Lycanthropy OAC

The Scourge of the Wereracers

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Origin Myth

The creation of these beasts is a tale muddied by rumor and superstition, but by asking the Ashlanders what they know, one may be able to ascertain the basic premise of this ancient story.  The Ashlanders often use it as a cautionary tale, warning those in their sects against rebellion against their way of life.

The Velothi people were always ones who clung heavily to their traditions.  A great schism occurred between they, and other Chimer people during the War of the First Council.  The Ashlanders then turned to the unforgiving wilds of Morrowind, living a nomadic existence. Against such harsh conditions, it is the faith and traditions of the Velothi that keep them together.

However, as with any culture, there are those it is imposed upon that will not have it, and seek change.  So our tale begins-

In a year and an era far lost to time, there was a young Velothi maiden, whose name has also long faded away, whose skill with a blade and proficiency in defense rivalled the men of her tribe.  However, when she came of age, she was told that women were not allowed to fight for the Ashlanders, for that was a job traditionally held by men. The woman left her home in a rage, disgusted by such practices, taking her skill to the wilds.

Soon many women ed her, creating a tribe, of sorts of their own.  Many of the women were versed in the art of magic, something women were allowed to study in Ashlander culture.  One fateful night, on the date of the Thirteenth of Frostfall, these women, who likened themselves witches ed together to celebrate the Festival of Witches.

However, their dark seance did not wield the results they desired, as the day of the Witches Festival also was held on a dark summoning day, the day the twisted Mephala would come to Nirn.  The Ashlanders never recognized her in their faith, preferring to worship their ancestors. Mephala despised their ignorance, and chose to curse the small group instead of listening to their desires.

Out of their shoulders grew great, leathery wings, their faces elongated into shard, jagged beaks, and they transformed into a beast of the lands.  Almost indiscernible from the cliffracers that plagued the sky, the women looked at themselves and screeched in pain and agony, as they thought they were cursed to such a form forever.  However, as The Eye of Magnus rose again in the sky, they found themselves yet again in merish form. And they saw that they would be plagued to become such a creature by night.

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Physiology and Abilities

There are few creatures that lurk in the unforgiving lands of Morrowind that are more feared and despised than the Cliffracers.  While other creatures tend to use their brute force and strength in order to take on prey, Cliffracers possess some level of intelligence.  The beasts often stalk their prey in the skies over long distances, their victims, all too often utterly unaware that they have become a target.  Their sheer population in Vvardenfell, for example, also makes it likely that one will be pursued by an entire hoard of the winged beasts.

The Were-Cliffracer, more often referred to as a “Wereracer” for  simplicity's sake, is almost indistinguishable from its animal brethren.  They are however, larger, and possess legs and are therefore able to land on the earth and be mobile, using their hind legs, and wings as appendages.  While they are able to move on land unlike their namesake, they have also created a new use for their tail. As a Cliffracer would simply use its tail for resting and grabbing prey, the Wereracer has developed a new way to attack with it as well, due to the difference in weight.

To their detriment, their transformations are almost unpredictable, changing every month.  Some say it has to do with the phases of the moons, but there is little pattern to report such a theory.  In addition, it was a painful transformation, bending and breaking their bones, and stretching skin, thin over their jagged ts.  It is a transformation that leaves the victim naked upon returning to their human or merish form, making it difficult for the Lycanthrope to return back to society once their transformation had commenced.

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The Saint Jiub's Day Massacre

4E 7

After two years of hauling myself through the ashen wastes of Morrowind, and across the icy peaks of the Valus Mountains, I finally set my sights on the Nibenese city of Cheydinhal.

It is unimpressive by Dunmeri standards, though I see much of our influence in their architecture, from towering spires, to it's marsh-like environment, it feels much like my home on the Bitter Coast.  I was reluctant to leave Vvardenfell, but the fallout from Red Mountain made it impossible to stay for a farmer like me. Some brave souls stayed behind, determined to survive, but I knew there was little chance when my Marshmarrow crop failed.

Even my simple pleasures that came with my curse seemed to lose their pleasure, soaring through the sky became less pleasurable when stifled by plumes of smoke and ash.

Though my winged form made some of my travels more rapid, it still took me years to reach the border of Cyrodiil.  And my wings helped little in traversing the mountains, as I found myself often blown off course by wicked gales. This hindered my progress as well, and I reached the city gates a battered man.

The guards were of men, which was not expected, and they had trouble deciphering my speech, I still speaking in the Ashlander tongue, and with a heavy accent while attempting the common language.  Luckily there were many more folk from Morrowind, and a kindly woman stepped in to help me gain access to the city.

"Your name dear," she asked me once we were through the gates?

"Taba-Dan Yansurnummu," I responded, taking her hand in mine and shaking it firmly.

She confided her name in me as well, Zubbu, but was reluctant to tell her family name, as she said many died in the disaster.

"I assume you're fleeing the Ash Clouds,” she asked, dropping her voice low?

