The Last Dwemer

The story of Chenzel

The floor was cold and hard. Chenzel, barely regaining consciousness, began to slowly lift himself off of it and up onto his feet. He wiped his eyes as his vision slowly became less blurry, and rubbed at his sore back. It had to be Loredas. Loredas was always the worst day of his week. And of all the days of the week, it had to be on Loredas that his father sent him to Aspurgir.

Aspurgir was a curmudgeonly old Snow Elf who always looked like he had eaten some bad horker, but he was the finest alchemist and mage in Bzand-Thumz, and his father needed a cure for his skin problems. Damn Snow Elf. The way he had spoken of the Dwemer, of rebellion, he deserved punishment. Except he couldn't even do that, because before he could tell the Snow Elf how he really thought of him, he was blasted into unconsciousness. Stupid damn mage. His vision had cleared up, and he could finally stand up correctly, without his feet feeling like metal. Aspurgir was gone. "Damn Snow Elf must've run away after he knocked me out," said Chenzel.

"I wonder if there's a skin treatment I could… borrow from him while he's gone. It's not like he ever used one." Chenzel chuckled, and looked around the room. But as he looked, his smile and chuckling dissipated. This… couldn't be the same room. The walls… the furniture… so dusty… He paused and sat down on one of the benches. The room's layout was the same as before he was knocked out; the table on the northern wall, the door to the bedroom on the eastern wall, the elevator to the west. But all the furniture, all the things that made a house a house or a shop a shop… gone. The southern exit to the rest of the city had been caved in with rocks and stone. The beds were nothing more than tatters of sackcloth, and the chairs dusty and without coverings. Scrap metal was piled around in corners and flung onto desks, and all the art and pottery was gone. "What in Oblivion happened…?" said Chenzel.

One thing he didn't notice before was the corpse bent over the table.

The very presence of the corpse gave him a violent shudder, and, after the initial shock, he walked over to investigate. Around his body were strange coins, made of gold and inscribed with a man's head. He picked one up and looked at it, curiously. He then carefully moved the head of the corpse towards himself, and he once again shuddered when he saw that this corpse was partially mummified. It was a man, for sure, with a long grey beard. He was clad in simple black robes, spattered with blood and having a large knife wound near the spine. He deduced that he had been studying when someone stabbed him from behind, with a shortsword or the like.

In moving the head, he also found the book the man must've been studying when he died. Actually, he thought, it was entirely possible that it wasn't a book for studying. It was handwritten, and there were writing implements around. Chenzel picked up the book and examined the writing. "Nordic," he said, with a grim certainty. "I should have guessed. Barbarians." He turned it around, keeping his hand on the inside to hold the page. The book's leather binding was inscribed on the front with "Gauldur Daakboj" He flipped back to the page it was open to. He attempted to glean some insight from the latest entry. He read the scrawled Nordic handwriting slowly: "I am… scared… sons… of mine… are trying… kill… me." He was no expert on Nordic, but his rudimentary translation told him that the man had nothing to do with him at all.

He noticed the various potions on the counter and put them in his bag. He took the coins as well, just in case. He then walked over to the elevator and pulled the lever. Its rusty gears ground to life and began to slowly lift the platform towards the surface. He sat on the platform and thought to himself. This was all very odd, after all. The tower was the same, but it looks as if it has been many years since anyone's been here. The elevator… the only way it would run this poorly is through years of disuse. What had that stupid wizard done?

The elevator finally reached the top of the shaft and ground to a halt, opening the brass grates before him. A torrent of dirt and gravel barreled into the elevator, filling most of the floor about two feet deep. Chenzel dug his feet out and ascended the dirt ramp that had formed, exiting at the base of a small tower. He brushed himself off a bit more and pushed open the doors.

Chenzel hadn't been to the surface much recently, so the cold wind that immediately whipped his face sent shivers down his body. He wouldn't be too cold anywhere else; his Dwemer armor protected him everywhere from the neck down. But his unshielded face would end up being very cold if he didn't find some way to warm it up.

He wandered aimlessly around the Dwemer tower for the better part of an hour, trying to determine which direction he should head. It was nearly dark; he needed a place to sleep, lest he be attacked by bandits or Nords or the like. He went back down to the tower, digging the lever out of the dirt and pulling it once again. When he had finally come back down, he pushed more debris out of the elevator, exited, and opened the bedroom door on the eastern wall. The bed was relatively intact, and he could probably keep warm if he took all the remaining cloth and bundled up in it. He stripped off his Dwemer armor and lay in the stone bed. If he could walk to somewhere like Nchuand-Zel, he could definitely ask about what happened. But that was at least a three days' journey from Bzand-Thumz, and he still hadn't found any food.

