The Tenets of Kynheim

A little continuation of my story for those who want to read (i just wanted to keep writing Viirkenos antics) but it clocks in around 4500 words/25000 characters. Open to . Not much in the ways of triggers but with mild references to violence so uh yeah read it or die bro idk.

• You will abolish your former master - we no longer serve the lords of Oblivion

• You are to not harm, threaten or steal from human visitors - nor are you to harm, threaten or steal from your brothers and sisters

• Disputes are to be settled within our courts or with an agreed trial by combat - such is the way of our people

• You are free to worship any of the Nine Divines or Azura, Boethia and Mephala as the Dunmeri do

• You are free to travel Skyrim as you please, but will not break her laws under any circumstance

• Humans are our allies, not our prey, and should be treat accordingly - especially the Orsimer of the strongholds

Failure to comply will result in banishment or execution

Lordship had been thrust upon Viirkenos far faster than he had expected nor wanted. A quiet solitary life ruptured and sullied as the Oblivion Gates once again opened up and the world, if only briefly, was reminded of the wrath of the Daedra. Mortal men and women across Tamriel prepared themselves for another crisis - those fit to fight armoured in heavy steel with blades sharpened to a razor edge, old mages once again feeling the warmth of fire or the cold of ice. Scholars had perceived this to be the end of Nirn, the dragons and now the Daedra combing to tear the world asunder. All of the Lords and Kings and Queens of Nirn had came together, even the Thalmor had recognised the gravity of the situation and ceased their regime; even if only temporarily.

The Daedra had relinquished their weapons, no longer would macabre steel rip mortal flesh from bone. Dagon was weak, unfit to rule and so why should they obey the law of one so easily slain by a tarnished Xivilai and a vampire not even of pure blood? As Dagon’s hordes began to forsake their lord, so to did those serving other princes - Malacath, Nocturnal, Peyrite and Molag Bal all kings without their rooks, pawns and bishops. It had taken months for the people of Tamriel to finally accept that the dremora did not yearn for war, those who rued a prince’s weakness had grown weary of a dozen lifetimes of combat with no reward. The daedra, now in their thousands, made their own settlements on Nirn from as far north as Skyrim to as far south of Elsweyr; still loathed by men and mer of Tamriel.

The largest of these settlements remained in Skyrim, with Viirkenos as its leader. It had not taken long for the rebels to track down the notorious Xivilai who had effectively became a pseudo-god; equal parts revered and feared by immortal blood. Progress had been slow but rewarding. Helgen had been forsaken and forgotten by the Nords of Skyrim, but it served a new purpose now. Charred wood was replaced with pine and fell walls were rebuilt, stronger than any Nord could hope to craft, ruined homes were rebuilt and repurposed and entirely new buildings were constructed amongst smoldering steel and pine. The Jarls of Whiterun and Falkreath were assailable, the former weakened after a bloody civil war and the latter being too weak to halt the march of Oblivion’s finest warriors, scholars and mages. There were some attempts at diplomacy but these largely fell upon fearful ears. Some were too afraid of the Daedra to deny them, whilst others were too stalwart to accept him. It was a difficult foundation, one wrought of fear and loathing, but it proved effective for the time being. Several scouting parties, Imperial and Stormcloak alike, had made attempts to sully their home in vain as they had either been killed or captured.

⚔

The sun rose over Kynheim for its 73rd day of existence. Already, smiths were forging blades and armour and the hunters had returned with meat - deers and boars. It was equal parts surprising and reassuring how quick the hordes of daedra had acclimatised to their newfound mortality within Tamriel. Malacath’s tended the forge with craftsmanship completely alien to Nirn yet it proved second to none. Hircine’s revelled in the hunt and, now that it had stakes, excelled at it. The Daedra had a steady income of gold, selling their weapons and armour, teaching apostate’s forbidden magic, selling pelts in scarce quantities and otherwise acting as peerless bodyguards for the rich and powerful.

