Chapter 4

At last, I had the answer to the question of who had set the Dark Brotherhood upon me. But that answer brought me no peace. In fact, I realized that some truths could be more dangerous than ignorance, a proposition I would never before have believed. When a king wants you dead, you generally die. The only questions are how soon and how painfully you do so. It was one thing for someone to tell me that Emperor had taken an interest in me; after all, the Emperor was far away. But Helseth was the king of the province of Morrowind, a place from which I could find no escape. And if the rumors were correct, he was working hard to consolidate his power and remove any rivals. Whether he was truly responsible for the deaths of some of those other nobles, I could not say. But then, I didn’t particularly care, either. The entire “aristocracy” of Tamriel could throttle, bludgeon, and poison one another to their hearts’ content and I would cheer them on while placing bets on the eventual winner. As far as I was concerned, they were all parasites. Unfortunately, when such folk started wars, it was people like me who did the bleeding and dying. The one answer I had- that Helseth was the “who” that wanted me dead spawned another, more important question- why?

Despite my seething anger, I knew that I could not simply march into the palace and confront Helseth with my knowledge. I had seen the royal guards with their armor the color of dried blood and knew that I could never get past them to the king. And even if I somehow managed to come before him and noise my accusations about, who would listen? He was the king. He could declare me a madman and have me locked up or executed “for the public good.” No one would rush to my aid; no one would defend me. Even if the whole world knew that my words were true, it would change nothing. The king’s word was law. And yet, I could not simply let him get away with the attempts to have me killed. Perhaps I could seek an alliance with Fedris Hler, Almalexia’s steward. I knew that the Temple and Helseth were involved in a power struggle- the priests might be willing to provide substantial assistance in weakening the king. The only trouble with that idea was that I would be putting myself more fully in the power of the Temple. And I did not like or trust them much more than I did the king. Yes, Fedris Hler might help me weaken or even depose Helseth- but I had a feeling my reward would be one last trip to the sewers and a blade in the back. The Temple would gladly use me and then cast me aside or else actively participate in my execution. They could then claim that their hands were clean.

Some may wonder why I did not simply get out of Mournhold and go to ground back on Vvardenfell. After all, I had dealt the Dark Brotherhood serious damage, which they would require some time to repair. And, with the wisdom of years I now possess, that would have been the wise course. It is likely that the internal struggle to replace Dandras Vules would have distracted the assassins sufficiently to buy me all the time I needed. But…I had left Vvardenfell ahead of the wrath of the Camonna Tong as well as to avoid the scrutiny and the schemes of the Blades. I was heartily tired of running away from my enemies. And Helseth was one man, albeit a king. That gave me a convenient target upon whom to focus my rage and my sense of being ill-used. Even if I had wanted to fight the Blades, I had no idea how to do so. As for seeking the destruction of the Camonna Tong, I had discovered that down that road lay the loss of my very soul. But to pit my skills and my desire for revenge against a king- that seemed highly worthwhile to me. Perhaps as much as anything else, I wanted to make Helseth pay for all the wrongs that had been done me, whether they could rightfully be laid at his door or not. It wasn’t wise, it wasn’t rational- but it felt right. It felt like justice, which was what I believed I wanted. Now I know that the worst that can happen to most of us is to get what we deserve.

Thus, I resolved to do something foolish- to seek justice against a king who had a short way with any who crossed him. But, if I was going to do something foolish, I would at least do it in an intelligent way. I needed information; I needed a way to get close to Helseth; I needed a safe haven if all else failed. Information and perhaps even access could be obtained with gold- of that I had a sufficiency. As for a safe haven- much as it roiled my stomach, I would have to depend upon the Temple. Fedris Hler and Almalexia were the only ones in Vvardenfell with the stature and the support to oppose Helseth and get away with it. He dared not confront them directly, knowing that the more traditional Dunmer would riot if he tried. And, now that I thought about it, my foray against the goblins had weakened the king significantly. They had probably been intended as a secret force that he could send against his enemies without appearing to be directly involved. But even a power-mad despot like Helseth knew that a fight between the Royal Guards and Almalexia’s Hands would bring the Imperial Legion into the mix. And the Emperor would most assuredly NOT be happy with a provincial governor who fomented a civil war. I still didn’t trust the Temple, but “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Or at least my co-conspirator….

So- information first; preferably information that I could trade to the Temple for protection. Not everyone who worked around the palace was a Helseth loyalist- with patience and a few coins, I might find someone who was willing to talk. Therefore, I placed a firm hold on my temper and made my way to the palace to seek information. Wanting to ensure that I made the right impression (and to avoid any “accidents”), I put away my sword and donned an ornate robe to cover my armor. All that remained was to devise a plausible reason for hanging around the palace, asking questions. I knew that I could not pretend to be there in any official capacity- besides the fact that I had no credentials, a formal inspection was the surest way to guarantee that no one said anything of interest. It would have to be something that encouraged people to talk- something that put them at ease. The truth was, most people would tell you almost anything if you just approached them in the right way. My love of books and words had already awakened in me the secret desire to be a writer- and that would be my cover. In such guise would I seek the lever that would allow me to topple a king.

I have no reason to doubt that Trey is the most intelligent character in these forums. Reading your fic makes me wish I had done my entire story in the first person perspective. It gives such insight into a character and how they tick.

Like I have said before. The original story of Trey is what got me started on writing my first fanfic here. I like to make that clear seeing as how you deserve the greatest of props. I just hope that you are following my story because I would like nothing more then to have the writer of Trey to be even faking interest in my story.

Overall, there is nothing I can say about the "Trey in Mournhold" story that you haven't already heard but congrats on a great story and keep up the amazing work.

You're too good Treydog.
You should give out a book or something...

You are more right about that than you can imagine! treydog is the utmost inspiring writer ever! Like you it was trey that got me writing my story! This is a story we all wish never will come to an end....we´d like it to continue for ever.

Trey´s contemplative ways of reasoning are just so incerdibly wonderful to read. And because of the inspiration given to me i´ve had almost a year full of joy, reading this story and writing my own...

I thank thee treydog!

This installment is dedicated to everyone who writes, who gives us their imagination on the page...and most of all to Kiln, with the hope that he will one day grace us with the conclusion of his story.
T.

