Faltasey
Temporal Aurielian Guard
Sands of Fears
“Hammerfell is an unforgiving land of viper-hands and convoluted royalty. The sands of the Alik’r have everything to do with driving my people mad, and even moreso to do with the Satakals. Yokuda used to be our home, home of the Redguards, but even the deserts there were not nearly as unforgiving as the Alik’r. The northeast, controlled by the Crowns, and the southwest, controlled by the Forebears, weaved our fate into the same as the Bretons north of us. We squamble, we perish in the sands of the desert, and we vomit deceit and corruption all while fighting the Aldmeri Dominion in the south. King Lhotun is trying to bring us together, preserving traditions and involving the future, all while trying to fight those elves that try to take our home, who try to invade like they did Elsweyr. Lhotunic is a new sign of faith, and we are amongst the first house to combine those traditions and progressions. Not only are we hated by the Crowns and the Forebears, but I am not of true Ra Gada blood.
I am Carmara; a princess of House Tun’e, and I am a bastard child. My mother shares the core of my blood, and my biological father is a noble in the Aldmeri Dominion. I am a so called “half-breed monster,” hidden from those who would remove me from Mundus just for being different, and taught by those who wanted to show them I wasn’t. In my childhood dungeon, my stepfather, who I refer to as father, would call upon a warrior of the new Ansei, or “Sword-Singers” as they are known in the common tongue. These Yokudan values and skills birthed my prowess not only as a warrior, but as a strong woman. Eventually, I had to leave that dungeon and live in a new one. The sands of the Alik’r hid many things, and even as it hid the Dwemer ruins underneath the grains of sand and chunks of hot rock, they also hid everything frowned upon. Necromancy and illusionary magic hide in abandoned tombs and crypts beneath most nomadic tribes. Even the Satakals are not brave enough to transverse the interiors of those deadly landscapes, and so I found a noble house of redguard vampires to help hide me from the rest of my society. My father told me it was for the best, because he was under investigation for strange behavior by King Lhotun himself. I took it with a grain of moon sugar, and began training with them. At this stage of my life, I was almost a woman. A part of Mundus for fifteen years, with the anger of my past catching up to my love for my mother. My elven blood gave me the resilience and ability to handle powerful magic taught to me by these vampires, and it allowed me to even join them out of resentment of my existence. I hope the singing of my ancestors will forgive me so.
I resent my elven blood, my High Elf blood. Not because I resent the Altmer, but because I resent the man who made me. These twenty or so years of tears, heat, and struggle branded my heart into a true warrior that the ancient Yokuda should be proud of. Alas, you would expect my fellow man to respect my abilities, and although they do, my “knife-ears” and unusual height thrusts them into distrust. Albeit my skin is as dark as theirs, they believe I am impure. Unsure of magic, they also do not trust, in that “My soul was devoured by the image of the Altmer mage.” And to the High Elves, even if they believe in race superiority, having their blood puts me below even normal Redguards. Even those not of my kin look upon me with pity and sadness in their eyes. I am alone, and it’s all because of him. His name is Palomerin Estutiusponeri.
At this very moment, my quill swirls these words into history. Know this: my mother was raped by the man whom shares my blood, and he also resides in Hammerfell. Im sitting at the Inn in Chasetown, masquerading as a member of the Imperial Army. At nightfall, I promise to rid the world of the evil who created me, and set peace to this plane of mortals once and for all. Something to be proud of; a restitution of sins committed in the past hundred lifetimes. I aim to gather strength from Morwha, the fertility goddess, to aid me in my decision. I pray that my mother, in her grave, may take solace in knowing the man that desecrated her honor will lie amongst the rest of those who are loyal to the ideals of lesser men.
Honor is a complicated mess of beliefs and ethics. Even I feel a hypocrite every Fredas, every Morning Star, every time those two moons dance in the night and fall below the horizon. Vampirism is never quite seen as honorable, no matter how much I tried to change myself, you cannot escape the views of mankind. I yearn for identity, but these eyes and fangs don’t feel real. They’re just a means to an end. Nirn must see that Mundus cannot restrain my anger. Not even Satakal himself.”
Carmara closes her journal and breathes a deep breath. She gazes out of the inn window, staring at the sunset falling over the city of Sentinel, with its domed towers and ornate sparkles. Sentinel is the capitol of Hammerfell, and home to the Forebear ideals of progression. Imperial influence is rampant, and the port city is the busiest of the Iliac Bay. The bustling chaos is perfect to cover a small event like the death of Altmer soldiers. She gathers her scimitar, hiding it in her backpack, and prays to Morwha one last time before tracking past the innkeeper towards the door. Her hooded silhouette straying away from the eyes of the drunkards at the bar.
