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Over the long centuries, the Dunmer had developed many methods to persist through the ash storms that ravaged much of the country. From simple shawls to full-face masks thrumming with enchantments and from sealed tents to massive subterranean complexes, their civilisation had in part been shaped and defined by the alien and often hostile nature of their homeland of Morrowind.
Aralyn winced as a particularly strong gust of ash hit him straight in the face, bringing him out of his musings. He raised his right hand before his face as more ash blew his way, cursing as the winds howled all around him.
By the ancestors, I should have stayed home tonight, he bitterly thought to himself as he kept on walking as best he could. At least he was dressed for a storm; the Dunmer shuddered at the thought of crossing through this storm without the chitin and netch leather outfit he was covered head to toe in, keeping his body from being seared by the ash. With it on, Aralyn could at least breathe normally, though he’d always disliked the mask and goggles.
His boot caught on something, perhaps a rock, and he stumbled and almost fell down. Swearing and wincing at the pain in his foot, Alaryn tried to see ahead if he was nearing the town of Nerun, but all he could see was the vague outline of the road ahead of him. And ash, of course.
With a grunt, he shouldered on. He’d made good time earlier today, but the storm had slowed his progress to a crawl. Theoretically, if he kept on walking, he should reach Nerun before night fell - though it’d make little difference within the storm - but with how slow he was forced to be he should be lucky to reach it before midnight. Alaryn sighed, running his other hand over the hilt of his blade to check if it was still fastened to his side.
After another five minutes of painfully slow walking, he spotted a large rock by the side of the road; twice his height and thrice as broad as him at least, jutting upwards. A brazier stood by its side, blue flames glowing without hinder from the ash. Bless the Three , Aralyn thought as he hastened his pace. With the light of the brazier and the cover the rock provided, it was the perfect place for a quick rest.
He reached the rock and brazier, sitting down on the ground with his back against the rock after testing that the ground was solid with his boots. The rockface was not comfortable, but it was good enough for him, and the light of the brazier was a source of faith he was glad for. The braziers were enchanted, of course, so this one being alight still wasn’t a surprise, but it was a comfort.
Aralyn sighed, allowing his legs - really, his entire body - to rest as he pondered what to do next. He had no way to tell the time and no idea for how long this storm would last. One could never tell with these things: sometimes ash storms barely lasted an hour, while others had gone for days and even weeks. Aralyn had heard or felt nothing of one of the volcanoes erupting, so he supposed this storm wasn’t going to take days to disperse, but it could still last the entire night and into the morning.
He could set up a camp, of course: he had food and a drink, a bedroll and a canvas. The canvas especially would be helpful as an extra shield against the ash and wind, with the rock to his back and the brazier to his left. But if he committed to setting it up, he’d be forced to spend the night out in the wilderness. Not impossible, but the idea of just walking on for an hour more to reach the warmth of a mug of sujamma and a bed at Nerun’s cornerclub was a far more enticing prospect.
Aralyn weighed his options carefully. He was no Ashlander, who were said to travel through Vvardenfell’s ash storms without issue, but he could judge this storm well enough to know that if he went on, he’d spend the rest of the road drudging through ash. Doable, for sure, but not without risk. The other option was to set up camp and stay put, but for all he knew he was right by a reaver camp, or on top of a cliff racer nest. If he stayed here and went to sleep, he might wake up with a blade to his throat, or not wake up at all.
He considered the choice for a time, while the storm only seemed to get worse, the wind’s howling growing louder and louder. Aralyn idly ran a hand over his pouch, before startling as he remembered something: the braziers were enchanted not just so that their fires wouldn’t go out, but also to serve as a conduit to the ancestral spirits. They could not speak or manifest through them, but they could send messages through the flames. Aralyn didn’t know what the best choice was, but his ancestors might.
Thus decided, he stood up, ignoring the protests in his legs as he did so, and turned towards the brazier. From his pouch he took a token of his family; a fingerbone from his father’s great-grandmother, passed on from his father to Aralyn when he became an adult.
Aralyn cast the bone into the brazier and spoke with a loud voice: ‘’Ancestors, hear me! I seek your guidance. Should I weather this storm or continue on my path? Lend me your aid!’’
The blue flames blazed up, almost searing Aralyn. Then they shrunk back, and Aralyn saw them turn golden and what almost looked like ghostly fingers reaching out of the brazier, pointing along the road.
He bowed his head and clasped his hands together in gratitude. ‘’Thank you for your aid, ancestors.’’
The flames remained golden, so he took the fingerbone out of the brazier: it was unmarred, as if it had never been in the flames at all. The moment his hand left the fire, the flames turned back to their original colour.
With a quick prayer to the Three and to his ancestors, Aralyn set off again.