As a result of my light-fingered ways, I had picked up quite a few pieces of blank paper and some quill pens and ink bottles during my wanderings in Vvardenfell and Mournhold. Equipped with this paraphernalia and the proper fussy attitude, I believed that I could pass myself off as a writer. In fact, I had already begun keeping notes of my misadventures, the results of which effort you now hold in your hands. My plan for getting information about and perhaps access to the king was that I would “interview” the servants, workers, and other “lower class” sorts in and around the palace. The idea of seeing their own words in print would loosen tongues more surely than the strongest drink. Perhaps I would even be so bold as to speak to some of the guards, even though they were more than a little intimidating. I knew that I was playing a dangerous game- Helseth had to know by now that I was in Mournhold. I only hoped he did not yet realize that I had uncovered his role in the attempts upon my life.

My day was one of frustration and disappointment. The servants possessed no useful information- unless I had cared about the usual “below stairs” gossip of what the scullery maid had said to the cook’s assistant. Beyond that, it seemed that Helseth’s people were either too loyal or too frightened to say anything about him. Having exhausted the possibilities amongst the servants, I turned my attention elsewhere. It seemed to me that a likely source of friction (and therefore gossip) would be the Imperial Legionnaires stationed at the depot that was part of the palace complex. From time immemorial, it has been a fact that “regular troops” have resented “elite units” such as Helseth’s Royal Guard. The regulars get bad food, bad pay, and dangerous jobs. The guards eat well, get paid extravagantly, and generally don’t do anything but stand around and look pretty. When I approached a Legion captain, I got quite a surprise- not concerning the Royal Guards, who he despised, but something else altogether. When I introduced myself as a writer and said I was “interested in getting the real story of life in Mournhold,” he rolled a chew of hackle-lo from one side of his mouth to the other, then said,

“Writer, are you? There’s a veritable plague of you fellows around here. Or maybe you and that other fellow are working together…? One hits ‘em high and the other hits ‘em low- is that it?”

Completely mystified, I stammered, “How do you mean?”

The captain spat a stream of hackle-lo juice at an innocent bug and continued, “Well, it just seems that with the king and his mother in residence that you writers are swarming around the palace like flies on a dung-heap. That Mero feller, what wrote about Queen Barenziah, he’s here. And now you. ”

I could scarcely believe my ears. Completely forgetting my original purpose, I asked,

“ ’Mero’? Do you mean Plitinius Mero? The one who is supposed to have written The Real Barenziah? You mean to say he’s here in Mournhold?”

The captain squinted at me and said, “Yeah, that’s the one. He’s usually out in the courtyard, taking the air. Why? Does he owe you money or sumpin’?”

That last was asked of my departing back as I pelted down the hallway with my robes flapping around me.

Anyone who has followed my story will know of my almost obsessive love for books- a trait which has cost me several fortunes and led me into a number of less-than-wise decisions. That being the case, is it any wonder that the only people I truly held in esteem were writers? Emulation of my heroes was the reason that I had taken to writing down my own experiences. But here was a chance to actually meet one of those literary giants in the flesh. Even though the author of the multi-volume biography/history/ romance entitled The Real Barenziah was supposedly unknown, every scholar worth his robe knew that the writer was Plitinius Mero. Mero had known the queen most of her life and had been with her through all the eventful years of the Succession Wars. She had grown to confide in him, and his writings had made her the most beloved of all the royals in Tamriel. To be able to actually speak with a published author was an unbelievable stroke of fortune. I will grant you that it wasn’t quite as exciting as would have been a meeting with Sudhendra Vahl, or Telina Delvanni, or even the legendary Kiln the Wanderer. On the other hand, if their own words were to be believed, meeting a couple of those folk might well have been a fatal proposition.

In its own way, my meeting with Plitinius Mero was as disappointing as my attempts to extract information from the servants. He was a pleasant enough fellow- for an Imperial. I came upon him wandering the courtyard with a slightly distracted air, muttering to himself and scribbling notes on a parchment. When I shyly approached him, he peered at me and said,

“Oh, excuse me. I was just trying to get a little writing done.”

And that was the first and last thing he said about his profession. Whether his reluctance stemmed from fear of a younger rival or from some other cause, I cannot say. That is certainly possible, for it was a sad fact that writing was a cut-throat business in those days. To make a living, a writer had to find a wealthy patron. Still worse, the name that appeared on a published work was often not the name of the actual writer. All it took was a bribe to an unscrupulous printer and, hey presto, your life’s work was someone else’s ticket to fame and fortune. In the end, the only useful information that I got from Mero was that everything went through Tienius Delitian, the captain of the Royal Guard. Anyone who wanted to deal with Helseth would have to deal with Delitian first.

Taking my leave of the famous author with a polite nod, I found a quiet bench and sat down to consider my next move. As things stood, I had nothing the Temple wanted except my sword. Somehow, I did not believe that my wit and charm would have much effect on Fedris Hler- at least not to the extent of persuading him into taking overt action against the king. He knew as well as I did that Uriel Septim would not hesitate to order the execution of a priest, no matter how many lives it took to accomplish the feat. Reluctantly, I concluded that Tienius Delitian was my only path to the king. I had stealthily checked the door to Helseth’s private quarters during my earlier wanderings around the palace, and knew that I had no hope of breaching that entry with anything less than a battering ram. I most profoundly DID NOT want to meet with Helseth’s guard captain under any circumstances. A man did not get to be head of a royal guard detachment without being smart as well as ruthless. I detested smart guards. They varied their routines, showed up in unexpected places, and asked uncomfortable questions. And a smart royal guardsman would tend to have an uncanny nose for assassination attempts. Or even for people who just didn’t much like the king. And here I was, preparing to present myself to such a man, to try to fool him, to convince him that I could be trusted in the presence of the king. Perhaps I could save myself the trouble and just run up to a sleeping dragon and give it a sharp rap on the snout. Assuming I could find a dragon, sleeping or otherwise. It was worth thinking about. After all, searching for a dragon could take years. Then waiting for it to go to sleep could take some more years. Maybe Helseth would accommodate me by dying of old age in the meantime. Maybe pigs would fly. Maybe it was time to quit stalling and go see Tienius Delitian.

Bah, poor Jonacin never gets a mention
But ona ore serious note, great updates Trey, look forward to reading more

As always, I particularly enjoyed Trey's introspections during this process. I am looking forward to seeing how he deals with the intrigues and complexities of dealing with both the temple and the palace.

Does your story EVER receive criticism Trey? Well, anyway, I must say that this story is positively the best fan fiction based on Morrowind. I have a question though, will Trey go to Cyrodiil once Oblivion gets released and you get to play it? My character (Arthago) sure is going to Cyrodiil once I get my hands on Oblivion.

Sure he do, I have just done it.

But I got to agree with planty and the other ones here...they said it all.

