Looks like Nereli is going to make the most of the opportunity before her. Good! She can turn the Knights of the Thorn into a real force, and might even help Farwil grow up.

People really don't like Nords around here. I do like (as in appreciate, not think it is wonderful) that you are displaying the Nords as suffering the brunt of prejudice that is usually assigned to other groups. It is a nice change, and as always it helps illustrate what living under that prejudice feels like.

So Jerric is going to escort Kevin Bacon to Chorrol.

I love his plan to become Vidkun, in order to use his horse. No point letting a good mount go to waste. And he can always count on no one being able to tell one Nord from another.

Well, for once Jerric had a nice quiet journey somewhere. Wait, what am I saying! Of course he could not make it all the way to his destination without some sort of trouble plaguing him. I swear, he is at bad at traveling as Tom Hanks (don't ever get on a plane or boat with that guy, because it's going to crash, or be hijacked, or something...)

Well, by Julianos’ little teapot! Nereli is going to try and make something of that prissy knight club. And I bet she’ll succeed!

Urgh, Burz continues to impress – not!

’He had light blue eyes and a complexion that spoke of store-bought soap and libraries.’
- - A wonderfully creative and evocative description! Then it just gets better as you liken him to a field mouse bringing home an ogre’s breakfast.

A great idea to exploit the ‘all Nords look alike to Dunmer’ phenomenon and claim Vidkun’s horse.

Ahhh, Cevin reminds me of Buffy as he forked over every bit of his gold to the Cheydinhal stable for a precious black mare.

If Jerric decides to close that gate (and I bet he will), Cevin should be placed safely on horse-watching duty well away from the gate.

I'm getting an image in my mind of a rather unimpressed horse giving Jerric a side eyed look here. Though whether that's for the new name, or the very eloquent way of naming, who can say?

Hm, Cevin is a touch on the nervous side.

Might be due to the big, scary Nord, but these two parts jumped out at me, waving their arms and screaming at me to take notice:



I've learned to pay attention to the way you foreshadow things, and whilst this hasn't (yet) been made clear, I'm thinking there might be a little bit more to this story. Is it the shock and fear of what Cevin saw? Or is it more the shock of what he found himself capable of doing in order to survive? His obvious trepidation about being alone with Jerric not overriding his intense desire to not be a part of another caravan. The looking like he wanted to vomit, not shaking, or replaying a visual scene in his head, but a visceral physical reaction suggests to me more of an inner turmoil. I may be reading too much into that, but when you repeat something twice, yet still leave it unsaid, makes me wonder...

Looking forward to finding out more! Oblivion Gate time!

Previously: Jerric and Nereli put a dent in the FG’s wine supply with their late-night chat. Nereli shared her plans to improve the Knights of the Thorn as their Quartermaster. Jerric avoided talking about what was bothering him. In the morning Jerric picked up an escort contract from Burz, collected the lad who needed escorting, and then liberated Vidkun’s horse from the stable by being a Nord and paying the bill. Cevin bought a Cheydinhal Black, one of the fastest, toughest, most reliable horses in Cyrodiil. When they reached the outskirts of Chorrol, they found a Gate to Oblivion. Sorry this update is later than usual. I spent last week walking around Philadelphia, sweating like a Nord at noon on a Sentinel rooftop. Got home last night and I’m still running behind in most departments (including hydration).

ghastley: This Oblivion Gate is near Chorrol’s Statue Gate on the south side of the city. The Gates in Jerric’s world probably won’t line up exactly with the game’s placement and timing. Cevin is a Breton. I had him as both Cevin Geles and Cevin Surilie in my notes. Hopefully only Geles made it into the story. Thank you, ghastley!

SubRosa: I hoped that you would enjoy Nereli seizing the opportunity and changing her own fortunes. That Farwil, though. D’oh! For a career caravan guy, Jerric can’t seem to get from A to B without drama. They are never going to let him back on the roster at Running Wolf Post and Freight! Thank you, Rosa!

Acadian: I thought so much of Buffy and Superian as Cevin emptied his account to buy that glorious horse! If he wasn’t horse-crazy before, he will be now! Jerric completely agrees about the Gate. There is no way he’s going to drag a nervous lad who is under his care into one, but it will be nice to have someone holding the horses. And your bet is good that he’s going in to close it. Thank you, Acadian!

Burnt Sierra: You’re exactly right about the horse side-eye, I was picturing “Smoke-y Smoke” as entirely unimpressed! At least the horse can tell that Jerric is not Vidkun! I cut about half of Cevin and Jerric’s first meeting, so I am delighted to hear that what I hoped to convey came through. Cevin will eventually talk about the events that led him to choose a scary-Nord escort over a much-worse caravan. It will still be spring in the story, but probably late autumn for us when we get to that part. Thank you, Burnt!


