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They don't kill him on sight. That's the good news.
They respond to his polite-but-still-clearly-foreign Dunmeris without warmth, but without particular hostility, either. The hunter Shabinael still shoots him a sharp, snide grin as he makes his request for Garyn to show his courtesy with a thoughtful gift. In this case, he's to crawl on his knees and dig out some trama root for him.
He's snickering as Garyn returns, his arms full of roots and his armor covered in ashen soot.
"You are not proud, outlander. We welcome humility from outsiders. But I must tell you that an outlander cannot speak to the Ashkhan or Wise Woman uninvited. I suggest you speak with the gulakhan Zabamund. His yurt is to the right of Sul-Matuul's."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The inside of the yurt, patterned as the canvas is, somehow seems even grayer than the outside does. The gulakhan scowls as Garyn makes the reason for his presence known.
"The Nerevarine Prophecies are not for outlanders," he says, eternally and ever scowlingly. "Why should Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa speak to you about these things? Who are you, that we should trust you?"
The Ashlander's hand drifts slightly closer to the hatchet at his waist. Garyn can see from his expression that he does indeed expect an answer - this is a challenge, not a refusal. He stands straight and firm, taking a step forward.
"Muthsera, I have, to the best of my ability, tried to show the courtesy of a guest," Garyn says. "I do this not because I expect reward for meeting the very least of what is expected of me. But neither is it because I fear you. Speaking plainly, I could defeat any of your camp in single combat if blood were what I had come for.
"And I will be as proud as I am plain. I am a foundling child, born of no one, who has in months risen to attain lordship of a Great House. I have done this through the strength of my arms and by my virtue as a gentlemen. And here in the wastes, I am he who led a column of Legionnaires across strange country, past the notice of the scouts of the Erabenimsun, to the hills above their camp, where I negotiated the release of an Imperial priest. So I am no stranger to victory in these lands either."
Garyn raises a hand and bows his head slightly.
"I am a mer born under a certain sign to uncertain parents. I know of the falseness of the Tribunal, and of the perils of the Sixth House. The stars and my dreams have led me here, that I might, in humility, know what the gods would have of me."
Zabamund nods. His face grows no less severe, but it is clear Garyn's answer has satisfied him.
"Hmmm. These are not simple matters. Your deeds are worthy indeed, and you know a great deal more than I would have thought. I hear the truth in your words. I believe you should speak to Sul-Matuul. Perhaps he will be angry with me. But I think I can bear that. Go to the Ashkhan's Yurt and speak with Sul-Matuul. Ask him your questions, and tell him I have sent you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stone-faced solemnity seems to be universal among the Ashland khans. Sul-Matuul is even more severe than Zabamund had been. He is, however, patient as Garyn shows his courtesy and introduces himself.
"You think you fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies," Sul-Matuul says, sounding out the words slowly as if he is trying to convince himself of what he has just heard. He begins to roll a hackle-lo leaf and continues.
"You wish to be tested to see if you are the Nerevarine. No outlander may join the Nerevarine cult. If you were a Clanfriend, an adopted member of the Ashlander tribes, then perhaps. I have an initiation rite in mind. If you pass this rite, I will adopt you as a Clanfriend of the Ashlanders. And then I will submit you to Nibani Maesa, our wise woman, who is skilled in oracles and mysteries, and who will test you against the prophecies."
Garyn nods. "Very well. Set me to the task, muthsera."
Here the trace of a smile finds the end of the mer's lips, even as the rest of his face does not move. "To be adopted into the tribe, you must undergo a harrowing. In a harrowing, you will be judged by the spirits and ancestors to see if you are worthy. Go to the Urshilaku Burial Caverns and fetch me Sul-Senipul's Bonebiter Bow. Sul-Senipul was my father, and his spirit guards his bonemold long bow deep in the burial caverns. Return to me with this bow, and I will adopt you into the Ashlander tribes as a Clanfriend."
