I love writing this story and I hope this will amuse some of you. It's both comedy, romance, drama and mild horror in some places.


Chapter 1 – Jinxed

It was early morning in Sadrith Mora. The sun was just climbing over the hills to the east of Dirty Muriel's Cornerclub, warming the cap of a giant fungus for a while before it lazily moved onward. The gentle rays slid over the soft edge, slowly at first, but as more joined them a sharp beam of light formed.

In one of the cramped rooms a young high elf awoke with a sneeze that sent his long, honey coloured hair flying before his face. Squinting with blue eyes, streaked with red after a late night, he grimaced accusingly at the sun and stretched out his arm to tug at the curtain. He only managed to pull down the curtain pole, which in turn crashed down and turned over the pitcher on the rugged bedside table.

Being splashed with water was not an uncommon way for Breonnarin to wake up, but he had never caused it himself before and the lack of somebody to chase through the building somehow made it worse. He was just about to say things could not get worse when he realised that water was dripping into the drawer. He opened it with more force than necessary, out of worry for the things he kept there, and ended up holding the drawer by the handle in mid air as his belongings fell into the small pool of water that had formed on the floor.

“Oh, no!” He reached out to save the copy of Surfeit of Thieves he had got as a gift from the guild mates in Balmora. They had all put their signatures in it, recognisable marks anyway, and he valued those more than the story itself. Just as he felt the book with his fingertips he lost balance and fell off the bed with a crash.

The door opened and Fandus Puruseius, Muriel's bouncer, peeked inside carefully. When he saw that Breonnarin was alone in the room he sighed and put his hands on his hips disapprovingly. “What is all the rumble about? I though you were being attacked!”

Breonnarin moaned in excruciating pain. He had managed to fall on his back right on top of the drawer. “Help me up,” he wheezed.

The strong Imperial pulled up the young thief effortlessly. Breonnarin immediately bent down to pick up the book and wipe it off with the bedclothes. The pages were wet at the ends, meaning the book would lose shape forever if he did not press it after it dried, but the first page was all that mattered to him.

“What on...” The sheets turned red as the dye came off the cheap leather. Muriel would not be pleased and Fandus told him so.

“What are you doing?” Rissinia the Redguard grunted as he walked by, rubbing his eyes. “I intended to sleep in today, but that won't happen now.” The savant started to chuckle. “It does seem like you got an even worse start this day, so we're even. It's another matter with Both gro-Durug, though. Water should be leaking through the floor by now and his bed is right beneath yours. I'm surprised all this turmoil hasn't woke him already.”

“What is this supposed to mean?” came a harsh voice from below. “Elf! Are you wetting yourself? I swear I'll strangle you with your own pretty hair!”

“No, Both! It's water!” Breonnarin sighed. “Can somebody please fetch me some towels?”

“Why are you playing with water indoors?” Both growled and the stairs creaked as he went up to see the culprit face to face.

“Can you people stop screaming!” Muriel roared. Her ruddy face peeked over Rissinia's shoulder and anger turned into shock. “How on Nirn did you manage that?”


One hour and one hundred apologies later Breonnarin swallowed the last crumbs of his breakfast along with the last, bitter drops of tea out in the common room. Celegorn, a wood elf, was plucking eagerly at a lute.

“Please, stop that!” Breonnarin asked for the tenth time, but the little Bosmer continued to ignore him. “It sounds horrible!” Still nothing. “Your supposed music makes a scrib sound like a talented singer!”

“Oh! And I suppose the perfect little Altmer can do it better? Your little mayhem this morning didn't caress my sensitive ears either!”

Breonnarin hated when people made fun of his size, although coming from a Bosmer the insult lacked credibility. Only other high elves and tall Nord could make him feel short. He was just about to counter the insult when the door to Big Helende's room opened and she waved at him to join her.

“Have a seat, Scuttle.” How he hated that nickname! “You caused quite a mess this morning.”

“An accident.” He wriggled in his seat under her stare. “Well, several accidents deciding to happen all at once.”

“I believe you. Do you think you're done having accidents today?”

“I hope so.” He had had his morning tea now after all.

“Good.” The tall, bulky woman sat down facing him across the table. “I have a job for you. You know Fara?” Breonnarin nodded. “She has an annual cooking contest with Dinara Othrelas,” he froze, “who works in the Llethri manor in Ald-Ruhn. Fara needs Dinara's copy of Redoran Cooking Secrets. I thought this job would be perfect for you.”

Breonnarin's head spun.

“You look pale.” Helende crossed her arms, her polished netch leather cuirass creaking.

“Can't someone else do it?”

Helende looked thwarted. “Someone else? Of course someone else can do it, but why can't you?”

“Please, it's complicated. Horribly so.”

“Are you questioning my intelligence?”

“I grew up in that manor!” As the son of a guard, but he still had fond memories from there. Especially the kitchen.

“The more reason for you to go, since you obviously know the way. Perhaps Dinara would even lend you the book if you know her.”

Breonnarin rose up. “I'm sorry.”

“I would have expected more from an operative.” Helende eyed him disdainfully. “Celegorn will go, but I'm not responsible for the outcome.” Breonnarin struggled to swallow as a hard lump seemed to form in his throat. “As for you. You are not expelled, but get out of my sight. I may or may not take you back later. Much later.” She shook her head. “Now I know you deserve that name of yours, Scuttle.”

Am I that bad a coward? He shook his head in disbelief as he stuffed down his belongings in a bag. This could not have happened at a worse time. The night before he had been so sure he would do a job soon, so he had not thought twice about wasting the last coins in his purse on a drink or two and, in a state of bad judgement, gambling.

Stealing in Sadrith Mora, where Helende knew everything that happened, while being temporarily suspended would probably be disastrous for his career. There was no rule against stealing while out of the guild, but Helende seemed to make up her own rules sometimes.

Desperate times called for desperate methods.

“You wish to join House Telvanni?” Mallam Ryon, Gothren's Mouth at the Council, stared down at the tattered thief, holding away his fine robes in disgust.

Breonnarin nodded with a faked smile pasted on his lips. “Yes. I used to study in Mages Guild. I'm sure I can...”

“Oh, let me guess: They threw you out.” Ryon said tonelessly while his face contorted with irritation. “You outlanders are all the same, thinking that joining House Telvanni is an easy way around Mages Guild, but you're just whiny brats who can't even pick a flower if you're told to. Only the strong survive in this House. Literally!”

“I studied alchemy to the rank of...”

“Read the requirements, fool! Go, now and stop bothering me!”

To tell the truth, Breonnarin was more than afraid being watched by those hostile red eyes, the concentrated magicka between the Mouths nearly made sparks fly randomly through the air, but he left with a calm, measured walk. In the anteroom he picked up a brochure he had not noticed on the way inside. House Telvanni took in people with arcane skills in all areas except alchemy and restoration. Just his bad luck to study the wrong subject.

He only shot a single glance down the corridor leading to the Tribunal Shrine. “No. Not that,” he muttered under his breath. Not much chance of encountering ash pits that far below ground, though you could never be certain. Those made his stomach turn. With a sigh he went outside again.

Pierlette Rostorard, the apothecary, crossed her arms and gave Breonnarin a sour look.

“No. I don't need any assistance, thank you. Aren't you one of those shady figures who hang out around Dirty Muriel's? Get out of my shop!”

Breonnarin sighed and did as he was told before the woman told the guard to search him on the way out. He had no intention to go through that again. The humiliation!

This reception was warm in comparison to that of Anis Seloth. Apparently she had been visited by the thieves earlier and now made sure to be careful with what customers she let inside. It was near afternoon and the only places left to go were Fighters Guild, which was out of question since he would probably hurt himself more than others in a fight, and the Imperial Cult. Breonnarin was sure he could talk himself into the latter.

“By the Nine Divines!” he rehearsed as he trotted over the bridge to Wolverine Hall, avoiding to look twice at Dirty Muriel's. “Protect the poor, that's what I've always done!” Because he had always been the poor one. He would hopefully be running a couple of errands until it was safe to set foot in the tavern again. An imperial guard looked over his shoulder at the strange performance, but the Altmer ignored him.

Ascending the steps, he beheld the view for a while. His thoughts drifted like the thin clouds that chased over the sky. That practise dummy on the courtyard made him think of home. If he had only done as he was told he could have at least defended himself enough to take more risky jobs. The only weapon he owned was a little dagger that was more indented to scare people off than actual defence. Come to think of it, it had probably rusted and stuck to the sheath. Just as well: Then nobody could take it and use it against him.

With an air of serenity he straightened his back and opened the door.

Minutes later Breonnarin left, fuming with rage. ”We cannot recruit new members, but show up in Ebonheart with a humble pledge of 50 gold and you may join.” His last resort had shattered to dust. Humble pledge? That's a fortune!

He went to the harbour, nearly thinking of smuggling himself on board a ship. Where did not matter as long as it would be away from this place. It would of course be unfortunate if he managed to get himself on a slave ship.

With a defeated sigh he sank to the ground, trying out if the water in the puddle before him was sea water or rain. After a taste he stated that it was both and not too salty to drink. It was probably full of nasty bugs and germs, but rather that than dying of thirst.

When the worst thirst was gone he started to pick with his bag, trying to decide whether it was worth it or not to rip out that page in Surfeit of Thieves and sell the book. It had been a valuable book before he managed to ruin it this morning but it was still worth at least 100 gold. Still, it had been a gift. He held it in his hands, trying to decide what to do.

The strange sound of Dunmeri voices, humming like bumblebees inside Cephalopod helms, awoke Breonnarin from his thoughts. “I'm done with this stinking cluster! There ought to be better places.” Right you are. Breonnarin shifted his position so he would be safely hidden behind a rock. Guards were always bad news, whether you had done anything or not.

“There are no better Telvanni settlements. If it stinks too bad from the harbour and the slave market you can always request a transfer to the east side.” The second voice obviously belonged to an older Dark Elf.

“You cannot be serious!”

That seemed to annoy the older guard. “Tel Branora has Therana. You don't want to be her employee. She ordered my cousin to bring her a shipload of eggs and she just played with them. Only mercenaries guard her tower nowadays, commanded by a high elf captain. Then there's Tel Aruhn. It's just the same as Sadrith Mora, but with worthless connections and there's no way to escape the smell. Tel Vos is quiet and chaotic at the same time. There are always troublesome Ashlanders to be dealt with and Aryon has a taste for foreigners, I'm afraid. His captain is from Cyrodiil.”