For our next chapter we're not only switching to Abiene's point of view, but she's telling it in first person. I hope you'll forgive me for not arguing with her. Before we begin, here's a page from her journal.

Abiene's Interlude Two, or is it Three?

429 of the Third Era, 14 Second Seed

"Come in, Marcellus. Abiene, prepare yourself."

The proctor stood aside as Marcellus entered the examination chamber. The door clicked shut behind them.

My bony rear rested on a bench along the wall of an arched passage deep underneath the Arcane University. I slid down to the end position. The line of fellow students behind me scooted one by one to fill the space. We were silent, hoping and hoping not to hear sounds from the testing chamber.

I was about to stand for my final examination in my primary field: Restoration magic. I had passed all of my other tests, demonstrating at least proficiency in every school of magic that the Mages Guild taught. Inside the chamber I would find a long table, housing a representative from every school. We students did not know who would be present for any particular exam. I composed a brief prayer to Lady Dibella that Curciel, newly promoted Master in my school of Restoration, would not have a seat at the table today.

Curciel possessed what I found to be a typical Altmer's view of humans as uppity pretenders whose short lifespans suit us to subservient lives. She reserved her sharpest disdain for those who dared question her. Though she far outranked me, I had done so at every opportunity. Then Curciel received her Mastery. Pride, ever my companion, was not my friend.

My Lady Dibella would scarcely concern herself with scholarly matters or anything to do with luck. Whoever was going to be at the table was already seated. Praying for someone else was tantamount to wishing for something to befall them. Before that caravan of thought went any further, the door opened. Marcellus emerged, stone-faced.

The proctor consulted her clipboard. "Come in, Abiene. Othos, prepare yourself." She held the door open.

I was too nervous to do more than nod at her. These examinations were pass or fail. While it would seem that I should be assured a pass, some examiners took a student with advanced skills or particular talents as a challenge to their sovereignty. I was both highly skilled and naturally gifted. The school of Restoration was broad, and my knowledge was deepest in the areas of healing. I was not confident of a ready pass.

Inside the room I saw Dominus, the Dean of Destruction, Juliana from the Illusion school, Dro'Mari from Alteration, my dear friend Gantos representing Mysticism, Walks-In-Shadow of Conjuration, Dran the Necromancer… then my eyes were drawn over the rest to the center of the table. Of course she had taken the seat in the middle.

Curciel. She sat easily in the large chair, chin propped on the back of one hand.

Raminus Polus, our Dean of Undergraduate Studies, spoke. "Please state your name."

"Abiene Metonne, standing for my practical exam in Restoration."

"Abiene," said Curciel. "You may take your position. Goodness, isn't this your last exam? You must know where you can go by now."

I stepped onto the spot that should be stained with the sweat of a thousand shaking mages, but that was as neatly swept and scrubbed as the rest of the floor's paving stones.

Don't let her get to you. You can perform any spell that she requires. I willed my hands, my chin, and my voice not to shake. "I am ready, Master Curciel."

Curciel gestured with her narrow, golden hand. The proctor opened a door at the side of the chamber.

Two Imperials emerged, wearing the University's shortened battle robes. Between them they dragged a bound, struggling goblin. Its face was swollen on one side, its shirt torn and bloodied.

The violence of the situation sent sick tendrils through my gut. Who had beaten this goblin? A classmate? Did they mean for me to heal it?

Once the guards withdrew, Curciel flicked her fingers at me. "Kill it."

The Novice level of the spell was simply called Absorb Health. Advanced versions had more sinister appellations. I had used it in class on summoned creatures, but I had never killed any living thing. Numb, I cast the spell.

In a blink the goblin was obscured by a red haze. Its life energy rushed into mine through my outstretched hands. Hot joy churned in my chest, mixed with a keening horror. I heard my victim's groan along with a shriek. The cry had come from my throat.

I broke the spell. The goblin lay on its side, face turned away from me. Its arms still twitched against the bindings. I knelt and reached for the pitiful creature, my hands filled with healing light.

A bolt of lightning sent its body spinning into the wall.

"Failed," said Master Curciel. Shock energy still danced across her palm.

I felt frozen in place, unable to draw a breath. The magical light in my hands turned from golden to livid red.

Raminus Polus made a small sound, drawing everyone's attention. He finished his notations with a flourish, then tapped his stylus against the quartz tablet. A copy of his writing would appear on a linked page in his office. An assistant may already have the document in their hands, ready to place it in the stack on top of Marcellus's exam record.