His day does not appear to be getting simpler.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The walk to the burial caverns feels longer than it is, so much of it being across flat and featureless ashlands. The crawl through the darkly illuminated caverns seems more endless still. It is a long, spiraling maze, which only a people who venerated their ancestors above all else could have excavated, and then only over millennia. Each passage is guarded by some sort of ancestor spirit, or skeleton, or Bonewalker.
It is as vast and wonderous as anything Garyn has ever seen. He wonders if it could even be as extensive as the sewers and catacombs of the Imperial City itself. If he gets nothing else from this long and tiresome journey, he will at least respect the sheer scope of the Urshilaku's dedication to their ancestors.
In the end Garyn finds the spirit of Sul-Senipul, guarding the bow he used in life. Sholagmer was able to return him to peace, and claim his heirloom.
All in the camp - Sul-Matuul most of all - crane their necks at Garyn's return. None had expected to see him again. Thinking, perhaps, that either the outlander would give up and show no more of himself, or that he would fall before the spirits of their mighty ancestors.
The Ashkhan stands with his arms crossed, and signals for Garyn to come into his yurt.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Now that you are a Clanfriend, I want to speak plainly. I find it hard to believe that you are the Nerevarine. You are an outlander, but the Nerevarine comes to drive all outlanders from Morrowind. How could an outlander be the Incarnate? The Great Houses stole our lands and mocked us with false gods. The godless outlanders steal our land and our dignity. The Nerevarine is the last hope the Ashlanders have. I will let no outlander steal this hope from us."
Garyn looks away for a moment as Sul-Matuul speaks. The Ashlander speaks more truly than he knows. This entire enterprise is a fraud - a harebrained scheme concocted by a dotard Emperor. All of the hopes and fears of his people, in service of a lie.
"Even so, muthsera, I would know what the stars say of it." Garyn's voice is barely above a whisper as he answers.
"These are serious words, Garyn Balvadares, words of life and death. I see honor and merit in you, and am proud to name you Clanfriend. But take care what you say and do in the name of the Nerevarine. Now go question Nibani Maesa, and learn all she can tell you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The wise woman is not even looking toward the entrance of her yurt. But she greets Garyn upon his entering, nonetheless - speaking as though the back of his head could see him indeed.
"You are the outlander who claims to fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies," she says. "Have you come to see if you pass the test? Do you think you are the Nerevarine?"
"I do not know," Garyn says. "But my dreams convince me that it may be so, and I would know for certain."
Nibani Maesa now stands, walking toward Garyn to get a closer look at him.
"Hmmmmm. Dreams are a serious thing. And these dreams of Nerevar, and of the Sixth House, they are signs of the coming of the Nerevarine. Not necessarily a sign that YOU are the Nerevarine. Just as many have the same birthday, and many are not sure of their parents. It is interesting. But it does not mean that you are the one."
Garyn nods. "And what might, muthsera?"
The wise woman continues to pace around Garyn, staring him down from every angle. "There are, in fact, many Nerevarine prophecies, and they suggest many things. Aspect and uncertain parents. The moon-and-star. Sleepers. Seven curses. The curses' bane. The prophecy of the Stranger. The prophecy of the Seven Visions. And still others that are lost prophecies.
"Of these, some are forgotten. Some hidden. Some deliberately lost. The wise women are the memory of the Velothi people. But it is a faulty memory, and we are mortal, and our knowledge dies with us, for we do not love the written word, as the settled folk do. Ask me of these things. If you are patient. If you would be wise. Or, if you are impatient to know, just ask: 'Do I pass the test of the Nerevarine prophecies?' Go ahead, outlander. I am the wise woman. Ask your questions. And I will answer."
Garyn breathes deeply. "I would hear all of it. But before all, I would have your answer to the question I have traveled for."
The wise woman speaks quickly and bluntly. "You are not the Nerevarine."
