Writing is Hard - A Short Story from Black Marsh

This is dedicated to /u/blackfyre87, hopefully his writer's block is gone soon

He stared into the almost-empty tankard in front of him, his ink stained fingers making a mockery of his ineptitude.

He sneered at his own face rippling in the dregs of the flat, yeasty ale served at this hole-in-the-wall tavern, the only place in town that would serve an un-uniformed Imperial straggler such as himself.

Self-loathing filled himself as he gauged the depth of his failure. As one of the few in Tamriel with the sharpness of mind and quickness of blade needed to travel its length and breadth and record its recent history for the enjoyment of his countryfolk, until now; the Imperial had delighted in the sense of purpose and satisfaction he received from spreading the Good Word of the Empire throughout the land. He loved educating his friends and family on the diverse and multi-faceted nature of the Empire, and took great pride in seeing his books and essays sold in markets and shops throughout the continent.

But here, in Black Marsh, for the first time in his life, he was without words. He could dip the quill in the ink and stare at the finest of parchment, and in any other province the words would beg to be scratched onto the page, clamouring to be seen and heard. But here, in Black Marsh, the words hid, crawled into the innermost recesses of his mind, as if the words themselves feared the Hist.

In a subjective world, he fancied himself a champion of objective reporting, and he attributed this to his success in the upper echelons of almost every society. Even the Khajiit, and those Bosmer that cared for reading, enjoyed the fair and even-handed way in which he depicted the world in which they lived. Imperialised Argonians comprised some of his most reliable sources, especially in the Rift.

But here, in the damp sweaty warmth of Black Marsh, where the Padomaic Ocean lapped gently at the Eastern Shore, it was as if the words were washed away with every tide, leaving his mind a slate that seeks blankness, that refuses the words, and would not record the facts. When a notable observation finally penetrated his mind, it would wriggle and slide away like a fish in a fast-flowing river, and devour the entire train of thought.

The Argonians here were not the same as the ones he was familiar with. These ones were even slyer, even cagier, more guarded and sneaky. Their lies were more transparent, yet they clung to their deceit more fervently and with less humour than those who live among men and mer.

Fed up of his own self-defeat, he thrust away the tankard, leaving a small pile of Septims as payment and tip, and slinked out of the dingy tavern.

The Imperial sat under a giant tree, and rubbed a grubby hand across his head, looking out across the glittering ocean. An absolutely wizened Argonian woman approached him and crouched down low, peering at him with clear yellow eyes that belied her obvious age. She reached out and took his hand in her gentle, scaly grip.

“A writer.” She stated flatly, lisping slightly. “You write for the Empire?”

“I thought I was a writer, but since coming here, I am not so sure,” he said dejectedly.

“What do you want to write about…here?” she asked, gesturing around at the humid jungle coast.

“What I write about all the other Imperial Provinces. The politics, the economy, the society and culture.”

“Those are tales of friction, disparity, conflict and the machinations of individuals,” her serpentine head weaved from side to side, the dry skin hissing as the scales rubbed together. “That is not our story.” She reached up and lovingly stroked the Hist tree that sheltered them.

“But the An-Xileel, Umbriel, the annexation of southern Morrowind…birth, death, life and love among the Saxhleel, that is the story I want to tell.”

“Some of those do not exist. Some of those do exist and are secrets not for telling for profit or pleasure. What is your obsession with recording these stories?”

“If we do not tell these stories, they will be forgotten.”

“We have no such worries in Black Marsh. The Root remembers all that ever was and knows what ever shall be. It matters not to us if the children of Anu forget our stories. Why don’t you go home and write stories that are more easily expressed by mortal words?”

“I have never failed at anything in my life.”

“Then write what you see, and so be it. The Hist keep their own counsel, and they will not stop you from spreading your word. The only true way to understand us is to join the Root and drink the Sap. Should you do so you would become so full of wisdom and history that your project would then become immaterial. Or you can accept your work with all its flaws, and spread your word around Tamriel.”

And with that, the old Argonian woman rose to her feet and glided away with a grace that belied her years.

Next to where the man sat, the Hist began to drop some sap.