Viirkenos awoke in the tower, towards the centre of what was Helgen months ago. The entire tower itself had been converted and rebuilt into his very own quarters, connected to the keep it allowed the Xivilai to watch over a growing army of perceived savages. The battle with Mehrunes Dagon, despite the victory, had taken a role upon the Daedra’s mortal frame. Scars did not heal the way they did in Oblivion, bones proved fickle in their reliability and blood seemed altogether thinner. It was at times like this that Viirkenos questioned wether or not the mortal condition was a blessing or a disease. The tower was comfortable but not luxurious, stone floors had been largely covered in rugs, the carcasses of slaughtered bears and wolves, and testaments of previous hunts adorned the walls with a pair of mammoth tusks idling above a fire. It made an appreciated change from living in the wilds. Regardless, Viirkenos hesitated to lower his guard. The Gods of Olbivion would rage at the loss of their pawns and would no doubt retaliate with hellfire and bloodshed, such is their nature. Conversely, the Stormcloaks and Imperials could unite, for the enemy of one’s enemy was a friend and the Daedra were enemies to all. Peace had been granted, but as all things are, it proved transient.

“Come here a little closer, boy, come on, don't be shy.” Kynheim was alive this morning, a pair of daedra tended twin forges, one crafting weapons and the other armour as a group of six carried three elk between them. A cart with twenty or so armed Nords had came to the town, parked just beside the iron of the gate, just as they had agreed to do the week prior. Four cows and five horses were amongst the convoy, the smell of cattle pungent the denizens of Oblivion. “C’mon, kid, think we got a deal here?” A boy no older than eighteen headed the convoy, no doubt the son of a cowardly father, and it was clear that the tongue had not yet found a taste commerfe. “Leave him, Zedriite, help the hunters.” Zedriite had been one of Nocturnal’s daedra, little more than a kynval but that title meant nothing now and so the power quickly went to his head, his former master was the only explanation for the daedra’s goldlust. Zedriite was not nearly as imposing as Viirkenos, almost a foot shorter with far fewer signs of wear with a dark shade of skin somewhere inbetween soot and lavender, eyes almost as dark as the latter, but he knew better than to underestimate Zedriite - a knife between the ribs was still fatal to one of the kyn. “Very well, your highness.” Zedriite fixed Viirkenos with eyes of a coldness of a dozen winters, but reluctantly agreed. Zedriite was not a bad man by any stretch of the imagination, simply comparably juvenile. “We agreed on 5000 septims for the cattle and horses, yes?” Viirkenos turned his attention to the young Nord, hardly taller than his elbow. “Y-yes, sir.” He stuttered over his words for a moment but gained confidence as hostilities ceased. It was a great sum of gold for a fledgling community, but a worthwhile one to guarantee the longevity of him and his people. The rest of the Nords glared at Viirkenos, partways looking for an excuse to kill him and the commune, partways afeared at what they were capable of. “Very well.” The Xivlai wasted no time in completing the trade, offering the young Nord a heavy leather purse laden with the mortals currency. “Thank you, sir.” The Nord spoke once more as his confidants watched onwards and hastily they retreated Kynheim. It was difficult for a race so infamously brutal to establish trades, it had been one of Boethia’s flock to even convince them to consider stepping food in their town, but it was a necessity. The Daedra of Kynheim needed more than they could get by their own means - meat, lumber, metal, ore all in abundance otherwise they would not stand the test of time and all of their efforts would be for naught.