GAH! how could I have missed this!? great story Trey, I have but one question, Vvardenfell and that have pigs? great story, please keep it up.

geez, trey, I have only started reading this chapter, and only skimming through. Even so, you're writing is incredible. i could only aspire to write like you my friend. keep it up

With serious misgivings, I made my way to the throne room and my meeting with Tienius Delitian. Although there were some half-a-dozen figures wearing the armor of the king’s guard, I had no doubt as to which was the one I sought. Upon the dais stood a large, red-haired Imperial, a man who had perhaps a trace of Nord in his ancestry. His face appeared to have been carved of stone and his eyes followed my progress with incurious contemplation, rather as a well-fed lion might study tomorrow’s meal. Maintaining some hope that my threadbare cover story would work, I again presented myself as a writer, hoping to tell the “real story” of King Helseth- and his “trusty guards.” Delitian allowed me to more or less stutter to a stop, then gruffly spoke.

“A writer, are you? Let me see your hands!”

The request took me by surprise, so much so that I simply yelped a startled, “Sir?” and stood there as if paralyzed. He grabbed my wrists and repeated his order.

“Your hands, man! Let me see your hands!”

With my wrists clamped in his vise-like grip, he studied my palms, my fingers, and my nails. With a snort, he dropped my hands and looked at me.

“Writer you may be, but you never got those calluses wielding a pen. Looks more like long-sword and bow work to me. But then, I’m just a simple captain. So what do you want here? Is this an official matter or did you want to discuss something else?”

As has so often been the case, my dislike of authority got the better of me and I let my feelings run away with my tongue. Perhaps the casual way he had laid hands on me played a part, as well. In any event, with my anger rising, I blurted out,

“You might say it is official business. My name is Trey of High Rock and I wish to officially notify you that I believe that the king officially ordered my assassination by the Dark Brotherhood. Is that official enough for you?”

Delitian did not even blink. He just said,

“Trey. Yes, I know your name. And I'm Tienius Delitian, Captain of King Helseth's Royal Guards. You wish to know who sent the assassins to kill you in your sleep? A reasonable desire. I won't pretend I don't know about this. Of course, I'll deny it publicly. But don't take it personally. You appeared to present a threat to King Helseth. Perhaps mistakes were made. But you can prove they were mistakes, if you can prove your loyalty to King Helseth. So. Are you interested in helping me with my problem?”

My first impulse was to reach for my sword. Fortunately, I had been prudent enough to leave my weapons under Effe-Tei’s watchful eye, so that impetuous (and suicidal) act was thwarted. My second thought was to say something rude regarding the captain’s ancestry, probably involving some discussion of kagouti and cliff-racers. But wisdom prevailed (for once), as I recognized that either course would be futile. Even if I had been armed, I had no illusion that I was a better swordsman, and insults would simply bounce off of the rock-hard guard captain. Beyond that, neither fighting nor screaming would bring me any closer to Helseth.

With some difficulty, I reined in my temper and asked Delitian what “official business” he had in mind. Again fixing me with a piercing stare, he responded,

“There are rumors among the people about King Llethan's death. Rumors that Athyn Llethan did not die a natural death. There's no truth to them, of course. Speak to the people about King Llethan's death. You are not known to them as my representative, and they may be more candid with you. Let me know if you find the source of these rumors.”

Unable to prevent myself from expressing my thoughts aloud, I muttered,

“So, did Helseth poison him?”

Delitian heard my muttered remark and rapped out,

“That's a silly question. I don't like silly questions. Are you going to look into this matter or not?”

Seeing that the only hope I had of reaching Helseth was by ingratiating myself with his captain, I agreed.

“Very well, I will see what I can discover. I make no promises, mind you. And remember: If word gets out that I am your ‘hound,’ no one will speak to me and you will have to find your information some other way.”

The corners of Delitian’s mouth moved slightly upward- what did service for him as a smile, I suppose, and he said,

“Good. Report to me when you've learned the source of the rumors about King Llethan's death.”

I took my leave, but I did not go far- just to the palace reception area, where I had left my gear. Though my hands still itched to grasp the hilt of my sword, I left it where it lay and reached instead for my pack. A few second’s rummaging turned up what I sought- a copy of the broadsheet called “The Common Tongue,” which had implied that Helseth was a poisoner. Perhaps this would be sufficient for Delitian. It went against my nature to help the authorities in any way, particularly Helseth’s merry band of thugs, but it seemed that providing this small bit of information would cost me nothing and harm no one. By such small compromises do we give up our principles and find ourselves drawn inexorably into the net of intrigue. If one is not careful, he will wake up one morning to discover that he has betrayed all that he once held dear, with no clear memory of the first step that set his feet on the path of damnation.

Well Trey, I really couldn't possible give you any complement that you haven't already heard a hundred times before, after all we all know how awesome your work is and there are only so many ways you can express its greatness without becoming increasingly repetetive.

It is an honor to see mention of my story here but I'm really not sure if I'll continue or not, the spark I had when I began writing here has faded and I don't know if it will ever return. Perhaps I will continue writing again, should I feel the need but until then I'll read the countless stories and try to encourage the other writers here.

I am compelled to mention that your story has inspired all the great writers here at W4O at one time or another and has encouraged countless others to begin writing. You truly are a talented writer and I look forward to each update.

well this right here hits the nail on the head (as i'm sure ive said countless times in the past but it is true )


anyways I hope you'll just settle for a Jonajosa from me

seeing as all else is getting repetetive.

Man i miss most of the story but what i since this is one of teh ebst story eevr i want a book

Normally, I don't say much "out of character" in my own threads (silly, I know, but there it is). But I did want to take this chance to say a few things about writing and inspiration.

First- I cannot begin to tell you how much the support of the community, first at the "other" forums and then here, has meant to me. Trey started out as something I did because I was bored at work. When I posted that first little narrative, I had no idea that it would grow to such length. The story survived two job changes, as well as other upheavals. And it survived because all of you kept reading, kept telling me that it mattered to you. And I can never adequately express the gratitude I feel to Alexander and Stargelman for giving Trey a "permanent" home.

If I have helped inspire, godfather, midwife- whatever the right word is- others' stories, that is the best legacy anyone can hope to have. If you folks haven't figured it out yet, what I would like to be when I grow up is a teacher. I am so thrilled to see what has happened here- again thanks to the admins and moderators, who have made this a place that cherishes writers. More than that, I have made friends with folks from around the world.

