Part of the Morrowind Writing Competition organized by the Morrowind Writers’ Guild (Discord Link: https://discord.gg/ZfmEHtxWjE)
Scroll to the bottom for the context of this story.
Fara laid the sickle across her knee, wiping the soot from her brow. Around her, other farmers toiled silently, shoulders hunched. Somewhere in the distance, a netch moaned a low, mournful sound that seemed too much like weeping.
“It grows poorer every season,” Drel mused. He was a broad-shouldered man with a face weathered beyond his age. He snapped a saltrice stalk in half and showed its withered core. “Blight, even this far.”
Fara frowned. Something felt off today, a tension she could not place. Then she heard it, a rhythmic groan followed by the unmistakable crunch of packed ash under footfalls. She paused swinging, saltrice stalks dangling from her fingers, and squinted toward the horizon. A procession of figures moved where the red sky met the land. The other workers were still bent over the field, their knives scraping against blighted stalks. It was the only sound until she spoke.
“On the road,” she said.
Heads snapped up. Drel’s face twisted into a scowl. “Pilgrims?” Drel’s voice carried a nervous edge.
Fara shot him a glare. He knew damn well pilgrims had not come through in years. “Walkers,” she corrected.
The figures came closer, their shapes lopsided and grotesque. Their heads swayed unnaturally with each step. She gripped her scythe tightly. “Six. No, seven.”
“Take Valen and Fathis,” she said. “Safeguard the pastures. The rest of us will start moving the harvest.”
“But—”
“Now,” she snapped. Drel knew as well as she what losing the Guar would mean. Their scrappy little village would be broken by diaspora, its once-loyal inhabitants scattering across the ruined province in search of stability—though they would find none.
Drel hesitated a moment before stomping off, Fathis and Valen following. The other two workers gathered behind her, eyes wide, unarmed and frightened. They had encountered blightwalkers in the past, but none that looked like these.
The first of them stepped into view, a bald figure draped in tattered robes, legs stained to the knees with ash. Fara tried to focus on its face but immediately regretted doing so. Its features were stretched and disjointed, as though someone had smashed its skull and reshaped it in crude form. She could not tell what manner of being it had once been. Its mouth opened, awkwardly. It can barely remember how to speak, Fara thought.
“He dreams you… still…” it said, at length.
Its voice was not quite right. On the surface, its speech sounded deep and refined. But beneath the veneer of propriety there was something altogether wrong like a beast attempting to simulate the tones of a nobleman. Wet, sloshing sounds resonated gently in its intonations, only perceptible due to the deliberate manner in which it spoke.
She glanced to the reapers behind her. “Mehra, take what you can back to the granary. And gather the men. Pass out arms. This might be—” she stopped short as the walkers reached the edge of the field. As the first of them waded in, the saltrice stalks at its feet bent backward and wilted. The others soon joined, and within seconds, the entire harvest was blackening before their eyes.
Bile rose in Fara’s throat. Months of toiling and suffering to get anything to grow in the ash-ridden soil, fighting against blight and desperate kagouti, for it all to wither and die in mere blinks of an eye.
The lead walker stretched out its arms. “He dreams you all…” it continued.
“Azura save us,” Llos muttered behind her.
As if anyone—god, mortal, or kingdom—still cared for this place or its people. The Emperor had not been heard from in nearly a decade—presumed dead. Fara, once believed the emperor assassinated—it would have been trivial after Cyrodiil City’s fall. But with the reality of the Brass God ever harder to ignore, she had recently grown to doubt his death was caused by anything so mundane. Regardless, she had buried such speculation ages ago; Tamriel no longer had need of political theorists.
Mehra stumbled back into the field, broken rake in hand. “What are they?” she whispered.
“I dont know., but they aren’t staying.” Irritated, she looked back at the cowering Dunmeri girl. “I told you to warn the village. Gather the men!”
She looked back to the walkers and spotted, far out on the horizon, many more rising over the hill, the sky behind them painted blood-red.
Mehra fled, running south toward the huts. “The women too!” Fara called after her. They would need every able body they had.