The sounds of night flow through the sand beneath her feet, the stars above Nirn glisten like silent eyes. She imagines each star is an eye of an ancestor, that even though they look down upon her, they still believe she can make them proud. They expect her to relinquish her half-breed ideals and live as a Ra Gada once did. But little do they know, the past must forget the future, because the present has yet to make its way.
The guards at the front gate of Sentinel check her person, and her forged identification as a soldier of the Imperial Army, and let her pass. Security seems heightened only for the fear of Crown and Forebear interference. Which means Carmara has a perfect path to her goal. The Cyrodilic Imperial Army may be made up of mostly Imperials from Cyrodiil, but they do occasionally allow outsiders to fight in their ranks. It’s not uncommon to see women or redguards in the imperial army, as they are fairly good at recruiting all walks of life.
Carmara takes the back alleys and rooftop-paths of Sentinels criminal district before entering the noble district. You’d think the criminals of Sentinel would think that as odd, but people who smuggle and deal in Skooma probably aren’t the most reliable snitches, and so the roaming guards usually ignore them, though most don’t have the audacity to approach the very people they try to avoid.
Just before the main part of the noble district, the Aldmeri Dominion has setup a temporary bar meant for their soldiers and nobles stationed at the city of Sentinel. From the caravan Carmara sacked a few days ago in the Alik’r desert, this should be where Palomerin resides. The guards outside seemed to be party goers, as they lay wasted in their wooden chairs. So much for “guarding,” whatever that meant to them. Before Carmara enters, she takes her scimitar out of her back, and preps her inner magicka for a night of bloodshed.
She enters the bar, and all the Altmer stare at her in disbelief. Sitting at the bar was Palomerin, and he too stares in disbelief. However, he does not know Carmara, as he has never seen her. Palomerin is the first of the Altmer to speak;
“I think you’re in the wrong place, wench.” he smirks as the rest of the soldiers in the tavern laugh. “You should know your place, woman. The Aldmeri Dominion does not align themselves with the Empire, let alone a Redguard. Your race, as well as the other man, were meant to be dominated. Hence, the ‘Dominion’ in the name.” he says, with a condescending tone that could take down mountains. The rest of the crew nod and agree, cheering to the snotty-kind Carmara has just witnessed.
She stares at them in silence for a good minute or two, and she finally speaks, staring directly at Palomerin.
“I think you should know, before your end. You raped my mother, and impregnated her with a bastard child. That bastard child turned out to be me. And now, you must pay the price.” she says sternly, giving them a few seconds to ruminate on what she just said.
The other Altmer in the room stare at Palomerin, and he stares back at Carmara, quickly turning from condescending happiness to concern, before he can do anything however, an ice spike pierces his throat. He holds his throat as it starts to bleed profusely, and he chokes on his last gurgles of bloody words before collapsing on the tavern ground. The other Aldmeri Dominion soldiers are genuinely shocked, never quite expecting someone to do this to any of them, let alone on what they considered their own turf. After their shock wore off, they try and get up to attack Carmara, but she puts up a ward to block their spells, and slowly approaches each one to slaughter them with her sword. Before she could blink again, there lie on the ground nothing but dead Altmer, blood, and loose weapons. The room is now empty, and Carmara is covered in sin.
She locks the tavern door, and slowly walks over to Palomerins now lifeless corpse to check his person. His pitiful face still covered in agony. She shuffles through his pockets, and stumbles upon what appears to be his personal journal. She takes his chair and scoots it closer to the bar, opening the journal to the latest entry. The candlelight barely enough to read the first words she sees:
“I hate this life. A life of lies, a life of man’s worst actions. I hate the Aldmeri Dominion, and I hate myself even more.”
Her eyes turn curious, she looks at the date, written today. She flips the pages back to where they begin to look old and worn. Some of the older pages are even barely attached to the journals leather back, the spine looks fragile. These notes go back decades, if not his entire life. And they live long lives.
His earliest notable entry reads:
“My dear love, I am most sorrowful today. I hate that we had to arrange that I must be the villain towards you, my love. But both you and I, we cannot live a lovers life. The world must not know our story, for your kind as well as mine, would both banish us or even send after our deaths. I hope our daughter will grow up strong, and in her beliefs I hope she chooses peace and harmony. I know she will struggle, because of her identity, but she will be strong. You and I, Elves and Man, we are all equal, and I am sorry that today, nor any day, will be the day where we may live as equals. I am sorry, Sajhadi, for I have failed you. I hope you forgive me, and I hope our daughter learns to do the same in time.”
Carmaras eyes fill with sorrow, and tears flood the dry pages below.
