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Year: 4E 5 Sadrith Mora, Vvardenfell
Bereon Releth was born on Azura’s own day, which should have been a boon upon a blessed life. Alas, the moment the priest presented the offering, brought by Bereon’s father in thanks for the safe delivery of his first born and continued health of his wife, lightning struck the shrine killing the priest and placing a curse upon the offering and, by association, Bereon.
One could argue that the lightning strike at the offering was not an omen but a simple accident that could have been avoided. An ill-timed occurrence facilitated by the impatient priest, who in such a rush to finish the rite in favour of hastening back to partake in the new case of sujamma that had just been delivered to the temple, failed to looked up at the rumbling sky and tell the faithful father to come back on the next clear day. The curse would have been averted for Bereon, their family, and the community they dwelt in.
Unfortunately, the ill-luck did not end there. A scant few months later, the sky fell. The Ministry of Truth plummeted into Vivec City and destroyed the heart of the Dunmer people. The impact sent soil and stone alike into the air to fall on the hapless populace, rattling the ground as far as eastern Skyrim. Outside of Vivec City, the water rose and rushed up against all the land of Vvardenfell subsuming the low lying areas. Sadrith Mora was relatively unfazed by the event; the powerful magisters of House Telvanni exerted their will (and magicka) to ward their ponderous fungal towers, and the city, by dint of proximity, weathered the cataclysm. Unsurprisingly, the magisters gave no thought to the homes of those that served them located outside the walls of their esteemed city, including that of Bereon’s family. While their father attended his guard duties within, the wave of water swept up to the walls of the city and pulled everyone out to sea to be lost forever. If it was not for the final desperate act of a young mother—tying the cradle board and baby into the branches of a tree—so too would Bereon have been lost.
Of course, everyone knew that the sky falling was not the doing of a babe still in swaddling clothes. Nor was the death of their father, dying in the line of duty a few scant years later while defending the much weakened Telvanni bastion against the Argonian invasion, their fault. But people looked askance at the young orphan the moment anything ill-toward occurred, and they were passed from family to family, caretaker to Master during their formative years and into adulthood.
Year: 4E 54 Tel Vos, Vvardenfell
Bereon Releth was having a very bad day, which was saying much considering the cursed nature of their existence.
They had been rejected by Shad Astula.
Again.
Now the annual rejection is not an anomaly in and of itself and was well within accordance for the reputation of that illustrious institute. Indeed, not receiving a single rejection would mark the entrant as being present strictly by the size of their money purse and not their aptitude for the arcane arts. That taint might be considered acceptable for one within the House Hlaalu, but certainly not for one from Telvanni. House Telvanni enjoyed the reputation of being the most talented, the most powerful, the most clever of wizards and mages within all of Tamriel, regardless of what the Altmer might profess. (They are good with illusions, we’ll give them that, but that is no excuse for delusions of grandeur.)
Sadly for Bereon, this was the twentieth consecutive rejection.
They crumpled up the letter in frustration and stared into the small brazier that acted as both a source of heat and light for their tiny quarters under the stairs.
It wasn’t fair that the school wouldn’t accept them because they hadn’t already completed some arcane feat or spectacle. That was the purpose of the institute after all! To teach the schools of magic and help the students find their talents. It was all so redundant if you already knew how to wield that talent!
This was the crux of the problem for Bereon. As unheard of for a Dunmer, particularly one born into Telvanni, they had shown no propensity or natural inclination to any magical ability in their . Surely, another sign of their cursed existence.
There was only one possible course of action remaining, one that they had avoided at all cost until this point. They would have to beseech their Master to intervene on their behalf and put in a word to gain their entrance to that esteemed edifice of magical education.
Bereon knocked tentatively on the door to the Master’s study and entered when permitted. The Master sat upon their sumptuously decorated arm chair; grown from a single fungus upon a rare wood, gilded along the delicate edges of the mushroom’s gills, precious resins staining the wood with and inlay of intricate glyphs and arcane runes. A symbol of the magister’s arcane talents. At their feet, an indentured Argonian sat with their tail curled around themselves as they tended the bare feet of the seated Dunmer.