“How about Tel Uvirith, the newest settlement?”

“Master Zohran's tower is guarded by those Dwemer metal beasts. He is also a high elf.” The last bit sounded like a curse. In fact it was. “Tel Mora is naturally out of question.”

“Why?”

The older guard started to laugh.”You really don't know? I'll tell you why. Mistress Dratha hates men to such an extent, not a man lives in town.”

“Then I guess it's either this or a new career. Not one man?”

“I mean what I say.” That ended the conversation.

It was silent for a while as the sun set. The sky was red over a glistening sea, the last sunbeams illumining a lonely bull netch. Breonnarin imagined that the guards were admiring it. He was not. It made him think of jelly and that made his stomach ache with hunger.

“Strange creatures, those netches,” the older guard remarked.

“How do they fly? They are so big and they don't even seem to try.”

“I'd imagine that they are quite hollow, gliding on the wind currents somehow with support of magic.”

“Perhaps they're levitating?”

“Could be. Perhaps they have to stop by at Vivec once in a while and reload at the Shrine to Stop the Moon.” Both laughed hard and returned to their posts.

Breonnarin put back the book into his bag and closed his eyes, trying to absorb the last warmth from the sun where he sat, leaning against the polished rock. The sun set and the light faded away and cold, hard winds blew in from the sea.

Now was the time to move on before the sea rose and drowned him. It took a while before he walked without stiffness, but he still swayed a bit from the lack of food. Drinking water had only made his stomach anticipate food and it complained a lot for being cheated out of it.

As the darkness thickened ordinary people retreated to their safe homes and the day began for others. Breonnarin knew enough of the art himself to fend off pickpockets and he hoped that he looked poor enough to avoid robbery. Looking out for Camonna Tong was his top priority. He knew better than thinking they were only present in House Hlaalu towns. Big Helende had expressed concern over it, so the threat was very much real.

Scattered about in the streets were tattered women who, despite the cold, wore cut off skirts and blouses nearly open to their waists, and some men too. Some of them even tried to pose as females. Breonnarin thought that he could be more convincing than a round Colovian man who wore a ridiculous leather corset on top of a torn lace dress, his unshaven face thick with make-up.

Breonnarin nearly considered joining them for the prospect of easy money, but a glance at the drunk Nord and Dunmer sailors who seemed to be their main customers made him drop the idea with a shudder. Good that his hair was put up today or there might have been misunderstandings.

It started to rain and eventually hail in the freezing autumn night. The delicate Altmer could take no more. He pounded on several doors, hoping for charity, but only one opened for him. By then he had almost reached Wolverine Hall again.

Behind that door was a sparsely furnished room and a Dunmer male with short, red hair that looked a bit tousled after sleeping. He just looked at Breonnarin for a moment with pity in his red eyes. Just as well. Pride was a part of dignity, which he did not possess. "Come in,” he invited with a low voice. “I guess that is what you're here for?”

A bit hesitantly, Breonnarin climbed the last steps and entered the house as if walking on clouds. This was the first good thing that had happened that day.

"Help yourself to some bread," the Dunmer said while starting to heat some water.

“You were the only one who cared,” Breonnarin said. This was the last house too. The last chance.

The Dunmer took out a clay mug from a cupboard. “People don't like to get in trouble and you look like it.”

“What about you?” Breonnarin asked between chewing two large pieces of bread. It tasted better than anything had of late.

“I don't have much to lose, see,” he smiled. His house had two stories, though not half of the furniture others would put in half of the space. Worn tapestries with religious patterns were the only luxury. He stirred down some chokeweed and green lichen with a spoon, adding some comberry for the flavour, and offered the draught to the drenched Altmer. "This will keep you from catching a cold. It would also have tasted terrific with the bread, if you had not finished it already."

Breonnarin blushed, looking down at the soft crumbles on the table, but the Dunmer laughed softly. "It is alright. You were obviously hungry."

"Who are you?"

"You don't visit the Temple often, do you? Well, with its current state I don't blame you. I'm Navis." Breonnarin waited for a family name, but it never came. Strange.

"Thank you, Navis. I will remember this.” Breonnarin looked at the sparse furniture. “I must confess that I'm not very religious."

"Religious or not, you seem like a better person than most Telvanni. The Tribunal is - not quite as influential here. Things are better after the Blight, of course. More reason to believe in the goodness of the gods again and Lord Vivec has called for reformation." He looked worried about something, though.

Breonnarin shook his head. "I am not a Telvanni retainer." Not much chance of it ever happening either.

"I should have suspected, but apart from your appearance, your accent is quite native. You obviously grew up on Vvardenfell. Or the north west. It's hard to determine sometimes."

"Ald'ruhn." It was a big settlement. No need to lie about it.

"Honour grows where only trama shrubs survive," the monk mused. “The Temple is strong in the Redoran district, though perhaps not in the way I would prefer. You cannot truly believe in something you never question.”

Images appeared inside Breonnarin's head. Hideous skulls were glaring at him, half covered with grey ash. He fetched a potion for his father in the temple in Ald'ruhn once and never more.

“It's not healthy to let an organisation take full control over a religion. The ordinators were actually trying to arrest The Nerevarine.” Navis frowned and cleared his throat. Criticism had its punishments in the Temple.

Breonnarin understood later on that the woman who had looked for him in Balmora and asked the directions to his father had been The Nerevarine. Odd that an Imperial woman would be the reincarnation of an old Chimer general who was destined to drive away all the foreigners from Morrowind. Those prophecies were perhaps after-constructions. There was a good reason The Temple would have her arrested. The Nerevarine was to bring back the old beliefs of ancestor worship and had revealed the true power behind the three immortal gods of Morrowind. Rather than ascending through goodness they had used the same power as the devil himself, Dagoth Ur, and drawn their power from the heart of Lorkhan.

That was why Navis was worried. The heart was destroyed and the gods would eventually die. Almsivi would wither and his father had been a part in the making as the ranking Blades agent. Caius Cosades, the old layabout in Balmora, had passed on the mission to the more well educated Ghijedalyn. Perhaps the future history books would claim he was Nerevar reborn.

Breonnarin cared very little for that. He had been used as a puppet all the time his father had infiltrated the ranks of House Redoran and later revealed the corruption in Caldera, receiving mighty rewards from the emperor. The latter had been too much. Breonnarin had worked as a scribe for Odral Helvi and it was through him his father had worked by looking through his desk while he was asleep and later setting fellow spies to follow him from the house every morning. The humiliation!

Navis yawned and took out a robe and blankets from a chest. “You can change into this and let your clothes dry on that chair.” The monk went upstairs, and seemed to fall into his bed. Not many people could be that civil in the middle of the night. Breonnarin wondered if he would be grumpy in the morning instead or perhaps forget that he let a wet little Altmer in the night before. Be that as it may, now he needed to rest.

Hi and welcome Octavia! Fellow Swede! Good to have you on board.

I liked your story, well written and good descriptions. I feel sympathy for your little altmer and I really want to know how more about him.

Good work!

Thank you! It's the first time I write anything this long. I expect it to land somewhere around 50 000 words. XD I'd better submit carefully to avoid scaring people off.

Chapter 2 – Chances and Risks

He was running through the streets of Balmora as the Camonna Tong chased him. He was too far away from South Wall to reach it before they caught up with him. Darting through narrow alleys he finally arrived at Hecerinde's house and darted through the door. Why was it not locked? It was dark inside, but he managed to lock the door behind him and listened to the sound of shouts and footsteps outside while holding his breath. They seemed to run past the house, but Breonnarin did not stir for another minute.

Someone lit a lamp behind him. Turning around he saw Hecerinde standing on a stool with a noose around his neck, and holding a redware lamp was Thanelen Velas, Ralen Hlaalo's murderer and an infamous member of Camonna Tong. He had been executed two years earlier.

“Justice will fall on the outlanders,” Velas said.

Sitting up straight with cold sweat on his back, Breonnarin hoped that it was not the echo of a shout that rung in his ears. Waking poor Navis once more would be cruel. He hoped that the Camonna Tong in Balmora was under control or at least weakened. If they had killed any of his friends he would - he wanted to do something but he knew that he could not.

Breonnarin hugged the pillow and fought back the tears until he fell asleep again.

He was back at Dirty Muriel's Cornerclub. Whenever he moved he broke something, or someone. Celegorn crashed down the stairs, impaling himself on his lute, while Breonnarin accidentally clubbed down Rissinia when he returned a book he had borrowed. Fandus tripped on his bag and flew out through the window. It only stopped when Big Helende stabbed him in the guts, sending bolts of electricity through his body.

When he awoke this time his eyes were swollen and his head hurt.

“Good morning.” Navis was already preparing breakfast. He seemed just as friendly as the night before. “A new day means new possibilities, doesn't it? The weather is lovely. Nothing prepares you for the day like a big bowl of wickwheat porridge.

“Are you sure that you want to...” Breonnarin yawned.

“Please, help yourself. I have more than I can consume.”

“Navis, I've been wondering,” Breonnarin said when he was halfway through his bowl.

“Yes?” The Dunmer only ate half as much and was already done. He was now enjoying a big mug of tea.

“What do you know about Tel Mora?”

“I was there once to carry out a mission for the temple. One of the villagers had swamp fever.” Navis furrowed his brow a bit in thought. “It is a haven for women, but men are not welcome at all. Dratha believes everything bad that happens to women can be blamed on men. They just barely accepted me for a short time because I am a monk. Not because of my religion, that's the worst source of oppression, but because I probably wouldn't try anything with the girls.”

“Is that true?” Breonnarin gave him an innocent smile, but his eyes had a spark of glee.

“Are you questioning my credibility?” The monk sounded far from upset. Either because he had a clear conscience or because he was already too immersed in sin to care. Breonnarin thought that the former was the case and was proved right. “They had nothing to fear from me. Even if I had a looser grip on ethics, I'm not particularly fond of wood elves anyway.”

“They're not very likeable.” Breonnarin grimaced at the thought of Celegorn. He was the only one he had not felt sorry about in that dream.

“They are like children in most cases,” Navis explained. “Give them something sweet, or do them a favour, and they're all over you, but make them mad and they'll bite.” The Dunmer took a sip of his tea. “Or put an arrow in your back from a hundred paces away and eat your corpse.”

“Please!”

