Sword of Umber.
It's better not to get involved with Umbra. There's always trouble when he's around.
Barbas.
Surana, the jewel of Vandefell, was sinking into twilight. The evening chill was wafting from Lake Masobi, its waters reflecting the lights of the city and the smoky pink strip of sunset. And beyond the door, softly illuminated by a red lantern, the latest rumors were being shared. Helvian, the owner of this establishment, unabashed by her nudity, spoke about the mad little one wandering the hills east of the city.
A short note in the yellowed pages of a diary – that was how the acquaintance with the legend began.
* * *
No one can say for sure what metal this sword was forged from, but those who had the misfortune to see it have little doubt on this matter. For only ebony ore, mined in the mines of Morrowind, is used to craft the matte black weapons, almost unparalleled in sharpness and strength. Not every blacksmith can work with such material. And surely, not every warrior can afford ebony weapons – light only to those accustomed to such deadly weight, they are valued not by their weight but become hundreds of times more expensive.
Who knows where the ancient witch Nænor Verr obtained such a sword. Perhaps received as payment from a noble for those services that aren't spoken of aloud, but which facilitate a swift change of rulers on the throne? Maybe it was the only thing the wandering hero could use to pay for his cure from vampirism or lycanthropy? Or the most trivial option – theft or murder? Though, as Sheogorath plays, the blade might very well have been honestly traded for a heavy purse of gold.
Who would even remember Nænor Verr if she hadn't enchanted this sword? The golden patterns traditionally adorning ebony weapons have worn away under the torrent of years and blood, but neither the witch's magic nor the sharpness of the blade are subject to time. Turn the sword so that light falls on it at an angle – and you will see the purple shimmer of ancient enchantments. Yagrum Bagarn, the last surviving dwemer, writes in his notes on the most famous artifacts that its purpose is to catch the souls of its victims. A rather strange magic for one of the most powerful blades in Tamriel, but that's only at first glance.
Executed for her dark deeds, Nænor managed to hide the weapon. Appearing time and again on the canvas of history, it serves those whom it deems worthy. Though “serves” – that's not entirely accurate, to be truthful – it’s completely inaccurate. The blade’s owner resembles only slightly the ones they have slain in battle – it merely stretches their death by time.
* * *
4E 426, Morrowind.
- Monsters, one type of which could kill any other, have fallen by my hand. I have seen the horrors of war and the disgusting indulgence of the world. The destruction of entire peoples. Burning villages, as one hand held a torch while the other poured water on the fire. I saved cities from armies of daedra – and killed innocents in the glory of countless aristocrats. I did everything in the name of battle, I and my sword. The only thing left for me now is death. But the gods have deceived me.
The wastelands of Molag Amur began suddenly, not bothering with farewells to the departing travelers from the green Ascodian Islands. As soon as one stepped through the southern gates of Surana – the riot of colors and shapes was left behind, replaced by the gray landscape, dried tree trunks and steam rising from the fissures in the ground.
Seeing an unexpectedly bright spot in such a dreary landscape, the cliff racer headed straight for it. No one knows what takes place in the small heads of those annoying kings of the Morrowind sky, who have allegedly chased even dragons from their domain. But a strike is needed when meeting them, in order to shorten the life and ideally the population of these oversized birds.
And the wanderer in the templar armor of the higher officials of the Imperial Legion was not averse to offering his capable assistance to this righteous endeavor. The bowstring of the crossbow snapped, driving the first bolt into its left wing. The cliff racer cawed and began to descend. Beyond that, the process continued without its assistance, transforming into a fall – the second bolt struck it in the throat. The bird sprawled on the gray ash, spreading its huge wings and covering the meager clumps of grass with them. Ensuring that none of the fired projectiles were more fit for battle, the imperial stepped over the corpse and continued on his way.
Once a warrior, he considered bows and crossbows the weapons of cowards. That opinion remains unchanged to this day, but the far greater hatred towards specific samples of the Vvardenfell fauna forced him to overcome his dislike. When cliff racers hovered high above, cawing grotesquely and blotting out the sky with their wings, only arrows could confidently cover the distance that the sword so lacked for a strike. After all, one cannot leap into the air.
For some time, the imperial continued along the riverbank, being guided by Helvian’s directions, before turning left. His path ran at the foot of the hills, marked by the corpses of two cliff racers and one wild guar. When the first worry appeared that he might have muddled things up, the trodden path turned aside and up the slope. There, on the stony ledge, the warrior found that which he sought.
- ...But the gods have deceived me. I just want to die as a true warrior should – in battle, but have never yet encountered an equal adversary. Perhaps you might take the chance to fight and fulfill my desire?
A orc clad in his people's armor fell silent. On his shield, a grotesque face froze in a frightening grimace, the breastplate gleamed under the sun’s rays which occasionally pierced through the cloud cover. The mask, shaped to match the visor of the helmet, remained, of course, impassive.