When he woke up, he grunted and rubbed his back. Still sore. He slowly put on his armor, which had become very cold overnight, and put his sword into the hilt on the waist. He ascended in the elevator again, pulling the rusty lever and grinding the machine's gears to life. Before heading out, he climbed the tower's stairs. The tables were covered in various mechanical parts; gyros, gears, and struts laid about. He opened the chest on the table and found an old Dwemer shortsword, which he gave a couple swings and a stab. He stuck it in his bag and continued searching.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another book. Chenzel picked up the book and examined its spine. In the Nordic alphabet, as he read, it said "Chimarvidium". His eyes widened. Why would an old Dwemer folk tale be in the Nordic language? He opened to the title page and read, "Ancient… Stories… of the Dwemer." He wouldn't call Chimarvidium an ancient tale, but it was one of his favorite old bedtime stories. Chenzel flipped through the pages. Still Nordic… but recognizable as the Chimarvidium story. Curious. He put it in his bag and opened the balcony door, grinding as its hinges creaked open.

Looking out over the horizon, he saw the snowy mountains and familiar terrain of Dwemereth. How had so much changed, yet so little? Off in the distance, he saw a fire. Fire meant civilization. And if nothing else, then, civilization meant food. And after 16 hours without food, Chenzel was desperate to sate his appetite.

He exited the tower and walked across the ridge and down. A fox, completely ignoring him, ran by chasing a rabbit. Chenzel smiled, comforted at seeing another living thing on the barren, snowy landscape. Finally making it up the other side of the ridge, he could see the fire. It was a Nordic camp, a simple fire pit surrounded by rocks, which the Nords sat on. On the fire pit, however, were delicious hunks of rabbit and venison, roasting on a spit. Chenzel licked his chops. Snap out of it! Those Nords are invading your land! He shook his head and drew his sword.

Chenzel charged into the camp, shouting "FOR DWEMERETH!" The bandits were surprised and frightened at the bronze warrior sprinting to them, and gathered their swords. Three of the braver Nords ran at Chenzel and fought him. Chenzel slashed at them, making huge sweeping cuts in their fur armor. They fell to the ground, the fur on their armor dyed the color of their own blood. He then killed the remaining two Nords, who were attempting escape, running away like little girls. Sheathing his now-bloodied sword, he walked back, grabbing a hunk of roast rabbit from the spit, chewing it slowly. He had disciplined himself as all Dwemer had to enjoy food, not gobble it down like savage Nords. The juicy rabbit meat filled his mouth and made his whole body warm, and, for the first time since he had stepped outside, he couldn't notice the cold winds on his face.

After he had eaten his fill, he wandered forth. He crossed the nearby river and climbed the hill. It was nearly nightfall again, and he needed to find somewhere safe to sleep. He walked down the hill a ways, but stopped short. As he walked down the hill, torchlight became visible. More Nords? He crouched down and walked nearer.

These did not look like Nords. They were wearing fancy metal armor, and they spoke in a more sophisticated tongue. They intrigued him, and he came closer. Suddenly, one of the men turned around. The man stopped, and his brow furrowed. He whispered something to the other men. One of the officers, a man in a fancy steel helmet, pointed to Chenzel while speaking to the rest of the men. Chenzel became scared. He had obviously been found out, but he had no idea who these strange men were and why they weren't immediately attacking. The men advanced towards him, and he yelped and began to get up. The men ran to him and pinned him down, still examining him with curiosity.

He shouted at his captors. "Let go of me! What are you doing? Who are you? Release me, vile Nordic scum!"

"Muuz chal kanthaln! Duum mthuz chend avatheland! Thuz bzamd? Chun muuz kanthaln, Akamora vakzand ngulz!"

"Legate, do you have any idea what he's saying?"

"Not the slightest. I've been to all the Meri domains, and none of them speak anything like this." The mysterious elf had stopped thrashing about and looked at the men. The Legate turned to his captive and gestured to him, saying, "What do they call you?"

"Duz?"

"What is your name?"

The captive looked at him again quizzically, not knowing whether or not to treat this as an interrogation or a friendly question. The Legate thought for a moment and pointed to himself.