"She passes," Raminus said. "Tamriel needs more healers."

Hah! Shove it, Curciel!

Curciel? The name alone sounds excruciating.

Dominus, the Dean of Destruction. I hate to say it, but this sounds like the ring name of a professional wrestler!

Well, that was disgusting. So apparently being willing to commit murder without question is a requirement for becoming a Mage? Well apparently not everyone there felt so, since Raminus passed Abiene. Granted, if it was a test to see if she would not kill the goblin, then I would have more respect for them. But given that no one blinked an eye at Cruciel killing the goblin, that is clearly not the case.

And yes, goblins are monsters. But that does not make their torture and outright murder ethical. In fact, reducing others to the status of being monsters is how all genocides take place. It looks like Cruciel wants to see only fascists in the guild, who will not hesitate to murder whomever is conveniently labeled as a monster next.

Wonderful job of portraying Abienne’s nervous concerns and their rationale.

Curciel clearly had a good idea of Abienne’s ‘weakness’ by asking her to kill a helpless and pre-bloodied goblin, when a simple summoned scamp or skeleton would have readily tested her ability to cast the desired absorb health spell. As a true healer, Abienne balked at the request.

I’m glad Raminus has the wisdom to understand the mentality of a healer and pass Abienne. His next order of business should be to fire Curciel – or at least remove her from anything to do with the school of restoration!

I enjoyed the subtle additions you made to what the game provides – more practical robes for battlemages and having the school of necromancy represented at the table. It was many years ago that Abienne reshaped Buffy’s thinking about necromancy and the positive role it can play in healing. Specifically, in restoring dead tissue.

Previously: Abiene shared a journal page from her time at the Arcane University. She related the events of her last practical exam before graduation.

Abiene lives at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol doing an internship under the renowned surgeon Gureryne Selvilo. This chapter begins at the end of First Seed. Jerric is in Moonshadow. Lildereth, Darnand, and Jeelius have just reached Cloud Ruler Temple.

Kane: Ha! I’m sure Curciel was annoyed with Raminus. Thank you, Kane!

SubRosa: Dominus, Dean of Destruction sounds like he has a backup career in adult films. Pretty much no one was concerned about the goblin, except presumably his tribemates. I haven’t dug into Abiene’s time at the AU very much, but I imagine that goblins could have been used in necromancy the way animals are used in our biology labs. Cyrodiil culture at the time seems to place little to no value on their lives. I think there’s a story in whatever happened to the Healers Guild, and I think mages like Curciel would be on one side of it. Definitely not a fond memory for Abiene. Thank you, SubRosa!

Acadian: If Curciel is still in the Mages Guild at the time of the story, I’m sure she and Raminus still don’t see eye-to-eye. (Not just because she’s Altmer-tall!) Abiene remains ashamed that she even cast the spell and started to kill the goblin. I’m glad you mentioned the positive role Necromancy can play in healing, since this journal page highlights the darker side of the Restoration school. Abiene is still thinking about how she can make her ideas work. Thank you, Acadian!

Chapter 21: Underneath, Part One

"It is still seeping, Mister Chandler. I will give you another treatment this evening."

Mistress Chandler huffed out a breath. "For what we're paying in donations I should expect to have been out of here yesterday."

I pressed the poultice over Mister Chandler's freshly cleaned wound. My assistant Neen-Samna handled the wrapping while I held it in place. There was no answer I could give that would ease the wife's irritation, but I could reassure my patient.

"Your recovery is proceeding as we expected," I told him. "There is no sign of infection returning."

Mister Chandler's bland gaze remained on my chest. He must be terribly bored to seek entertainment there. My healer's robe offered little to draw the eye. Perhaps he was only amusing himself by annoying his wife.

Spring in County Chorrol had arrived as a flood. Warm winds melted the snowpack and sent it down the mountainsides as rivers, mixed with the relentless rain. Work-related injuries were down at the Healing Halls, and domestic disputes were up. My own temper was frayed, I will admit. It was difficult to shed Mistress Chandler's sour mood at the end of my shift. Striding through the corridors I kept my greetings to brief nods in acknowledgment of my colleagues.

My least favorite fellow healer had beaten me to the locker room. I walked past her, pulling the healer's robe from my shoulders. Underneath I wore a spring weight tunic over a heavier felt skirt. The robe was only lightly soiled, so it went into the regular hamper. My headwrap followed. I opened my locker and arranged my things for the afternoon.

"Packing for your trip, Abiene?" The smirk oozed through her voice.