A hawk crested the ridge of the eastern mountain, such desired freedom in a bundle of feathers and hollowed bone. It made sense why the mortals revered these creatures and their contemporaries, they are free and unbound from the endless march of time. The days due not burden, they know not the toil of a hard days work, they are exempt from the pressures of their fellow animal. Such beauty resided in their freedom, albeit temporary in comparison to the life of man and mer. Viirkenos was torn from his lustre as a pair of xivilai approached him, Tuvith and Nahliv. The Xivilai as a species were…different then contemporary dremora, an outcast amongst their kyn. More often than not, they came in pairs. He and Jyudsea did, Tuvith and Nahliv did. He thought for a moment of his brother, trapped in the Deadlands at the mercy of a tyrannical God, or which other Dremora had risen to power in the fabricated vacuum. Nahliv’s milky white eyes, allseeing yet blind, rested upon Viirkenos as Tuvith began to speak. The pair were an acquired taste, serving Boethia, and even Viirkenos was not sure where their loyalties lied- amongst the kyn or their own self-interests or perhaps elsewhere entirely. Both Nahliv and Tuvith were shorter than Zedriite, easily being mistaken for Dunmer with ashen skin and long dark strands of hair cascading down their backs. They were two of only twelve women within the kyn, though this was not an underestimated. Nahliv was a worthy foe when her and Viirkenos had clashed blades with her centuries ago and if Tuvith wanted one dead, one would not know of her approach until a foot lingered comfortably in the grave. Blindness had not affected the former in the slightest as the latter knew of the strength of the shadows well. “A report of the week, Viirkenos, when it pleases.” Tuvith spoke in a quiet yet direct tone partways between a gust of wind and a whisper before handing Viirkenos a parchment. Tuvith seemingly knew where anybody was at any time and their reasoning for being there, consequently Viirkenos had appointed her to oversee the kyn’s income. It was promising, as his eyes glossed over the paper. A dozen axes had been sold to Largashbur for five hundred septims each. Vreicius had earned just under two thousand in mercanary work, seven hundred of which he gave to Kynheim. A thousand septims had been earned collectively by selling pelts and precious gems that not a single member of the kyn could understand the mortal’s value of. Seopyira had made a thousand five hundred teaching mages and apostates or anyone with either the gall or the gold to learn his magic. Humanity had always seemed bewildered by Daedric magic, branding it as macabre and taboo, but for work it proved to be a useful ally or a desperate measure. “And another missive.” Nahliv added on as he placed the parchment in a crude leather satchel. “A group of apostates are seeking refuge within our walls, we have allowed them to camp just down the road from here for the time being. We are…uncertain what to do with them. Zedriite and Vreicius wish to send them away, but Seopyria and the two of us believe that they could be valuable assets. We will summon them if you wish.” Viirkenos could not recall the last time his name commanded such respect, almost certainly during the Oblivion crisis so many years ago. It gave him a fleeting glimpse of a power he felt entirely unworthy to wield. He was not that man anymore, yet it was the man the kyn wanted him to be. He saw the lesser dremora who had abdicated Oblivion yearn for the command of a leader once again, yet watch as the Xivilai and greater Daedra clutch for power at a time when any one could seize it with neither delay nor mercy. Viirkenos nodded after a moment’s thought. “Bring Seopyria and escort them to my tower. See to it that they are fed and given water.” He spoke briefly yet his authority was present in his tone. Nahliv and Tuvith went there own way to the group of students as Viirkenos once again returned to his tower.

⚔

Viirkenos had done what he could to make himself presentable, shedding much of his armour and placing his axe away. The midday sun shone brightly through his window, catching the sharpened steel’s edge, as he sat down and waited. There was some irony to his discomfort. How many men had he struck down, mighty beasts felled, armies led? And yet the thought of leadership resonated poorly in his mind. He cut deep Oblivion and tore it apart upon killing Dagon, yet this daunted him. Before long, the apostates arrived. There were five in total, two women and three men, and all were completely different than the last. Both women were mer, one altmer and one dunmer, both fresh eyed and eager to learn. Of the men, there was another Dunmer but far older and wizened than the woman, as well as a Redguard who did not look like a mage whatsoever, and finally a Breton. Of the five, the Breton stood forward with confidence. He was middle age for his species as Viirkenos had guessed, perhaps on his sixtieth year, but still walked with the confidence of a far younger man. His gait was one of arrogance, wether or not it was justified remained to be determinded. “Good afternoon, Vii…rkenos.” The Breton spoke in a thick accent synonymous with his people and was clearly unfamiliar with the pronunciation of Daedric names, though Viirkenos did not hold it against him as it was far from a contemporary tongue. “By now, many of the people know what you have done, what you are capable of.” The Redguard cut him off. “Get on with it, Antoine.” The Redguard was an outlier in the group, armoured in heavy steel and chainmail which glimmered with the faint iridescent glow of enchanting. Yet there was no blade at his side, tarnishing the image of an accomplished warrior he portrayed. The Dunmer rolled his eyes and stepped forward in front of Antoine. “We’re looking for refuge in your settlement as the college will not except us due to our mutual interest in necromancy.” Viirkenos nodded somewhat and stood, far taller than even the Altmer in the group. “And in return?” He spoke. “Gold, manpower, any string of favours we can return. Antoine here has a collection of valuable gemstones we’ve convinced him to part with, Hasan, the Redguard, is one of Hammerfell’s sword-singers and I am-was one of the finest mages of House Telvanni.” Viirkenos pondered it for a moment. It was a difficult situation, one on hand they could be with the Vigilants of Stendarr who so cruelly rue Viirkenos and the kyn but on the other, if their claims proved true, their could be insurmountable. Furthermore, mortals living amongst the kyn would settle rapidly swelling tensions. He saw no other alternative for the five to come here other than to find harbourage, a pair of social taboos united in their mutual fear and loathing. “Very well.” Viirkenos spoke after a moment of silence adorned in palpable tension. “You may stay with us as long as you please, so long as you adhere our tenets. Once broken, they are only repaired with blood.” The groups expression changed from one of hope to one of disguised fear. “There are rooms in the old inn, Tuvith and Nahliv will take you there, and speak to me, Seopyria or any of the hunters if you are looking for work. You are welcome here, let me emphasise, but we expect to earn your keep - we are not a charity.” The group left promptly, either ambition or veiled fear within each step.

