Diary of Anaster Marrowmir

[Ibsen's Ghost]

I thought I'd transfer this here from ST since it's very likely to be used. The diary itself may be split up into parts in order to gradually reveal Anaster's character but here's the full thing:

Diary of Anaster Marrowmir

Sundas - Frostfall

It sickens me to my bones! What exactly were Cyrus’ ‘legendary deeds’ designed to achieve if not the total liberation of all Redguards? Oppression of our people is one thing but to offer so much at once only for the dream to turn sour by the hand of the very man that granted us that power is too much for any self-respecting Redguard to take. It is a poisoned chalice of the deadliest kind, borne as it was by one whom we might call our hero, our King, perhaps even our Messiah!
Recent events have forced me to make this diary else all is lost. For years, our Redguards have traveled to Cyrodiil to make their fortune. We were grateful at first for the open trade links. I, too, have benefited from it as an experienced seaman and I do not lack appreciation for what our links with Anvil have brought us. Yet we always suspected that our Redguard ‘Imperial Brothers’ disliked magic once they had set foot on true Imperial soil. They always favoured the blade of Cyrus the Great by virtue of historical tradition. The Imperials were then only too willing to accept them since they have always prided themselves on their traditions within the Mages Guild. No one could say for certain if it were they, our so-called ‘brothers’ who began the rumours that the Redguards had no great magicians or whether, under the command of Cyrus, they simply hid their gifts in order to gain favours and land in Cyrodiil.
Now the Cyrodiil Redguards call themselves ‘nobles’ whilst spurning our glorious past that flared like the sun but died within moments. Meanwhile, I remain here at Stros M’kai with the old folk and their tales. Perhaps I am the only one that listens to them and truly understands.
It’s been almost 67 years since the Redguard rebellion and the only ones able to remember it are rapidly dying out. And those that practice the ancient arts are doing so even quicker. Agents of both Hammerfell and Cyrodiil now outlaw some practices within their lands or refuse admission to those that do.
My own grandfather died just three years ago and already it seems like a lifetime. He had such stories to tell and knew so much of our heritage that had to be passed on. In hindsight, it was amazing that he lasted as long as he did when he was such an outspoken critic of ‘Cyrus-the-Once-Great’. He was particularly convinced that Cyrus and others had set out a strategy for stamping out our ancient arts.
I did not believe in it myself at the time but the more I know and experience of Tamriel’s many harbours, the more believable this idea sounds to me. It struck me only last month when I was forbidden from practicing Huumyeh illusions that the request was totally unnecessary and harshly enforced. This is the last straw! Huumyeh has been in my family for generations and is often used during celebrations. What would the festival of Grimmaneh be like without it? How would we honour our ancestors? It would seem that the legacy of Cyrus is slowly cutting away at the very core of our culture.

Turdas – Sun’s Dusk

Cyrus and his crones leave me with no choice. For all my disgust of the Cyrodiil Redguards, our trades there are where the real money is and I can’t afford to drop fortunes into the laps of those who would take the earth from beneath our feet. It is essential that I remain at the Vanguard of the trade routes to help repel any accusations of necromancy. Yet Jalorek, our supervisor, grows ever more suspicious of the new income made by the loyalists. Our auxiliary fleet have up until now, remained un-inspected by Anvil officials. My friends have remained alone on-deck when meeting to sort out the paperwork so as to avoid any embarrassing encounters, but I got a tip-off today that the Harbour-masters have been ordered to be more thorough in their investigations below deck.
Today, Velorat proved his worth but his joke was a little close to the bone, if you’ll pardon the pun, when he explained that he was ashamed to open up the galleys because good seamen were hard to find and that we had been reduced to a ‘skeleton crew’. I tried hard not to smile at this risky jest. At least the part about the seamen was the full, unvarnished truth, though. Good Redguard seamen are rare these days. Our little island corners the market.
Fortunately for him, Velorat redeemed himself at ‘The Fo’c’sle’ whilst speaking to a Khajit trader from Rihad in nearby Hammerfell. Apparently, this Khajit is willing to grant us a little discretion if we move our trade to Rihad. He will then be able to offer us access to Cyrodiil via the channels of the River Brena that divides the two countries and then lead us into the extreme North-West of the Gold Coast. It will clearly be going against our agreement with Jalorek as it amounts to smuggling but it should boost the economy of the homeland.

