Its been a while since I wrote anything of length but, after a few false starts, I have churned out the first few thousand words of something which could get fairly large. I'm not totally happy with it (though I doubt I ever would be) but it should improve as I get back into writing, any comments et al would be appriciated.

1. Gold

I shivered as an icy breeze touched me. Was it real? Yes. I brushed aside my doubts. The Wolverine Hall was built by dunmer: of course it was dark, damp and cold. So cold. I pulled my cloak closer about me and looked around the gloomy room of the Mages Guild. A few guttering candles cast a sickly light on heaps of shadowy grimoires. Crazy reflections scattered from the grease-smeared tangles on an alchemy table. The creation of a deranged glassblower with hiccoughs. In spite of it being Evening Star there were still a couple of mages braving the winter on Azura’s Coast. They kept their rheumy eyes fixed on whatever devilry they were working on and ignored me. I waited idly and rubbed at my arms.

A door opened and I got a brief glance of a small room behind before it was shut again by the old Argonian who entered. A frown flickered over his features as he regarded me with sharp red eyes, “You must be the man from the Fighter’s Guild. Not what I expected, but no doubt Hrundi knows what he’s at,” Skink-in-Trees’-Shade smiled, his teeth were green from chewing hackle-lo, his sour breath twisted my stomach, “I have work for you.”

“I know. What I don’t know is why you couldn’t have left it with Hrundi like any normal contract, your demands are already weird enough.” My breath left a plume of steam in the air.

“I think eight thousand drakes is enough to allow me to make demands,” the lizard paused, I shivered but said nothing. I couldn’t afford not to get the contract. “I know well enough what is required and agreed it with Hrundi but the job itself requires discretion. Hrundi lacks discretion when he drinks…

“Three months ago I sent a group to investigate a ruin on the coast north of Firewatch, just south of Ilethi Point. The last report I received was dated late Frostfall, over six weeks ago. I want you to find out what happened.”

“What sort of ruin is this?” I said warily.

“Its… unusual. That’s why we want to investigate it and why this situation requires subtlety. I would send my own mages but it is deep in Telvanni lands.”

“Has it occurred to you that four men might be hard pressed to clear a ruin full of Telvanni?” I never understood why mages just didn’t get fighting. Another icy draught brushed me. I shivered and scratched an itchy patch on my arm.

“If it is then you will know what happened, investigate as far as you can and return. But I suspect that it is not. Most likely messages have just gone missing, as they do.” Argonians are hard to read but it didn’t take any guile to know Skink didn’t believe it. Neither did I, why spend eight thousand septims to get the best and go to such lengths of secrecy for missing reports.

I said nothing. Nothing I was likely to say would be helpful. I needed the job.

For a moment Skink was hesitant then he said, “If that is all you had best prepare. I will have a boatman waiting for you at dusk,” I nodded and turned to go but he continued, “A word of warning: do not use any teleportation near the ruin. We do not understand why but the only attempt to date prove quite… messy. If you do get into a tight spot read this,” he proffered a scroll and a money pouch, “I will know and do what I can. Otherwise do not rely on magic.”

He stopped abruptly and turned back towards his room. I was about to leave again when he called back, “And by the nine get yourself a fix with that gold. You scratch like a nix with mange.” He shut the door behind him.

For a moment I was too shocked to move. Was it that obvious? It was four days since my money had run out. I’d gone longer, but only once. Descending the dank spiral stair made my stomach shrivel and, backed up by the bag of gold, firmly killed any thoughts of going another hour without. I paused outside the fighter’s guild to fight down nausea before I went in.

Hrundi was waiting for me, “What did the old lizard want?” he asked.

“They’ve lost a bunch of folk investigating some ruin.” I wasn’t sure if Skink wanted Hrundi to know and I didn’t care.

“Same old,” Hrundi ran his fingers though his greying beard, “If I had a hundred drake for every mages’ guild expedition I’ve bailed out the mages would have paid me,” he rumbled a laugh, “So where’s the catch? You don’t give four folk a year’s wage for nowt.”

“He wouldn’t say but he wants us at the dock this evening.”

“Then Lysander won’t be joining you, news is his silt strider crashed, driver was probably pissed. I can’t see him arriving before tomorrow night.”