Garyn lets loose a deep breath he had not known he had been holding. It is a glorious second of pure, profound relief - one that Nibani Maesa needs but a second to break.
"You are one who may become the Nerevarine."
He blinks, puzzled and astonished. "But...how can that be? Surely I either am or am not!"
Maesa chuckles and nods. "It is a puzzle, and a hard one. But you have found some of the pieces, and you may find more. Do you choose to be the Nerevarine?"
"I..."
"Then seek the lost prophecies among the Dissident priests of the Temple. Find the lost prophecies, bring them to me, and I will be your guide."
"Then...you've not enough information to know if I am or am not the Nerevarine?"
She narrows her eyes and stands tall, seeming to loom above him even at her height.
"You come so far, outlander, and yet you do not understand. The stars do not simply open their mouths and tell us that 'You are such a person, and you are such a thing.' Destiny is a duty. It is a path to be walked. This is why an Incarnate can fail, and these failures are a sign of the coming of the Nerevarine. You, if you would be he, must understand this. The prophecies of the Stranger and the Seven Visions speak of this."
She parts her hands and begins to recite:
"When earth is sundered, and skies choked black,
And sleepers serve the seven curses,
To the hearth there comes a stranger
Journeyed for 'neath moon and star.
Though stark-born to sire uncertain
His aspect marks his certain fate.
Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him.
Prophets speak, but all deny.
"Many trials make manifest
The stranger's fate, the curses' bane.
Many touchstones try the stranger.
Many fall, but one remains.
"What does this prophecy mean? It tells us who the Nerevarine will be, and the trials he must undergo before he fulfills his destiny. If this is what you would be, it is what you are tasked with."
Now she produces a scroll of Daedric lettering, kept within the folds of her simple robe.
"I know you foreigners love to read more than you do to listen. Therefore take this written copy of those prophecies we have remembered. Read these words. Think on them. And when you have found the lost prophecies, return to me."
Garyn accepts the scroll. In his hands it feels quite heavy indeed.
They respond to his polite-but-still-clearly-foreign Dunmeris without warmth, but without particular hostility, either. The hunter Shabinael still shoots him a sharp, snide grin as he makes his request for Garyn to show his courtesy with a thoughtful gift. In this case, he's to crawl on his knees and dig out some trama root for him.
He's snickering as Garyn returns, his arms full of roots and his armor covered in ashen soot.
"You are not proud, outlander. We welcome humility from outsiders. But I must tell you that an outlander cannot speak to the Ashkhan or Wise Woman uninvited. I suggest you speak with the gulakhan Zabamund. His yurt is to the right of Sul-Matuul's."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The inside of the yurt, patterned as the canvas is, somehow seems even grayer than the outside does. The gulakhan scowls as Garyn makes the reason for his presence known.
"The Nerevarine Prophecies are not for outlanders," he says, eternally and ever scowlingly. "Why should Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa speak to you about these things? Who are you, that we should trust you?"
The Ashlander's hand drifts slightly closer to the hatchet at his waist. Garyn can see from his expression that he does indeed expect an answer - this is a challenge, not a refusal. He stands straight and firm, taking a step forward.
"Muthsera, I have, to the best of my ability, tried to show the courtesy of a guest," Garyn says. "I do this not because I expect reward for meeting the very least of what is expected of me. But neither is it because I fear you. Speaking plainly, I could defeat any of your camp in single combat if blood were what I had come for.
"And I will be as proud as I am plain. I am a foundling child, born of no one, who has in months risen to attain lordship of a Great House. I have done this through the strength of my arms and by my virtue as a gentlemen. And here in the wastes, I am he who led a column of Legionnaires across strange country, past the notice of the scouts of the Erabenimsun, to the hills above their camp, where I negotiated the release of an Imperial priest. So I am no stranger to victory in these lands either."
Garyn raises a hand and bows his head slightly.
