A Story: Mantling in the Fourth Era, or, The Nirnroot Jug Band

On the Road to Windhelm

The campfire made crags of the Altmer’s face as he laid next to the fire. Touring through the north made his 500 years show in ways that temperate Cyrodiil had not. He smiled up at the Khajiit cub sitting next to him. “We’ll sleep now,” he said to her, “but let us make sure you have your questions straight.” His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and the fire wasn’t keeping him as warm as he would like. He took a slow pull of brandy. “First,” he continued, “if we are awoken by strangers, who are we?”

“No one special,” the Khajiit purred. “Traveling ironworkers.”

“Good,” said the Altmer. His lids were heavy.

Arrival in the City

“Whoa, Dagoth,” the Altmer said, tugging on the reins. “Good boy.” He directed the horse into the field beside the road that led up to the stone walls of Windhelm. “We’re here,” he said, looking back. “Get the sign out.”

Mehril huddled in a blanket amidst the upturned iron pots that filled their wagon. The Khajiit slept beside him, purring softly. “I’ll get it,” the Dunmer said. “Let Ma’tharrash sleep.” He slowly shed the blanket, careful not to disturb his fellow passenger.

“She’ll have to wake up eventually,” the Altmer said. “We’ll be spreading word all day.” He jumped down from the driver’s seat of the cart and fed Dagoth a carrot.

Mehril rolled his red eyes as he pulled the tall wooden sign from their cart, trying not to knock any of the flaking paint from its faded front. He propped it against the cart so that it faced the road. “Ancelmar Oderion, Late of Daggerfall, and his Assistant, Mehril Ren, Solstheim’s Greatest Harpist, Perform the Vehk Musicale,” it read in looping letters. Beneath that, in a less careful script, more had been added: “With Ma’tharrash and Dagoth Ur the Horse. Price: one bit of iron.”

On the Road to Windhelm (First Reprise)

“Nothing but ironworkers,” Ancelmar said to Ma’tharrash. “Good. Good.”

Ma’tharrash smiled, her sharp teeth showing.

Ancelmar took another pull of brandy. “But who are we to the audience?” he asked.

“We’re the Tribunal,” Ma’tharrash said. A branch popped in the fire.

Setting Up Shop

Ancelmar arranged and rearranged the upturned iron pots in a semicircle in front of him, shoving them about on wheeled wooden pallets. The bigger ones, large enough to cover a man’s head and shoulders, had leather straps dangling from their handles. The smaller ones, ranging from the size of an onion to that of a melon, were arranged in order on a small table.

Mehril was having trouble setting up the canvas tent they would sleep under. “We should just get a covered wagon,” he mumbled. Ma’tharrash ran and rolled around him, a blue butterfly hovering out of her reach.

Ancelmar sighed with a smile and walked to Mehril and the laughing Khajiit. “Of you go,” he said to the cub. “Go spread word. One bit of old iron gets them a revelation of the mysteries of Vivec in musical form.” He tugged playfully on her ear. “Off you go. And don’t forget to ask a blacksmith about the pots once we’re done with the show.

As she ran towards the city gate, Mehril gave up on the tent with one corner of the roof still hanging open. “Are you sure its safe to send her in alone?” he asked. His lips were a tight gray scowl.

“She’ll be eleven soon,” Ancelmar said. “Young to us, sure, but old enough for her kind. She’ll stay out of trouble.”

“But the Nords--”

“The Nords proud of their heritage, but they’re not out to get us.” Ancelmar slipped his fingers into Mehril’s. “I, on the other hand, am out to get you.” He leaned towards Mehril’s ear. “We seem to have a moment alone.”

“You’ve been drinking again,” Mehril said. “I can smell it.”

“We’ll have to work it out of me, then,” Ancelmar said, pulling Mehril into the tent. His pants were off faster than Mehril could explain.

“Ancelmar,” Mehril said.

The Altmer shook his head. “Sotha Sil.”

“Not this again. Can’t we just--”

“Please,” Ancelmar said.

“Okay,” Mehril said. “Come to me, Sotha Sil. Just watch where you’re pointing that milk finger.”

Vehk Musicale: The Lessons Begin

Ma’tharrash watched for Ancelmar’s signal. He finished wrapping one of the leather straps around his left arm, gauged his leverage, and then nodded at the Khajiit. She began to drum slowly on two small skins spread across chipped wood, alternating between her palms and the frantic tips of her claws.

As her beat slowed to a stop, Mehril plucked sharply at the thick, low strings of his harp. It was through-composed and hovered at the edges of any identifiable rhythm. Slowly, descending caresses of the higher strings brought form to the sounds.