“Damn, that’s a problem,” it was too. Lysander was the only person I had directly asked for. The fighter’s guild in Morrowind was a shadow of what it had been before the oblivion crisis. “Are any of your local boys a quarter competent?”

Hrundi laughed mirthlessly, “You ain’t got a whole lot of choice. I’m too old, Sondryn’s already on a contract. That only leaves young Varnan.”

“There’s only three of you in the guildhall?”

“Yes. Who would want to be here? It shouldn’t matter though, the other two are good.”

“So you keep saying. Where are they?”

“Stocking up in town, I sent them to get the supply list you left.”

“Good,” I turned away from Hrundi. Now Skink had given me means to get it skooma was all I could think of. I hurried though the damp corridors and out into the squalid courtyards of the Wolverine Hall.

I kept close to the wall out of the wind-driven sheets of rain. The guard on the bridge looked as grey as the iron sky. The instant I stepped onto it I was soaked to the skin, to my left, and mercifully downwind, the giant fungus houses groaned in the storm. I turned away from them toward Muriel’s, golden light shone though the windows. I pushed the polished doorknob and stepped into the warm air of conversation and rich smell of roasting meat and beer.

However inviting I had no intention to take a seat in the common room. I hadn’t been in Muriel’s in years and didn’t remember the place. It didn’t matter. All corner clubs are essentially the same. I started upstairs and sure enough found a much smaller room full of distinctly shady characters. A grey-haired altmer looked at me as she would a gaur’s leavings on the street. I barely noticed, I could smell a sickly sweetness in the air. A dunmer opposite caught my eye and nodded. Apparently it was that obvious.

I wandered over to him. “You got skooma?”

“Yes, the finest in all Vvardenfell. You got money?” I hate pushers. There’s something about them which makes my fists itch. And they all claim to have the best.

“Let me see the goods,” I growled.

The dunmer paused to brush an imaginary piece of lint from his opulent, yet slightly too gaudy, clothes before reaching into a bag and withdrawing two vials. “This,” the dunmer gestured to the larger one with a bejewelled hand, “Is good stuff, Hlaalu import. Came in though Lake Hairan along with the standard stuff. This, on the other hand, is Tenmar white – costly but well worth it to the discerning palate.”

“How much?”

“Forty gold a quarter for the standard, sixty for the Tenmar.”

The bag had two hundred and fifty in it, even allowing for the high prices on Vvardenfell I expected more. “Half a bottle of the cheap for two hundred.”

“Not a chance. That should be five hundred.”

“I’m buying bulk. Two hundred.”

“Three hundred.”

“Ok two fifty and you’ll throw in a dash of that Tenmar white or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

The dunmer scowled then got out his scales. I got out my pipe. His eyes widened momentarily as I measured out my dose.

Nice start to this one. And we've got a skooma addict. This could turn out very bad... Looks like you've got an interesting character to work with. We don't even have a name to work with yet either. I'll keep an eye out for this one!

EDIT: I got first comment!

[edit]: Let me rephrase my original comment. I thought the story was great. It's very deep and doesn't lend itself to a quick read in my opinion. I don't think that that detracts from it, though, and I'm looking forward to futher updates.

I admit it is perhaps a little slow moving (probably because I was reading Robert Jordan at the time I was writing this section). Anyway I promise things will speed up. And without further ado:

2. Asea

“So after all that when I found the shrine there was only a half naked Khajit who had owned the lettuce of sheogorath for years. Turns out the only special thing about it was that it hadn’t gone rotten. Ha, those were the days.” Hrundi drained another bottle of mead and grinned though his white beard. Then he frowned, “Things were better then. Nothing’s what it once was.”

“So you say,” I said taking a draught of ale. Sadith Mora didn’t seem so cold after my smoke in Muriel’s but it still wasn’t warm. I didn’t have the money for decent repairs, let alone any new equipment, so I took advantage of Hrundi’s offer of hospitality. “So you say…” I repeated.

“I suppose a lot of this was before your time, before the blight was an problem even. Did I say I gave the Nerevarine some contracts?”

“Yes,” Hrundi mentioned this whenever he drank, which was all the time.