The wide smile that spread over the soft face made Navis look ridiculously likeable. “Just stay away from them and you won't have to worry about it.”

After Breonnarin switched back to his own clothes he went down to the shore for a little fresh air, wondering how he would survive another day like this.

Then he saw it. A large pink spot on the sea floor, accompanied by smaller ones, with a bright white colour.

Please let there be pearls. He did not want his newly dried clothes to get wet again, so he looked around carefully before taking them off. Telvanni had a wicked sense of humour sometimes.

Five minutes later Breonnarin emerged from the water, clutching three shiny pearls in his fist. He could very well survive on the money he would get for those pearls until Big Helende's disposition changed to the better. He could even give her one as a present to speed up the process.

When he was dry enough to get back into his clothes he sold the pearls in Ancola's booth and walked up to Gateway Inn. He was discouraged when he saw a line of people waiting to get in stretching all the way to the harbour. He tapped a decent looking Breton fairly close to the entrance on the shoulder. “Excuse me, what is going on?”

“We're here for the autumn market! It starts tomorrow, you know.”

Breonnarin remembered now. He had looked forward to finishing a job and returning just in time for the market. Now he had to save the little money he had to make it last and there was nowhere he could stay with all the newcomers. Some of them would have the same problem and crowd Tel Aruhn as well.

Breonnarin kicked at the ground every other step. It had started so good! Perhaps he could help out at the market, but that meant another night without a place to stay and he could not trouble Navis any more. Trying to pay the monk would probably be an insult to his beliefs.

“If I only were a woman Dratha would protect me!” He stopped in his tracks, remembering a trick he had used in Balmora.

”I feel ridiculous!” Breonnarin growled as Sugar-Lips Habasi applied pink rouge to his cheeks. “Why can't Sottilde go instead?”

“Do you expect me to be seen in the company of a Nord?” Hecerinde was combing his tawny hair in front of the same mirror. “I would be too ashamed to show myself in public.” The fair skinned master thief put down the comb and tugged at his jacket. “Besides, she is not by far elegant enough to attend to Ralen Hlaalo's birthday.”

Rumour had it the nobleman possessed vintage brandy, which an affluent client sought for. By going as a pair they would draw less suspicion and could work together to reach their goal.

“We will hide a fake bottle in friend Scuttle's skirts.”

They were let inside without the guards looking once at the fake invitation because they were dressed well enough to pass for nobles and Hecerinde knew how to talk convincingly. After going with the flow for a couple of hours they managed to spot the bottle, which was in open display.

“Just follow my lead,” Hecerinde whispered in Breonnarin's ear and nearly pushed the young thief backwards until he covered the shelf with his body. The older Altmer proceeded with kisses, to hide their real intentions from eventual onlookers. Breonnarin could see the Dunmeri guests' disgusted glances, but all they would remember seeing was two Altmer fondling each other in a corner. No one saw that Hecerinde switched bottles.

When the deed was done, Breonnarin slapped his partner, grabbed his skirts to get a firm hold on the bottle, and could get out of the building unhindered. From the corner of his eye he saw Hecerinde put on a silly face and mutter under his breath while stroking his hair in a frustrated gesture. The ladies shook their heads at him.

That had been the night before the murder. Everybody had thought that the killer took the brandy and there were no suspicions against Thieves Guild.

Of course, a place like Tel Mora ought to have some treasures in it and he would be a poor thief, in both senses, if he never took an opportunity. Could I really do that again?

One hour later, Breonnarin was trying out a purple skirt and a pink blouse Ancola had picked out for him after he convinced her he was going to perform at the market. He also wore lace stockings and a pair of leather boots with semi high heels that seemed to have belonged to a Nordic woman with big feet. All in all he had wasted ten gold on the right equipment and gotten hold of straps of old sheets that he tucked inside the blouse and wound around his hips to make them look wider.

Breonnarin rubbed his chin thoughtfully when he struggled to find a proper name for his alter ego. Gyande from Imperial City would do nicely. No use to pretend to be from Summerset Isles when he hardly knew how to behave like an Altmer.

He smiled to himself, picking up a scratched mirror from from his bag. Not able to afford real cosmetics, Breonnarin applied some fire petal pollen on his cheeks. Turning his attention to his eyes, he took out some charcoal that he had picked up when passing by the smith's.

At the first try of darkening his eyelashes he accidentally poked himself in the eye with the brush and ruined the rouge as tears streamed down his face. With a curse the Altmer wiped the alien material out of his eye, drying the area enough for a second attempt. When he was finished a feminine enough face looked back at him from the mirror glass. A smiling face. After brushing and styling his hair he smoothed his skirt and went down to the harbour.

Half an hour later the ship sailed smoothly on the waves a bit north of Sadrith Mora. The captain had obviously fallen for the trick. Breonnarin shot worried glances at the steering wheel. Perhaps he has fallen a bit too much. Captain Arethi returned the glance with an honestly smitten stare. At least the captain's interest protected him from the sailors. Better to have just one more thing to worry about except what he would do when he arrived at Tel Mora.


Zohran of Evermor kicked the dirt with a snarl. How long would he have to wait in this dripping cave? The tall, red headed Altmer, Master of Tel Uvirith, was in a worse mood than usual. Those worthless Dwemer scrapheaps had disturbed him again last night, colliding with each other, bumping into furniture and ruined important alchemical experiments. Those Animunculi of his were hardly able to do their job. He had complained to Llunela Hleran but she had just shrugged her shoulders and told him to leave her alone.

Of course a hermit would not know what it was like to anticipate a good, solid manor and end up with a cramped mushroom in a sulphurous pit in the middle of nowhere. There were even dead workers left behind in the dungeon, which was certainly not roomy enough for his taste. That issue he could at least do something about without breaking the contract. Nothing in it said that he was not allowed to expand his own living area under ground.

Finding workers had turned out to be easier than expected. He stumbled upon a slave smugglers' cave on a glass mine expedition in the Grazelands. The smugglers were disposed of and the slaves freed, all six of them healthy Khajiit with mining experience. They were employed as real workers with fair salaries, but their motivation made them have the job finished on time and the affair turned out a cheap one.

He needed something do put in the dungeon, though, and he liked Dwemer furniture. The thing was, almost all the ruins were looted and the goods did not stay on Vvardenfell for long.

The door to the inner rooms opened with a loud creak and the Dunmer who had told him to wait ten minutes earlier held it up for him.

"Back already, Orethi?" Zohran cocked an eyebrow at the rogue. He had waited for at least a quarter of an hour. “Only fools make a Telvanni wizard wait!”

Givit Orethi did not look impressed. "Take the door on the left. The boss is happy to see you."

Zohran nodded and watched the rest of the smugglers. They were stretched out by the fire, roasting hound meat and playing dice. A Redguard female with a mismatched bonemold and steel armour, a clean shaven Nord male in worn leather armour of western style and a female dark elf in a full set of polished chitin armour, her helm lying on the ground next to her. They all watched the Telvanni wizard with wary eyes, but did not let their body language betray any anxiety.

He had just happened to stumble upon this cave the week before when he was out looking for ingredients and it started to rain. Was it just luck or was there something else to it, like... skill? He did not believe in fate.

Their leader was a strange man and probably related to Crassius Curio, Zohran's favourite playwright. That meant that they were most likely sponsored by House Hlaalu and he would have no big trouble with Duke Vedam Dren if he was caught dealing with them.

Antonius Curio rose from his rugged desk when the Altmer entered his office. "I hope you did not find your wait too inconvenient," he said nervously. Though the cave was cold, almost unpleasantly so, the brown haired Imperial sweated. Zohran thought that most of the time had been wasted on dragging out the man from under his bed and letting him breathe in a bag. The man was constantly sitting on needles and walking on hot coals. Being married to a Dunmeri woman could turn decent people into madmen.

"It gave me time to contemplate.” Zohran slammed the door shut in Givit's face. “I asked Master Aryon some days ago, not outright of course, what the current price of Dwemer furniture is. Apparently the prices have dropped heavily since Ghostfence disappeared. With all the... opportunity seekers, that means there are many more items on the market and far less Animunculi still intact since those are smacked into scraps by mere thieves and peasants with shady contacts." Antonius looked pale now, but Zohran was not done yet. "Taking into consideration the Imperial laws that are meant to stop these things from happening, one must be sure one can trust the other part in an agreement."

"Believe me, Master Zohran, we will not try to trick a Telvanni wizard."

"Who said I was talking about you?" The Altmer gave the smuggler a green eyed stare. He held it until he got the wanted reaction. Antonius swallowed, looking as if a legion would storm into the cave any second. Zohran chuckled and sat down by a table, helping himself to a goblet of flin. Still smiling, he pulled out a paper full of scribbled calculations from his pocket and put it in the middle of the table.


The negotiations between Antonius Curio and Zohran of Evermor continued for at least an hour. Meanwhile four tense bandits were waiting by the fire. Givit shot worried glances at the door but it was below him to eavesdrop.

“We're mad to do business with that elf,” Rimer huffed and threw the dice, getting worthless numbers. He was just like any other Nord: Tall, bulky and fair skinned. Being relatively young and working mainly at night his looks had not weathered away. It was good to have him too. He added another pair of strong arms, a quite handy boat and a brilliant addition to their defence. Nobody combined swinging an axe with frost spells the way he did.

“We'll be madly rich when we deliver the Animunculi to our client,” Givit said. The rogue was not playing with the others. As always when he was nervous he sharpened his sword, trying to think of other things.

“It's a bloody long way to Mournhold,” the pale haired Nord argued, but he was interrupted as Malexa, the Redguard knight, cheered and claimed the silver dagger Rimer had staked. He sighed and leant back against the wall. “Bah! Just take it, I'm not playing any more.”

“Two people can't play dice properly!” Dovsi Llendu argued. “Givit?”

“No, thank you, I'm not in the mood for losing my belongings to Malexa right now.” The knight's insane luck was a blessing for business, but a curse for the people who had to live with her.

Dovsi pouted and gave the Redguard a furious stare.

“Don't give me that look!” Malexa tucked away the dagger into her packing. “It's not my fault.”

“Fine!” Dovsi put her chitin helm on. “Now I'm not giving anyone a look.”

Rimer chuckled and poured up a tankard of Sujamma, eyeing Malexa thoughtfully over the brim as he drank. “Do you want any?” he asked her. Givit smiled to himself and eyed the scene from the corner of his eye.