"I am a mer born under a certain sign to uncertain parents. I know of the falseness of the Tribunal, and of the perils of the Sixth House. The stars and my dreams have led me here, that I might, in humility, know what the gods would have of me."
Zabamund nods. His face grows no less severe, but it is clear Garyn's answer has satisfied him.
"Hmmm. These are not simple matters. Your deeds are worthy indeed, and you know a great deal more than I would have thought. I hear the truth in your words. I believe you should speak to Sul-Matuul. Perhaps he will be angry with me. But I think I can bear that. Go to the Ashkhan's Yurt and speak with Sul-Matuul. Ask him your questions, and tell him I have sent you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stone-faced solemnity seems to be universal among the Ashland khans. Sul-Matuul is even more severe than Zabamund had been. He is, however, patient as Garyn shows his courtesy and introduces himself.
"You think you fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies," Sul-Matuul says, sounding out the words slowly as if he is trying to convince himself of what he has just heard. He begins to roll a hackle-lo leaf and continues.
"You wish to be tested to see if you are the Nerevarine. No outlander may join the Nerevarine cult. If you were a Clanfriend, an adopted member of the Ashlander tribes, then perhaps. I have an initiation rite in mind. If you pass this rite, I will adopt you as a Clanfriend of the Ashlanders. And then I will submit you to Nibani Maesa, our wise woman, who is skilled in oracles and mysteries, and who will test you against the prophecies."
Garyn nods. "Very well. Set me to the task, muthsera."
Here the trace of a smile finds the end of the mer's lips, even as the rest of his face does not move. "To be adopted into the tribe, you must undergo a harrowing. In a harrowing, you will be judged by the spirits and ancestors to see if you are worthy. Go to the Urshilaku Burial Caverns and fetch me Sul-Senipul's Bonebiter Bow. Sul-Senipul was my father, and his spirit guards his bonemold long bow deep in the burial caverns. Return to me with this bow, and I will adopt you into the Ashlander tribes as a Clanfriend."
His day does not appear to be getting simpler.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The walk to the burial caverns feels longer than it is, so much of it being across flat and featureless ashlands. The crawl through the darkly illuminated caverns seems more endless still. It is a long, spiraling maze, which only a people who venerated their ancestors above all else could have excavated, and then only over millennia. Each passage is guarded by some sort of ancestor spirit, or skeleton, or Bonewalker.
It is as vast and wonderous as anything Garyn has ever seen. He wonders if it could even be as extensive as the sewers and catacombs of the Imperial City itself. If he gets nothing else from this long and tiresome journey, he will at least respect the sheer scope of the Urshilaku's dedication to their ancestors.
In the end Garyn finds the spirit of Sul-Senipul, guarding the bow he used in life. Sholagmer was able to return him to peace, and claim his heirloom.
All in the camp - Sul-Matuul most of all - crane their necks at Garyn's return. None had expected to see him again. Thinking, perhaps, that either the outlander would give up and show no more of himself, or that he would fall before the spirits of their mighty ancestors.
The Ashkhan stands with his arms crossed, and signals for Garyn to come into his yurt.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Now that you are a Clanfriend, I want to speak plainly. I find it hard to believe that you are the Nerevarine. You are an outlander, but the Nerevarine comes to drive all outlanders from Morrowind. How could an outlander be the Incarnate? The Great Houses stole our lands and mocked us with false gods. The godless outlanders steal our land and our dignity. The Nerevarine is the last hope the Ashlanders have. I will let no outlander steal this hope from us."
Garyn looks away for a moment as Sul-Matuul speaks. The Ashlander speaks more truly than he knows. This entire enterprise is a fraud - a harebrained scheme concocted by a dotard Emperor. All of the hopes and fears of his people, in service of a lie.
"Even so, muthsera, I would know what the stars say of it." Garyn's voice is barely above a whisper as he answers.