They waited patiently, resisting the urge to fidget with the rejection letter clutched in their hands, for the Master to address them.
“What is it?” the Master asked, holding their hand out for the parchment.
Bereon winced as they handed over the damp document. “Master. I have been applying to Shad Astula—“
“I’m aware.”
“I’ve been rejected again,” they said, with a nod to the parchment. “I would ask, I mean, humbly beg of you to put in a word for me—“
The Master raised a brow at them while igniting the letter with a snap of their fingers. “I do not part with anything with intrinsic magical value, thusly I do not trim but buff fortnightly the chitinous lengths of my finger and toenails. You, n’wah, have less magical aptitude than the ponderous length of my little toenail. I would not sully my reputation with a recommendation.”
A shiver of revulsion ran up Bereon’ spine. “I’m sorry, Master, but—“
The Argonian kneeling on the floor buffing said toenail shot them a glare in warning. Bereon fell silent, knowing full well that their Master was only getting started with the tirade. Interrupting would only make matters worse for everyone, not just themselves.
“Indeed!” The Master narrowed their eyes as they considered them. “I’ve come to a decision. Master Neloth requires a ‘research assistant’. Based on the low compensation offered, someone no one would miss,” they twisted their hand dismissively causing the nails to clack as they passed in front of Bereon’s face, “if an experiment goes awry. You are to report to Tel Mithryn immediately.”
Bereon blanched. “But Tel Mithryn is… on Solsteim. This is my home!”
“Is it really?” the Master sneered. “Have you a family? A House? Anything at all—the clothes on your back, by chance—to call your own?”
They shook their head, humiliated. “Just a little money I’ve saved for my education.”
The Master harrumphed. “The ship leaves in the morning; you will be on it.” They waved their hand at the door, effectively dismissing them.
“Bereon?”
They turned at the door, hopeful that their Master had a sudden change of heart.
“Make sure that you recompense the household for your ship’s passage. And the twenty pieces of parchment you’ve wasted.”
The journey from Vvardenfell to Solsteim was no pleasure cruise. Bereon discovered, much to their dismay, that the House failed or had no intention to pay their fare to Solsteim. Instead, they were indentured for their fare upon the Strident Squall, doing the most menial of tasks for all and sundry, right down to carrying the bed pots from the paying customers and the rest of the crew, to empty over the ship’s railings in all weather. Their relief at the sight of the distinctive Telvanni fungal tower quickly turned to confusion as the ship continued around the coastline until the tower vanished from view. Why were they not docking to let them off?
Confusion turned to horror as a storm blew in during their last night at sea, lashing the ship to and fro in the iceberg-riddled strait to Raven Rock. Lights flicked on the shoreline which seemed both too close and too far away at any give time. The ship slipped between the waves until a particularly large one hid the broad side sending it careening into the ice. The hull cracked apart like an egg shell tapped with a knife. Water gushed into the holds as the passengers screamed and the crew scrambled to try to keep the ship afloat, turning it toward the shore with the hope of running aground before it sunk with all hands.
They very nearly made it. The ship ran aground some two hundred feet from the shore on a rocky sandbar. The passengers and crew had no choice but to swim to the lights they could see on the shore or be overwhelmed by the rising waves of the storm. Bereon stuggled to keep up but had the misfortune to be caught in an undertow which propelled them down along the coast toward the sea. They had no magical ability to hold them aloft in the water, nor did they have any magic to help defend the passengers and crew when the bandits came howling over the sandbars to cut every person down as they stumbled out of the water. They had traded a quick and violent death for a cold, watery one, or would have if the current that pulled them away hadn’t propelled them to the very location the ship was destined for! Fisherman pulled them from the sea, half drowned with nothing but their clothes on their back.
They discovered that there were no carriages or coaches to take them to Tel Mithryn. The town was run by House Redoran who were warriors of renown but not skilled in magic as Telvanni. As a result there were no portals or mages of worth that could transport Bereon to Master Neloth’s tower. Instead, they latched on to a caravan for as far as they could and completed their trip on foot.