“Of course, wouldn’t leave Morrowind otherwise.”

She smiled at me knowingly, “I wouldn’t worry too much, many of the folks here are cut from the same cloth.  You came to the right city.”

We strode off to the Inn, located close to the gate, there were two, the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, and The Newlands lodge, she directed me to the Newlands Lodge, saying that was more for “my type of people”.  And she was correct, inside, I was met with the familiar smell of pipe smoke, chokeweed and brewing sujamma. It smelled like home again, and I inhaled deeply, filling my soul with my longing for my home.

The bar was overflowing with several Dunmeri patrons, all chatting with each other merrily in the bars dim, smokey light.  I ordered myself a canis root tea, not desiring anything stronger. I took my drink to the corner and watched the crowd. Among the chatter I heard several patrons excited about “the festivities” that would be occurring the following day.

A young Dunmer Maiden whisked by my table, and I grabbed her before she could . “Excuse me miss,” I began.  “I have just arrived in Cyrodiil and am unaware, what are these ‘festivities’ everyone seems to be discussing?”

“Well it’s The Saint Jiub’s Day Festival,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement!  “You picked a good day to come to Cheydinhal sir! This is the biggest festival for such a holy day on all of Tamriel!”

She skipped away merrily, leaving me behind in shock.  They celebrate him? Here? Many spoke of him in the mother-land, but I knew little about a celebration across the mountains.  I felt a rod of iron in my spine, rigid and immensely angered by such a notion. I went back up to the counter, and asked the old bartender to slide me a sujamma, for I was going to need one.

I waited until the night was old and the bar was still. The streets of Cheydinhal had no people marching about their streets, save for the guards, who lumbered around sleepily.  In any case, there was no reason as to why they would stop someone from leaving the walls of the city. I strode off into the night, the cold mountain air blowing against my face. I felt the transformation begin, my body creaking and cracking with pain, but I felt little of it, as I knew I had a noble purpose at this time.

Once my wings had formed, I took to the chill of the air, barreling up to the peaks of the mountains.  Though the wind was still strong, I managed to battle my way against such a gale, and summit one of the peaks.  Looking down upon Morrowind, the great cloud of ash spewing from Red Mountain, I let out a great cry. That echoed down the mountain while perched on the great crag.  I heard as the sound tumble down the peak, but saw little reaction. I felt the nerves writhing in my gut as I saw little reaction from my comrades. But I soon heard the great rustle of wings, and the cries of the Cliffracers as they summited the mountain as well.  Soon we all flew in a great winged cloud, the Eye of Magnus rising ahead of us, painting the sky crimson and orange.

The golden glow continued as we descended on the town, dawn had broken, but I remained in my winged form.  I felt a sense of vigor as the spires of Cheydinhal came into view, the lower we got, the more the denizens came into light, decorating the town with streamers and lanterns.  I even spotted the kindly woman from yesterday helping with the decorations.

What a shock came across their face when they saw the dawn eclipsed by hundreds of leathery wings.  A celebration of the massacre of my kin, marred by the very beings they thought had been vanquished. The population of the town dove back into their homes at the sight, barely escaping before myself and my brethren began tearing at their childish decorations, and destroying their faith in the patron Saint.

With what guards were there at the moment, there was little that could be done for the town. My brethren knew what was being celebrated this day, and knew how to crush their faith. Our murderous intent was being rained down onto the populace, and as such we took to targeting the guards first. Due to this, we had missed someone fleeing, getting out word to the Legion of what was happening.

In the hours it took for the Legion to arrive, we had caused as much chaos as possible. The various houses had been damaged, several with their windows smashed. The inns had not been spared this fate either. Nearly one hundred and seven had fallen to my brethren and myself, with my brethren feeding on those that we had killed.

Upon the Legion arriving however, I had already been sitting within the inn. The room had been one my brethren broke into. The resident was someone that had already been killed, giving me access to their clothing as the transformation ended. This only served to help me however, letting me rip the clothes I would put on to make it seem like I was attacked while my brethren had a single member me.

Without my knowledge, the legion began to march into the city, clearing the buildings one by one. By the time they got near, I had begun to scream from the pain of the transformation, hiding it as fear. Though it had put me at risk, I used the situation to my own advantage, pushing myself to get dressed. As I left my bestial form, my brethren had begun to draw closer. As they did, a Legion soldier charged in to the room, striking him to yell. "Run! Get to safety!"

With those words, I ran in a false state of fear, limping slightly as I did due to the pain. They were evacuating everyone thankfully, healing those that needed it. The luck of the day was just improving, allowing me to hide within the residents. Watching as fifteen Legionnaires fell before all was said and done. Few of my brethren had escaped alive, yet our goal had been accomplished. Their faith in Saint Jiub would shake.

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Writing By: [Nerevarguar| ]

and [Mephala| ]

Screenshots also by Guar

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#HouseIndoril

#LycanfellOAC