Ma’tharrash drummed again, a low pounding that took its cue from the tinkling of the harp, and as the two sounds met and danced around each other, Ancelmar tugged on the largest iron pot, tipping the front of it up. Green light leaked from under its rim, and a low hum echoed inside the pot, tumbling out in rising pitches as Ancelmar lifted the lid higher. He let the lid fall with a thump, dropped the leather strap, and lifted a number of the smaller pots in quick succession. Nirnroots of various sizes hummed and were silenced as their lids rose and fell.

Ma’tharrash joined in with her drums, and Mehril, half in darkness and half in the light of the nirnroots, strummed and plucked violently.

On the Road to Windhelm (Second Reprise)

“We are the Tribunal,” Ancelmar said. The fire was getting smaller. “I am…”

“Seht!” Ma’tharrash said, snapping her teeth.

“Yes. Old Sotha Sil the mage.” He licked his lips. “And Mehril?”

“Vivec and Vehk.”

“Yes!” Ancelmar said. He coughed. “Both and one.”

“And I’m Almalexia,” the Khajiit said without further prompt.

“Our little warrior,” Ancelmar said. “And our faithful steed?”

“Dagoth Ur.” The last syllable rattled out of the Khajiit like a growl.

Vehk Musicale: Second Movement

From a pregnant silence, Dagoth Ur stopped his hooves. Bells hung from his reins jingled like a marching army. Laughs burbled here and there in the audience.

Ancelmar smiled as he lifted a melon-sized pot. As the nirnroot giggled, the Altmer’s hand flashed, and the iron pot turned to silver. The giggle rose in pitch, and Ancelmar touched each other pot, flashing them from dull brown to shining silver, changing the voices of the roots.

The audience gasped and clapped. Ma’tharrash’s drums rumbled, and as the roots sang, Ancelmar’s hands flashed again, turning the silver to gold, and once more, the voices of the roots changed as they tinkled out from under their homes.

The music ended with much crashing and a thunderous hum from the largest nirnroot. Dagoth stomped and whinnied, and Mehril sent both hands grasping across the harp strings. The audience laughed and clapped and hooted, but then someone yelled: “You take our iron and change it to gold? Give it back!”

Silence like wet snow fell across the field outside Windhelm. After a pause, a woman shouted, “We want it back, but we want it as gold!” Mutters rippled around.

A thick man wrapped in Stormcloak regalia stepped out into the open space between the crowd and the musicians. “You gave your iron fair here,” he said, his voice coming grim from the tomb of his helmet. “They gave you more than its worth. Let’s all go home and think of the music.”

On the Road to Windhelm (Third Reprise)

“And who are we to guards?” Ancelmar asked. His eyes rolled about, looking out into the darkness that encroached on the shrinking flames.

Ma’tharrash sat back on her haunches, looking smaller. “Wretches of the lesser races. Poor artists with honest hearts.”

“Honest hearts,” Ancelmar repeated. He closed his eyes. “And what are we to heroes?”

Cornerclub Rondo

Mehril sat waiting in the New Gnisis cornerclub. He was waiting for Ancelmar and Ma’tharrash to return with their money. An old Dunmer, eyes pink with cataracts, sidled up to him. “Look at you, spreading the word of Vivec. Vivec.” He was drunk. “Where were you, Vivec, when the Red Mountain erupted?” Spittle slipped from his tongue, falling into Mehril’s drink. “Where were you when the Nords took all we had as payment for this Gray Quarter?”

Mehril slammed his glass down. “Old man, I choked life from the dust of Solsteim as a child. I am an Ashlander, and by the fire of my ancestors, if you don’t leave me be, I’ll choke the life from you too.”

Ancelmar leaned in between Mehril and the old elf, dropping a few coins on the bar. “A drink for me and our new friend here,” he said. He smiled. “Sorry if we’ve offended you. The interest in the Tribunal is solely mine, I’m afraid. Will you forgive an old librarian from Daggerfall?”

The old man yanked the new drink from the bartender’s hands. “Fancy city mer,” he said. “Can’t know how wronged we are. Forgiveness should cost more than a drink,” he said, lifting the cups to his lips. He took a large gulp. “But I suppose we have fallen low enough that my own forgiveness is bought.” He slipped slowly from his chair and wandered off to join the other Dunmer.

“Did we make out okay?” Mehril asked as Ancelmar took the old man’s chair.