“I'd prefer not to be drunk if that wizard attacks the boss and we get into a battle.” Malexa's gaunt face held no visible emotion.

Givit shook his head. As if he would ever bother to attack poor Curio. Take the drink, woman! He wants you to. Rimer had to be the clumsiest suitor in all of Tamriel. At least that was what Givit thought he was getting at.

“You're missing out what battle is all about,” Rimer joked.

“Nords!”

There we go. Givit put away his sword and crossed his arms over his chest. He was not going to intervene. They had to work this out for themselves.

The door suddenly opened with a creak and the tall wizard left the cave without even a glance in their direction. Antonius followed, looking as if he had fallen into a snake pit and survived without a bite. He tried to talk, but he could only produce hoarse whispers.

“Here you go,” Rimer said and handed over the entire bottle. Antonius tilted his head back and poured down every single drop. Everyone sighed simultaneously and braced themselves for bad news.

Chapter 3 – Initiation

“We're close to Tel Mora now. Are you sure you haven't changed your mind?” Arethi's voice rasped suddenly in Breonnarin's ear.

The young Altmer jumped in surprise. “About what?” He drew away from the advancing Dunmer.

“I just thought it would be a shame for a fine young girl like you to go living with those man-haters. Not all men are evil prowlers with lewd desires.” The way he said those words made him sound like just that. Breonnarin felt like the hunted prey.

“Ah, I don't plan on staying for long. I've got... relatives there. Need to go visit my... aunts.” He swallowed.

“I see.” Arethi sounded disappointed, but seemed to take it for truth. “Be sure to catch my ship back south. I'll give you a discount.” He winked and returned to the wheel. Breonnarin released the breath he had been holding. No wonder there was need for a place like Tel Mora in Morrowind.

The settlement came into view. It was more a village than a town. The housepods were neatly arrayed along the bridges that grew out from the quite small tower in the centre. The setting induced a feeling of a close community, making him wonder if it would be possible to break into it with so little time to spare.

Happy to finally be off the ship, the thief walked up the steps slowly, feeling every bit the intruder he was. It was one thing that the middle aged captain of a passenger ship fell for his disguise, another to fool actual women. The tower seemed to be heavily guarded, so Breonnarin decided to begin with familiarising himself with the town. A shop near the docks seemed to be a good start.

An elaborate sign read “Berwen: Trader”. He climbed the wooden steps and opened the door.

“You there!” an insistent voice said. Breonnarin froze in the doorway. “I need help now!”

Only a Bosmer could be so rude to a stranger, though Berwen had a civilised appearance in her rich garments.

“Er...” Breonnarin cut himself off as he noticed he had forgotten about his role. With a slight pause he let his voice slide up an octave before he continued. “With what?”

“Isn't it obvious? Listen, woman!” Something was breathing upstairs. Breathing very hard.

“Did you let in a drunk Nord?”

“It's a corprus stalker!”

“Corprus? How has it survived this long? Dagoth Ur went down over two years ago.”

“I think it escaped from Divayth Fyr's Corprusarium somehow. He's known to be quite negligent.”

“Oh... and you expect me to kill it? Doesn't it belong to Fyr?”

“If you have the ability I will reward you. Don't bother about that old wizard. You're doing the community a great service. This has stopped my business completely because I trapped it behind my stock crates.”

Breonnarin contemplated this for a second. He had heard that corprus was very contagious and he was always the one to catch every disease that flew on him. “Can I borrow a short bow and some arrows?” That would decrease the risk somewhat.

She handed him a chitin short bow. “You can keep the bow as reward if you want it.”

“I'll see if it suits me,” Breonnarin answered, walking up the stairs slowly. Berwen followed him, but stayed halfway up where she would be at a safe distance and still have a fairly good view. Breonnarin took care that the Bosmer could not look under his skirt.

The beast had a stench of death about it that made it hard for the thief to concentrate as he clumsily fired the first shot. The arrow missed its target by at least a step and pierced the fine wood of Berwen's closet.

“Can't you do better than that?” Berwen scowled. “I hoped that you at least had base knowledge when you asked for a bow.”

“I do,” Breonnarin lied, “just give me some practise shots. I'm a bit rusty.” How hard can it be? Even Celegorn knows how to use these things.

The next shot actually hit the monster – in a finger. The leaking stump fell off, dripping infected, black blood on Berwen's imported rug.

“Hey!” Berwen was now quite upset, but Breonnarin ignored her. He was getting the hang of this now. The monster did not seem to notice that his left index finger was missing as he cast a healing spell on himself.

“I hadn't thought of that,” Breonnarin mumbled. “I'd better speed this up.” He fired three shots in a row, each getting closer to the heart, but not hitting anything vital. The thieve's arm muscles were starting to fail him and the fingers of his right hand ached from the rough material of the bowstring, which slapped at the inside of his left arm violently after each shot. I'd better find gloves if I'm to start using this regularly.

“What's taking you so long?” Berwen said impatiently.

“I'm just... trying to get a fair aim. The beast won't stand still.”

“Would you be still if an incompetent high elf was trying to put an arrow through your ears?”

“I'm not incompetent! Besides, why would I ever try to shoot through his ears? That's ridiculously hard to manage!” Breonnarin turned his head towards the Bosmer as he was about to fire another shot. His fingers suddenly slipped and a thumping sound made him look back again. The corprus stalker lay dead on the floor with an arrow sticking out of his left ear.

“By The Nine, I got it!” Breonnarin cheered with a too masculine voice.

Berwen did not seem to hear as she looked at the mess, giving the elf a questioning look as she studied the dead monster.

“Don't say anything witty. Do I get to keep the bow?” It was best to ask. He had not done exactly as she had expected.

Berwen pulled out the arrow that was stuck in her closet with a sigh, running a finger over the hole in the wood. “It's really against my sense of judgement to let somebody like you run loose with a weapon, but I promised, didn't I?”

“Yes you did.” Breonnarin eyed the mess he had caused as the sweetness of victory was starting to fade. “Should I help you clean up?”

“No, I'll get some Argonian slaves to do it.”

“May I buy some more arrows?” It would be nice to practise target shooting in the wilderness where nobody would get hurt.

“I don't have any arrows. Try Radras, the smith.” Berwen shooed him down the stairs.

“But you just gave me...”

“Not for sale!” Berwen backed up against a crate, hiding a plentiful storage of arrows behind her wide skirts. “Go to The Covenant and have some lunch instead of bothering me.”

“Fine!” Breonnarin sniffed and turned on his heel with the bow slung around his shoulder. Trying to keep a somewhat feminine walk he made his way to The Covenant and ascended the whirling steps. The cliffracers swirled over the mountains and made him doubt if that target shooting would ever take place.

Breonnarin was met by a sharp nosed Bosmer, blonde braid hanging over her shoulder. She looked him up and down. “Do you seek membership?”

Good, no suspicions there either. “No, thank you, I don't plan on staying that long. I just look for decent food and perhaps a room.”

“Then it's full price for you and no benefits. Look for Thaeril. She runs the business.” She waved him off with a scowl.

Membership?

Breonnarin rented a room and was met with odd stares from the publican as he ordered vegetable soup and bread, but the elegant Bosmer sent orders to the kitchen all the same.

“Is there something wrong with my order?” Breonnarin asked with a shy, velvety smooth voice. The falsetto was not going to be comfortable in the long run.

“It's not what we usually serve here,” Thaeril snapped and turned her back to him to talk with a dumbfounded maid. “Speak up, girl!”

“We... we don't have the ingredients.” She clutched her stained apron.

“Have you checked the storage?” Thaeril cocked her eyebrow.

The maid made big eyes. “There are vegetables there?”

“Of course! What do you think I feed the rats with?”

“How silly of me. I'll go right away.” The maid gathered her skirts and trotted away.

“You can take a rat while you're at it!” Thaeril yelled. “Borwen and the others should return soon and they always scrape their plates clean after a good hunt. Just as well we give them something to do while we cook up whatever they bring back.”

Breonnarin's shut his mouth, which had popped open as soon as the rats came into the picture, and struggled to regain a look of tranquillity. “Rats?”

“They make wonderful stews. If you wait for a while you can have a bowl of that instead.”

“No, thank you. If you don't mind I'd like to sit down.”

“The dining room is just down the stairs.” Thaeril nodded at the maid, who was now returning with a couple of carrots that were more yellow than orange. Breonnarin still thought that eating the rats' food was better than eating the creatures themselves. He had always liked rats.

Descending the stairs he found himself in a large, darkened room with rows of tables. It was empty save for a slender Bosmer who sat hunched over her meal. Breonnarin thought for a while whether it would be rude to disturb her or even worse to seat himself at another table. As soon as she looked up at him with big, dark eyes that perfectly accentuated her peachy skin and blue black hair he did not hesitate to join her. If he only had not been dressed as a woman!

“I haven't seen you around,” the Bosmer said.

“I just arrived,” Breonnarin said, trying to sit down in a feminine way while trying to make the bow stand still where he leant it against the chair next to him. “A pretty town.”

“I can tell you haven't been here for long. I'm Liette.”

“Gyande,” he nodded back.

When Breonnarin's soup was brought down they were already discussing the incident with the corprus stalker.

“I still cannot imagine how it got here,” Breonnarin said, thanking the maid as the bowl was put down before him.

“We found a potato too,” the maid announced proudly.

“Excellent.” Against his own common sense he tipped her with a copper coin. The little idiot hiked up her skirts and ran up the stairs with light steps.

“I'd wager it came from Tel Vos. Aryon likes to experiment with oddities.” Liette had finished her meal and shuffled a deck of cards with sleek hands. “He and Dratha have regular disputes based solely on his gender, though other Telvanni aren't nearly as progressive as he. It was probably some sort of prank from his side.”

The so called potato was nowhere to be seen, unless that was the strange grains that floated on the soup. How do you manage to dissolve a potato? If he could only get hold of a kitchen he would cook on his own.

“What is that supposed to be?” Liette asked as she started to divide the deck into two equal parts.

“Vegetable soup.” Breonnarin wrinkled his nose. “It's better than eating rats.”

“Hardly. Rats have a quite delicious taste.”

“But I want rats to be alive and playful, not skinned on a plate.” Breonnarin forced himself to swallow the first spoonful of soup. “They are cute and quite intelligent.”

Liette eyed him dubiously. “Let's settle this with a game. If I win you have to eat a slice of roasted rat when the hunters return, if not, I will have to bring you something tastier that doesn't contain meat.” She pushed one half of the deck at him.

