Gathering Clouds, Chapter 6

  • Chapter 6

     

     

     

     

                              One of the many Akaviri traits that the Shadeclaws had preserved over the centuries was their customary politeness and courtesy, on which they placed even greater emphasis than the High Elves of the Summerset Isles. This almost obsessive fixation was the butt of numerous jokes within the Empire’s inner circle. ‘A Shadeclaw could kill you in half a second, then spend ten minutes apologising to your corpse.’ ‘How did the Shadeclaws end the Stormhold Revolts? They asked nicely, and everyone dropped dead.’ And so on and so forth.

     

                    The men making such jokes would be quite surprised to see how direct and to the point a Shadeclaw meeting was.

     

                    ‘The elf boy cannot stay,’ Bengakhi said shortly.

     

                    ‘In all honesty he has more Nordic features than usual – ‘

     

                    ‘Beside the point,’ the advisor snapped. ‘The boy is not of Po’ Tun descent. To even think of making him a Shadeclaw… it is unheard of.’

     

                    ‘Are you so mired in tradition, Bengakhi-dro?’ Jorra said, growing irritated. ‘Harrow has already stayed here for two years. He has begun to take lessons and shows all signs of being a promising new student. Every time the Council convenes, you summon me and ask me of his progress, then proceed to dismiss all that you hear and call for his expulsion. Is Tsukikage such a small place that we cannot tolerate the presence of a single child?’

     

                    ‘Tsukikage is a village of shinobi,’ Benghaki’s voice rose as his own temper flared. ‘All who reside within are trained as shinobi, are expected to execute missions as shinobi, and remain shinobi even beyond their deaths. I am not confident in the boy’s ability to withstand our mutations. Rendanshu was designed for the Po’ Tun physiology. Also, consider how different he appears to the others. Children can be cruel. How well would he be able to fit in with his peers? And what uses would we have for an unenhanced Shadeclaw with no claws who is incapable of working in a cell or a team?’

     

                    ‘The same we could get of a Shadeclaw who does not kill, or one maimed in battle,’ Jorra said quietly. ‘Surprisingly many. And that’s assuming that Harrow never rises above your meagre expectations.’

     

                    Grandmaster Takarro sighed and his claws clicked on his desk. ‘For the fourth time – you are both right. Bengakhi, your concerns are not unfounded. But as Jorra has said on numerous occasions, it would be completely heinous to leave a young child, incapable of fending for himself, to starve or freeze on his own, let alone Arngrimur-do’s son.’

     

                    ‘If he becomes a liability – ‘

     

                    ‘Enough,’ Takarro’s hand scythed through the air with a soft hiss, sending a sharp wind whirling around the Council Chamber. The lanterns placed around the room flickered, and Bengakhi subsided. ‘Harrow stays. I will brook no further debate on this matter.’

     

                    ‘Thank you, Grandmaster,’ Jorra said, relieved.

     

                    The white Po’ Tun paused, then nodded with the barest hint of a smile. ‘On to the kits of Year 182 as a whole, then. Dejira-ko, if you will?’

     

                    A female Shadeclaw with a red sash over her tunic rose from her knee.

     

                    ‘Grandmaster, Advisor Bengakhi, members of the Council, Master Jorra,’ she said, bowing to each person in the chamber. ‘It is my great pleasure to report that the entire class is growing up healthy and well. They have started learning their letters, and most are beginning to learn how to converse with others. There are… some exceptions, however.

     

                    ‘Two boys and one girl are advancing quicker than the rest, and have proven themselves already capable of talking in complete sentences. They are detailed in a footnote on my report.’

     

                    Takarro glanced over the parchment, and his eyebrows rose. ‘I see Harrow is among the three.’

     

                    ‘Indeed. Were his mother not an elven mage of such prodigious talent, I would even call his growth unnatural. He possesses a vocabulary of more than two hundred words, and is showing interest in complex reading material.’

     

                    Bengakhi rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Jorra tried to keep a proud smirk from stretching across his face.

     

                    ‘As for the kits with unsatisfactory performances so far…’ Dejira stopped, looking slightly uncomfortable.

     

                    ‘It’s Ambarro, isn’t it?’ Takarro guessed. ‘Don’t worry, Dejira-ko. The Grandmaster is supposed to remain impartial, after all.’