Foot sore and weary, covered in ash and soot from outrunning ash spawn and ambushing ash hoppers, they arrived at the tower to a cold reception. Master Neloth had no place for them nor any patience to teach them.
“You’re of so little talent,” Neloth declared, “that you’re worth less than the parchment required for a warrant of assassination. Bah! You’re of no use to me if you cannot keep my tea warm for me as I work and I have enough mouths to feed.” He waved to the door. “Go back to Raven Rock. I’m certain that someone could use you for your great talents. Perhaps sweeping up after the dead in the ossuary.”
Year: 4E 117 Raven Rock, Solstheim
For fifty years, Bereon tended the ancestral tombs and mortuary; sweeping up the sand daily that blew through the cracks in the doors and walls, ending the candles and replacing the wilted offerings on the tombs, preparing and conditioning the bodies laid into the sand to ensure that they dried with a minimum of smell and corruption before being cremated and interned in the elaborate urns provided by the families. They saved coin for another ship passage, this time to Skyrim.
They swept the temple for extra coin, purchasing third rate copies of magical texts and sheets that made their way to the market, ones rejected by Tel Mithryn. They had an idea to teach themselves magical theory for the future entrance requirements and show their worth employing an external source of magicka.
On their one hundred and twelfth natal day, they headed to the harbour to purchase passage to the College of Winterhold but a great gale whipped the water to a frenzy and the ships’ captains told of a great calamity in the Sea of Ghosts. The city of Winterhold had fallen into the sea. They knew not of whether the College still stood but there was no passage to Skyrim to be had.
Bereon walked away from the docks, dejected. Their bad luck had risen again and struck down their plans.
“Heh, your curse has struck you again, hasn’t it?” the merchant they purchased study material from, called out.
“Yes,” Bereon replied bitterly. They kicked at a stone only to stub their toe when it remained where it was.
The merchant choked on a laugh. “Come here. I have something you might be interested in.” They walked over to the stall reluctantly, not in the mood for the usual ribbing and mockery. “This soul gem was in the bottom of the crate from the last shipment. Its cracked so no one of any magical talent will want it. Maybe you can use it as a paperweight. Or a door stop. Take it. One less bit of trash I have to deal with.”
Bereon was about to refuse the pitiful gift, but they spotted a slight flicker with the fissure of the gem. “Fine, but I’m not paying for it.”
“Hey, I have to make a living here!” the merchant protested.
“You just said it was trash.”
The merchant opened their mouth and closed it again with a scowl. “Take it, n’wah. May it bring you luck.”
They made their way back to their pallet in the smallest storage room of the ossuary and sat on their pallet studying the cracked soul gem. They acknowledged that it was a long shot and they were very likely to waste all the material they collected for their theory, but at this point… getting entry to any schools of magic or tutelage by a mentor was unlikely.
They gathered their materials. They painstakingly drew out the glyphs on the floor in glowdust, painted with a brush made from their own hair and the thorn of a scathcraw. The placed the soul gem upon the center of the glyphs and envisioned their goal while reciting their incantation.
“Ist 'ag draha'ag, havga ascif.
Muhr wah am dra.
Ka devehr mesh”
The soul gem flickered, pulsed like a heartbeat, one beat, then another—they held their breath as the glyphs traced in the sand turned from ashen grey to the slightest purple—and the light dimmed from the soul gem leaving a dull milky stone on the floor. So, too, did the glyphs fade.
Bereon sighed, defeated. All that time on their hands and knees in the ash pits tending the remains of the ancestors, sifting through the bones and sinews for the grains of glowdust the living relatives cast over them during their prays, for a wild theory. Endless miles of sweeping for a pittance of coin to… Should have just given it to Geldis Sadri for bottles of sujamma and drowned the hope.
The few grains of the ubiquitous sand shifted on the stone floor. A crack formed sending a tiny puff of sand into Bereon’s face. They wiped the grit from their eyes, and there, there on the floor was the most fragile tendril of blue. It shivered as a leaf unfurled, giving off the first bit of luminous glow.
They held their breath, in awe. The sight before them was magical. They whispered, “I made it all myself.”