As to losing the spark, I understand that all too well. I spent 5 years not finishing a rather important piece of writing because I just couldn't find the desire. I literally thought about it every day of those 5 years and made a decision not to work on it. You set a high bar for yourself with your story of The Wanderer. And RL can really sap whatever energy, inspiration, or interest we have in this disease called writing. Until recently, RL has kept me from being able to even READ the fan fics that have graced these pages. I won't press you to continue writing- that is a very personal decision. All I will ask is that you save your notes and, if you happen to think of something that would fit the story, write it down.

Most of all, thanks to everyone for reading and responding.

Ah Treydog! First of all I´m sad to say that my comment on your next latest addition apparently did not appear on the forums, don´t ask me why because I know I wrote something but it´s not there! The reason I say this is that I hope you don´t think I didn´t read it because I did! I cherish Trey a lot and you know that!

As for inspiration.....I´m sure you know treydog that you are a living legend around here......do I need to say more?

If my plan worked, Delitian would accept the copy of “The Common Tongue,” and I would not have to go around the city asking awkward questions. While I was not above a little bribery in a worthy cause, I hardly felt that this qualified. Besides, if anything happened, people might remember the Breton who was asking all the nosy questions. At the same time, it would not do to rush right back with the paper in my sweaty hands. After all, I needed the captain to believe I had made an effort. Although I did not really think that I had a chance of impressing the taciturn officer, I also did not want him to get the idea that I was intimately familiar with the writers of the broadsheet. Therefore, I disappeared into the palace basement to mix some potions. As always, the activity calmed me, but it also reminded me that the alchemist’s art could easily be perverted to produce poisons- poisons such as those the king was rumored to have used. Eying my equipment and ingredients, I wondered how many food-tasters the king went through in a week. It was well-known that a man who used poisons on his enemies was a man who greatly feared being poisoned himself. That bore consideration; perhaps someday I could turn it to my advantage. The thought of Helseth having to fear for his life every time he took a bite or sip cheered me tremendously. It felt only right that the man who had made my life miserable should endure a little misery himself. In a better frame of mind, I returned to the throne room and presented Tienius Delitian with the copy of “The Common Tongue.” He perused the sheet quickly, and a frown creased his brow then cleared as he reached the end. He thanked me fulsomely, but buried in his thanks was an interesting remark,

“Thank you for bringing me this copy of 'The Common Tongue'. I believe this is indeed the source of the rumors. I see no source or evidence for its speculation -- just vague falsehoods. Thank you. Well done. I'll mention your loyal services and exceptional qualities to King Helseth. And I think we might find you further employment.”

I discounted the sarcastic remarks about my “loyal services and exceptional qualities,” but it did not require a doctorate in rhetoric to recognize the difference between “no truth” and “no evidence.” Delitian was not so much concerned about people saying Helseth was a murderer- he simply wanted to be sure no one with actual knowledge of the king’s plotting was doing the talking. After scowling thoughtfully at me for a few minutes, the guardsman abruptly asked me what I knew about the Temple. Unsure of where the conversation was going, I admitted that I had joined the Tribunal Temple in Vvardenfell, and performed some services for them. Then I tried to explain why I had not also joined the Imperial Cult, but Delitian impatiently waved away my stumbling protestations of piety and said,

“I have no interest in your faith, boy. You can worship the Great Rabbit for all I care. What I need is someone who can go inside the Temple without raising any eyebrows. We lack sources of information in Almalexia's Temple. Could you help me find a Temple informant?”

Although I had not been favorably impressed by what I had seen of the Temple, I knew that they were influential- and could be a powerful enemy. Therefore, I tried to buy a little time by asking what precisely Delitian had in mind. For once, he did not act impatient, but replied thoughtfully,

“There are rumors of discontent in the Temple. Go to Almalexia's Temple. Look for someone discontented. Listen sympathetically. And find out whether the Temple is willing to accept King Helseth -- or whether the Temple plans to act against him.”

The frightening thing about Tienius Delitian- or at least one of the frightening things about him- was how reasonable he made everything seem. Either he absolutely believed everything he was saying or else the stage had lost a great actor when he went into the Imperial Guard. However, his apparent sincerity was not what caused me to agree to seek his Temple informant. Some may wonder at my willingness to do the bidding of people I despised, especially without protest. In truth, my conscience, poor, stunted thing that it was, did feebly attempt to counsel me to follow the righteous path. But I ignored it- for several reasons. First, I would do almost anything to get a chance to have a few seconds alone with Helseth. And I didn’t plan to ask for his autograph. Second, I had no great love for the Temple, particularly not the Temple in Mournhold. And finally, it seemed to me that the best way to find others who had reason to wish Helseth ill was through the guard captain. He would know better than anyone who the king’s enemies were- and he would have to give me their names sooner or later. What I actually said to those people might not be precisely what Delitian had in mind.

Of course, I was not exactly thrilled with the idea of being the king’s spy inside the Temple. A picture appeared unbidden in my mind- two inexorable, faceless titans squaring off over the city of Mournhold, with my all-too-fragile self stuck right between them. If the king and the Temple clashed, it was little people like me that were liable to get trampled underfoot. Also, before I started wandering around the Temple, asking people if they were happy with the current management, I needed to think of a reason for being there. Pretending to be a writer had not worked in the palace and was even less likely to do so in the House of Almalexia. Given my rather spectacular entrance the last time I had been in the Temple, I imagined people probably remembered me very clearly. Although a great many supplicants entered the Temple every day, I doubted that most of them left the severed heads of goblin chieftains as offerings. Thinking about that episode also reminded me of Fedris Hler’s sneering acknowledgment of my completion of the task- and his casual reference to the fact that Gavas Drin, the Arch-canon, might have some additional duties for me. That offer would be my explanation for what I was doing- important work for the Arch-canon, work that required me to do some research and ask questions of the Temple personnel. It was thin, and Hler would see through it if he bothered to inquire, but I hoped his contempt for me would provide sufficient cover. For once, I was rather glad that someone did not take me seriously. If I cultivated that air of bumbling incompetence, it might just be possible to demonstrate to Fedris Hler and Helseth that even small snakes can have sharp fangs. Of course, it would also be well to remember that there was a fine line between feigned incompetence and the real thing.

Looking back upon it, the thing I hated most about the city of Mournhold was not the rotten king, or the Dark Brotherhood, or even the gloom that seemed to permeate the very air of the place. No, what I hated was the way even my simplest plans seemed to throw me into situations where I stood a very good chance of getting killed. I have referred in the past to the voices that seemed to speak from somewhere inside my head, and which I too often ignored. One of those voices, which sounded remarkably like my own, was begging me to just forget all this and leave. Failing that, it counseled me to just do the job, without any flourishes. If I had been smart instead of trying to be clever, I would have listened to that voice. But Fedris Hler, Steward of Almalexia, had irritated and insulted me. And, in my youth, I forgot a fundamental rule of survival- your pride is not worth losing your life. I wanted to prove to Fedris Hler that I was more capable than he thought. More, I wanted the satisfaction of deceiving one of the most feared elves in Mournhold.