     

                    ‘With all due respect, then, Takarro-ri,’ the caretaker continued reluctantly. ‘Ambarro is the oldest of the class, nearing three years old now, and he has yet to start speaking at all. We must consider that he might be impaired in some way…’

     

                    She trailed off as Jorra winced.

     

                    The Grandmaster picked at the side of his mane, and the Council Chamber lapsed into an awkward silence.

     

                    ‘On to more important matters,’ Bengakhi said, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere. And so the meeting continued. Takarro never uttered another word throughout the numerous reports, assessments and projections.

     

                    ‘I hope Takarro-ri isn’t angry with me,’ Dejira said in a subdued voice as the Council adjourned and Shadeclaws spilled out into the hallways.

     

                    ‘No offense, Dejira-ko,’ Jorra said. ‘But calling the Grandmaster’s grandson a simpleton might not have been a good idea.’

     

                    ‘You have a rather low opinion of my temperament, Jorra,’ Takarro said, materialising behind them without even a whisper of fabric. Jorra’s grin vanished and reappeared on the Grandmaster’s face. ‘Many apologies for interrupting your chat, Dejira-ko, but could I borrow Jorra for a moment? I promise to return him mostly intact.’

     

                    Dejira bowed and walked off.

     

                    ‘Now then, Jorra,’ Takarro said, still in jovial tones. Jorra felt his blue-grey fur rustle in apprehension nonetheless. ‘Join me for a meal as we talk about my potentially challenged grandson.’

     

     

                    Takarro set his chopsticks down, satisfied. ‘I never fail to be impressed with what our chefs can do with salmon,’ he said, suppressing a belch.

     

                    Jorra blinked. ‘But they haven’t even cooked it.’

     

                    ‘Exactly! The minimalist approach!’

     

                    ‘You wanted to talk about Ambarro, Grandmaster?’ Jorra interrupted.

     

                    ‘Ah, yes,’ Takarro reached for a glass of soymilk. ‘I have a favour to ask of you. You were in the same year as my daughter, and I know you mourned her passing as much as I did.’

     

                    Jorra’s face fell, and he saw sadness flit across the elder Po’ Tun’s eyes as well.

     

                    ‘Kodi and Verra were two of the finest shinobi to ever grace the halls of Tsukikage. They will be remembered as heroes, Takarro-ri.’

     

                    The Grandmaster drew a deep breath and drained his glass. ‘I should be wizened enough by now to know that the pain never goes away… but I didn’t drag you out to the eatery to stir up old sorrows. It’s their son that concerns me.’

     

                    ‘You need not even ask, Grandmaster,’ Jorra said, standing. ‘Of course I will keep an eye on Ambarro. I know your duties must take up most of your time.’

     

                    Takarro’s shoulders slackened. ‘You’re a good man, Jorra. Thank you. This isn’t anything as binding as an order from the Council, so please just think of it as a favour for an old cat.’ He chuckled. ‘With the amount of attention that our caretakers and teachers devote to our younglings, however, I doubt you’ll have to do too much. So don’t think you’re getting out of missions just yet.’

     

                    Jorra smiled lightly, then sat down and finished his dish. When he looked up from the plate, the Grandmaster had disappeared.

     

                    ‘Always so theatrical,’ he muttered, wiping his mouth. ‘At any rate, I’d better check on my new charges.’

     

                    The eatery led out to a large terrace that overlooked the Village. The sight never failed to take his breath away. Snow-capped mountains stretched out below, and frozen runoff glistened on Tsukikage’s roofs of wood and stone, golden sunlight refracting off the crystalline ice.

     

                    A group of adolescent shinobi-in-training dashed across the rooftops in their routine morning training session, their instructor following close behind, scolding his students every time their feet skidded on the slippery surface. They get faster every year, Jorra marvelled, leaping from the balcony himself. He landed eighty feet below without a sound, brushed a few errant flecks of snow from his leg, and headed west.

     

                    He heard them before he saw them, youthful shouts and laughs ringing out from the far side of the nursery. Jorra circled around the building and into the yard, where a dozen children were lining up behind a series of balancing beams. They were watching a small boy with rapt attention as he walked slowly on the polished wood, frowning with concentration, his arms stretched out to either side. He inched forward until he reached the end of the beam, then jumped off, landing steadily with his knees slightly bent.

