This is the autobiographical journal of Arvil Bren, a somewhat reluctant hero who has been placed on an unknown quest by powers that he barely knows exist. Follow his journey as it is updated daily, Monday through Friday, and enjoy! These are the most recent entries in Arvil Bren's third journal; Politics of the Redoran. His first journal can be found in its entirety here. His second journal, Trail of the Archmage can be found here.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Day Forty-two: Questions or peace?

In prison I wrote every day. I spread myself across paper, where I could see.When my father hanged himself in a cell down the hall I spread out my torment, and I survived. I wrote every day, filling the empty void of days. Now mostly I write at night as my days are full. Perhaps, sometimes, I write just from habit, but I find I cannot sleep otherwise. Often it seems just a recap of a days events, offering me little glimpse into myself. Today must be different, and I write here in the broad daylight, perched on a fence, soothed by the satisfied grunting of the guar herd. Drulene has gone to her neighbor to return the guar. I look to my journal in search of myself.

The legend of the Nerevarine haunts me. My sleep was disturbed by a dream. My thoughts linger on the desecrated tomb. The swirl of Morrowind politics threatens to engulf me. I do not know where to turn, or who to trust.

The Tribunal Temple reveres the memory of Nerevar. Their greatest general; a contemporary of the immortal living gods who reign supreme in the ancestral pantheon of the Dunmer; the Tribunal. Nerevar, who in a way seems to have been even greater than the three who survive, was lost, but not forgotten. Would the Tribunal welcome their lost brother's return if the prophecy were fulfilled? They persecute the Nerevarene cult, and put down the prophecy. Do they know it false? Or fear it true?

And the Empire; where would they stand really? The Dunmer whisper that only Nerevar has ever truly united them, and wait for the Nerevarine to do so once more. The Empire uses the splits and tensions among the Temple and the ruling houses to keep Morrowind under thrall. But the Emperor knows this province has never been truly conquered. Morrowind squirms under the Imperial heel, perhaps dangerous in its unrest. A false Nerevarine would serve them well. They may intend to create a Nerevarene, and they may be using me as the raw material. Am I the only one, or like Sharn sending me for the skull, am I just the latest one?

What if they succeed? Could I deliver the Dunmer, falsely united, to some final break in their resistance? How would I bear my own reflection if I falsly led these proud people into Imperial ways, leaving their tombs to the bandits and their hearts to the cliff racers?

Imperial rule brings peace and prosperity; a rule of law, and comfort. But in the wake of that law ride the lawless, the bandits and freebooters pulled along to the edge of the civilization. Under the weight of invading law the pride of a nation twists into the bigoted hatred of the Cammona Tong. In Vvardenfell, the land itself seems to resist, and Red Mountain may roar its protest. The Dwemer could not stand against it, what chance the Empire?

I was born on the day, to the uncertain parents. Could I actually be the Nerevarine? Me, a Breton of High rock? But if I couldn't be the Nerevarine the Empire wouldn't consider trying to pass me off as the Nerevarine. I am spread on the paper of this journal, spread thin, but I still don't see.

Later. Even with my journal sated for the day, I cannot sleep without writing. I spent the day laughing with Drulene, hearding the guar, tending the plants. The work was hard, and early sleep should come easily. To be the Nerevarine must I have the heart of a Dunmer, or merely hold one dear?


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