User blog:CynicalEarth/The Black Sheep

This is a short fanfic about a Dremora who was conjured, accidently killed his summoner and is now bound to Nirn, where he must prove himself more than a ravenous beast in order to survive.

=Chapter One=

As the moon raised and lit the whole of Morrowind, Tidril Elvala retreated to a small clearing off the road and laid his bedroll on the ashen soil. Most of the southern part of the Dunmeri homeland was still covered in ashes and its favourite residents, the Ash Spawn. The abominations proved quite challenging to the Dark Elves' effort to rebuild their homeland. More still to the Argonians occupying the border, but the concentration of Ash Spawn in southern regions was still thin compared to Vvardenfell and surrounding areas. Tidril killed all he encountered, finding very little challenge in fighting such creatures. After all, his past summoners often conjured him to fight Vigilants of Stendarr in Skyrim, Legionnaires in Cyrodiil and pirates in the Abecean Sea. He even fought against Thalmor Justiciars in service of a former sorcerer member of the Blades.

In other words, the Dremora walked a good part of Tamriel before he found himseld bound to the mortal plane.

Tidril sat on his bedroll and examined his flame-enchanted Deadric greatsword. He laid it next to his bed and removed his armour. Upon looking at the full moon, the horned creature remembered how he managed to get in this position:

Not two weeks ago, a relatively young Dunmer wizard summoned him, claiming his master betrayed him and put a bounty on his head. The Dremora did not care to know the reasons behind his summoning, but followed the man nonetheless. The pair fought through a small group of Ash Spawn and entered a large cave. Inside, they disarmed numerous traps and cornered the target. Only, the apprentice and his master were father and son. To a Dremora's eyes, all Dunmer look the same. As a consequence, the dark-skinned demon sweeped his greatsword across a large arc and cut off both men's heads. The Dremora then sheated his sword and expected to return to his prince, Mehrunes Dagon, only he didn't. It took a few minutes, but he eventually realized that, in a way, his binding to Nirn 'freed' him from his service to Dagon. Under the effect of some curse for wich he had no name, the Dremora took his summoner's journal, bedroll and water. He returned to the ruined farmhold where the Dunmer summoned him, with the one thing he held closest to his heart: Tidril Elvala, his new name.

Tidril opened his namesake's journal and began reading the twelth page.

´´''I did it! I summoned a Dremora Lord! Well, more of a Scamp, but it still counts, right? Father will be so proud of me. I can't wait to see his face''.``

Why would anyone be impressed at the sight of a scamp? Dremora looked down upon these little creatures like pets or vermin. Why would a mortal aspire to summon such an annoyance?

Tidril knew only a few things about mortals. Fewer still did he understand. To him, all mortals looked, spoke and fought the same. He closed the book and lied down on his quiled bedroll. Why mortals required such things, Tidril did not know. It seemed important to his namesake, however, as he used it every night. Perhaps it would help him understand mortals better, he thought.

The sun rose and shined bright as the fires of the Deadlands. Tidril rolled up his bed and attached it to his back. After equipping his arms and amour, he traveled back to the road and encoutered three Dunmer in traditional garnments.

´´''Look, a Dremora! Kill it, father''!`` Yelled the youngest.

´´''I wish you no harm, mortal. Let me pass''.`` The Dremora responded.

The eldest of the Dunmer unsheated his shortsword and exclaimed: ´´Die, foul beast!``

Tidril wasted no time in blocking his opponent's blade with his left bracer, grabing him by the neck with his right hand and pulling out his adam's apple. The other two gasped in shock and began running, crying for help. The Dremora unsheated his greatsword and sliced the woman in half, striking at the waist. He sprinted towards the child and impaled her. Tidril then sheated his blade and looked at the corpses, wondering why people who worshipped his kin's princes would rush to fight one of their servants.

The Dremora let out an intrigued groan and continued on his way to Blacklight, where his deceased summoner claimed to hail from. What would he find there? Answers? Hostility? Awe? He did not know, but neither could he afford to choose otherwise. Traveling to the capital might be exactly what he needed to return home, or at least understand mortals and earn their trust.