“Ha, I’ve already told you, eh Firen?” I smiled at his pronunciation of my name. It was Nordic, like my grandfather, so in truth he probably said it better than I, even so it sounded strange. “Those were the days. You must have got up to some shenanigans in your youth?” He opened another bottle of Old Frostmoth. I raised an eyebrow; they hadn’t made that since the imperials had abandoned Solstheim years before.

“Not really, “ I paused, it was a long time since anyone had made me reminisce. My name was about all I wanted to recall, though why my imperial parents would hinder their son with it baffled me. “I was in a small farming village in Cyrodiil then the legion in the aftermath of the crisis…” I stopped. The ability of a few bottles of beer to loosen the tongue has never ceased to amaze me. When people drink together a bond is formed, I knew Hrundi far more closely then than I had that morning.

“I suppose it was interesting. Leave to see the world?”

“You might say that.” I said flatly, hoping my tone would change the subject.

Hrundi missed the hint. I wasn’t surprised. “Why else would you join?”

“I had no money, no food, no home and a bunch of bloated corpses for friends and relatives.” Fortunately that shut him up, I wanted to salvage what remained of my good mood.

Before the silence got too uncomfortable the door opened and a man hauled a sack in. Green: the word sprung into my mind. No scars spoiled a face he evidently spent too long looking at. His blonde hair hung to his shoulders, just right to get in the eyes or for grabbing. His muscles were yet to develop the wiry tone of anyone who had spent too long in the guild. I met Hrundi’s gaze. “I didn’t know you trained raw recruits out here.”

He grimaced, “We don’t. That’s Varnan, your fourth man.”

I wasn’t sure whether to rant or laugh. After a moment I opted for the latter. The recruit looked at me with a puzzled expression and approached when I’d finished. “Hello sir,” I rolled my eyes, “I believe you are to lead the next job sir. I’ve purchased the necessary supplies.”

“Great,” I muttered, “I’m Firen.”

“I know sir. It’s an honour to work with you. Sir.” I groaned inwardly. You don’t do as many contracts as I had without getting known. People always seem to expect greatness.

I turned back to my drink and wandered if he really had managed to get the elbow grease and left-handed crossbow bolts I’d added to the list when Hrundi had told me a youngster was buying supplies. I hoped, at least, that he had made a fool of himself trying.

***

The choppy waves coruscated in the light of the full moon. The small boat Skink had arranged us danced over them with all the smooth elegance of a troll on moonsugar. A lull in the wind brought the sound of Varnan vomiting noisily over the side. I smiled at Keersk. The argonian took another swig of mazte and smirked back. The two other fighters Hrundi had arranged seemed fine. Although a bit odd the dunmer woman clearly knew her stuff, and by his sense of humour the way he drank I was astounded I’d never worked with Keersk before. I certainly intended to again, even if he was a filthy lizard.

“Ah it’s a good contract for him,” said Keersk. I wasn’t sure if it was the mazte or the angry scar across his throat which made his voice sound like a bag of gravel.

“Perhaps. But we don’t really know what we’re going to find.”

“That is the best bit,” he said. I laughed and he passed me the bottle. Its contents tasted vile but I took a swig anyway. “It’s a big payoff,” said Keersk, his face suddenly serious, “When I get it I’ll have enough to return to the marsh. And I will this time.” I wandered how many times he had said it before.

The dunmer woman rolled her eyes behind him. “Not if you don’t sober up a bit before we land,” she said.

“Oh Thyra,” said Keersk, “I can hardly hold an axe without some beer.”

Thyra laughed and took a seat next to him. “I’ve certainly never seen it and we’ve worked together enough.”

They made a strange pair. Keersk was old for a fighter, well past his prime. His equipment was in a worse state even than mine. He had scars within scars but that he was still alive meant he couldn’t be too bad. At least so I hoped. Thyra was quite a different matter. She was still young, especially for a mer. She might have been attractive, at least to the slightly distorted type of men who look at mer like that, were it not for her cropped hair and the brutal pragmatism of the male clothes she favoured. I could see her argument but it had the effect of making her look rather unsettling.

She noticed me watching at her and I looked down, embarrassed. She ignored me. “The captain says we’ll be there an hour after midnight. Wherever there is,” she said.

“Its all he says and all the dour fetcher,” muttered Keersk.

