Part 1: The Naming Ceremony
#1 of A Bloody Name
The first (extra-)short story in a series focused on the origins of my character from the 2nd Era of The Elder Scrolls (Elder Scrolls Online). I was inspired by a friend's 2 AM spree when she wrote a backstory for her D&D character in the campaign I run. For the longest time I wanted to give more than just a 'Wiki' History and Personality to my character, and now rather than just think about it I'm actually doing it! I'm trying something different with this series: I'm keeping to 'short' narratives and I'm trying out a 'flashback-and-forth' format.
I'll put out the next story soon!
"I remember the day I was named," the Argonian said. His face, stained with red-like-blood, stared into the hearth. His amber-brown eyes caught the glimmer of the flame. "I only remember it because I was taken from my home before my tribe could name me. If I stop to think when I smell smoke, I can hear the shouts echoing from what feels like a lifetime away." He folded his arms across his bare chest, and for a moment a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. In this moment, the faint noise of the tavern seemed to fade away.
Amidst the ancient trees of the marsh, a village stood on muddy ground underneath waxing Masser and Secunda crescents. Great huts of mud and reed piled one after another, hardened and rough in the light of torches and campfires. Woven baskets and fired pottery filled with saltrice harvest and fishing bounties sat in a stockpile nearby. The smell of fire and smoke hung in the air. The hatchling's snout wrinkled when he smelled it.
He stood with the other hatchlings as the village elders hummed and chanted to the large tree in their village. The hatchling had no idea what they were doing, but his egg-sires had told him it was important that he take part in his 'Chukka-Sei'--Naming ceremony. He wondered why he was there or what he was supposed to do, since so far they communicated in mannerisms--the flicker of spines or frills, a shiver there or angry hissing. He looked to the other hatchlings for guidance, but they just watched the elders.
The hatchling waited.
The smell of fire and smoke was overpowering now. People were screaming as pottery was smashed and scaffolding was broken down. They weren't at the big tree anymore, and the hatchling could see people running in all directions. There wasn't fire in just the campfires or on the torches, but on all the reed awnings and baskets. The hatchling tried to call out for his egg-sires, but his voice croaked. His insides burned with smoky air and he coughed violently as he tried to get away from the fire. He then ran into someone and looked up.
Pale ash-grey smooth skin, with not-spines adorning his head and pointed things on either side. He was not one of his kind. But what the hatchling focused on were those crimson eyes that held the flashes of fire. He could hear his egg-sires somewhere calling out to him. The red-eyed not-saxhleel then had a white toothy smile. That was the last thing the hatchling remembered: the red eyes and the white smile.