“Why am I the only one who gets affected by the outcome?”

“You may decline the offer,” Liette smirked.

One bite at one of the rough carrot chunks settled his dilemma. “What are we playing?”

“It's called The Night Mother.”

He knew the rules and tactics for that game. “It's a deal.”


The ash yam was fresh and crunchy, just how he liked it.

Liette supported her head with her hands, elbows on the table. She had not counted on losing. “You are clever to win that game. People seldom do, even when I don't get to shuffle.”

“You were cheating?” Breonnarin felt even more mirth for beating her.

They both bolted upright when the building was suddenly full of voices and the sound of chitin and leather boots drumming against the floor. “Five kagouti!” Thaeril exclaimed above. “They will last for weeks!”

Liette made a sour face. “Not kagouti again!”

“Aren't they carnivorous?” Breonnarin thought of the bulky creatures with insanely big heads and sharp teeth. Come to think of it, all the creatures in Morrowind seemed to have very big heads.

“I'm going home now,” Liette said and rose up.

“I'll be retreating to my room.” Breonnarin gathered his belongings. He was not too keen to walk through the chaos up there alone and the rooms were in the same direction as the exit. Breonnarin followed her out, trying to look away from the hunters and what they were doing, but he nearly skidded on a puddle of blood on the floor.

“Now I'll have to clean my boots,” he complained, lifting his green woollen skirt disdainfully.

“Hey, Liette! Who's that new friend of yours? It seems she's beating you in the sissy game, man-lover!” Whoever said that ended the sentence with a belch. Liette ignored the remark and quickened her pace slightly.

“Who was that?” Breonnarin whispered as they came out of earshot.

“Borwen. I think she's a very confused man caught in a woman's body. She thinks she's an Ashlander too. The skooma does that to people.” She looked him in the eye. “You are blonde, styled, wear feminine clothing and can't stand to see butchered animals. All signs of weakness in their eyes. I'd stay in my room tonight if I were you.”

Liette opened the door, revealing the heavy downpour outside.

“I thought that this was some sort of haven for women,” Breonnarin said, confused.

“Me too.” Liette patted his arm and descended the slippery steps. He watched her leave until Natesse, the blond braided scout, sneaked up behind him and yelled that the door was supposed to be shut. His arm was still tingling from the touch and he felt like he was breathing through cotton. She was too pretty. He would let down his guard with her and be hauled off by the guards before he knew it.

With a sigh he went up the stairs again and opened the door to his room. It was cramped and worn, but the thick walls shut out almost all the noise from outside and the door could be sealed from the inside. He put his bag on the floor, took off his boots and threw himself on the narrow bed.

Several hours later Breonnarin awoke. The tavern had gone silent again and he remembered that he had only eaten porridge and ash yam that day. He craved for bread. After one look in the mirror he noticed that the cosmetics had smeared out a bit over his face, but he still looked like a somewhat shabby female. He had no intention to redo all that just to wash it off as he returned to the room in a few minutes.

Breonnarin opened the door and sneaked out in the corridor, trying to apply what Hecerinde had taught him about moving unheard to wearing boots with a bit of heel. He advanced into the main room, the counter sloppy with oil and spilt drinks. Bosmer were lying on the floor, sleeping heavily after their orgy of gluttony. Opening the latch he moved behind the counter, looking through the cupboards. He found a tiny, hard piece of bread, grabbed a nearly empty bottle of greef and retreated to his room.

Chapter 4 – Grip of Death

Breonnarin walked around on the island south of Tel Mora with a little basked on his arm. He had found work collecting ingredients for Daynali Dren, the alchemist in Dratha's tower. He was dreadfully tired: Borwen and her friends had awoken in the middle of the night and decided to go knocking on his door. Why would any reasonable person do that?

“Bosmer aren't reasonable.” He moved closer to the shoreline to grab some Marshmerrow and felt something hard and sharp close around his leg. He lost his balance and found himself lying on his back in the wet sand, crying out in pain. A mudcrab was holding onto his right leg with huge, razor sharp pincers.

Breonnarin was screaming at the top of his lungs but the creature just continued to bite his foot, never yielding the firm grip on his poor calf. "Help! Someone help me!" he yelled. He felt blood trickling down his leg. This was going to leave an awful wound, if he lived to see it. As he witnessed how the crab was feasting on his boot with sharp teeth, Breonnarin remembered his father saying mudcrabs killed a bunch of guar some years ago. Fresh guar skin was without doubt tougher than his boots.

He had no more time to ponder upon this dreadful subject. A war cry filled his ears but he never got to see what produced it. Something hit the back of his head hard and he blacked out.


It turned out Antonius Curio was a worse businessman than anyone had suspected. He was not used to negotiating directly with a client. Usually he and his employees were just the invisible step between the provider and the ordering part but now a frighteningly tall and colourful Telvanni wizard had found them on his own and made demands. They had to move after the contract was carried out. Perhaps that was all for the best.

Dovsi handed Givit a copy of the contract and a list before he and Rimer set off in the sturdy rowing boat that belonged to the latter. They rapidly passed a couple of sparsely grown islands, holding a quick pace at the double set of oars, before they finally rounded a high rock and a larger vessel came to view.

Duckling was a smuggler ship, operated masterfully by Elos Nerano: A living legend among the many unofficial traders along the coast of eastern Vvardenfell. People used to say The Bitter Coast was The Smuggler's Coast, but that only showed how little they knew. In the Telvanni district they could work undisturbed by officials and were even encouraged by the various masters, who were constantly looking for artefacts and other new toys to fill their dusty shelves with.

“They're punctual, as always,” Rimer stated.

Peeking up into the tall mast, Givit could distinguish a familiar shape which, upon seeing them, descended smoothly down to the deck. A rope ladder was put down for them as invitation. The smugglers fastened their own boat and climbed aboard, facing an old colleague.

“Watch out with what you eat, Rimer, or you'll break the ladder the next time. You're not in Skyrim, so don't you dare blame the harsh climate.” Seren was an odd sight with his square, rough face with golden, tattooed skin. With black hair and blazing red eyes, he must have been what you got from cross breeding the races beyond the point of no return. Every word came out through a broad smile, making the black dragon tattoo on his left cheek move like it was lashing its tail.

Rimer huffed, but put a worrying hand on his belly. “Haven't they thrown you overboard yet?”

“Don't be mad. I'm just overwhelmed with joy.” Seren followed them to the captain's cabin and knocked at the door. “Sera? Curio's men have arrived.”

“Let them in,” came a grave voice from behind the bleached wooden door.

Captain Nerano was a Dunmer of medium height and build and the black patch covering his right eye made him look like an old pirate, which he certainly was, but he claimed that he had lost his eye in a duel with a Falmer. If he were of a more bragging disposition one might have thought it a lie to impress others, but that was not how he worked. That either meant he had actually met a Falmer as he claimed or that he was a tiny bit mad. The way he insisted on carrying out some of his routines in an almost obsessive manner spoke of the latter, but to be honest, just meeting a snow elf and knowing that nobody believed you could turn anyone mad.

“What is it this time?” Nerano asked. “I'm trying to co-ordinate the missions in a favourable manner and I hope you won't take me far off course.”

Givit greeted the captain and handed over the papers. Nerano read carefully, tracing each letter with his pipe. “So, you're letting me do all the work? I don't have time to find out where there are Dwemer ruins! Taking a desperate mission like this indicates that you won't even afford to compensate me for it.” He clenched the pipe between his teeth and lit it. “Isn't it so?”

“We don't have a choice in this question. A Telvanni wizard found us and started to make demands,” Rimer snorted. “Curio met him alone and the rest you can figure out.”

Nerano gazed at them through the smoke under heavy eyelids. “Why, for the love of Azura, did you let that happen? If anyone should have met with him it's one of the ladies - both! Dovsi and Malexa are the ones who keep you louts in place.” He shook his head. “Done is done. I hope you haven't exposed me in the process or I'll have a firm word with your boss.” He rose and locked the documents into a cupboard.

“You will do it?” Givit inquired.

“Well, why not. Truth to tell, I don't have a single mission at the moment.” He grinned. “With the fair and all there are too many ships around for my comfort. It will be nice to go up north to catch my breath for a while.”


At the moment Liette threw the rock at the mudcrab she realised that her aim was a bit off. With devastation she witnessed how the Altmeri lady she had befriended the night before was hit in the head, passing out in a heap on the beach. The mudcrab continued to bite through the leather.

Angry, mostly with herself, the Bosmer leapt forward with drawn sabre and made an end to it. She kicked the carcass into the sea. Obviously diseased, it was not edible.

Liette knelt beside the Gyande, who was still lying unconscious with her face half hidden behind long, blonde hair stained with blood. Her head wound would stop bleeding any minute, so the Bosmer turned her attention to her leg instead.

Liette removed the lifeless pincers carefully, washed the gashes as well as she could with sea water and wrapped some kreshweed leaves around the Altmer's leg, fastening them with strings. Pulling the other elf a safe distance away from the beach, making sure she was lying on her side to prevent choking, she returned to Tel Mora to fetch her rowing boat.

Fifteen minutes later Gyande was safely transported back to Tel Mora and lifted off the boat by Liette and Radras, the smith, and carried inside Liette's house.

“Shall I fetch Jolda?” Radras asked as Liette removed the crude bandages. Jolda was the apothecary in town. An eccentric, to say the least, but she knew what she was doing.

“Yes, do that. I'm not an expert at tending wounded people and she might develop swamp fever. It's better to prevent that from happening in the first place than infecting the entire town.”

Radras nodded and went out, slamming the metal door shut behind her with all the strength of her profession. The loud sound made Liette's ears ring and the Altmer surfaced to near consciousness for a few seconds, but only a few unintelligible syllables came from her pale lips.

That voice was a bit disturbing. Liette leant over, gazing at the sharp features. With the cosmetics washed away or smudged around she hardly looked female any more. Weren't those breasts higher a moment ago? She did not have time to find out before the door opened and Jolda, carrying a basket, stepped inside.

“Step aside and let the professionals work!” Jolda shooed Liette into a corner and knelt beside the Altmer, forcing open her eyelids and inspecting the head wond. “How did this happen?”

Liette looked down. “I threw a rock at her.”

“Now, I understand that you may have cultural differences and all that but I must strongly condemn the way you handle them. Dratha wants peace among her protégés.” Jolda was pointing at Liette with a spoon.