"Sadly, no, Guilia. The weather, you see." I walked to the row of wash basins.

Guilia followed. I wondered what schedule allowed her to linger in the locker rooms for what seemed like the sole purpose of vexing me.

I finished rinsing my hands in the basin, flicked the excess water from my fingers, and blotted them on a towel. My magicka, spent in the morning's treatments, was already trickling in from Aetherius like water seeping into a well. Though I knew a spell to clean my hands, I would save my magicka for the afternoon's treatments and utilize mundane solutions for ordinary tasks. I have a mage's pride in her spells and a healer's need to use them on everyone. These restrictions chafed on me, yet another small burr under my saddle.

Guilia tilted her head and executed some rapid blinking. "Oh? What has occurred? Surely your Divine Lady does not mind a bit of rain. Has your… celebration… been canceled?" She made a show of smoothing her hand towel.

I had been given leave to join the spring festival at the Wayshrine of Dibella located about a half-day's ride from Chorrol. I was a layman in my Dibellan order. As a Mara devotee, Guilia viewed my interest in grace and beauty as a frivolous exercise in self-indulgence at best. At worst she placed me equal with the ranks of Sanguine's most lecherous orgiasts. The Festival of Bud and Bloom was conducted outdoors at the Wayshrine and hardly an orgy, though Dibella's lily would be celebrated throughout the festivities. Which would take place without me. I schooled my expression to hide the disappointment.

"The festival will go on, rain or shine," I said. "After all, what brings forth the natural beauty of flower and vine but a cool spring rain? Regrettably my means of transport…" I shrugged.

"Will you be kept from your patron by something as simple as a carriage ride?"

I had planned to ride along with Dar-Ma on her way to deliver goods to one of her mother's trading partners, but the trails had turned to mud too deep for her wagon. I was indeed being kept back by the lack of a ride. However I had already shared too much with Guilia.

"If you will excuse me, I have some paperwork to complete." I gave her the tight-lipped expression I kept for when civility required a smile but my thoughts suggested a rude gesture.

Her reply met the empty space behind me. Filling out forms was a mind-numbing chore, but I had a good work ethic and a fondness for order. This meant I never left them for "later." Thus the task never became overwhelming.

I worked a full morning and then late into the evening, but two hours at mid-day were mine to fill. Today that meant a stop at my friend Seed-Neeus's store, followed by a visit to the large refugee camp that had sprung up in the park just inside Chorrol's Statue Gate.

Candlelight in the chapel's narthex told me that the sky outside would be gloomy. On sunny days the beams of colored light through the stained-glass window were blinding. Even on a cloudy day the windows showed their worth. I walked through the tall, arched doors and out into the streets of Chorrol.

Rain slanted down at an angle, driven by a steady breeze. Fortunately I wore my Weatherward bracelet, charmed to keep the rain from penetrating a thin field around my body. It would not prevent me from scrubbing my hands in the basin or from drinking a liquid, or even keep me dry if I jumped into a body of water. But it kept the rain beading up and rolling off like water on a swan's wings. I had Darnand to thank for the bracelet. Thoughts of him brought a warmth within my chest. He had chosen the bracelet, written the spell himself, and then enchanted it with his own hands. All of this without legal access to spellmaking tablets or enchanting altars. I marveled at his dedication and initiative.

Chorrol's signature oaks stood bare of new green, but some of the lesser trees had begun to show leaf. Chapel Street was lined with businesses. Shopkeepers often lived over their stores, decorating the buildings as they would homes. Even on this dreary day, spring blooms brightened many stoops and window boxes.

I stepped carefully across the street, avoiding the road apples left by Chorrol's donkeys, mules, and horses. The rain must be keeping the scoopers under cover, but the city's working animals left evidence of their passage whatever the weather.

Seed-Neeus's shop with its snug rental cottage at the rear loomed up on my right. The cottage wall sat flush with the edge of the sidewalk. I felt an urge to brush my fingertips against the wet stone as I passed. My happiest hours in this mountain city had been spent in that cottage with one who had gone to war and left me behind. Though my skills would make me welcome on any battlefield, there was nothing in my nature to suggest that I would thrive there. Still, a part of me reached for some kind of solution. Since the fall of Kvatch every guard spent his watch wondering if their city would be next. Warrior or not, and in my case definitely not, we all lived with the same danger now.

An alley behind the cottage separated the building from Seed-Neeus's shop. The cottage's rear doorway had been sealed off long ago and covered over with a wood shed that now served both buildings. The back of the shop opened onto the alley, and there was a raised platform with a ramp to aid in moving cargo. Today the back door was closed, so I walked around and used the customer entrance.