Attention span test :smiling_imp:

Viirkenos turned to his books - a newfound collection spurred on by an insatiable and perpetually unsatisfied curiosity of a practically alien world. There were books on his kind but seldom did their words not condemn. To the mortal gaze, the kyn were no more than savages of a long forgotten world - a species so unanimously despised with haphazard, half truths cemented within the mortal mind for centuries. History was written by the victors and any other opinion proved heretical Viirkenos supposed as his fingers traced around the book’s aged pages. And what of the kyn who do not fight? The workers, the scholars, the tradesmen, those who enjoyed the antics of the mortals? They were not as uncommon as humanity would have you believe. The Xivilai rued the hypocrisy of mortality. Who were they to act so holy to be the kyn’s hypocrite? There was irony within their words for they conveniently forgot of the evil that mortality had committed ever since the Aedra permissed them free will, Skyrim’s civil war, the Nord’s and Dwemer’s persecution of the Snow Elves, the enslavement of the Argonians at the hands of the Dunmer, the practically unanimous persecution of the Khajiit and Orsimer tribesmen and the Bretons of Markarth all sprung to ming alongside countless others that an immortal mind knew well. How were they so holy, so devoid of any malediction, to be their superiors? Perhaps neither he nor his kyn would ever understand mortality and its inner workings, and so were doomed to the same perpetual cycle of loathing and notoriety; their ignorance will be their undoing in time. Not a God, not a Prince, not even a mighty Lord warrior of man or mer, simple, baser unknowing.

Viirkenos closed the book with a heavy sigh and placed it back on the shelf, bitter contempt for their words. Peace would be an impossibility, Viirkenos decided abruptly, at least in the permanent sense. No matter what is achieved in Kynheim, no matter how many Daedra they could turncoat, no matter how many Aedric flock they could harbour, their kind will always and forever be judged upon the merits of their Gods and their loyalists. It was at times like this, alone with the words of humanity and his own thoughts, that life in Tamriel felt fleeting and little more than a happy temperance, there had been far greater Daedra with greater wits and greater strength than he could ever possibly imagine of wielding that cared little for life amongst the Aedra and their creations - perhaps this was for a reason. Man could not change, one of the races will always be persecuted and viewed as lesser, two will always be at war, a dozen will have one that will lie and cheat and backstab their fellow. They were not so different, not so holy, in that regard, but ancient stubborn views stood steadfast against the never ending march of time. How then could a single soul hope to change the view of the Daedra in their whole? Perhaps not within its own lifetime but the one proceeding, or perhaps the one after that.

‘The books.’ Viirkenos thought abruptly, the words echoing like a preacher within a pulpit

There were tomes written by ancient tongues that were still revered from something as insignificant as the life of the smallest of creatures to the very annums of history itself.

‘Of course, the books.’ The thought persevered as he reached for a blank journal and a quill.

The same hand that indiscriminately wielded sinister steel and great magic took the quill and and inkwell with an unfamiliar discomfort. The same hand that ripped and tore and maimed and insulted the will of the Aedra hesitated for a moment, for what could one representative of a race possibly say that would represent them as a whole. Viirkenos took a breath before bringing the inky feather to the parchment.

The words came to him slowly, lacking formal eloquence and wrote down as though they were fact for one and all of the kyn. ‘We do not die, we do not fear death, destroy the body and the soul is simply cast into the darkness. But, we are not all brave, we feel pain and fear it, we feel shame and fear it, we know loss and fear it. We are not born, we haven’t mother nor father, yet we have kin and clans. The clan form is strong, it shapes both body and mind. Therein, there is strength and purpose. How then do we imagine we view you humans? You are the prey and we are the huntsmen. But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon. Man is mortal, and doomed to death and loss. This lies beyond our comprehension. Why do you not despair?’