“Oh, I didn't mean to. She was attacked by a mudcrab. I was not aiming at her! I think that the mudcrab might have been diseased.”

Jolda shook her head and started to examine Gyande's leg. “I'll have to use a potion. The expenses will be around 100 gold with my fee. If she complains a lot about her head or doesn't wake up at all you should call for me.”

Liette only had 120 gold that had to last for several months, but surely Gyande could pay her back. She had been so charming and witty when they last met. “I will pay.”

Jolda poured some of the potion directly on the wound after a thorough cleansing with distilled, salted water and advised Liette to make sure that her guest took one spoonful of the potion each morning and night to fight off the disease.” Jolda accepted the payment and scurried out.

When Liette was finally alone with the Altmer she locked the door and knelt beside the unconscious figure on the floor. She poked at the front of her stained blouse carefully. It felt like it was stuffed with something. That doesn't prove anything. Many women do that. She drew a deep breath and started to unbutton the blouse, revealing straps of linen bundled together and held into place with a wide strip of cloth. Liette shook with anticipation as she started to unwind them, hoping that the Altmer would not wake up. A while later she sat back with a confused smile on her lips. Now she was quite sure that it was a man who was lying on her floor. That explained some of the odd feelings the night before.

When the Altmer was carefully rolled onto a comfortable bedroll and tucked in, Liette sat down by the table to collect her thoughts.

She had lived in Tel Mora for three years, after leaving Firewatch and the memory the place evoked. Only weeks before her marriage to Arlowe Gravius, a legionnaire, the man died on duty. No explanation, no corpse, she got nothing but immense sorrow. She had searched for him for months, but she had to admit that if he had survived for that long he would have been able to make his way back to town somehow. He had probably dissolved on the spot from evil spells by one of the numerous evil battlemages or taken by a dangerous creature.

Not a silly mudcrab, like this feminine Altmer almost had succumbed to. Arlowe could chew through their shells. Perhaps not, but he would never had been bothered by a giant crab. He had not been as pretty as this fellow, though, but influential.

After that incident Liette doubted that she would ever want another man, so going to Tel Mora had been a convenient choice. The town was not too far from home, but still different. It was a bit hard to fit in, though, since she did not hate men at all. The first two years it did not matter much, since her heart was broken. Everybody knew that the cause of it was a man, though not how, and she earned Dratha's sympathy. There were other commoners like her in town, but they had left for the great sales in Sadrith Mora now. Lette, Kirsty and Nona, relatively good friends, at least they were well behaved, had tried to convince her to go with them, but she declined. There was no real reason why.

Fate? If she had gone away she would never have met Gyande, whatever his real name was, and he would have been deadly wounded or someone else had found him on the beach. Someone who would have called for the enforcers and brought him to Dratha. When Liette had come home she would, at worst, have been greeted by a tortured male body hanging in a rope from the upper tower.

“Don't worry. I won't let that happen to you,” she whispered to the young man, knowing that he could not hear her.

Oh dear! You are a productive writer! I'll catch up with it later on, oh my.....lots of good reading tonight!

I hope Breonnarin can keep himself out of trouble. I don't want to see him hanging from the tower either. I like ths story, keep it up!

There's no real hurry. I just put up the chapters that were already done. Chapter 5 is done too, but after that I will keep a slower pace.

He wants to keep out of trouble, but trouble likes to land on him.

Thank you for reading. I'd better finish chapter 6 now. It has a special guest star.

Chapter 5 – Plots and Secrets

Givit noticed the urgent glances Dovsi shot at him from across the fire as they were just finishing supper. Rimer was half asleep, Antonius was (pre)occupied in his office and Malexa had gone out for a walk, so when the Dunmeri woman rose and went out to the corridor he waited only a couple of minutes before following her. She led him to the storage. Crates were stacked on top of one another, but far more than half of them were empty.

They were on the brink of ruin. Once Duckling returned, Givit would have a word with Elos Nerano about joining his crew instead. It paid a bit less, but at least he would be paid regularly, pedantically so, and Elos had no problems pressing in a legal project or two if the schedule seemed hollow.

Dovsi continued further, pushing through a shrub of vegetation and climbing down a rickety ladder. These inner depths of the cave were rarely visited by anyone. “There's something here that may be of interest.” She kept her voice down to avoid the sound echoing back to the main cave. “It was here before we came.”

Behind a couple of rocks there was a crate, darkened with age. Givit opened the lid, counting the sleek bottles to more than a hundred. “Skooma.” The drug was found everywhere, though strictly illegal. It payed well, though. As many bottles as that would sum up to at least 50 000 gold. Twice the price they would get for the Animunculi in Mournhold.

Dovsi nodded. “You know that Antonius hates dealing with drugs, but this is our chance to get out of this crisis.”

Givit nodded, understanding but not fully approving. “How do we proceed without him knowing about it? Not even Rimer or Malexa must be involved.” Malexa would tell on them and Rimer would get drunk and slip.

Dovsi crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't want to sell this directly to customers. That would be too risky. Perhaps there are other smugglers around who think they dare take the chance.”

“That would leave us in a somewhat lessened position for bargaining.”

“We could still get at least 25 000 for it. That's great for something you just find.”

“You're right.” Givit scratched his head. “I'll start looking for buyers tomorrow.” He put on the lid and they retreated silently.


When Breonnarin regained consciousness he was surrounded by darkness, except from a faint, flickering light. Trying to track the source of it, he saw a shelf full of kitchenware and a spiral staircase leading to the upper floor of a housepod.

Was it all a dream? Am I still in Navis's house? A smile spread across his lips until he realised that his head hurt and his right calf was wrapped with a bandage. There were also some important differences between the houses. Navis did not have flower patterned cushions on his chairs.

Footsteps came closer. Someone was descending the stairs, a female, and her voice was humming soothingly. The woman stopped at the kitchen table and lit a bug lamp. “It's you!” Breonnarin croaked and fought to remember her name. He knew it, but his mind was not obeying him at the moment. “Liette?” Lifting his head made him nauseous and he had to put it back on the pillow and shut his eyes. He felt as if he was spinning.

She nodded. “You introduced yourself as Gyande, but I suppose that's not your real name?”

Why? Breonnarin felt beneath the blanket that she had unbuttoned his blouse. “Oh.” He opened his eyes and Liette nodded amusedly. “No, it's not.” What does she want with me? Are there guards lurking in the corners? “I'm Breonnarin.”

“Strange name. How is your head?” Liette offered him a cup of water, helping him to sit up straight. The still room spun almost enough to make him seasick.

“I was named after my grandfather, so you'll have to talk to his parents about how strange it is.” He drank greedily, noticing a strange taste to it.

“Be careful with that!” She took away the cup. “Too much at once will make you throw up. That's a new rug you're lying on.”

He lay down again. “What happened to my head?”

She looked slightly ashamed, but soon her eyes turned to black steel. “It was an accident. I threw a rock at the mudcrab that attacked you and your head came in the way.”

“What good would a rock do against a mudcrab?” He grinned miserably.

Liette frowned at him and rose. “Do you mind if I call you Narin? Your name is so... long.”

Breonnarin frowned. “My father calls me that.” I wonder where he is

“Then it's settled.” Liette put his cup on the table.

“But...” A thought that had been drifting around his head like evasive mist turned into a clear icicle spreading its chill down his spine. “Daynali Dren's basket is probably still lying on the beach or has floated halfway to Sheogorad by now. I'll have to try to explain why I neglect my assigned chores. Now I'll never get to the upper tower!”

“Do you mean this one?” Liette produced a basket seemingly from nowhere.

“Good girl!” Breonnarin smiled. “What time is it?”

Liette returned the smile, but she got rid of it as soon as she could. “Two hours before sunset.”

“Do you have kreshweed, marshmerrow and saltrice?”

“How much?”

“Equal parts of marshmerrow and saltrice, since she intends to make health potions. At least five of each. I believe she wanted four leaves of kreshweed.”

Liette dug out that from a sack and put it in the basket. “I'll offer this and your apologies to Daynali.”

“Um... there's another urgent matter.”

Liette tilted her head.

“They will start searching my room if I don't show up and pay the rent for another night. There are some things in my bags that would raise suspicion.”

“You're not going back there. I'm fetching your packing.”

Breonnarin gave her an incredulous look. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“Because now you owe me 100 gold, food and two favours and I'm very curious how far this will lead.”

“Wait! 100 gold?” he called after her, but Liette had already gone outside and slammed the door shut, locking from the outside. If only he had been able to walk he would have found something to pick the lock with. He had been taught by his mentor Hecerinde that not having a lockpick was not a reason to give up, but now he felt trapped.

He did not notice that he was falling asleep.


Rimer leant back against a sack and closed his eyes. He had eaten too much and the drowsiness settled over him like a thick, hot cloud.

I should have followed Nerano up north. Nothing to do here. He popped an eye open as Dovsi rose up and walked out, fingering her black locks nervously. Her chitin boots clattered against the hard rock floor. She was probably going for a walk too. Why didn't I follow Malexa when I had the chance? Then it would have been casual, but if I seek her out now it would be weird.

Givit rose too, just a moment later. Rimer kept his eyes closed and waited for the footsteps to fade away before rising groggily. Something odd was going on, but it did not concern him. Now that he was alone he could finally try on a couple of new clothes. They were stolen, but not by him and the owner was very far away, so they would be safe to wear. He was planning a trip to the fair in Sadrith Mora.

Just as he was done buttoning the fine trousers, Malexa appeared at the doorway. Rimer had not heard her coming. He was so used to everybody wearing boots and the soft walking shoes she now wore made no sound against the floor. Not with her gracious walk.

“What's up with the fancy pants?” she asked, suppressing a giggle as she glided to her hammock.

Rimer blushed. “The fair. I think I'll be going tomorrow. There's nothing to do over here anyway.” He put on a shirt and fumbled with the buttons. He was never clumsy if she was not watching.

“Do you still have money?” Malexa exclaimed. “How did you manage that?”

“What do you mean?” He gave up with the buttons and left the shirt open. “Don't you?”

She shook her head sadly. “My armour is not very cheap to maintain. I bet you can just put a couple of stitches in yours or skin a wild guar if you have to patch something. I can't do a thing with bonemold on my own. The steel parts are a bit easier, not requiring a real weapon smith to mend, but they're not as good.”