The shop had been a single-family dwelling before the city grew enough to need a larger shopping district. As little bells rang over the door, I stepped into the broad but shallow entry. Stairs ran up on the right, and a passageway on the left led to the rear chambers. Seed-Neeus used the ground floor for storage and inventory processing as well as household utility. Her second floor had been opened up into a single large space with shelving at the back and a merchandising area in the front. Whatever goods interested you, Seed-Neeus would retrieve onto the tables for your perusal. She and her daughter Dar-Ma had their rooms on the third floor.

"Only the finest wares to buy and barter at Northern Goods and— Oh! Greetings, Abiene!" Seed-Neeus's raspy voice came from the shop level.

"Good day, my friend! I'm coming up."

Mister Chandler's bland gaze remained on my chest. He must be terribly bored to seek entertainment there.
- - It seems that, like Buffy, Abienne’s cup size is early in the alphabet. . . .

Not only thankless patients, but a harpy of a coworker to deal with. And to top off the gloom, relentless rain and a spoiled trip to Dibella’s festival.

Nice Weatherward bracelet, thanks to Darnand.

‘Chorrol's signature oaks stood bare of new green, but some of the lesser trees had begun to show leaf.’
- -Lovely, evocative phrasing here.

Insightful of Abiene to note that, during this Oblivion crisis, every city feared they might become the next Kvatch.

A visit to her friend Seed-Neeus and another name – Dar-Ma.


I’m enjoying reading Abiene’s perspective using first person. How do you like using it for a change? I wouldn’t know any better – Buffy came out of the box insisting on first person and we’ve never looked back (or on the other side of the fence).

He must be terribly bored to seek entertainment there.
To each their own. I would personally much prefer an Abienisque pair of low hills to the back-breaking monstrosities that I so often see men salivating over.

My magicka, spent in the morning's treatments, was already trickling in from Aetherius like water seeping into a well.
I enjoyed how you related Abiene's magicka recovery to that of water in a well here.

I hope that trading partner of Dar-Ma's ma was not in Hackdirt!

That is a very handy umbrella bracelet that she has.

Goody. Weekly update time!

I didn’t end up posting a reply for last weeks entry, as I wasn’t quite sure what to say. The entry stood totally alone, and I wasn’t certain how it fitted into Abiene’s journey at this point in the story, so I thought I’d wait for the next update and a little context, and post a reply at that point to both updates. Which has arrived and helps! And now you get a double length reply, you poor thing.

Now, gliding over her poor opinion of Altmers (I have an entire roster of ESO, Morrowind, Oblivion and Skyrim characters muttering away over here ), the diary entry tells of quite a harrowing examination and a commentary on how life, or the cheapness of life, is viewed. With the benefit of context from the next update, a couple of things then jump out at me a little more from that diary entry.

“Its life energy rushed into mine through my outstretched hands. Hot joy churned in my chest, mixed with a keening horror. I heard my victim's groan along with a shriek. The cry had come from my throat.”

Hot joy churned in my chest, mixed with a keening horror. First of all, I’ve got to say, what a sentence! And shows, so beautifully, the conflict between the wanting to heal, but savouring the power.

And now, back in Chorrol in the almost, I assume, present time, where let us not forget, an Oblivion gate is very shortly about to open outside the city when Jerric arrives:

“Though I knew a spell to clean my hands, I would save my magicka for the afternoon's treatments and utilize mundane solutions for ordinary tasks. I have a mage's pride in her spells and a healer's need to use them on everyone.”

And then jumping back to the diary entry:

“She reserved her sharpest disdain for those who dared question her. Though she far outranked me, I had done so at every opportunity. Then Curciel received her Mastery. Pride, ever my companion, was not my friend.”

Pride. A pride in her abilities, and a pride in proving them. A desire to heal, but an inner conflict to how Restoration can also be used. A discourse on how life is viewed, when it comes to Goblins and so called “lesser races,” at a time when Daedra might soon be swarming outside the city. Not to mention how Curciel and Raminus’s disagreement in the exam might suggest a link to the conflict between the Mage’s Guild and the Necromancers who left - Curciel really did scream Necromancer to me. And there was even time, even in a period of religious peace, to suggest a little conflict (which has been mentioned before too) between her devotion to Dibella and how followers of other Divines consider themselves superior. An awful lot packed in those updates.

Final note, like Acadian, I’m really enjoying your switch to first person, it’s allowing her personality to shine through so well.

Now, let’s finish with the pointing out of a beautiful imagery moment:

“But it kept the rain beading up and rolling off like water on a swan's wings.”