Llos dropped his scythe. “This isn’t the Legion,” he spat. “Now’s the time to run, not stand our ground!”
Fara scowled at his spinelessness before looking back at the tide cresting the hill. There were dozens of them. They would be unable to stand against them all. Llos was right. They were farmers and herders struggling to survive, not soldiers. And she was but one amongst them, no longer a general.
The first figure neared, its head twitching in response to every word they spoke. Its eyes burned faintly. “The dreams are beautiful…” it said, its voice still a mimicry of princely charm.
Every syllable sent chills down her spine. How could she demand the settlers stand against this thing, when it instilled with her such fear—she, with decades of training and experience?
“Go catch up to Mehra,” she said. “Then saddle the guar. Everyone will flee. The old shall ride and the young shall run. I’ll hold them off.” She gripped her scythe, nearly laughing. It was not a proper weapon. And these were extraordinary enemies. She would be lucky to last minutes. “Any who wish to help may join me here.”
Llos stumbled. “B-but, you can’t—”
“Go!” she shouted.
Hesitantly, he darted south, toward the village.
The people would run and, along the way, some would die. But they would find new land and settle again. Until the wave of death rose against their new home. Then they would run again.
It was the way of things. They all had heard the stories from across the province—from across Tamriel. She had been deluding herself to think they would be ready. They were not fighters.
And she was no farmer. Despite understanding the wisdom of a tactical retreat, she would not spend the rest of her life running.
A chorus of haunting murmurs filled the air, the words indecipherable. Fara backed toward the ashen remains of a tree, ensuring nothing could flank her. She hardened her resolve and glanced back at the village. No reinforcements, only the crimson glow of dusk.
Fara was a fighter.
She charged, a single blazing streak against the encroaching army. The blade sang through the air, meeting its marks with lethal effect. Limbs fell, and bodies crumpled, but the horde appeared endless.
She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder—one of them had clawed her. She elbowed its face, bone crunching beneath the impact. Her wound throbbed, warmth spreading down her arm, but the adrenaline kept her going.
The ash swirled around her as she fought, each step sending shock waves of pain through her shoulder. Her breaths grew ragged. But surrender was not an option.
Darkness tinged the edges of her vision, but she forced it away. This was her stand. Here, among the ruined crops and tainted soil, she held the line.
Let them come.
This is piece of “fanfiction” set within the universe of the video game The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind. It’s an alternate future/present story imagining the world of Tamriel if King Gortwog’s ending in The Elder Scrolls II: Daggerfall was the only one to occur. No Warp in the West, no miracle of peace, and the Imperial City was destroyed. With Numidium still in operation, rather than rebuild, the Emperor likely fled to safety.
I imagine that under such chaos, the Emperor never saw fit to release the Nerevarine to Morrowind. And, without intervention, Dagoth Ur was free to complete Akulakhan. Though I doubt he felt the need to, as Numidium was never destroyed.
Due to his proximity to the heart of Lorkhan, I surmise would have been able to easily take control of Numidium and begin spreading the divine disease much earlier and farther than he originally intended.
That is when this story takes place.
However, if things were to continue on into the Oblivion crisis, I’m not sure there would be anyone around to stop it. The Emperor is likely dead or not in Mundus, having never met the Champion of Cyrodiil. If the Amulet of Kings exists, there wouldn’t be anyone around to use it to relight the Dragonfires. If Martin is still alive, there’s probably no one around to inform him he is the bastard son of Uriel.
I’d like to think that Numidium faces off against the imposing giant of Mehrunes Dagon, in a sort of fantastical Daedra versus mech fight.
If anyone was alive before such a face-off, I doubt they survived it.
Taking Skyrim into account, Alduin was of course scheduled to return, no matter what. It’s highly unlikely the Dragonborn still exists, even if the Greybeards still do, meaning there is probably no one to stop the old time-dragon from eating the world and putting this kalpa out of its misery.
© 2026 Copyright — Forrest R. Roberts, All Rights Reserved