Middas – Sun’s Dusk

This is proving a harder task than I had imagined. I was forced to return to N’Gasta this morning to discuss further plans for recruitment. This would not have been necessary if Cyrus’ first dealings with Anvil hadn’t been so disastrous.
Agra’eetcha, the resident Necromancer, immediately noted my mood upon arrival. I must confess, I have a tendency to brood on matters that concern me and he engaged me in conversation straight away, asking what bothered me so much.
Due to the activities of the Cyrodiilic Altmer known as Mannimarco, necromancers here are the most endangered and misunderstood of all our traditions so I felt that it would be safe to speak to him. Yet what he had to say had me stunned for hours!
“Anaster, your grandfather asked me not to tell you what I am about to say, at least not until the right time. He did this so that you could avoid any troubles that you could not handle but, rather like my own ancestors, whose fate was entwined with Cyrus’ reign, I see in you now an important destiny to fulfill.
For almost seven decades, the art of necromancy, even amongst Redguards, from whom the practice mainly originated, has been looked down upon. You know also that it once held a great place in the practices of our people, helping to establish ourselves in the world by our link with the dead ancestors of ancient history. Furthermore, you know that the tale of the evil old Necromancer of N’Gasta from Cyrus’ legend put an end to such a veneration of our arts when it was chronicled that he fought Cyrus. He was the source of many a story with which to frighten children and make sure that they did as they were told yet he was also the bearer of a tragic secret.
N’Gasta himself, as he was known, was driven mad by an illness I shall describe as the whispers of destiny. This is a common condition for all Necromancers, who are sensitive to the whispers of the dead, for the especially powerful are also vulnerable to the influence of Daedric Lords, who are more knowledgeable of the destinies of mortals and yet are also far less sympathetic.
N’Gasta was not a Redguard himself but was brought up in our tradition, in which he excelled. He alone knew the destiny of Cyrus, not just to liberate the Redguards, but also to vastly diminish our power. He alone had the foresight to see what you are now experiencing and, loving the Redguard as he did, it drove him insane, enough indeed to drive him into the arms of Clavicus Vile whom he came to worship. Before forgetting his own mind, Clavicus had offered N’Gasta a solution, yet the prospect of coming up against the people he loved in order to save them ate away at his soul.
One thing that your grandfather knew for sure was that, had N’Gasta actually succeeded, Tamriel as a whole would have suffered but, after the war that would then take place, the Redguard would have returned to populate the nearby cities of Hammerfell and Cyrodiil, where their culture would then have flourished and peace wuld have been far easier to find than it is these days. And yet only one of the Nine prayed for N’Gasta even with this great burden. Their will was with Cyrus…and, ultimately, against the Redguards!”
I realized that my mouth was dry as I spoke, “and who was this One who prayed for N’Gasta?”
“It is not known,” replied Agra’eetcha sorrowfully.

Loredas – Evening Star

My old friend sent me off again to sea today, my sadness giving way to a steely resolve combined with a simmering resentment for the Cyrodiil Redguard who remained so ignorant of such a tragedy. There is no doubt that N’Gasta was insane but to love the Redguard people so much as to make such rash and calamitous decisions spoke volumes of what we, as a race, now face today. These were the thoughts that preoccupied me as we set sail again for the Gold Coast.
It would seem that the denizens of Cyrodiil’s seas and oceans receive short shrift in the history books. Tamriel’s historians, particularly, obsess over the movement of armies and the sack of nations by factions, tribes and nations. Yet it is a narrow view, as we of Stros M’Kai are abundantly aware, being an isle of seafolk. And maybe this is where we might have the advantage over our arrogant Tamrielic cousins.
Velorat never uses the words ‘seas’ and ‘oceans’, you see, for it’s as if they speak merely of surfaces and distances across – how typical of the vain Imperial cartographers of Tamriel! I’m not even sure that Velorat is aware of what he is saying as his ancestry goes so far back that the origins of his own dialect are lost on him. Nevertheless, in this way, by habit as opposed to learning, he refers to the landmasses as ‘the uplands’ and the waters that encompass us as ‘the deep’. How right he is! For it is in the deep that meaning is found; I believe that I began to find my own at some point of this voyage.