“True.” Rimer had even reinforced his second cuirass with dreugh skin, only needing a stout needle. Sinews made good thread. “What shape is it in now? Bad?”

“Very bad.”

Rimer sat down in his hammock, which was opposite from hers in the round cave. “If you would like to go, I believe we could camp outside the city walls and make a little pocket money from arm wrestling with drunks in Fara's Hole in the Wall. The odds would be great for you, since you're a woman and no man would ever think that you could beat him.”

“What do you think?” she asked teasingly.

“I don't think: I know that you've got all sorts of dirty tricks and brilliant technique. It doesn't matter that I'm stronger than you.”

“We'll see about that! Off with the shirt so you don't burst it.” Malexa cleared the only table in the room with a sweep of her arm and put two stools on opposite sides of it.

“What now?”

Malexa sat down with a wide grin and put her right arm on the table. “No tricks, just pure strength, and a bit of technique of course.”

Rimer cocked an eyebrow. Then he gave her a playful smile, took off his shirt and threw it on the bed. “If you insist.” He sat down, facing her, and clasped her hand. Just that was almost enough to turn his joints into jelly. Focus!

“Three,” he could feel her hand squeeze his, “two,” their eyes locked. Her mouth opened, but no sound escaped her lips. They stared at each other in bewilderment.

Just that moment Antonius emerged from the cavern that was his office and private room and Malexa's soft hand let go of his, her head turning away to face the Imperial.

Antonius was carrying a crinkled paper. “Where's Dovsi?”

“I think she went out,” Rimer said.

“With Givit?” Antonius crossed his arms. “He's not here either.”

“Givit went away after Dovsi left. I don't know.”

Antonius grumbled and scratched his temple. “Perhaps...” He gave Rimer a second look. “What are you wearing, man?”

Rimer stood up straight. “I intend to go to Sadrith Mora.”

“Are you mad? I can't let anyone leave.” The Imperial started to pace around in a circle.

Rimer was unable to hide his disappointment. “Why? There's no goods here and we've got nothing to do!”

“If that wizard has called for guards we need to stay together!”

“Why would a Telvanni call for guards?” Malexa crossed her arms and glared at Antonius. “We've delivered wares for both Gothren and Fyr for years and you've got consent from House Hlaalu.”

Antonius blinked. “Who told you that?”

“You do, don't you?” Malexa rose from the chair. Antonius stopped still and put a hand to his forehead with a grimace. “You don't?”

“I couldn't afford the fee this year and I'm not sure Uncle Crassius will back me up. Our last meeting was a disaster.” Antonius looked at them with pleading eyes. “Don't tell...”

“What?” Dovsi and Givit appeared at the doorway. “You haven't paid?” Dovsi took her husband firmly by the arm and dragged him inside their private room, shutting the door firmly behind them. Givit sat down on a stool with a content smirk on his lips and started to peel an apple.

Rimer sat down heavily on his hammock. What a mess he had wound up in. The current mission was not enough to fill the gaping holes in their economy. Not after that wizard haggled down the number of Animunculi to half of what was expected. He looked at his coin purse. It would be foolishness to waste it all on useless trinkets.

Mead! I need mead! He staggered away to the storage room and moved a couple of empty crates, uncovering a chest high dent in the cavern wall. There he helped himself to a bottle and made sure that the newer ones were fermenting as they should.

Just as he put his lips to the bottle he saw his own shadow on the wall. It reminded him of someone, and the memories hurt. With a furious snarl he slung the bottle into the wall. Panting, he poured out the contents in each of the remaining bottles on the ground. When he was done he sat down on a crate, sobbing.

“What is going on?”

He looked up guiltily, meeting the stunning pair of dark eyes reluctantly. “Don't step on the shards, I'll clean up.”

“That bottle isn't the only thing that seems to be broken here.” Rimer made big eyes and looked around to see if he had damaged anything in his rage. Malexa shook her head. “I meant you, fool.”

He sighed with relief. “Then it was nothing important.” He rose abruptly and walked past the puzzled Redguard to fetch a broom.

Chapter 6 – Fishy Business

It took a full day for Duckling to reach the port in Dagon Fel. Captain Nerano chose to stay on the ship and make plans while most of his crew were set free in the small fishing village. They naturally found their way to the local tavern.

Eriam, a skinny Breton orphan in his upper teens, did not drink. He saw nothing funny with shaming himself, but it was amusing to watch others do it. Sitting comfortably by a table in a corner, eating a huge sandwich, he had full view of the room.

Seren, the worst race mix since Jagar Tharn, was trying his smooth charms on a buxom blonde while Thorsten, who was celebrating a bit too much, let a barmaid tie a red ribbon in his black beard. Stroking it thoughtfully, the second in command of Duckling snatched the lute from the gaping bard and jumped up on a table.

Eriam sighed and looked away. Watching your father figure shame himself was close to doing it on your own. No, it was worse. He spotted a Khajiit, wearing a high fur cap and carrying a fishing pole over his shoulder, at the bar. Leaning the pole against the disk for a while, he traded in a bucket of fish for hot stew and beer.

A loud crash was heard and Eriam groaned. Thorsten had fallen off the table and hit his thick head. Some of the crew were carrying him out, back to the ship. While he had looked away, the Khajiit had seated himself at Eriam's table and taken off his cap. Now he picked up a spoon with his furry paw.

“I thought cats liked fish,” Eriam said, picking at his sandwich to remove an overly ripe tomato.

The Khajiit flicked his whiskers and turned his ears slightly backwards. “M'aiq hates fish.” He shoved a spoonful of mutton stew into his big muzzle.

“Then, why are you fishing?”

“M'aiq wants to catch Old Blue Fin. He used to live in Ald Velothi, but he was chased away by a less talented fisher than M'aiq. The petty fish are incidental. Old Blue Fin was on the hook today, yesterday, every day - but he got away.” M'aiq spread his paws. “He was bigger than two of these tables and nearly bit off M'aiq's tail!”

“That sounds dangerous.” Eriam finished the sandwich and asked a maid for tea and biscuits.

“Very dangerous!” M'aiq leant forward and grinned. “Why are you here?”

“I'm looking for Dwemer ruins... for the Mages Guild.” Eriam was often taken for a mage and took advantage of it.

“M'aiq knows much - tells some. For a favour, that is.”


When all the others were asleep, Dovsi and Givit sneaked away with the crate and placed it in Rimer's boat.

“Be back before sunrise or they'll suspect things,” Dovsi warned. Givit nodded and pushed out from the shore, soon disappearing into the night. I hope I can trust him. She rubbed her cold hands together and returned to the cave.

Back in bed, Antonius was lying still with closed eyes, but his breath was shallow and irregular. He was awake.

“Antonius, dear?” she whispered, but got no answer. That silly man was too uptight sometimes. She grinned and moved closer, caressing his jaw teasingly. “I know you're awake.”

His brown eyes popped open and stared accusingly at her, gleaming in the faint lantern light. “Your hands are cold. Where did you go?”

“What do you think? We don't have a privy in here - thank the gods we don't.” She started to nuzzle his neck, but Antonius grunted something and went back to sleep. Dovsi was starting to worry about his behaviour. Jealous men could be dangerous, however benevolent they once used to be. What did he think she was doing? Hiding a lover in a bush somewhere? Rimer, the most likely candidate, was all set for Malexa, Antonius would have to be blind to not notice that, and Givit did not even like women! That left Malexa. What sort of dirty fantasies did Imperials have?

Dovsi snorted and turned her back towards her husband, soon sleeping herself.


Elos Nerano snapped awake from his half slumber when someone knocked on his door. “Who is there?”

“It is Eriam, sera.”

He dusted off crumbles from the front of his ink-stained shirt, rising to open the latch. Locks could be picked and latches could be opened from the outside with narrow daggers and sticks, but a locked latch had no such flaw. Nerano preferred to avoid flaws.

Opening the door, he let the shuddering little Breton inside. “Don't 'sera' me, brat. Where have you been?” The Dunmer crossed his arms over his chest and peered down at the boy.

“I've got something you should see.” Eriam unfolded a parchment he had clutched to his chest and gave it to Nerano. It was a map with markings.“It points out where all the Dwemer ruins are!”

“Where did you get this?” Nerano inspected the map carefully while the Breton cringed. “I need reliable sources, Eriam.”

The little Breton scowled at him with dark, closely set eyes. “A Khajiit who called himself M'aiq gave it to me.” Nerano started to laugh and thrust the parchment back into the puzzled boy's hands. “What is funny about that?”

“M'aiq the Liar?” Nerano giggled and wiped his eye with the back of his hand.

Eriam folded the parchment and and blushed. “He didn't say that.”

“Of course not!” Nerano patted the boy's shoulder. “No harm done: We've already got a destination for tomorrow.”

“No harm done? I spent three hours looking for kwama foragers to bait that cat's overgrown hook with and then two more standing guard with a pike in case that big old fish would bite!”

“Did he?” Nerano fought a yawn.

Eriam looked down. “No.” He sighed. “Don't tell the others.”

“Trust me.” He stretched out his back. “Now off to bed with you. We set sail as soon as Thorsten wakes up tomorrow.”

Eraim nodded and stuffed the parchment into his pocket. There was a chance, even if vanishingly small, that it was a real map, so he would keep it. At least for a while.


Givit was whistling merrily as he rowed back to the cave with a much lighter load than he had left with, but stopped when a cliffracer called back to him somewhere in the darkness. He was not immediately afraid for his life, but fighting in a boat was a bad idea. Gliding over the still, black water in the pure moonlight almost soundlessly, he smiled to himself. Everything would turn out well after all. Talking Antonius into accepting the money would not be too hard. All Imperials spoke the language of gold.

Back in the hidden bay, Givit took care to pull up the boat on exactly the same spot as it had been before. Nords had better memory than most people about things that mattered to them.

The leather coinpurse felt delightfully heavy in his hands as he returned to the cave, taking off his boots to sneak better on the cold rock floor. He considered the situation for a second and stuffed down the purse into his left boot. Nobody would look there: Not even Dovsi. Grinning to himself, he placed the boots under his hammock.

I like this. It's well developed and complex without being confusing. I'm interested to see how it all comes together too.

You catch the feel of morrowind well too.

(I'm sorry for the delay)

Chapter 7 – Wicked Winds

Liette had thought of doing it herself, but rowing, looking around and picking up oysters with the landing net was almost impossible to manage with only two hands. With some help it only took a couple of minutes to search through the shore.