⚔

‘We are not so different, the individual still bears autonomy and responsibility, reaping what they sow. There are terrible men and elves who kill, steal and lie but there are great men and elves; your saints and priests, those who stop wars without bloodshed, the charitable. Similarly, there are terrible Daedra and yet more benevolent individuals. We are not so different, a reflection from a broken and muddied mirror that you view as a threat, yet one that we view as a worthy foe, commendable and deserving of our respect. My people and yours have warred for as long as time can recall but this is fleeting snd unecessary.’

Viirkenos wrote until his fingers ached, long into the evening and the risen sun’s twilight hours, but it gave him a sense of purpose that he sorely lacked for months now; even if his writing was ignored and viewed as heresy it had made him feel content at least temporarily. He wrote down everything he knew of his kind, both lived experience and common knowledge amongst the kyn. He drew parallels between the constant pursuit of perfection and mastery of the martial arts and the subsequent similarity to Hammerfells Sword-Singers, their desire to master magic and their similarity to the College of Winterhold and the houses of Morrowind, their tribal traditions and nature and the similarities between this and the Orc strongholds. The Daedric condition was flayed open and laid barren for those willing to read on.

Viirkenos was pulled from his writing as a quiet knock garnered his attention. He beckoned entrance and was expected to be met with one of the kin, but was instead staring down the Altmer from the group he had given entry. She did not look like any normal Altmer, traditional olive skin was an almost snow shade of white with dark brown hair and practically jet black yet faintly red eyes. A vampire, perhaps, but that wouldn’t have made sense since she had no apparent issues with sunlight. Perhaps she was simply different, an outcast in society, it wouldn’t have been unheard of even for a xivlai. “Yes?” Viirkenos eventually broke the silence as the Altmer hesitated, though he could respect her outward bravery in approaching him alone. She walked into the room and closed the door quietly behind her. Closer now and illuminated by the gentle flame that blazed on, her differentiation only grew. “Why are you here?” It was an odd question that took a few moments for Viirkenos to truly understand. “In your plane?” He answered after a few moments of silence. “We all have our reasons, many grew weary of warring and others viewed our lords as unworthy and unfit to lead.” He did not mind answering the Altmer’s questions, if only because he had not spoken to a mortal in quite some time now. “You are Viirkenos, no? Tales of you, in particular, go back to the beginning of my family’s lineage.” His brow furrowed, mostly confused yet slow to anger. There was something being withheld from him and he knew it. Outside of Oblivion, few truly knew his name aside from the most devout daedrologists. “And who might your family be?” He questioned as the Altmer sat, something oddly sinister about her presence that he could not quite place. “Larenhfaere.” She andwered coldly and simply with no hints of hesitation, as though he would instantly recognise and fear the name. He did recognise it faintly, a bitter old enemy repressed under centuries upon centuries of knowledge, yet his brain refused to honour its presence.

“T’is funny, you do not seem like a dangerous man.” She spoke again before Viirkenos had a chance to retort. The words struck deeper than any sword had done before, their effects lingering upon his skin for far longer than any form of magic casted upon him. Viirkenos stood still and the air grew palpably thick, for a moment, such audacity from one who was never seen such horror, such needless violence, so much bloodshed. He steadied himself. The words were not an insult to him, but rather an understanding none had yet to decipher from outwards stoicism. It was odd, to be understood, mortals had cursed his name and that of his kyn for millennia upon millennia, his own kyn only cared for his strength before abandoning the old general entirely. “Your eyes burn with the fire of the Gods, old and new, such rage yet such…comion. A heart of gold, perhaps, buried beneath such a brusque foundation. But, almost certainly not the man we read of so long ago.” Viirkenos stood in his silence for a moment longer before finally speaking. “Leave.” His tongue was harsh, cold and callous and yet used so easily. With naught more than a nod, the Altmer left and Viirkenos was once again alone in his dimly candlelit chamber - the sharpened steel edge of his axe glistening upon its mount just above the fire. The immortal mind struggled with recognising the name she had given him, but it resonated in a way that only the primitive and instinct driven part of his very being could properly fathom. It was repulsed and threatened by the name, partly too stubborn to be afraid. Time would tell whether or not Larenhfaere was a cure or a disease.