"My name is Antonius." He did this again, putting extra emphasis on himself. "Antonius." He then pointed to his captive, nodding his head to promote a response. The elf paused for a moment.

"Chenzel", he said, after a moment, "Chenzel Bthurzac."

"Well," said a nearby soldier, "We got a name. That's a start. What now?"

"Seeing as he's already got some armor and a blade, we could probably put him to use."

"Sir, are you crazy? For all we know, he could be a Stormcloak spy."

"A Stormcloak spy? Soldier, when have you EVER seen an elf in the Stormcloak Army?"

"But sir… maybe that's just it. Maybe they sent an elf as a spy so nobody would suspect him."

"I'll tell you now, soldier, the day the Stormcloaks help an elf is the day Oblivion freezes over. Got that? And just look at him. Confused, that's what he is. Not some damned Stormcloak spy. Let go of him." The soldiers obeyed. Chenzel sat up and rubbed his wrists.

The Legate turned to Chenzel and motioned to his sword. "Do you know how to fight?"

"Fe..feght?" He wasn't used to using such breathy language.

"Yes, fight… you know…" The Legate then held out his sword and held it, motioning it towards Chenzel. "Fight? With a blade?" He ran his hand along the blade of his sword as he said "blade".

"Ah," said Chenzel, as he pulled out his sword, "Feght?"

"Yes, yes! Good!" said the Legate. He crouched down and led him up to the top of the hill. "You see those soldiers? Down there?" He motioned with his fingers from his eyes to the Stormcloaks advancing through the valley." Chenzel nodded. Pointing to them, the Legate said, "We fight them."

Chenzel nodded and began to stand up, nearly exposing the soldiers's cover. "Ah, wait, no!" the Legate said, stopping Chenzel. "Wait," he said, motioning his palm to the ground. They came around down the slope until they were at the base of the hill.

"Wait for my signal."

As they waited, around the bend came the Stormcloaks, marching back to their camp, fully unaware of the Imperial soldiers waiting for them.

"CHARGE!" shouted the Legate, and his troops got up and attacked.

"Imperial scum…" muttered the Stormcloak captain, drawing his sword. The Imperals ran towards them, screaming "FOR THE EMPIRE!".

Meanwhile, Chenzel pushed into the middle of their number, slicing through their weak leather with ease. Only two minutes had passed before the last Stormcloak soldier fled from the scene. Chenzel chased after him, and knocked him out with the hilt of his sword. The poor man collapsed on the ground, bleeding profusely.

"By Akatosh…" exclaimed one of the legionnaires.

Chenzel returned to the legionnaires, sword held loosely in his hand. "Guht feght?" he asked, making many of the soldiers chuckle. Legate Antonius walked up to him. "Very good fight," he said, smiling. "Come with us. We'll make sure you have a place to sleep."

Chenzel looked at the legionnaires, and nodded to show his agreement. He followed close behind them as they went back to camp, a foreigner amongst a group of strangers. He still understood little of these strange men. Atmorans were taller, usually, with lighter hair and skin, and a much more pronounced accent. Just as well, they spoke a language entirely different than the Nords, and wore ornate armor and clothing. And surely, if they were Nords, they would have killed him on sight! Now, the enemy men, the ones he had fought, they surely were Nords. Their physical features and accent were dead giveaways. Perhaps they were warring races of men? The way that the dark-haired men held themselves over the Nords reminded him of the way the High Elves held themselves over the Chimer and the Ayleids. So, these High Men, as he would call them, led him to his bedroll.

They motioned to the tent. "Hic est lecto. Cura et requiescere paulisper." It sounded like they were ordering him, but he had no qualms about being able to finally sleep in a warm bed. "Placere, cibum accipere." They offered him some bread and cheese, and a half-bottle of ale. He took them, saying "Many thanks." The High Men looked at him, puzzled. Chenzel nodded and smiled, saying it again. "Many thanks to you, stranger." The men smiled back. "Dormire bene."

Chenzel walked to his tent and sat down at the chair outside, happily enjoying his meal. If these men were kind enough to let him have food and shelter, then surely they could lead him to a Dwemer city. He laid down to rest, belly full and body warm, and slept.

*Author's Note: I tried the best I could to simulate the language barrier by making it so that neither point of view can understand the other's directly. This will change as Chenzel learns "Cyrodiilic".

*Disclaimer: The backstory and inspiration come from a wonderful mod titled "The Last Dwemer" by Druesling. I don't claim to have invented Chenzel or his backstory, only what happens after. So, we're cool, ok? :)