…many pages are missing or have been too badly water-damaged to read…

Morndas – Last Seed

Disaster and revelation! Following our propitious sojourn to the Gold Coast, and the resultant decision to make the most of our wares that our other contacts in Cyrodiil had provided us with, we set sail for lands much, much further away. Our merchants knew full well the costs and prices of some Cyrodiilic cargo such as wines and furniture and how much profit they would make us elsewhere and some had promised to meet us again in Leyawiin after we had visited Valenwood and Elsweyr and then again in Morrowind after we had passed through the likes of Soulrest, Lilmoth and Thorn in the Black Marshes. Our final port of call was going to be Tear and then inland a short way to Mournhold where we would make our final rendezvous with the traveling merchants. But we never made Morrowind at all.
The plan had been to use the warehouse of a Redguard trader in Mournhold to store cargo that had been made cheaply in Soulrest. It’s what was left of the old slave trade. What we had were unsanctified copies of relics for the pleasure of nobles who remain forever ignorant as to their true origins and purpose. With these, we had filled up the empty spaces in the hold of our ship, The Baptist of Babooshka and were now lying heavy in the water on the last league of the voyage. Moreover, our crew had swelled after some of the merchants had unexpectedly joined us in Lilmoth, seeking refuge from the law. These guys were big! Velorat had made some quip about how it was the extra flesh that weighed us down and that maybe our merchants should be on the same diet that the galley crew were on. I cuffed him for being flippant and disrespectful, which was appreciated by the portly merchants.
We’d given the port of Thorn a wide berth where the Imperial Legion vessels were always massing on the coast and often using these channels on their so-called ‘peace-keeping’ missions between Argonians and Dunmer. By the time we were clear, with neither land nor foreign vessels in sight, a storm had gathered. Barramah, one of our long-standing merchants and my personal friend, had alerted me to the dangers beforehand but I was too eager not to betray our mission to the Imperials. Secrecy was paramount, even considering any dangers to the trade movement’s flagship.
It was a decision that I later came to regret as the storm took hold with an almost supernatural alacrity. The watchers noticed the additional force of a backdraft. Velorat has misjudged the tides! These errors compounded, we were pushed ever further outward where even the sorcerous powers that passed for muscles on our skeletal crew was of no avail. The rain began to lash down, making for a skirl of water that made us feel like we were being churned in some vast naval mill. And the winds, as they often do in such cases, drove around in wild, unpredictable eddies. Onboard, everything that had not been firmly lashed down had soon been tossed overboard, although with a few unlucky seamen caught in the object’s path. No one so much as bothered to cry ‘man overboard’ amongst the deafening roar of the storm.
The sails whipped ferociously as we struggled to bring them down and tie them up. To my disgust, the merchants shied away, leaving the sails and instead clinging to the nearest mast with their podgy hands. I saw them whimpering to themselves. Barramah himself had somehow got his foot entangled in one of the ropes and was being battered around the rolling deck like some podgy pinball. I watched as our chef tried to save him before being bowled over himself by the flailing, hapless merchant as we hit the wall of a wave side-on. I didn’t see him after that.
Water seemed to fill up my vision like a shaken snow-globe. I had no idea what my right hand was grasping at this point, save that it was wooden and threatening to snap under my grip. When the last of what seemed like a long succession of waves passed, I made a desperate reach with my other hand and connected with something. It was the rails of the walkway leading up to the quarterdeck. This relieved my arm and my mind began to race, catching up with my pounding heart. I envisioned a number of possibilities but I concluded shortly that our only hope was to ride it out.
It was in that brief respite that I began to become aware of an intermittent crack and thud that sounded dissimilar to the moans of the ship. I cast a glance portside over my aching shoulder and witnessed what had become of Barramah. He was still sliding back and forth over the deck but this time he did so like a broken marionette attached to a single puppet-string. His head hung limp, crooked back and to the side at an angle that made me wince. There was no blood; the sea had washed him clean but, when he rolled, his limbs looked like sticks attached haphazardly to his corpulent frame. And as I watched, he crunched against the base of the main-mast again, forcing a bone yet further out of his flesh.
For some reason, the vision of that bone stuck in my mind until much later when my trial was coming to an end. This was signaled by an almighty crash that appeared to echo around in all directions as wood seemed to splinter along many different lines and in many different directions. My senses would later replay the sound in my head, giving it an altogether different sound of splintering bone and a cry in unison from a hundred human throats. Soon after this, I must have either slept or blacked out for a time because all I can recall is some hazy dream of feeling as if I had merged with the ship, that my arms had somehow grown to wrap around the whole deck and that I was no more able to distinguish where my arms ended and the ship began.
But this reverie was broken when I was suddenly dumped into the sea where, for a time, a curious sequence of apathetic and ecstatic sensations overcame me – a state of blissful abandon! I felt like some kind of water baby – a feeling that was heightened by the procession of visions that soon came to greet and entertain me whilst the hull of my ship gradually drifted away from above me like a forgotten concern.