Even so, as I entered the Temple reception area, I was wise enough to ignore the Steward, who returned the favor. I also saw no point in speaking with the High Ordinators who flanked the doors to the High Chapel; their only discontent would be that Temple hierarchy did not let them kill more heretics. To the right of the reception area was a door marked “Infirmary.” My instincts told me that the Infirmary would be a good place to seek an informant- the healers often found themselves at odds with the more political elements of the Temple. They tended to take their oaths to heal mind and body seriously, and did not appreciate some of the Temple’s more…direct…methods of dealing with dissent. I followed the gloomy, curving corridor that traced the outside of the Temple until I reached a small room with a few simple cots separated from one another by screens. The room’s sole occupant was a Dunmer woman whose expression seemed to contain equal parts of worry and sadness. I introduced myself as a member of the Temple and asked her how she enjoyed her duties in Mournhold. She said her name was Galsa Andrano and that some days were better than others. That less than enthusiastic response told me that I had perhaps found my informant- or perhaps someone who could put me in touch with someone else. Therefore, I asked her if it was true that some in the Temple were unhappy with the current state of affairs. She studied my face closely for a moment, before stepped past me to look both ways down the hall. Returning, she spoke in a low voice, saying,

“I am a faithful believer.... but Almalexia makes me uneasy. For the last 50 years, the Tribunal stopped walking among us, stopped listening and speaking with us. This worried me, and made me sad. Were our gods abandoning us? Were they growing weak? But since Almalexia has lately come among us again, I feel more worry, not less. Her face glows brightly with hope and power, but her words seem dark and bitter.”

Sensing that there was more she wished to say, I did not rush to fill the silence, but instead cast my face into a sympathetic expression and waited. Encouraged, Galsa continued,

“Almalexia's homilies are full of compassion, understanding, wisdom and acceptance. But now her sermons seem more intent on destroying the wicked, punishing the foolish, and rewarding the faithful -- the unquestioning, obedient faithful. Yes, these are difficult times. And in difficult times, to survive, we must be hard. I tremble for the failing of my faith... but the god I once loved now frightens me.”

What she had told me was significant- the Temple was not united, and some were even questioning the Tribunal itself. However, Delitian had specifically asked me to look into the Temple’s attitude toward Helseth, so I asked,

“What of the King? Does the Temple believe that his leadership will help in these troubled times?”

Galsa Andrano laughed bitterly and said,

“Helseth has murdered King Llethan and stolen his crown. It does not matter that King Llethan was a fool. He was OUR fool. So long as the puppet king was a joke, we all could laugh and ignore him. Helseth is not a fool, and no one is laughing. If Helseth seeks in earnest to be king, then Almalexia and the Temple are sworn in earnest to destroy him.”

The transformation in the previously placid and somewhat melancholy healer was frightening. Though there were divisions within the Temple, it appeared that there were none where Helseth was concerned. More significantly, Galsa believed that the Temple would prevail in any conflict. And so, I had my answer. What confounded me was what I should do with it.

Oh dear..now we´re getting closer....you created a spooky atmosphere in this part my dear dachshund! brrrrrr......thrillingly awesome, I can´t wait to hear more

Veyr nice addition and I agree with Minque, a spooky atmosphere. Great job Trey and please keep up the good work.

With the knowledge of the strength of the Temple’s opposition to Helseth burning inside of me, I turned to the next phase of my plan. That next phase was to be the clever part, the part which allowed me to deceive Fedris Hler, thus protecting my delicate skin. At least, that was the idea. The reality was nearly the opposite, as I let my smart mouth talk me into yet another near-death experience. I made my way to the administrative offices, secure in the knowledge that I could handle whatever menial task the Archcanon had in mind. When I reached Gavas Drin’s sumptuous office, my eyes were first drawn to his remarkable collection of books, and my fingers twitched as I resisted the impulse to examine them more closely. With a quick shake of my head, I turned my attention to the office’s living occupants. Gavas Drin was relatively young for his high office, but he wore his authority with ease. His dignity and power were in marked contrast to the other elf in the room, a rather weedy Dunmer priest who introduced himself as Urvel Dulni. The young priest’s ink-stained robes and near-sighted gaze practically screamed “scholar” and “book-worm,” but there was an indefinable hint of some hidden power surrounding him, as well.

After the introductions were completed, I explained that the Steward had sent me to assist in some task. The Archcanon raised a questioning eyebrow and made some remark about the tardiness of my response. I had expected that reaction and quickly replied that the rigors of my struggle to rid Mournhold of the goblin menace had necessitated several days to overcome. Then I added,

“In any event, I am here now and ready to serve.”

Gavas Drin stopped just short of rolling his eyes at my rather pompous pronouncement and said,

“Yes, well. Beneath this Temple, there is a large sewer system, built around the ruins of Old Mournhold. You smell like you may have spent some time there.... Regardless, in these ruins, there lies a shrine. This shrine has been corrupted.”

This did not sound good, but I simply gritted my teeth in a parody of a smile and said,

“Oh, a corrupted shrine. How interesting. Please, tell me more.”

Drin either did not notice or did not care that my answer was lacking in proper religious fervor and continued,

“The Shrine of the Dead was once a place of great power. It served as a channel to the ancestors, allowing the faithful to learn from them...to harness their power. Over the years, it has been forgotten, and it has grown sour. The power that radiates from the shrine has drawn hordes of the undead to it. The Shrine of the Dead must be cleansed.”

I managed to avoid my first impulse, which was to say something like, “How unfortunate, I must have left my corrupted shrine cleaning kit in my spare robes.”

Instead, I politely pointed out that I had no idea of how to go about cleansing a shrine. Gavas Drin snorted and said,

“No... certainly not you. This task falls to one of Almalexia's chosen. You will escort this young priest, Urvel Dulni, to the shrine. Protect him well, Trey. His experience is limited, but he is necessary to complete the ritual. The Shrine is protected by the Profane, powerful liches who feed from the power of the shrine. You must destroy them for Dulni to perform his duties. I stress again...protect Dulni at all costs. It is he who must perform the ceremony. If he is not able, there are no others.”

I wondered what Dulni had done to annoy Almalexia, but I had no chance to ask him, for when I turned to leave, he was nowhere to be seen.