I nodded, “There is a few leagues north of Firewatch. I wasn’t allowed to tell you that until we were on the boat. I wasn’t meant to tell you anything.”

“That explains the secrecy,” said Thyra, “I thought it was a bit much for a normal contract but the Telvanni have been worse than ever the last couple of years.” She picked up a leather bracer and started polishing it.

Keersk slurped more mazte then said, “In my experience when magic types go missing there are three possible reasons: they’re not reporting, they’re trapped or they’re dead. The solution to each is simple.”

“That’s what worries me,” I said, “Why pay so much and send four of us? It doesn’t add up.”

Thyra stopped her polishing, “Either they know something, or more likely they suspect. Whatever it is they don’t want anyone else to find out. The less of us there is the less likely the secret escapes.”

“Well that’s comforting,” said Keersk. I couldn’t have agreed more.

Shortly after Varnan came down from the deck looking slightly green. “I think I can see some land,” he said taking a seat by Thyra and starting to polish his own meretricious armour. Keersk’s expression made it clear enough he thought about as much of it as I. It was showy but offered the protection of leather with about twice the weight. I said nothing and left to the back of the hold and my pack.

The bottle was in its own pouch; I glanced back to check they weren’t watching before taking it out. I had hoped to go without until tomorrow morning but it was just too tempting. I let a little of the oleaginous liquid ooze into the dent under my thumb and sniffed it sharply. It stung my nose and sinuses but almost immediately I felt tension leach away. Lusty fire rushed though me like gold. I put the bottle back and returned to the table.

“Land ho,” called the tillerman up on deck.

Sorry for the late reply, but I liked the update. Keep up the good work.

Another one, I'm not sure how quickly to put these up, its all more or less done so really its as quickly as suits readers. Probably about two ~1500 parts a week, or is that too much?

As ever any comments or critique welcomed.

3. First Blood

The sound of sand grinding the keel announced our arrival. Almost immediately the captain was down in the hold, “We’re here. Now move. I want to be well away before daybreak,” he hadn’t strung so many words together in the whole passage.

My pack was the smallest. I hadn’t bothered to oversee the others’ packing or to organise it: that sort of thing was far too reminiscent of the legion. I wasn’t surprised to see Varnan was over prepared but I was surprised at the weight when I picked up Keersk’s and handed it too him. It clinked as he shouldered it. Surely all that bulk wasn’t drink?

The deck of the boat was slippery with spray. The captain had brought us in to a cove, dark mountains shouldered close on either side obscuring the moons. Keersk vaulted over the rail and disappeared into the sea. With rather more care I lowered myself from the gunwale. The icy water crept to my waist before my feet found the bottom and I struggled though the breakers to the shore.

Varnan was still by the boat with his pack held above his head in a futile attempt to keep it dry. He offered Thyra a hand down but the dunmer threw her pack in and jumped after it. Already the boat’s sails were unreefed to pull it off the sand. I turned my attention away from them and opened my pack.

I took out my sort-of-dry cloak to keep the wind off and a map of the region I’d taken from the guild. Skink’s directions had been short but they were enough. The mainland coast east of Vvardenfell was scored with fjords, cliffs and precipices where mountains met sea. The heavy shadows made it impossible to see exactly which cove we had landed in. It didn’t matter: there was no way we could be much north of Firewatch. The ruin would be still further north.

A shape emerged from the waves. I had a moment of fear born of a primal instinct before I recognised the reptilian form as Keersk. Varnan and Thyra splashed out of the surf a little further down the beach.

“Where do we make camp?” asked the dunmer.

“We don’t,” I replied, “I want to be well away from here by first light.”

“But its dark.”

“Good.” It was Varnan who spoke, “They won’t see us. The whole region around Firewatch is stiff with rouge mages and the like.”

“We couldn’t camp here anyway,” said Keersk letting some run though a scaly hand, “This sand stinks like the old ash you get in sheltered gullies near Red Mountain.”

“They still have some blight here,” I said leading the way up the dark beach. A path of sorts lead up though sparse thornbushes onto the mountain side. After a few minutes climb I emerged into the moonlight and stopped to allow the others to catch up. Masser’s gibbous form showed a barren land of rugged mountains running north and south but slowly falling away in the west. Scrubby vegetation clung to the lower slopes but the peaks reached bare like claws tearing the sky. On the higher slopes of a mountain not a league south a crooked tower was silhouetted against the night. Varnan was right. There might be no villages but this land was far from empty.