Oh, yes, that’s lovely. Not just the picture it creates, but the rhythm of the sentence is extremely satisfying too! An honourable mention to, "The smirk oozed through her voice", as well. Say that out loud with an elongation of the ooze and it gives such a clarity to their relationship.

All that’s left to say is S.G.M. and roll on next Tuesday!

Previously: Starting her mid-day break, Abiene walked through the rain to visit Seed-Neeus at Northern Goods and Trade.

Acadian: I love writing for Abiene in first person! She would have it no other way. Her voice has been strong from the beginning, even when she hadn’t even appeared in the story yet. It has also been fun to write for a character who is going about their own business for the most part with the Oblivion crisis happening around her. She still has a lot on her mind that has nothing to do with daedra. She makes me want to write some pre-crisis adventures. Thank you, Acadian!

SubRosa: I forgot until I looked in my notes that Abiene also has a Resist Frost + Resist Heat ring from Jerric. She is well equipped to deal with the weather even with her curly hair. Thank you, Rosa!

Burnt Sierra: I thought of how many times your ESO Altmers have picked Jerric up off the floor when I was writing Abiene’s opinion! I’m sure by now she’s softened (and grown up) a bit, especially after getting to know Carahil. I’m glad you shone a light on Abiene’s pride. It has been at the root of some of her big mistakes. Like when she experimented on Jerric’s scar back in Anvil so that Darnand could weigh in on how she did it – without first explaining anything to Jerric. The push-pull going on in Abiene’s head makes her fun to write. Thank you, Burnt!

Chapter 21: Underneath, Part Two

No sooner had I reached the shop level than the door chimes rang again. Three women entered, pushing back their hoods. Two looked close to my age but younger. The third had gray streaks in her hair and a pregnant belly, obvious even under her cloak. Mud stained their hems at least two feet deep.

"Welcome to Northern Goods and Trade." Seed-Neeus's tone lacked its customary warmth.

The two younger women practically bowed out of the way of the third, then followed her up the stairs.

"Seed-Neeus," she said, "your delivery is late. I have come to make the trade myself."

"The rains have made the roads impassable for my wagon," Seed-Neeus said. A sharp note of musk hit my nostrils.

"I don't need excuses. I need my supplies." The woman's protruding eyes and downturned mouth made me think of a bullfrog. When she scratched where one lower lid met a puffy cheek, dry skin flaked off. Even her hands looked bloated. The swelling combined with her age and advanced stage of pregnancy rang alarm bells in my head.

Seed-Neeus drew her skirts away from the woman. "Do you wish to receive your entire order?"

The woman gave a sharp nod, then frowned at the taller of the others. "Marta, see to— Ugh, useless. I'll supervise the packing myself."

"As you wish." With an apologetic glance at me, Seed-Neeus led her back down the stairs.

I was left faced with the two young women. "My name is Abiene. I'm a healer at the Chapel of Stendarr. Won't you come by the fire? I don't work here, but let me help make you comfortable."

"I'm Marta, ma'am."

I gave a little laugh as I took her cloak. "Did you just 'ma'am' me? Please, you'll make me feel old. Call me Abiene." Marta's wind-flushed and freckled complexion marked her as Colovian. She wore an undyed woolen tunic over a roughly-stitched skirt.

"I'm Ruby." She handed me her cloak.

Ruby was also an Imperial, but with the darker coloring and slimmer frame of a Nibenean. Her gray blouse had probably once been white, and the blue of her jacquard skirt was also faded with long use. Most striking was her bodice, loosely laced in the front with ties that had been repaired. The fabric's deep red meant money in any culture. Embroidered garden flowers and songbirds in every color under Magnus ran from the waist all the way up to the shoulders.

I draped the cloaks over a bench to dry. "Here, let's pull up this chair. Do you think your…" I paused for an explanation of who the third woman was.

"Sister-wife," Ruby said, her eyes on the rug.

"Ravenna," said Marta at the same time. The two shared a look of companionable misery.

I was not entirely certain what a sister-wife was, but I could guess. I mustered a pleasant tone. "You share a plural marriage? The three of you?"

"It's legal," Marta said.

"I'm just a healer at the chapel, not some priestess or constable."

"Three of us and one husband," Marta said in a flat tone. "We're from Hackdirt. That's how they do it there."

"Have you always lived in Hackdirt?"

"No." Marta gestured at Ruby. "She's the newest. Ravenna found us at the same place. That camp south of Weynon Village."

Ruby's gaze shifted to some unseen distance.

I knew better than to pursue that subject. "Ruby, is that your needlework?"