As it turned out, he had not gone far, just into the outer hallway, where he awaited me. Ignoring him, I berated myself for my attempt at cleverness while I enumerated the “blessings” that the Temple had just bestowed upon me. First, I got to go down into the sewers- again. Once there, I would find a bunch of the undead (have I ever told you how I feel about the undead?) But these would not be your common, garden-variety, shuffling-around-in-tombs, ripping-you-apart-and-eating-you undead. Oh no, it was better. There were liches. For anyone who does not know, a lich is the reanimated corpse of a powerful mage who believed that death should not stop a person from continuing to accumulate magical power. And not only must I go into the midst of those malevolent, fireball-throwing, inhumanly-strong refugees from a cemetery- I had to take along a stuttering, pasty-faced priest who said things like, “Oh my, oh, mercy me.” Oh, and just to put the finishing touch on it all, I stank.

I had gotten myself into this situation and I would just have to make the best of it. The first thing to do was scout things out. No, actually the first thing to do was buy arrows- lots of arrows. If there were undead down there, I preferred to deal with them from as far away as possible. In any event, I was going to do my scouting alone. There was no way I was going into a life-and-undeath struggle with a walking liability like Urvel Dulni tagging along. Still, it was not Urvel’s fault that he was so unsuited for the task he had been given, so I was as kind as possible when I asked him to wait until I had checked on a few things. He stammered his agreement and disappeared somewhere in the Temple corridors. I took a short detour to the Bazaar, where I left the fletcher much wealthier, and then made my way into the Temple basement, from which I would find access to the sewers. The basement itself was of interest to me, as it was crammed full of sacks, crates, and baskets. I re-arranged the containers to improve the esthetic appeal of the basement and a few random alchemical ingredients accidentally fell into my pockets. And who was I to turn down the gifts that providentially came my way? All right, I admit it- I robbed the Temple basement. The truth was, stealing gave me a thrill that combat and magic never did. My recent turn of fortune had depressed me. Some people go shopping when they are depressed, and so did I- only at a one hundred percent discount. Besides, even if the Temple caught me, what would they do? Maybe throw me into a stinking pit to fight a bunch of undead, brain-rotted wizards? The way I figured it, the rewards the Temple handed out tended to be of the hearty-slap-on-the-back, we’ll remember-you-in-our-prayers sort. Call me hopelessly cynical, but I preferred a more tangible form of payment.

Another excellent update to one of the most impressive, and certainly consistent, Morrowind stories. Amazing to think, that after all this time, so many updates, that the quality has never once flagged.

I struggle to post replies as much as I'd like to these days, but I still get a little quiver of excitement when I see a Trey update, and they're always devoured eagerly.

Wow, I'm really surprised that this hasn't gotten alot of comments...but I guess most people are busy with Oblivion right now and can't break from it. I liked Trey's overall mood in this update, the little remarks he makes in his mind but manages to hold in.

The part when Trey notices the book collection made me smile, something about him not being able to read those books when he wants to seems almost like torture for the character.

Keep up the awesome work Trey.

Agree with my fellow mod here....a new Trey just makes my day!!!! I usually buckle up with coffee and some goodies to get a moment of total joy!

Fabulous post, Treydog. I've really enjoyed reading Trey's story. I actually just registered at this forum just so I could compliment your work (I can't believe your work doesn't get more comments!).

I have followed he Story of Trey from the beginning....and it is a loooooooooong story, also the inspiration to many of us to start writing. Oh aye, me too! If it hadn´t been for Trey, I´d never even come to think of writing a story and then post it for others to read!

I think that treydog knows by now what an example he is to many of us. I f. ex. could go on praising this story for hours......

Very nice Trey, very nice. heh 100% discount, nice....

ANd yes Trey has insipired most of us... (I'm going out on a limb on this one, trying to remember when I came here yell at me if I'm wrong), but I do thnk he was one of the first stories here (?).

I have started a story(again) I like this one a bit better then my other one.. I just need to type (more of) it up....

I like Trey's personality. A very interesting person. Nice story also.

Having delayed as long as I could, I raised the trap door to the sewers. The stench that assailed me was familiar by now, but was underlain this time by something far worse. It was as if I had opened a mass grave. And in fact, I had, although the occupants had not had the courtesy to rest quietly. All that propelled me down into that noisome darkness was fury- at myself, at the Temple, at the king. If I had possessed any sense at all, I would have left Mournhold and never returned. But two things stopped me from following the sensible course. First, I had announced my presence to Helseth, and I hoped that the knowledge that I was nearby worried him. But if it did, he was likely to redouble his efforts to have me killed- especially if I disappeared. I could not leave until that situation was resolved- one way or another. The second reason that I had to go down into the sewers was more complex. It had to do with who I was, or who I wanted to be. You see, I had given my word. Whether Gavas Drin or the Temple were worthy of my loyalty was beside the point. This was not about them or even about loyalty. It was about me. And I was a thief, but not a liar.

I was sure that my nobility of purpose would be a great comfort to me when I confronted the undead wizards. Of even more comfort was the magical longbow I conjured as soon as my feet touched the slimy stones at the foot of the ladder. The subterranean chambers echoed with the shrieks and howls of the tormented spirits that had been attracted by the Shrine of the Dead. Of all the annoying things about priests (and wizards, for that matter), the one that irritated me the most was the way they left their toys lying around when they grew tired of them. Unfortunately, powerful magical artifacts had a tendency to become more and more dangerous over time. Before I had time to build up to a really satisfying fulmination on the failings of priests, one of the immediate consequences of their neglect, in the form of a bonelord, attacked me. A couple of arrows disintegrated the floating assemblage of bones and I commenced my exploration. The tunnels contained more bonelords, as well as ancestor ghosts, and rats. I never quite understood why rats seemed to congregate in the presence of the undead, yet I had observed that such was the case. Perhaps they were attracted by the random bits that fell off of their patrons- or perhaps by the victims of the undead creatures. Most of the ghosts rushed toward me with hair-curling screams, only to fall to my bow. In one dead end corridor, I came across an undead spirit that did not attack, but simply hovered a few feet off the ground. I nocked an arrow and drew back the bow-string, but something in this ghost’s attitude caused me to stay my hand. Cautiously, I approached the ethereal figure, which regarded me silently. At last, I could stand the silence no longer and rasped,

“Who are you? And why do you not attack me as all of your brethren do?”

The ghost continued to stare sightlessly at me and then a voice seemed to sound inside my mind.