A bush behind me rustled and I turned expecting to see Keersk. The foliage exploded. Snarling teeth gleamed in the night and I was cannoned from my feet. I landed with my sword under me. Before I could roll up a weight landed on my chest and claws tore at my mail shirt. Two huge tusks glowed white against the starry sky. What devilry- I could hear the others lower down the slope. I was on my own with the monster. No. It’s a kagouti. Move. I swung a wild punch and split my knuckles against its skull. For a moment it stopped tearing at me. I roared and twisted from under it reaching up just above the tusk. My nails found its scaly hide and I drove my thumb into its eye. I felt rather than heard the crunch then the warm juices welling past the knuckle.

The kagouti screamed. Its claws wrenched at me and I was thrown clear of my pack and into a thorn bush. In seconds my supplies were shredded. Those seconds were enough. I stood. My sword was gone but I still had a knife on my boot. I drew it and readied myself. The beast leapt and I plunged forward. My aim was bad and it screamed again lashing out, the knife jammed in its crest. The thorn bush cut off any escape and stopped me moving to its blind side. It poised to spring then roared twisting round as a feathered shaft appeared in its flank. Then a second plunged into its face and it collapsed.

Thyra was first to arrive. She found me sprawled next to the kagouti wheezing and trying to free myself from the tangled cuirass. Varnan was just behind her, bow still in hand. “Its as well you’re a quick shot,” I gasped, “The first shaft missed.” He looked crest fallen and I regretted my words, slightly. “It’s dark,” I added.

“We should stay closer,” he said. I ignored him.

Thyra rolled me over and attacked the buckles on my cuirass. I went to do it and winced. She pushed me back, “It got you a bit. Stay still until I know how much. Most of the straps are broken anyway, what the hell did it do?”

“That would be from flying into a thorn bush, yes?” said Keersk, appearing from the other side.

“You took your time,” said Thrya cutting though my undershirt.

“I saw Varnan hit it so I went to check there weren’t any more.”

“Touché,” said Thyra then turned her attention to my bare chest, “It’s only a small gouge. Most of the blood is from the rings cutting into you – that should learn you for not wearing a padded undershirt.”

Varnan had been examining the corpse, “It stinks,” he said.

Keersk went over to look and promptly rolled it off the edge where it tumbled down the slope. “It’s a big one, and blighted,” said the old argonian, “Not bad I think but it was there. Don’t see so much of it these days.”

I swore and sat up. “Looks like we’ll have to make camp here tonight.”


It was only when Varnan went to get the poles of one of our tents that I remembered the damage my pack had taken. I ignored to complaints of my chest and leapt to my feet. “I’ll get it,” I said and brushed him aside. I ignored the poles as I tore though its contents and found the tooled leather pouch. There was a small tear in it, I barely dared breathe as I opened it. The skooma bottle was intact, I sighed relief. A sudden desire burned in me. The others were too close; regretfully I put it away.

I pulled out the poles and tossed them to Varnan. The wound was bleeding again so I only made a quick check. My cloak and blanket had taken most of it and were in tatters but a needle and thread could fix them.

I turned to find Thyra just behind me. “Lie back, that wound still needs seeing to.”

“It’s bled clean.”

“Guar-apples. Anyway Varnan had these,” she held up two small bottles. “One’s wound spirit and the other is healing potion.”

I raised my eyebrows, “So newbies do have their uses. I would advise him against wasting money on them but I suppose I can’t if I use them.” I winced as she scrubbed into the gash and uncorked the bottle. The smell of lavender wafted out.

“Beats salty water,” she said and let a bit run in. I winced. The burning was replaced by a numb tingle when she poured some of the potion from the vial in. I looked away as she got out the needle and thread.


By the time she had finished Keersk and Varnan had the tents up, the latter was polishing his bow and the former was seeking oblivion in a bottle of sujamma. Thyra bid us goodnight and with a surreptitious wink at Keersk she crawled into her tent. The lizard followed her soon after. I looked over the fire at Varnan.