"These are serious words, Garyn Balvadares, words of life and death. I see honor and merit in you, and am proud to name you Clanfriend. But take care what you say and do in the name of the Nerevarine. Now go question Nibani Maesa, and learn all she can tell you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The wise woman is not even looking toward the entrance of her yurt. But she greets Garyn upon his entering, nonetheless - speaking as though the back of his head could see him indeed.
"You are the outlander who claims to fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies," she says. "Have you come to see if you pass the test? Do you think you are the Nerevarine?"
"I do not know," Garyn says. "But my dreams convince me that it may be so, and I would know for certain."
Nibani Maesa now stands, walking toward Garyn to get a closer look at him.
"Hmmmmm. Dreams are a serious thing. And these dreams of Nerevar, and of the Sixth House, they are signs of the coming of the Nerevarine. Not necessarily a sign that YOU are the Nerevarine. Just as many have the same birthday, and many are not sure of their parents. It is interesting. But it does not mean that you are the one."
Garyn nods. "And what might, muthsera?"
The wise woman continues to pace around Garyn, staring him down from every angle. "There are, in fact, many Nerevarine prophecies, and they suggest many things. Aspect and uncertain parents. The moon-and-star. Sleepers. Seven curses. The curses' bane. The prophecy of the Stranger. The prophecy of the Seven Visions. And still others that are lost prophecies.
"Of these, some are forgotten. Some hidden. Some deliberately lost. The wise women are the memory of the Velothi people. But it is a faulty memory, and we are mortal, and our knowledge dies with us, for we do not love the written word, as the settled folk do. Ask me of these things. If you are patient. If you would be wise. Or, if you are impatient to know, just ask: 'Do I pass the test of the Nerevarine prophecies?' Go ahead, outlander. I am the wise woman. Ask your questions. And I will answer."
Garyn breathes deeply. "I would hear all of it. But before all, I would have your answer to the question I have traveled for."
The wise woman speaks quickly and bluntly. "You are not the Nerevarine."
Garyn lets loose a deep breath he had not known he had been holding. It is a glorious second of pure, profound relief - one that Nibani Maesa needs but a second to break.
"You are one who may become the Nerevarine."
He blinks, puzzled and astonished. "But...how can that be? Surely I either am or am not!"
Maesa chuckles and nods. "It is a puzzle, and a hard one. But you have found some of the pieces, and you may find more. Do you choose to be the Nerevarine?"
"I..."
"Then seek the lost prophecies among the Dissident priests of the Temple. Find the lost prophecies, bring them to me, and I will be your guide."
"Then...you've not enough information to know if I am or am not the Nerevarine?"
She narrows her eyes and stands tall, seeming to loom above him even at her height.
"You come so far, outlander, and yet you do not understand. The stars do not simply open their mouths and tell us that 'You are such a person, and you are such a thing.' Destiny is a duty. It is a path to be walked. This is why an Incarnate can fail, and these failures are a sign of the coming of the Nerevarine. You, if you would be he, must understand this. The prophecies of the Stranger and the Seven Visions speak of this."
She parts her hands and begins to recite:
"When earth is sundered, and skies choked black,
And sleepers serve the seven curses,
To the hearth there comes a stranger
Journeyed for 'neath moon and star.
Though stark-born to sire uncertain
His aspect marks his certain fate.
Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him.
Prophets speak, but all deny.
"Many trials make manifest
The stranger's fate, the curses' bane.
Many touchstones try the stranger.
Many fall, but one remains.
"What does this prophecy mean? It tells us who the Nerevarine will be, and the trials he must undergo before he fulfills his destiny. If this is what you would be, it is what you are tasked with."
Now she produces a scroll of Daedric lettering, kept within the folds of her simple robe.
"I know you foreigners love to read more than you do to listen. Therefore take this written copy of those prophecies we have remembered. Read these words. Think on them. And when you have found the lost prophecies, return to me."
Garyn accepts the scroll. In his hands it feels quite heavy indeed.