     

                    ‘Very good, Harrow-ma.’ Dejira was the only one who clapped – the other children stared at the unfurred youngster as if they weren’t sure what to make of him.

     

                    Harrow did not seem to enjoy his praise. Instead, his lips tightened and he said sullenly, ‘I can’t do it like you, Dejira.’

     

                    ‘Dejira-ko,’ the caretaker corrected. ‘And don’t fret, dear, another three winters and you’ll be somersaulting across the bars – oh, Ambarro-ma, did you want to go too?’

     

                    A kit with a black pelt had run up to the front and was struggling to place his feet on the balance beam. Even from the back Jorra could see him pouting.

     

                    ‘All right, all right, but please remember to wait in line next time, hmm?’

     

                    Ambarro clambered on top of the wood, his legs already quivering. He took three, four tentative steps. Then he tottered and fell, bruising his elbow.

     

                    The gathered children began to point and laugh. As Dejira shushed them and hurried towards the spot, Ambarro reached up and pulled himself back onto the beam.

     

                    He took a few more determined steps, then slid off the bar, landing on his rear. Laughter rang out again, even louder this time. Ambarro bared his teeth and climbed back up, panting heavily, only to topple over three feet later.

     

                    Dejira stopped, looking conflicted. Jorra could guess how she felt. Stop the boy from hurting himself some more, or let him continue to hone his skills, lacking as they may be?

     

                    In the end, the caretaker crossed her arms and stood back as Ambarro got back up, fell, got back up again, then fell again. After fifteen minutes of it he made it to the end of the balance beam, a huge grin on his face. He stuck his tongue out at Harrow as he went back to the end of the line, drawing a smattering of giggles. The young elf glared back at him with narrowed silver eyes.

     

                    Well, he certainly has spirit, Jorra thought to himself. And it seems like Bengakhi was right about Harrow not fitting in.

     

                    A few more youngsters went on the beam, and the class ended.

     

                    ‘Well done, everybody,’ Dejira called. ‘Especially Harrow-ma and Diia-ma. You may play around the yard for a while before our next lesson begins.’

     

                    The children dispersed, forming groups of threes or fours, chattering away in short, juvenile sentences. Ambarro bobbed around them, making funny faces and wet noises. Harrow sat off to the side, doodling in the snow with his fingers.

     

                    Jorra crouched above the boy, studying him. His features had become slightly more refined. The tips of his ears had grown a little more, and his eyes were beginning to slant. Not quite Nord, but not quite Altmer either.

     

                    Harrow tilted his head and looked at Jorra inquisitively. After a while, the Shadeclaw stood, smiling down at him.

     

                    ‘Who are you?’ He asked curiously.

     

                    ‘You first, little man. It’s only polite, after all.’

     

                    ‘I’m Harrow.’

     

                    ‘Pleasure to meet you, Harrow. My name is Jorra.’

     

                    ‘Hello, Jorra.’

     

                    ‘Forgive Harrow-ma’s disuse of honorifics, Jorra-jo,’ Dejira said as she passed. ‘He’s stubbornly insistent on leaving them out of his sentences.’

     

                    ‘It’s quite all right,’ Jorra waved it off. ‘It’s just pretty words, and he has plenty of time to learn.’

     

                    ‘You don’t play with the others?’ He asked as Dejira started patrolling the other end of the yard.

     

                    ‘They don’t want me to.’ The boy said nonchalantly, wiping his hand on his tunic.

     

                    ‘How do you know?’

     

                    ‘They look at me funny.’

     

                    ‘That's not very nice. Why would they?’

     

                    ‘I look different.’

     

                    Taken aback by his insight, Jorra fell silent as he tried and failed to think of more things to talk about.

     

                    ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he managed, slightly disconcerted. ‘You’re a clever young man, aren’t you?’

     

                    ‘Dejira says that too.’

     

                    ‘I’m sure she does,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll see you around, Harrow.’ There was a fresh outburst of laughter. Jorra looked around to find Ambarro’s legs flailing in the air. He’d buried himself headfirst into the snow.