“Hammerfell is an unforgiving land of viper-hands and convoluted royalty. The sands of the Alik’r have everything to do with driving my people mad, and even moreso to do with the Satakals. Yokuda used to be our home, home of the Redguards, but even the deserts there were not nearly as unforgiving as the Alik’r. The northeast, controlled by the Crowns, and the southwest, controlled by the Forebears, weaved our fate into the same as the Bretons north of us. We squamble, we perish in the sands of the desert, and we vomit deceit and corruption all while fighting the Aldmeri Dominion in the south. King Lhotun is trying to bring us together, preserving traditions and involving the future, all while trying to fight those elves that try to take our home, who try to invade like they did Elsweyr. Lhotunic is a new sign of faith, and we are amongst the first house to combine those traditions and progressions. Not only are we hated by the Crowns and the Forebears, but I am not of true Ra Gada blood.
I am Carmara; a princess of House Tun’e, and I am a bastard child. My mother shares the core of my blood, and my biological father is a noble in the Aldmeri Dominion. I am a so called “half-breed monster,” hidden from those who would remove me from Mundus just for being different, and taught by those who wanted to show them I wasn’t. In my childhood dungeon, my stepfather, who I refer to as father, would call upon a warrior of the new Ansei, or “Sword-Singers” as they are known in the common tongue. These Yokudan values and skills birthed my prowess not only as a warrior, but as a strong woman. Eventually, I had to leave that dungeon and live in a new one. The sands of the Alik’r hid many things, and even as it hid the Dwemer ruins underneath the grains of sand and chunks of hot rock, they also hid everything frowned upon. Necromancy and illusionary magic hide in abandoned tombs and crypts beneath most nomadic tribes. Even the Satakals are not brave enough to transverse the interiors of those deadly landscapes, and so I found a noble house of redguard vampires to help hide me from the rest of my society. My father told me it was for the best, because he was under investigation for strange behavior by King Lhotun himself. I took it with a grain of moon sugar, and began training with them. At this stage of my life, I was almost a woman. A part of Mundus for fifteen years, with the anger of my past catching up to my love for my mother. My elven blood gave me the resilience and ability to handle powerful magic taught to me by these vampires, and it allowed me to even join them out of resentment of my existence. I hope the singing of my ancestors will forgive me so.
I resent my elven blood, my High Elf blood. Not because I resent the Altmer, but because I resent the man who made me. These twenty or so years of tears, heat, and struggle branded my heart into a true warrior that the ancient Yokuda should be proud of. Alas, you would expect my fellow man to respect my abilities, and although they do, my “knife-ears” and unusual height thrusts them into distrust. Albeit my skin is as dark as theirs, they believe I am impure. Unsure of magic, they also do not trust, in that “My soul was devoured by the image of the Altmer mage.” And to the High Elves, even if they believe in race superiority, having their blood puts me below even normal Redguards. Even those not of my kin look upon me with pity and sadness in their eyes. I am alone, and it’s all because of him. His name is Palomerin Estutiusponeri.
At this very moment, my quill swirls these words into history. Know this: my mother was raped by the man whom shares my blood, and he also resides in Hammerfell. Im sitting at the Inn in Chasetown, masquerading as a member of the Imperial Army. At nightfall, I promise to rid the world of the evil who created me, and set peace to this plane of mortals once and for all. Something to be proud of; a restitution of sins committed in the past hundred lifetimes. I aim to gather strength from Morwha, the fertility goddess, to aid me in my decision. I pray that my mother, in her grave, may take solace in knowing the man that desecrated her honor will lie amongst the rest of those who are loyal to the ideals of lesser men.
Honor is a complicated mess of beliefs and ethics. Even I feel a hypocrite every Fredas, every Morning Star, every time those two moons dance in the night and fall below the horizon. Vampirism is never quite seen as honorable, no matter how much I tried to change myself, you cannot escape the views of mankind. I yearn for identity, but these eyes and fangs don’t feel real. They’re just a means to an end. Nirn must see that Mundus cannot restrain my anger. Not even Satakal himself.”
Carmara closes her journal and breathes a deep breath. She gazes out of the inn window, staring at the sunset falling over the city of Sentinel, with its domed towers and ornate sparkles. Sentinel is the capitol of Hammerfell, and home to the Forebear ideals of progression. Imperial influence is rampant, and the port city is the busiest of the Iliac Bay. The bustling chaos is perfect to cover a small event like the death of Altmer soldiers. She gathers her scimitar, hiding it in her backpack, and prays to Morwha one last time before tracking past the innkeeper towards the door. Her hooded silhouette straying away from the eyes of the drunkards at the bar.