The first of these was a crewman from the galley. He must have somehow been ejected from the splintered hull of the ship. His deathless grin seemed friendly and benign as his arms continued to pump in a slow, rhythmic, rowing motion before spinning off like an unhinged carousel, blithe and oblivious.
The second, as luck would have it, was of Velorat’s mwabe – the ceremonial necklace that he often had tucked into his jerkin. He would often use this as a display model of the sort of tat that we had learned to peddle in the ports of Cyrodiil and Morrowind. Velorat himself had been a trainer in Mercantile for our own merchants and he would often use this as his tool. But it had a secondary purpose to which only some were privy, that of calling upon elemental and environmental forces to come to bear on human affairs. Some were lost gods, others mere forces. All of them, by deign of Velorat’s impressive ancestry and grasp of tribal wisdom, were effective to some degree. When teaching the merchants, Velorat would make them aware of this fact by making constant references to the true power of a real mwabe that mocked Tamriel’s indifference to the true culture of Stros M’Kai. This way his talk would serve two purposes: to teach his art and to remind the merchants of their ancestral responsibilities and pride, thus ensuring they did not go into business for themselves. This necklace now plunged slowly downwards. With a ghostlike will, I reached out and caught its trailing neckband, turning the object over in my hands to examine the subtly shifting colours of its cluster of three central gems.
My third and final vision came after a degree of strength had returned to my limbs, as if to signal that this ‘show’ were now coming to an end. I felt a ripple in the waters that must have derived from some major event on the surface of the water. My unthinking response was to push towards, which I did with remarkable ease, still apparently not feeling any adverse effects from the lack of oxygen. A loud, low rumble came from above, as if the sound had taken some time to travel. This appeared to set off some drumming, which I was unsure as to whether it had come from outside of me somewhere in the deep or was the result of the blood pounding in my ears. Nonetheless, it beat with a strident, demanding rhythm and objects began to fall from above.
I pushed upwards as my survival instincts began to take over and bore witness to an horrific vision. As I ascended, the crewmen came down from above in a rain of bones. First came the galley slaves, drifting out of the hold as wholes and in pieces. Arrangements of skulls, femurs, feet and ribs sailed down around me on every side until it felt like I was pushing through my own ancestors to be reborn above.
Then came my own crewmen in varying states of morbid disarray, some with their faces seemingly already bloated from an intake of seawater, others with hollow eyes that reflected the oceans around me. To each one, I could have given a name. Occasionally, one or two twitched in its death throes, their expressions already glazing over as if seeking the muggy silence of death. All of this made it doubly shocking when I noted a certain commonality to each one’s expression, for there was a touch of guilt or shame in each and every visage that passed me by. Had the old gods spoken to them? Chastised them? Had we not done enough for Stros M’Kai? Had we failed to punish the hero-traitor, Cyrus, in our midst? As these thoughts propelled themselves through my mind in a spiral of dread, I noticed pieces of jetsam floating just above me and realized I was close to the surface.
Urgency charged my limbs with power and I finally felt the panic slowly rising. A piece from the bow of the ship sank down before me where I read the legend that adorned its side as if for the first time – The Baptist of Babooshka. It was then that I arrived at my revelation. I had been chosen by that amalgam of power that together comprised what was left of the old Arfax tribe thoughts and teachings. And through this series of visions, that collectively to my mind formed separate, distinct chapters, I had indeed been reborn. It was a baptism that, recalling the legend of Babooshka, now set a path before me.
Babooshka had been buried alive. The exact circumstances of which involved a quite convoluted tale of, yet again, resistance to outside forces. To be succinct, she too had been greeted by visions and tremendous strength had somehow empowered her so that she was able to claw herself to the surface, where it was said that her mother had been the earth itself.
She had then become a Baptist for the old Redguard gods and quite a heroine in her own time, although often misinterpreted by Imperials as being an embodiment of the most foul necromancy. It could not have been a coincidence that our vessel, amongst so many historical figures of the nations that had traversed through Stros M’Kai, had been named by this one icon of the Arfax tribe.
Other Baptists had been born of fire and of the air but I had been given my teachings by the sea. My first vision: the knowledge that the dead were my constant companion and allies just as this dead culture was carried within me. The second vision: that through cunning I would know wealth and through my teachings, power and influence. The third vision: that I bore upon my shoulders the lost history of my people and the burden of vengeance against my traitorous brothers.
I do not know how I made my way to the shores of Morrowind. I can only recall being bemused at how it was my own chest from the cabin had floated towards me as my salvation. Since then, I have salvaged this diary from the wreckage, such as it is, with so many of its pages in the mid-section damaged beyond legibility.