“There are still many down there that I can't reach,” Narin muttered as he wrung out water from the soaked sleeves of his shirt. She thought about pointing out that he should have turned up his sleeves. Nearly a week had gone since he moved in under her roof and he was getting a lot better. When moving in public he had to keep his true nature secret, though. If he had not been so fine limbed and had such nice hair to begin with it would never have worked out.

“I wouldn't dive here. There are dreugh everywhere.” She stopped rowing for a while and let the boat float on the calm sea. “In fact, you should watch out so one doesn't grab the pole and drags you down.”

Narin immediately pulled up the net and put it on the bottom of the boat. “Don't say that!” He spoke through discretely painted lips. He had to put colour on them to give the impression of them being shorter and plumper. Liette had picked some tricks from her memory of how it was done. It had been years since she last wore any cosmetics.

“Do you prefer that I say it when you're halfway to the bottom? Never mind, how are we doing?” She glanced at the bowl before Narin's feet. She wrinkled her nose, thinking that he should wear longer skirts to conceal them. They were definitely too long for any woman.

“Four pearls.” He held up four slender fingers and smiled, holding onto the pole with his other hand.

“There, that wasn't hard. Now you're one pearl closer to being free of debt.”

“Closer?” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “The debt was 100 gold. Only one, you say?”

“Do you really think that any of us could get that price for it? Here, of all places.” She scratched her ear. “You get one fourth and that part also belongs to me since you have come to owe me so much. Don't you think I'm too kind?” She lowered her eyebrows and stared at him. “Remember what I did for you and that I don't take any extra for your attempt to steal from me a couple of days ago.”

“It was one robe.”

“I only have one robe and how dare you try escaping me? Here I nurse you back to health only to have you trying to run off as soon as you can stand on your own feet. Pathetic!”

Liette noticed a familiar flash in the water beside the boat. Grabbing her sabre, which lay sheathed on the bottom of the boat, she drove it right through the gills of a fairly large slaughterfish, which she dumped in the boat. “Nobody escapes me.”


Breonnarin clutched the bowl of pearls and stared down at the fish. Its dead eyes glared at him and the mouth, filled with rotting meat, seemed to tell him “You're next.” When he paid closer attention to the eye he saw black clouds in it. What sort of wicked... He turned around and saw actual clouds drifting in from the south. Good. I would not like cooking a witch fish. “Perhaps we should turn back.”

“We're only twenty paces from the shore,” Liette laughed. “But I suppose there aren't any more pearls to be found on this spot. We'll go further out tomorrow.”

“I need some time for a visit at The Covenant, if you think it safe for me to return?”

“Why?”

“I won't be able to make that fish taste good on its own.”

“You're cooking?” To say that Liette looked amused was an understatement. “How could you ever make a slaughterfish taste anything but slightly rotting, anyway?” Liette let the boat glide the last few metres to the beach.

“You'd be surprised. I've had guar tongue and enjoyed it.” Liette arched an eyebrow and wrinkled her nose slightly. “Masterfully cooked, of course.”

“Really?”

Just when Breonnarin was about to respond a crack of thunder came rolling over the ghostly silence, blackened sea and echoed between the cliffs. He jumped out of the boat and helped Liette to drag it far from the water, turning it upside down.

“I'll tie it up. Hurry to The Covenant or you'll be drenched or blow out to sea when you return,” Liette commanded.

The storm soon hit the small islands and it started to hail big chunks of ice as soon as he closed the door behind him. Shivering, the Altmer placed a bundle on the table, thanking Liette for cutting up the fish for him. He decided to make a stew. This was not the time for a long cooking session.

Two hours later Breonnarin was reading Palla by candlelight at the table and was still slightly edgy from the storm. His signed copy of Surfeit of Thieves was lying on the opposite side of the table, a colourful ribbon marking where Liette left off. The weather ought to be better in Balmora. He pictured the guild members at the South Wall sitting on the big balcony with lanterns to light their meal. If he had not confused the days it was Habasi's birthday. He sighed.

“I think it's lightening up for a moment,” Liette said and headed for the door.

“Are you mad? It's still pouring down and there's a thundercloud right above us!”

“I want to check on my boat.” The Bosmer ignored Breonnarin's warnings and disappeared out through the door.

He turned back to his reading. The idea that a pompous, wicked elf's hands had formed these figures of noble Redguard warriors was unthinkable, profane, irreverent, everything bad you can imagine. He snorted, now upset as well. What was wrong with high elves? Pompous? The statement itself was just that!

Five minutes later Liette returned inside with a broad smile on her lips, dragging the limp form of a dreugh behind her.

Breonnarin rose and watched the grotesquely abused creature. “It's already dead Liette.”

“I know that! I'm the one who killed it. It must have been washed up on a wave and tangled itself in the rope I used to fasten the boat. It was the only merciful thing to do.”

“But why did you take it with you inside?” The icy feeling in the pit of his stomach already told him the answer as he watched Liette, who already busy cutting up the creature with a big knife.

“Bosmer eat what they kill back in Valenwood, and I've never been there. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't follow the rules sometimes – in my own way. Besides, now I have a master chef under my roof.”

“You're expecting me to cook a dreugh? Are you insane?” Breonnarin dropped the book, not caring if he lost which page he was on. This was pure scandal.

“You did a good job with the slaughterfish earlier, so I thought...”

“Look at it!” Breonnarin shoved away Liette from the carcass so she nearly cut herself on the knife. He did not notice. “Look at its face! Two eyes, a mouth and a nose! Even eyebrows!” His voice caught in his throat. “It may have four arms, but look how they are jointed, the build of the torso!”

“Where are you going with this?” Liette sat on the floor with her back to the wall, looking at him accusingly.

“It's cannibalism!”

“The Green Pact has no such restrictions.” Liette was unsteady on her feet as she passed the raging Altmer and proceeded upstairs without another word. The sudden silence made the suddenly increasing storm howl in his ears. Looking at the dead dreugh on the floor, Breonnarin fought the queasiness and gathered the courage to push it out through the door with a broom. He could not sleep next to that thing.

“I'm sorry. If I find you tomorrow, I'll bury you,” he whispered.

Breonnarin regretted insulting Liette, but it would take time to convince her that was the case. She had only tried to be kind.

Was he a hypocrite for stuffing a slaughterfish into his mouth without remorse while condemning the same thing when the object happened to be a dreugh[i]? They lived in the same environment, were both carnivores and they would equally turn him into a meal given the chance.

She had saved his life, preserved his secrets and put him under her roof. Part of him wanted to go upstairs, fall on his knees and apologise right then, while another part did not want to wake her just so he would feel better and a third part somehow brought stubborn pride into the picture. He supposed that was what was left of his Altmeri side. [i]A pompous, wicked elf.

He wished Liette had just slapped him - again.

He kept reading for several hours to push away other thoughts and then took out a couple of blankets from a basket and lay down on the rug, trying to sleep.

The storm was roaring outside, with waves high enough to flood the cliffs and make the boat, which was fastened to the steps outside, bang against the wall.

I should be grateful for still being under a safe roof. He turned around to lie on his side, tucking his arms around his chest nervously. Pay the price and learn from it. Father had said that. Perhaps he was not always a dirty liar.


A single flame flickered behind the stained glass of a lantern that swung on its peg, back and forth, above the grizzled, one eyed head of Elos Nerano. Sitting on a three-legged stool in the solitude of his cabin, he did not let a pitiful breeze stop him from counting the crew's salary. If their mission was dangerous to begin with, the weather was now jeopardizing all they had struggled for the last days. They all deserved a raise for serving so loyally on Duckling. The Sea of Ghosts was not to be trifled with and the reason the Dwemer ruins there were not looted like the rest was all because the imminent threat of running into Aundae vampires.

The lantern fell to the floor and shattered as the ship listed unexpectedly. Elos just barely kept the stool upright with his strong legs and acute balance. What are they doing? The cargo was not sufficiently fastened for that sort of manoeuvre.

Smothering the fire with a blanket before it spread, he pushed open the door and forced it shut behind him. The crew was gathered on the deck. Pale faces and frightened eyes turned to him.

“What is happening?” Nerano shouted over the howling wind. “Eriam, go below deck and check on the cargo!” Just as well to get the little Breton out of this before he got a nervous breakdown.

Tall, black bearded Thorsten looked calm as ever, if you looked away from the bandage that was wrapped around his head. “Another ship came out of nowhere. At first it looked like it would go past us, but then the wind changed direction - and so did the ship.” The Nord looked out at the sea, south west. “It was heading towards us and we had to get out of the way. There must have been something wrong with it.”

“That other ship,” Nerano pondered upon the facts. “Perhaps we should assist?”

“It won't be necessary.” A voice smooth as velvet that had no problem to be heard over a roaring sea could only belong to one person on Duckling. “There was no crew on that ship. The sails were torn away, had been for years it seemed, and the wood hadn't seen tar in at least a decade.” Red eyes looked at Nerano without blinking. Seren was perhaps one of the strangest persons Nerano had ever met, and he had even met a Falmer once. That once sufficed for losing an eye, though. “A mystery it was floating at all.”

“A ghost ship!” Eriam squealed.

“Below deck with you!” Seren snarled.

The damage was already done. Whispers were spreading among the crew like fire on dry wood.

“... could have sworn I saw a wraith at the helm.”

“... a skeleton hung on the anchor chain.”

“Nonsense!” Thorsten bellowed. Everyone went quiet. “I bet it just stranded somewhere in a rough weather with a rising sea and the crew evacuated. When nobody bothered to go back for, it just stood like a stupid overturned mudcrab above water until it got loose in this storm and drifted away. It was probably leaking steadily when we saw it.”

Nerano nodded. “It should crash into the shore outside Tel Mora any moment, so it shouldn't bother anyone now.” The wind faded slightly and the moon started to shine through the clouds. “Resume course! We will reach Tel Uvirith before supper tomorrow!”

Solid update. Only one thing stuck out.

the ship cringed unexpectedly - I found cringed a rather odd choice of word

Ah, the appropriate word for ships would be "listed". I'll change it. Thank you.

I'm really enjoying this story. It's very well written and original. I hope you're still working on it!

I really should be working on it for real. Mentally I am. I think XD

Now when the fiction part of the writing course I'm taking is over perhaps it's about time I at least edit the remaining parts of the manuscript and flesh it out.