a perfect orientation of the hole and waited. A faint blueish-green glow engulfed the path and the Dunmer walked up to it silently. They were both adorned in what I could only describe as some pale bonemold armor with helmets that seemed sleek and streamlined to fit in with the curves of the mountain. Some type of stealthy attire. One of them held the most inane glass lantern, and inside of it, instead of a flame, was some type of larvae. Like a Kwama but less...developed? More primal looking.  

As it writhed and squirmed around it emitted the enchanting color that shone pallidly, even in the dark of night, yet bewitchingly. Without exchanging any words, one of them walked up to the hole in the wall and dropped something in; ostensibly unscathed by the heat it produced. It seemed like hours went by with me crouching down, my knees swelling and weeping. I took my time to sum up the odds of me walking away alive if I tried to ambush the two elves and I always came out on the loosing end. They just simply seemed too formal and elegant and strong, yet so extensively out of place way out in the middle of wherever I was. They had swords at their sides and a posture that oozed confidence. They were statuesque and hardly moved as the twilight grew colder and shorter. I could maybe take one of them, but being that I was outnumbered I would be swiftly met with a blade in the back. After mulling the scenario for a time, I then sincerely knew that the stories of the Dres were true. I wasn't looking to die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I figured that whatever they were doing here would sooner or later come to a conclusion and I would be on my way. Yet I also was inquisitive once again. I also felt like I needed to know what was going on; why they would travel so far out here in the darkest parts of the night. In hindsight I wish I would've just sulked off into the shadows when I had the opportunity.  

After an eternity or two there was finally some movement from the duo as the one who approached the hole snapped his head down at the concave pit and stuck his hand in again. After a few moments of submersion, my jaw unhinged and almost dropped to the ground. He pulled something out! Was there some person or deity inside the mountain? Was that tell tale about that priest and the Dremora true? I wish to this day I had gotten a better look at what he produced, but I had no time to react to what happened next. A sound that I can only expound as the cracking of the sky and the weeping of Talos himself blasted through the heavens, seemingly amplified by the winds and stars themselves. The two Dres, they still were unwavering! My entire body writhed around, and the already pallid pigment of my skin drained exceedingly more so as I bore witness to a moving miasma of winged creatures that blanketed the moons out of sight. These countless reinforcements swarmed along in a catastrophic fashion and I could no longer hold fast. I thought of the gave site in my home town, of where my mother and father were eternally laid to rest. I thought of that amulet of Dibella I left for them, and; I say with all dignity revered; I felt tears streaming down my eyes as I hopped up and ran down the mountain path faster than I have ever moved in my life even since then.  

I took only a moment to look back as I saw the two Dunmer act briefly perplexed before giving chase. I thought for certain I would never make it off that mountainside. And as I ran I had some sort of divine epiphany. A thought populated my mind with a tremendous force. Brighter than any larvae lantern. Hotter than any steam vent on any mountain. Taller than White Gold Tower itself. I had realized that I no longer wanted to do any adventuring in this curious, unusual land. I wanted to somehow make it out alive and sell my armor and my weapons back to the pawn broker who belonged to the tong, who I knew would give me a good deal if I explained to him how I had to leave and get back to Cyrodiil, and I wanted to never look back. I sprang and bounded my way down as bewildered as possible, the sound of the moribund skies still engulfing my ears and becoming louder. I could feel the vibrations pulsating through my armor and right into my soul. The Dres were behind me, gaining fast. Watering eyes and burning lungs, I just pushed on until I miraculously made it down the mountain and I picked up an adrenaline-fueled pace across the salt flats. I found salvation behind a small patch of dense trees. I slid down into a gnarled pocket beneath some roots, trying to burrow deep into Nirn's skin to evade the entire scene. I withdrew and covered my ears, trying to barricade both the sounds above me and the footsteps of the Dunmer I was sure were right next to me. I saw the faint glow of their lantern pass just above my knotted sanctuary, my throat began to burn, my heart was pulsing so hard that my ribs began shifting around, and I fell insensible out of both desperation and exhaustion. 

I fluttered my eyes open to luminosity, not sure weather I was dead and this was my rewarded afterlife or not. My face was streaked with dirt and salt, my feet and legs were wound up tight, my head was beating like a war drum; but I was alive. Breathing, living, and completely aghast. It took me some time to find my way back to Khortag, but when I arrived I said no words to him. I simply shook his hand, bereft him of any explanation, thrust three bottles of fine Cyrodillic Brandy onto his desk, and walked out. I still smile perceptibly when I think of the look on his face, how befuddled he must have been. After all my trinkets and wares and armor and weapons were sold off I had enough money to make it back over the border, rent out a room at the tavern in my hometown for a few weeks, and also buy some new farming equipment; all while still having numerous good years left head of me.  

Morrowind was a very recondite place, and this story is the only regret I have about going there. I met many people, saw many places, and learned endless things. But Bal-Hlarren was too forlorn for even the mystical spirit such as mine. I also now embrace my simple, quiet life here in my nestled border town. I sometimes look to the east and get a booming again in my heart, but I know I could never quest off into the dusk again. Plus, the corn harvest this year looks like it will be bountiful.