Loredas – Last Seed

I spent the last few days holed up in an empty cave and scavenging along what appears to be Azura’s Coast. Amongst the seafood on offer are a few mudcrabs that have provided a tasty accompaniment to saltrice. I’ve steered clear of any swampland near the Black Marsh border especially that stinking mucksponge that appears to grow in abundance around here.
As I gather strength, my resolve hardens and my recent trials only seem to have filled me with a new life and sense of purpose. I often stop to stare out at sea, looking for remnants of my washed-up ship and its crew. So far only a few bits and pieces have appeared; I must have got lucky with the tides.
It is only later that I feel that something is scratching away at the corners of my senses – some kind of irritation that I cannot locate by any single faculty although it is probably best described as a sound.
After a time, I decided to move further inland towards civilization and came across a place called Kithendis Falls where I found the Dunmer surprisingly hospitable. As I still had my chest from the ship I was able to flog a few pointless knick-knacks and, as they seemed quite eager to please, I got a great price for them.
But now that scratching is back again and I’m itching to get back to the coast. Maybe it’s an instinct to go back and seek for other survivors. The Dunmer don’t seem to care much about my story and seem to get easily bored. I decided to move on back to Tear where I suspected any merchants I might know would be residing.

Morndas – Last Seed

I’m not too quick on my legs at the moment and had to take a detour to the coast when this scratching feeling heightened and became irritating. Maybe it was the sea air but once I was there, the irritation subsided. I was carrying all that I owned in a sack I’d bought in Kithendis Falls and still had the mwabe hanging around my neck. When I looked down at it I remembered how Velorat used to dress it up when calling upon his ancestors and this was what I sought, on impulse, to do now.
Driftwood, pieces of cloth and a few beads from the old chest were gathered together on the sands and arrayed in front of me. I began to strip bark from the rubbery trees to make string and used it to create a crude cruciform construction. By the time I had finished it was late into the afternoon so I left it there, resolving to return on my way back from Tear.

Middas - Hearthfire

A few merchants do indeed remain, although they are not well known to me. I have spoken with them about the fate of the Baptist of Babooshka and, rather than pledging their support to my plans, seemed indifferent. It would appear that our culture no longer matters, riches are far greater in Cryodiil and its provinces and even Mannimarco’s cultists are far superior to our own. I didn’t even bother to argue, just felt disgust plunging into my heart from deep within me. I ended up not staying long. The only diversion appeared to be an Argonian lady who was performing a puppetry act at the local tavern.
Her name was Froch-Ma but she was also known as ‘Pulls-the-Strings’ and we discussed the Empire and what had changed since King Helseth had abolished the slave trade. I must say, I found her curiously alluring and hope to see her again. At one point, as I stood up to order another round, I felt the scratching inside my head sharpen and give me pains. “What bothers you?” she asked. I told her and she nodded wisely, her dark, ebon eyes glazing over in deep thought. “I’m okay,” I said, “it’s nothing. I’ll get the Krushka in.” Then she winked suddenly, giving me a dazzling smile in that meek but firm manner that Argonian women have. When I returned, she grasped my arm with a grip that surprised me and told me where she would be residing for the next week if I needed to speak with her again. Then she switched topics so fast that I couldn’t pursue any enquiries. I slept that night, in the fug of Krushka, but with the beetles of the Black Marsh calling to me with their midnight song, so close to the Argonian homeland.