“Sold the gold pots. Transmuted the iron and sold that too. It’ll be more than enough to get us to Dawnstar and get us some new pots made. There’s enough for a nice night of celebration as well.”

Mehril sighed. “Just don’t overdue it.”

“My love,” Ancelmar said quietly, “you know I always do just right.”

Ma’tharrash seemed to appear from nowhere, clawing lightly at Ancelmar’s knee. “Give us the story of your nirnroots.”

Ancelmar groaned as Ma’tharrash pulled up a chair. “You’ve heard it so often.”

“Have to make sure,” Ma’tharrash said.

“Fine.”

Love in the Time of Broken Dragons

I was just a librarian then. A librarian in Daggerfall, sure, and head of research, but I was nothing special. My next century was planned out in quiet contemplation, and I was happy for it.

I was on the beach one day, and then there was the Warp in the West and--well, it’s like I was split without knowing I was split. I wandered the coast and came upon a single nirnroot. It was huge. But it was also tiny. Or it was a normal, healthy specimen. I plucked it.

As time became unbroken, I hadn’t just picked one root. I had picked them all, and they hummed together as such a chorus that I knew I had to spread their voices to all who would hear them.

But I hadn’t just spent my timelines collecting plants. In one of them, I didn’t walk down the beach at all. I stood stock still, knowing only fear, feeling myself spread across possibility. But I saw someone coming down the beach, and as he got closer, it was Mehril. I had never seen him before, but he was the most beautiful creature I’d known in all my life.

When I came back to myselves, clutching my plants, he was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t see him for hundreds of years, in fact--not until I was playing in Solstheim. After my show, he came up to me and said, “This may sound odd, but I feel as if we’ve met before.”

“Not odd at all,” I told him.

Travel Safely

“You said we’d leave before the sun came,” Mehril said. He was walking slowly, what with having to hold up Ancelmar. “You said you wouldn’t overdo it.” A hint of dawn was edging gray over the city walls.

“Didn’t over do it,” Ancelmar said. “Did it just right.” He reached toward his crotch. “Milk finger.”

“Keep it in your pants.”

“What?” Ma’tharrash asked. She had fallen asleep in the cornerclub while Ancelmar drank and talked.

“Nothing, honey,” Mehril said. He stopped to dig awkwardly in his pocket for a coin. “Run to the alchemist and get one of those potions for Ancelmar. He’ll need it when he wakes up.”

As she ran up the stone street, Mehril managed to get Ancelmar to the edge of town. “Can you climb into the cart?” he asked.

“Of course,” Ancelmar murmured. Then he sat on the ground. “Of course.”

“Hey,” came a grim voice. “Something wrong here?” A guard who had been leaning against the wall walked over.

“Nothing at all, sir,” Mehril said. “My friend got a little drunk.”

“You had lots to spend on celebration,” the guard said. “All the old plowshares and belt buckles in town, huh?”

“Yes,” Mehril said. “Windhelm was very gracious to us.”

“Well,” the guard said, “we’re pleased that all the money stayed within our walls.”

“Sure,” Mehril said. “Just some traveling costs left over for us.”

“Oh?” the guard said. “Let me see.”

Ancelmar groaned and laid down in the frosted grass. Mehril looked down at his lover and then back at the guard. He hesitated, but he held out the pouch he’d worn at his side. The guard snatched it from him and drew his sword. Without a word, he cut Mehril down. He dropped his blade casually into Ancelmar’s guts, wriggled it back out, and dropped his torch in the back of their cart.

Dagoth Ur reared up, whinnied, and wrenched himself free of his reins, galloping off into the dark of the plains.

“Milk drinkers,” the guard said. He walked back into the city.

When Ma’tharrash reached the cart, the roots had all been consumed by flame, and the fire was starting to burn low. With tears in her eyes, she knelt down and held the potion out to Ancelmar. Breath struggled to pull itself from his chest. He tried to take the bottle from Ma’tharrash, but his hand only managed a few inches before it fell.

She uncorked the bottle and poured some on his lips.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. He sighed, and his blood bubbled. “We’ll sleep now,” he said to her, “but let us make sure you have your questions straight.”

On the Road to Windhelm (Final Reprise)

“And to heroes,” Ancelmar said. “What are we to heroes?”

“We are the people their careers are built on,” Ma’tharrash said. “We are the downtrodden who would be gods.”

“Good,” Ancelmar said. “Love.” It was his final word.

Far down the road, an Imperial army marched. Ma’tharrash could see their shields even in the dark. At the end of the column was a hero, and for her, the hero would win vengeance.