     

                    Interesting kits, both of them. And then a more solemn thought.

     

                    I wish their parents were here to see them.

     

     

                    Following that particularly melancholy train of thought, he decided to follow up on Ambarro and Harrow’s inheritance, hopefully before anything was incinerated or sold off.

     

                    The belongings of the deceased were kept in a bamboo hut right next to the morgue. He ducked under the low entranceway, slit-like pupils expanding rapidly in the dim surroundings.

     

                    ‘May I help you?’ The stockkeeper asked, dropping his stylus and looking up from his calligraphy. Jorra squinted and saw that he was in the midst of writing the Akaviri glyph for ‘death’, which he found rather morbid.

     

                    ‘I’d like to check the possessions of the shinobi Kodi and Verra, as well as the outsiders Arngrimur and Valesse, and take them for safekeeping until I deem it time to pass them on to their sons.’

     

                    ‘Ah. You must be Jorra-jo. One moment.’ The stockkeeper bowed and rummaged around the back of the hut. He returned to the counter with three oak boxes – one large, one small, one long and thin.

     

                    He opened the long and thin box first. ‘Recovered from Archon, Black Marsh, along with Kodi-dar’s remains – his rokushakubo, of enchanted verawood. Already cleaned and polished.’

     

                    Jorra picked up the six-foot-long weapon reverently, admiring the play of light across the dark auburn surface. He stepped back and spun the staff around him in a basic kata. ‘It’s of very fine make,’ he remarked, resting one end of the bo on his left shoulder in the finishing form. ‘Fit for the Grandmaster himself.’

     

                    ‘Indeed.’ The stockkeeper sniffed as he straightened his whiskers, which had been blown out of shape by Jorra’s strikes. ‘I find the weight too centred for my liking, however. If you please, Jorra-jo.’

     

                    He put the wooden staff back in the thin box, then proceeded to open the large one.

     

                    ‘Also recovered from Archon, numerous tools employed by Verra-daro. A full set of hira shuriken, in pristine condition. Half a dozen orichalcum kunai, three slightly chipped. A pair of kama, missing their chains and shattered into pieces. An assortment of pellets, designed to release smoke or poison fumes, and also to detonate explosives of varying intensity. It seems that Ambarro-ma is already well on his way to building a formidable arsenal.’

     

                    Jorra let his gaze wander over the collection of gadgets, his throat tightening as he lingered on the broken kama. He nodded, and the lid snapped shut.

     

                    ‘As for Harrow-ma…’ the stockkeeper’s eyes were downcast. Jorra’s heart sank as he began to open the smallest box.

     

                    ‘Please understand, Jorra-jo. We know little of Valesse-ko and Arngrimur-do’s exploits, or what kind of valuables they would have left across Tamriel. We have nothing of the father to keep for young Harrow, and as for his mother…’

     

                    A pair of dark olive gloves nestled in the box, tucked neatly besides each other. A brief film of tears blurred his vision, and as he blinked it away, he noticed that the material was neither leather nor fabric.

     

                    ‘Dreamcloth. Styled after the uniform of an Aldmeri Dominion agent. Fashioned by a master enchanter or enchantress, likely Valesse-ko herself.’ The stockkeeper unfolded the gloves, his voice soft. ‘Meticulously woven with threads of Magicka, such that they can stitch themselves back together when torn. You’ll find no raiment more exquisite across all of Nirn.’

     

                    Jorra ran a finger across the silken cloth, a bitter taste in his mouth. Without another word, he swept up all three chests and carried them out of the hut, a chill breeze blowing in his wake.


     

     

     

      

     

         

     

     

     

     

     

Comments

4 Comments   |   The Long-Chapper and 5 others like this.
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  July 29, 2018
    I'm really enjoying reading this and glad to see how Harrow grows. :)
  • SpookyBorn2021
    SpookyBorn2021   ·  August 18, 2017
    Dreamcloth...that, is that from a mod? I feel like I've seen it in a mod but I could be wrong/it might not matter. Anyway, I did enjoy this chapter.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  September 13, 2016
    When's the next installment?
    • The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      When's the next installment?
        ·  September 13, 2016
      Hopefully I'll have it done within the next three days. Schoolwork is catching up like some insidious daedra assassin.