Ruby nodded.

This told me more than she would have been comfortable sharing, I was certain. Ruby's extravagant embroidery demonstrated not only her prowess and the cost of the materials to make the garment, it also told of a solid support system in place around her. Only a family that could spare a daughter's time would have allowed her to develop such skill. I was a fellow gently-reared daughter. I knew the investment Ruby's family had made in her needlework. Displaying it reflected well on all of them.

But Ruby had clearly come down in the world since she had created her bodice. What had become of her family? Plural marriage could be the result of loving matches, but was most often a religious arrangement. My fingers curled against my palms as I looked at her chapped, dirty hands.

"It's lovely!" I said. "Such detail!"

Ruby smoothed her hands over her front. That's when I saw her little belly.

"Ruby," I said, "I see you are with child. Congratulations! When is your baby due?"

Her face crumpled. "Frostfall. Abiene. I'm due in Frostfall."

She was far too small at this stage for my liking. "Have you a healer in Hackdirt? I don't mean to intrude, but may I offer you assistance in any way? I work with…" Words failed me. How to suggest that these two could be counted among the unhoused and impoverished when they had just informed me of their home and family status?

Ruby gripped my forearm in her cold hands. "I cannot offer you payment. Please, if you could do anything, just to let me know… Is my baby… all right?"

Marta gave Ruby's shoulders a quick squeeze. "I'll head her off if she starts to come up here." She took two silent steps toward the stairs.

"I get the sense that your sister-wife would not approve," I said, "however that concerns me not one bit. Shall I give you a quick examination? You needn't undress. She'll never know."

Ruby replied by pressing my hands against her baby bump.

My magicka was still low from the morning's treatments, but I had enough to check. "Your baby is growing well for the time you told me. How much would you like to know?" I meant would she like to know if she carried a boy or a girl. Some religions looked down on mortal meddling in what they thought should be Mother Mara or some other maternal deity's realm of influence.

Ruby sounded breathless. "Does it have— I mean, its eyes. You've seen Ravenna. Is my baby going to be like that?"

"Your baby is developing normally. Is there a reason your sister-wife's condition would manifest in your child?"

"We think she really is our husband's sister," Marta whispered.

"They have the same…" Ruby made a gesture with her fingers around her face, opening her eyes wide to bug them out.

"Ah, I see." My stomach heaved.

"I suppose you wonder how we stand it," Ruby said. "Do not judge us harshly. Neither of us would have chosen this life, if we knew what was in store for us."

Marta spoke over her shoulder. "When you're gettin' done to by many and out in the cold with no one to speak up for you, it ain't so bad to only do for one and have a roof for shelter."

"That's what she told us," Ruby said. "First Marta and then me, when she met us at the Weynon camp."

"Was there no guard, or—" I stopped myself. Obviously there was no better solution, or either one would have taken it. The situation at the Chorrol refugee camp was no less dire. Guards were spread thin by the crisis and spent little time inside the camp. Some folk came to Chorrol for the sole purpose of preying on displaced people. Young Valdi had sought treatment at the chapel and been turned away, but found me for help. Many others lacked the persistence. Even with my intervention such that it was, Valdi continued to suffer at the camp.

Marta motioned Ruby over to listen at the stairs, then took her place at my side. "I don't want to have no goggle-eyed frog baby. I know I promised I would take whatever the… gods gave me, but you're a healer. Can you help me?"

"Marta, are you with child?" Her sturdy figure could hide several months, unlike Ruby's underfed frame. I had herbs that would bring on a woman's cycle, but that could end the promise of a life. As much as I held up a woman's right to determine her fate, I was loathe to be the agent of ending someone before they began.

"I don't know." Her voice was a whispered wail. "With Ravenna pregnant and now Ruby he's on me every day. I ain't never had no kid before. Maybe I can't have one, gods willing." She drew a hiccuping breath.

I placed my palm on her belly. "No, and it feels as if your cycle will begin within about a week."

"Thank you. Every time my moons come around, I don't even know who to pray to any more."

Most human women shared a similar cycle. There was some variation over time, but our bodies' tides ebbed and flowed with the moons that marked their beginning. Elves were different from humans of course, and the tailed races varied even from one another. It was difficult to tell whom to believe about such matters, however. Despite a large amount of first-hand testimony on the subject, there were numerous tomes no doubt written by males that contradicted even my own findings.

Regardless, there were steps that Marta could take to prevent pregnancy. Some were simpler than others. All required at least some preparation.

"Marta, what do you know about preventing yourself from becoming pregnant?"