Turdas - Hearthfire

I stood on the cliffs facing west, the wind buffeting through my new clothes. I tried to make out who the figures were that were congregating below me on the beach, making sounds that were almost like cattle and almost like whalesong. The scratching in my head had just started again with greater intensity, seeming to take on a more definite form this time as if it were speaking words or music.
Skirting the edge of the bluff, I came upon a series of steps down to the sea and made my way closer. I was thinking of leaving immediately. It was stupid to go and meet such curious creatures as these just so that I could retrieve the charm but I surprised myself with how my thoughts swung about on the subject. How dare I abandon this symbol of my struggle? This amulet of power? I had no right to refuse what was clearly my calling when I had been chosen to be a Baptist by the old Gods. Had I forgotten what had transpired in the seas? Did I regard it as a dream?
As I edged further forward, I had the same dream-like shock that had accompanied my earlier experience, together with the same sense of calm elation and dormant strength. I strode towards the figures, suddenly angry at them for obviously trying to steal my amulet that I had created with my own hands. Although I had no sword, my dagger was half out of its sheath when I cast a glance aside and did a double-take before stopping squarely in my tracks.
Out to where the waves lapped the shore, I saw a man standing steady as a rock with all but his head and shoulders submerged. It regarded me with absolute equanimity, as if waiting patiently. It had the skin of a Redguard. And there was something familiar to it. My eyes strained to make it out whereupon the scratching felt like it scraped the inside of my skull with some dull implement. When the pain subsided, I realized that words were left inside my mind, as if inscribed there. “We will be known.”
Soon dispensing with all thoughts and queries as to how I could be spoken to without voices, it occurred to me that this was the voice of the figure. As my gaze drifted back towards the beach, I saw the others approaching. Everything had gone silent. Not even seabirds or waves disturbed the calm, as if everything had been erased to make way for this message.
The others were mainly Redguards too. I turned back to the figure in the sea which had begun moving, lurching slowly forward with long, languorous strides. It picked away at itself, strewn with kelp and debris of the oceans, stripping off just enough to make its stride a little easier. As it approached, I noticed that not all of the debris was marine. Rather, long strips of skin had been shaved off in some underwater conflict. A few bites from aquatic creatures had taken chunks out of it.
It stood before me at ten paces as its brothers grouped up behind into a loose formation. Then I could recognize the remains of its clothes. Could it really be Velorat? “Command me,” came the scraping voice which I knew now was surely the whispers of destiny, of which Agra’eetcha had spoken.

Loredas – Hearthfire

I could hide nothing from ‘Pulls-the-Strings’. As soon as I strode nonchalantly into Tear, she laughed with gentle mockery.
For a moment, I wondered if my entourage had somehow followed me in against my wishes and looked around me shiftily, thus prompting more mirth from my Argonian friend. She couldn’t possibly know. “What is it?” I asked, innocently.
“Nothing,” she replied, waving away my concerns with a callous-encrusted hand. “I’m just surprised you’re not more popular, a charming Redguard such as yourself.”
A long, low rumbling laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside me as ‘Pulls-the-Strings’ beckoned me into her meager home.
And this is where I think I will end my diary. The whispers of destiny would appear to demand it. I have no further need of it, and it wouldn’t do to reveal all of my experiences so that such knowledge might be exploited.

End of Diary

[Deeza]

Thanks. I shall archive the original one over in the Lit. forum. I'd been meaning to give you some feedback on this for a while now, but got distracted by the larger body of stuff over at ST.