“My name is Variner. I was killed by the Black Dart Gang. I beg you -- avenge my death. Their hideout is in Old Mournhold, Temple Sewers West. Many have died fighting them. But there is a mechanism that can flood the room, drowning the gang. Find a lever that looks like a torch holder, near the east end of the chamber. But whatever you do, don't get too close or you will join me in the afterlife.”
I realized that this ghost was all that remained of the dead husband of Narisa Adus, the woman I had met on my first sojourn into the sewers of Mournhold. She, as well as
a number of other people, had warned me of the danger the Black Dart Gang posed. Apparently, they used very powerful poisoned or enchanted missiles, some of which could cause massive damage. I listened to Variner’s words in silence, and just as silently turned away. Although I was sorry for him and his widow, I would not give my word lightly again, especially to a restless spirit. And, to my shame, I was just as pleased that my task would take me in the opposite direction from Black Dart territory. According to Gavas Drin, the shrine lay beyond the former Temple Gardens, which were in the eastern section of the Temple sewers. Of course, even though I had a fairly well-developed sense of direction, it mostly depended on the sun or the stars, which were notable for their absence in this underground maze.

As it turned out, my self-congratulations over avoiding the deadly gang proved premature when I stepped through the door into the East Sewers. I had barely cleared the doorway when I felt a sudden sharp bite in my lower back. If my attacker had been either smarter or less confident, I would have surely bled my life away in those stinking tunnels below Mournhold. But he could not resist the opportunity to gloat. A snarl of “Die, n’wah,” gave away his position in the shadows of the doorway. Ignoring the painful wound in my back, I turned to see a raggedly-dressed Dunmer, who swiftly raised his right hand over his shoulder and brought it downward. A bit of metal flashed briefly in the uncertain light and I felt another painful bite, this time in my left leg. I returned the favor with a bow-shot to his midsection, which he ignored as he threw another flurry of darts at me. And so we stood, some eight feet apart, exchanging arrows and darts. The pain of my injuries, as well as my attempts to dodge spoiled my aim, but I finally made a fair hit upon his right arm. Instead of giving up, the dark elf downed a potion which healed his injuries. Then with a look of hatred, he reached inside his ragged tunic and withdrew a wickedly barbed dart, which he promptly hurled into the knee joint of my already damaged leg. Surprisingly, that dart did not cause the intense pain that had accompanied the others. However, it was far more deadly, for it was hollow. In effect, it was like a tap draining my life-blood in great spurts even as I watched. Knowing that I must act quickly, I wrenched the terrible weapon from my knee, taking a great deal of flesh with it. Then I imbibed a healing potion of my own and turned back to my foe. Apparently, he had expected the bleeder dart to finish me, for he was not prepared for my renewed attack. His hesitation was only for an instant- he rushed toward me, throwing one last dart, one that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light. The missile struck me in the abdomen and seemed to literally burrow into my body. The most virulent poison I had ever encountered bloomed within me and only my alchemy skills saved me.

When I had first heard of the Black Dart Gang, I had made sure to prepare antidotes against poisons and to carry them with me at all times. As soon as I felt the tendrils of the vile toxin racing through my blood, I dispelled the magical bow and convulsively swallowed one of my antidotes. Even so, it was a very near thing. I learned firsthand why the Black Dart Gang was so feared. Most people would have succumbed to the poison in a few seconds- it was fortunate that the gang member who assailed me had only carried one such dart and was alone. His weapons spent at last, the Dunmer began to flail at me with his fists, a look of disbelief warring with the hatred on his face. No doubt I was the first of his victims to ever survive. He soon discovered that bare fists were no match for a longsword and I took some pleasure in providing that lesson. But even as he breathed his last, I wondered whether his fellows lurked somewhere in the darkness with still more of their deadly projectiles.

Oh my.....that was almost too close! Brilliant installment....just sheer awesome. But now I´m waiting eagerly for the continuation....

*sipping coffee ferosciously*

It was almost a relief when the only enemies that attacked me were a couple of ancestor ghosts. They fell quickly to my enchanted silver blade and I muttered a silent prayer of thanks that I had not joined them in their disembodied state. I am not sure to whom the prayer was directed- what I had seen of the gods so far in my life rather inclined me to believe that they would have appreciated the symmetry of leaving the spirit of a former stable-boy to haunt the sewers of Mournhold. The more finished section of the sewers soon gave way to a rough side passage that appeared to have been excavated by hand from the collapsed walls of the ancient city. The tunnel took me north I think and contained nothing more than additional undead creatures. Doggedly, I pushed deeper into the terrible maze, being hacked at by skeletons and blasted with magicka by bonelords. Finally, at the end of another roughly crafted tunnel, I came upon a warped wooden door with a crude inscription that read, “Temple Gardens.”

The carvings and faded colors hinted at what must have once been a wonder of all Tamriel, fallen now into ruin. Planters that had once held exotic blooms were now home to the pale, fleshy sorts of plants that thrive in dark places. The water that fell was neither sparkling nor pure, containing as it did all the detritus of the forgetful city overhead. I could not help but consider the contrast between the former glory of the Temple Gardens and the austere construction of the current Temple of Almalexia. The gardens had been open to all, a place to stroll in the sun and enjoy a cooling rain. The Temple now was a fortress- forbidding and closed to all but the select few. My thoughts seemed to echo the words of Galsa Andrano, the healer who had worried that Almalexia was becoming bitter and vengeful. After splashing a short distance through the flooded chamber, I came upon a sight that caused me to wonder even more about the current state of the Temple. What I saw was this: a two-story edifice, perhaps the former entrance to an important Temple building, which had been painstakingly cleaned and restored. The high wall contained five openings or niches surrounding a circular metal doorway. In the most important position, that is on the top tier and in the center arch, stood a larger than life statue of a clearly female figure. Although the features were worn with the passage of time, I had no doubt that the statue represented Almalexia. But the two male statues- Vivec and Sotha Sil, I suppose were equally interesting for their placement. One was in a lower tier arch on the right of the door and the other had been casually leaned up against a pile of rubble as if it was of no importance. Looking at the tableau, I remembered that half-joking remark someone had made regarding the fact that levitation did not work in the new city of Mournhold. The joker had said, “Almalexia does not wish for anyone to stand higher than herself.” It seemed that there was more to that story than Dunmer humor. Whatever the symbolism of the statues did or did not represent, the lettering surrounding the door left no doubt- for it spelled out “Shrine of the Dead.”