The sounds of night flow through the sand beneath her feet, the stars above Nirn glisten like silent eyes. She imagines each star is an eye of an ancestor, that even though they look down upon her, they still believe she can make them proud. They expect her to relinquish her half-breed ideals and live as a Ra Gada once did. But little do they know, the past must forget the future, because the present has yet to make its way.
The guards at the front gate of Sentinel check her person, and her forged identification as a soldier of the Imperial Army, and let her pass. Security seems heightened only for the fear of Crown and Forebear interference. Which means Carmara has a perfect path to her goal. The Cyrodilic Imperial Army may be made up of mostly Imperials from Cyrodiil, but they do occasionally allow outsiders to fight in their ranks. It’s not uncommon to see women or redguards in the imperial army, as they are fairly good at recruiting all walks of life.
Carmara takes the back alleys and rooftop-paths of Sentinels criminal district before entering the noble district. You’d think the criminals of Sentinel would think that as odd, but people who smuggle and deal in Skooma probably aren’t the most reliable snitches, and so the roaming guards usually ignore them, though most don’t have the audacity to approach the very people they try to avoid.
Just before the main part of the noble district, the Aldmeri Dominion has setup a temporary bar meant for their soldiers and nobles stationed at the city of Sentinel. From the caravan Carmara sacked a few days ago in the Alik’r desert, this should be where Palomerin resides. The guards outside seemed to be party goers, as they lay wasted in their wooden chairs. So much for “guarding,” whatever that meant to them. Before Carmara enters, she takes her scimitar out of her back, and preps her inner magicka for a night of bloodshed.
She enters the bar, and all the Altmer stare at her in disbelief. Sitting at the bar was Palomerin, and he too stares in disbelief. However, he does not know Carmara, as he has never seen her. Palomerin is the first of the Altmer to speak;
“I think you’re in the wrong place, wench.” he smirks as the rest of the soldiers in the tavern laugh. “You should know your place, woman. The Aldmeri Dominion does not align themselves with the Empire, let alone a Redguard. Your race, as well as the other man, were meant to be dominated. Hence, the ‘Dominion’ in the name.” he says, with a condescending tone that could take down mountains. The rest of the crew nod and agree, cheering to the snotty-kind Carmara has just witnessed.
She stares at them in silence for a good minute or two, and she finally speaks, staring directly at Palomerin.
“I think you should know, before your end. You raped my mother, and impregnated her with a bastard child. That bastard child turned out to be me. And now, you must pay the price.” she says sternly, giving them a few seconds to ruminate on what she just said.
The other Altmer in the room stare at Palomerin, and he stares back at Carmara, quickly turning from condescending happiness to concern, before he can do anything however, an ice spike pierces his throat. He holds his throat as it starts to bleed profusely, and he chokes on his last gurgles of bloody words before collapsing on the tavern ground. The other Aldmeri Dominion soldiers are genuinely shocked, never quite expecting someone to do this to any of them, let alone on what they considered their own turf. After their shock wore off, they try and get up to attack Carmara, but she puts up a ward to block their spells, and slowly approaches each one to slaughter them with her sword. Before she could blink again, there lie on the ground nothing but dead Altmer, blood, and loose weapons. The room is now empty, and Carmara is covered in sin.
She locks the tavern door, and slowly walks over to Palomerins now lifeless corpse to check his person. His pitiful face still covered in agony. She shuffles through his pockets, and stumbles upon what appears to be his personal journal. She takes his chair and scoots it closer to the bar, opening the journal to the latest entry. The candlelight barely enough to read the first words she sees:
“I hate this life. A life of lies, a life of man’s worst actions. I hate the Aldmeri Dominion, and I hate myself even more.”
Her eyes turn curious, she looks at the date, written today. She flips the pages back to where they begin to look old and worn. Some of the older pages are even barely attached to the journals leather back, the spine looks fragile. These notes go back decades, if not his entire life. And they live long lives.
His earliest notable entry reads:
“My dear love, I am most sorrowful today. I hate that we had to arrange that I must be the villain towards you, my love. But both you and I, we cannot live a lovers life. The world must not know our story, for your kind as well as mine, would both banish us or even send after our deaths. I hope our daughter will grow up strong, and in her beliefs I hope she chooses peace and harmony. I know she will struggle, because of her identity, but she will be strong. You and I, Elves and Man, we are all equal, and I am sorry that today, nor any day, will be the day where we may live as equals. I am sorry, Sajhadi, for I have failed you. I hope you forgive me, and I hope our daughter learns to do the same in time.”
Carmaras eyes fill with sorrow, and tears flood the dry pages below.