"I know to make the boys spill their seed on your legs or on your belly, but that don't work with Bertollo. He's tryin' to put his baby in me."

"Does Bertollo have any other children?" We were running out of time, but I wondered about the possibility of birth defects.

"He did but the boys up and died. His girl run away I heard, but that's just what they'll whisper. There's no daughter of his buried in the boneyard, at least not marked."

There was so much to follow up on in that statement, I didn't know where to start. "Did you ever see any of his children? Did they have the... " In an admittedly unprofessional gesture, I waved my fingers in a circle around one eye.

"Ain't no little ones left, not in any of the houses. Only my brother, and he's no relation. That's why they're after wives. And why we had to walk here for Ravenna's goods. It's only two days til their ritual."

Ruby made a hurry-up motion, eyes wide.

"If you can cast spells—"

"I can't," said Marta.

"All right. I'll send some herbs in a packet with instructions, and some seeds so you can grow your own."

"Ruby can read it for me. Miss Abiene, you can't just send it to us on a shipment. They'll kill me if they think I'm tryin' not to get with child."

The clump of Ravenna's boots preceded her voice. "You two've lazed about long enough. Get down here before this lizard tries to cheat me again. Move it! We have ground to cover before nightfall."

Marta and Ruby scurried down the stairs, fastening their cloaks. I followed, at a loss. Ravenna showed signs of a potentially dangerous condition that could cause early labor. Another hard day's journey would not be healthy for her, but I had no grounds to tell her what to do.

I thought quickly as they sorted their bundles. "Would you like a hand with your packs? I can help you as far as the stable."

Ravenna didn't spare me so much as a glance. "What do I have at the stable? Even a cart won't get down the creek banks. Keep your hands to yourself."

Seed-Neeus flicked her fingers through the air. "The bridge is out? You did not mention this. I planned to bring the rest of my shipment once the rains stopped."

"I ain't your town crier," Ravenna said. "Bring the rest or don't, no matter to me. I got what I need, and not a day too soon no thanks to you. Our gods won't wait."

"You will carry all this on your backs?" Now I was alarmed for all three of them, hiking through the muddy woods with no magic at all to protect them.

Ravenna curled her lip at me. "We ain't your soft, city type. We never had walls and we don't need 'em. You keep your heads down and pray for your hides, and we'll live free and fear no one."

Ruby staggered a step when she shouldered her pack.

"It's half her weight," I said to Seed-Neeus while Ravenna hectored her sister-wives.

"She will not wait for delivery," Seed-Neeus said.

Ravenna led the two young women out the door without a word of farewell.

Seed-Neeus let out a sigh that collapsed her shoulders, then straightened. "Let us adjourn for our pot of tea. I feel the need for refreshment in body and spirit."

"Tea and warm company is just the prescription." I followed her down the passageway.

A story of cult-like behavior gradually manifests itself pretty clearly, thanks to Abiene’s astute powers of observation and healer’s eye.

Ravenna seems well beyond salvage. Marta is of a good heart and humble background. Ruby also seems of good heart but from a much gentler background – evidenced by the details Abiene notes about her old and worn but monied clothing.

As the trio departs, they leave behind an air of gray despair rivaled only by the weather.

Hmm, Dar-Ma is Seed-Neeus’ daughter and this cultish little group is from Hackdirt. . . . Something tells me there will be more to this story. An adventure for Abiene?


Nit: "No, and it feels as if your cycle will begin within about {a?} week."

These are three interesting guests. One of whom definitely has the 'Innsmouth Look'. And my, isn't she a ray of sunshine.

So they are sister-wives (nothing to see here, just Patriarchy in action) from Innsmouth. That alone might account for their evident obsession with breeding a new generation. Or it might be that given their history, their current population may be a lot smaller than it used to be.

The camp south of Weynon? Is that refugee camp created in response to the Oblivion Crisis I wonder? That would explain why Marta and Ruby have so obviously been displaced from their lives and into their current circumstances. I wonder if their families were killed by the Daedra? Perhaps they are from Kvatch? Now that I read further, I see that is basically the case.

Now I see the reason for the hurry. They have a ritual coming, in which they summon Father Dagon and/or Mother Hydra no doubt. I wonder if the woman who is not pregnant might end up as the offering?

Oh, poor Abiene, I really hope she doesn't get mixed up in the business at Hackdirt! I remember stumbling into that little hamlet the very first time I ever play Oblivion - talk about a bunch of weirdos!

Abiene didn't run into Dar-ma at the shop, so we can make some assumptions.

Jerric is on his way, but there is a gate open. Timing is interesting, and anything could happen, if Grits loses her notes!