As can be imagined, my joy at being so close to my destination was remarkably subdued. By way of celebration, I cast my weak Chameleon spell and conjured a magical bow. If all went well, the liches would never know I was there until my arrows carried them to the death they had cheated. Upon opening the door, I entered a vast, echoing chamber, with four massive black pillars disappearing into the roof. More significant was the skeletal robed figure wandering across the floor. I did not pause to inquire, but loosed half-a-dozen arrows as fast as I could draw, nock, and fire. So far, my plan was working well, a circumstance that should have caused me to immediately run away screaming. The only time my plans seemed to be working was when I had overlooked something of great and painful significance. Unheeding, I crept deeper into the roughly-constructed chamber, with some thought of examining the remains of the creature I had just slain. That particular acolyte of the Profane (as I later discovered the liches were called) was no danger to me. However, the black columns that ringed the room were. Apparently, they had been set up as a magical trap to blast any living being who was unwary enough to step between them. All that saved me from severe injury was my natural resistance to magical attack. For that, I thanked my poor dead mother- the wretched gods had nothing to do with it. Still, it was several minutes before I stopped seeing flashes of color before my eyes and could again concentrate well enough to continue.

When my vision cleared sufficiently, I saw that the room was empty, except for another circular metal door. When I laid a careful hand upon the latch, it was as if I had touched a door on the other side of which burned a great fire. Except instead of heat, what I felt radiating from that door was a sense of wrongness, of corruption, of evil so powerful it was a presence in the room. Knowing that the shrine and its undead guardians had to be close, I made my preparations. First, I drew forth a bundle of specially-made arrows I had been saving for just such an occasion. Next, I conjured my magical bow and opened the door. Three robed figures, closely akin to the one I had already dispatched, shuffled and bowed around the corrupted altar. Hiding in the shadows of the doorway, I knelt and waited until one of the liches separated from the others. I released my first arrow and was gratified to see the undead wizard’s tattered robes burst into flame. Knowing that the lich’s wailing would draw his fellows, I dispelled my bow and sprinted into the chamber. My goal was a pile of debris off to one side of the altar- I knew I would need both hands if I were to have any hope of scrambling up the steep mound of shifting masonry. Fortunately, my opponent chose to summon a bone-walker as his first retaliatory action. That gave me all the time I needed to secure myself out of reach and to speak the words of my own spell- boghu tromhad. I ignored the bone-walker, knowing that killing its master would cause the awful creature to dissipate. However, summoning was not the only power that the undead mage possessed. Even as I sent a second arrow to burst into flame at his feet, the skeletal figure gestured at me and I saw a crackling blue sphere emerge from his bony hands. The sphere expanded as it flew towards me, becoming large enough to completely engulf my body. I felt as if I had been trapped inside a lightning storm as the spell blasted me into a quivering heap. That involuntary spasm was all that saved me, as the next shockball flew harmlessly over my head. Maintaining my precarious hold, I quickly imbibed a healing potion and redoubled my efforts at archery. My only hope was to so distract the lich that it could not cast another spell. The bursts of flame from my arrows had the desired effect and soon I was faced with “only” two of the vile creatures. However, I now had seen their deadliest spell and was able to use my more accurate marksmanship to destroy them at long range.

As my magical bow dissipated, I surveyed the room, breathing in great gasps. The air was foul with the stench of the burning piles that had once been wizards, but I did not care. The way to the Shrine had been opened; all that remained was to fetch Urvel Dulni so that he could do whatever it was that the Temple had in mind. I retraced my route back to Gavas Drin’s office, where Dulni still waited. When the young priest saw me, his already ashen complexion turned even grayer. No doubt I presented a less-than-reassuring sight- covered with blood, soot, and thoroughly beslimed from wading through the sewers. Beyond that, I can only imagine that my demeanor was such that I closely resembled one of the animated corpses I had so recently sent to its final rest. Fixing the priest with a glare, I growled,

“Come with me.”

Urvel Dulni swallowed hard and said, “Are you sure you don’t just want me to wait here? I would be glad to….”

Seeing that I would not be persuaded, he silently fell into step behind me as I made my way back to the Temple basement and the sewers.

I have to say this much for him- he kept up with the pace I set and he did not complain about the smell. More than that, he proved to be an asset instead of a liability. At one point I heard a quiet grunt, followed by a crunch and a loud rattle. Thinking that the poor devil had fallen and broken his leg, I turned to see him holding his mace looking rather surprised. At his feet lay the remains of a skeletal warrior that had clearly been about to skewer me with a spear.

When we reached the corrupted altar, Urvel Dulni… changed. He seemed to grow taller and more powerful and his voice lost its stutter. In a much deeper voice than his former tenor squeak, he spoke the words of an incantation that I could not understand, then bowed his head and stood silently. At last, he looked at me with a piercing gaze and pronounced the shrine cleansed. Our journey back to the surface was conducted in silence and was blessedly uneventful. Gavas Drin was pleased (and surprised, I think) by our success. He thanked me and gave me something he called a “Blessed Spear,” supposedly a gift direct from the hands of Almalexia herself. I did not bother to point out that a spear was of no use to me, but silently resolved to have nothing more to do with the Temple in Mournhold. There was power there, great power. But it was the kind of power that would likely get me killed.

Here ends Chapter 4

Whoa! What is the deal, the end of chapter 4 has been up this long without any replies? Probably because not many people are on lately. Anyways great end to chapter 4 Trey, please continue soon.

Very nice updates, sorry i havent commented sooner but i havent been free for a while

Finally I've brought myself up to date with this remarkable story. RL has intervened for too long.

This deserves to be in book form - not many published writers can produce such consistently fine writing.

Encore! Bravissimo!!!

I thing our Magefire just said it all. If any story should be published it should be the complete story of Trey. The great inspiration to many of us.

Now we wait eagerly for chapter 5, which will be as outstanding as the previous ones....

Hail treydog!

Ha, it is complicated what Trey's writing does for me. It both inspires me, yet scares me somewhat - while attempting to write my own piece in this genre I cannot help but think of the minimal impact it would create when realeased next to Trey's work.

I can quite easily imagine that if a fanfic was released just a second before Trey released a new chapter trey's thread could be 20 posts up before the view count on the former had reached 10.

-Although I suppose it is a testament to Trey's abilities.

Enough rambling, Great story Trey.

Wow, sorry Trey, i'm pulling the "i've been playing Oblivion" excuse great end to Chapter 4 and I await the next instalmnet.

*Coughs politely*...



...

Yes I know. But- well... see... when this was being written, Oblivion wasn't out yet and there was rampant lobbying for dragons in "the next Elder Scrolls game."

And beyond that- itisn'tastoryit'sjustsomerandomscribbles