“Good shots earlier,” I paused awkwardly, “Thanks.”

He grunted and the silence ensued.

And another part, just a short one because that was the best way to cut it up.


4. Grey Dawn

The slow winter sun glowed though the side of the tent. I stepped outside and shivered, the westerly wind stirred the dawn haze and with it came the scent of ash. Vvardenfell. I sighed. Home? I hated the place but too many memories darkened the mainland, somehow the past poisoned every thought there.

“It looked better by night,” said Thyra appearing behind me. She wasn’t wrong. The drab mountains reared towards the clouds, their bleak ridges and arêtes wore dirty skirts of scree. The sere vegetation was sparse and bore brown thorns more often than sickly yellow leaves. Only occasional towers and keeps in varying states of decay tarnished the flawless grey. I had heard enough stories to know the sort of folk who lived in them.

Thyra had a pair of candles and a copy of Invocations of Azura under her arm. She noticed I’d seen them and muttered “Its not so different you’re nine.”

“I never said it was,” I answered.

Varnan appeared half dressed from the tent saw Thyra and scurried back in. The dunmer laughed. When Varnan reappeared he said, “It’s a bit grim isn’t it. Which tower is it? There’s enough of them.”

“Skink wasn’t definite on what sort of ruin it was so it won’t be dwemer or a velothi tower. But it will be old.”

“So we head north looking for a strange ruin. That’s exact.”

“It is clear,” I said, “That you have never worked for the mages guild before.” I left them and went into the tent.

“Do you need a hand?” asked Varnan.

“No,” I snapped. The kagouti had dented some of the links in the chain of my cuirass but the damage was mostly superficial. As I twisted to buckle it the wound stretched and I almost regretted being so blunt. Almost. I dug though my pack and for my pauldrons and bracers and put them on. The iron was heavy and uncomfortable. I didn’t bother with my helmet, the iron one I usually wore had been dented beyond repair on my way to Sadith Mora. I wasn’t sure if I would wear the egg yellow colvonian fur joke that the Fighter’s Guild supplied in anything other than a headbutting contest with an orc. Maybe not then.

When I emerged there was a small fire and some brose waiting. It’s remarkable how nice slop can taste when you’re cold.

Varnan looked at me, “You’re in full armour. Do you want us to wear it as well?”

I shook my head slightly and wandered who had taught him. Certainly not Hrundi. “This isn’t the legion,” I told him, “I honestly could not care less.”

Keep 'em coming.

He's hilarious when it comes to Varnan!


I think Jac said it all.

Wow. This is awesome. I'll be keeping an eye on this story.

Cheers for the comments, there's still pleanty more of this so it will continue for a while yet. Slightly longer one this time but ther wasn't anywhere obvious to break it off sooner.

5. Dead Land

There was no doubt the ruin was the one Skink had spoken of. We stood at the bottom of a deep valley gouged into the side of a mountain. The ruin squatted at the back of the corrie above us glaring out toward the Sea of Ghosts and Ilethi point. A cradle of dark cliffs hid it from any other angle. Even so, were it not for the glittering of the noon sun on its metal arches I could have missed it entirely.

High cliffs shaded the valley. We were barely into it when the air thickened with the sulphurous taint of brimstone. Evan compared to the wastelands around it seemed barren. Little lived, and what plants clung to the flaky ground were deformed and dying. Tumescent white stems writhed over the dead ground like worms on a corpse, their shrived root’s futile quest for moisture exposed by the wind. We had not gone far before all plants life was gone.

We trudged up the sterile valley, the haze of mephitis growing thicker. I was glad I lead, the soil was powdery and Varnan at the back hacked dust-stained phlegm. I couldn’t but wander what sort of person could want to study something so much to come here. The ground held no trace of the excavations above, but I suspected that the wind would conceal our passing and restore the ground to its desolation.

The winter sun swung low behind us, always below the brecciated mountaintops which loomed above. I think had it not been for the money Skink was offering, and my desperate need for it, I would have given up on the contact. The valley narrowed until ravine would more accurately describe it, the shadow of the mountain lay heavy, the barren ground was as devoid of life as of cheer. We concentrated on placing each step and spoke little, the air burned enough just breathing.

It’s quite possible that the sight which greeted me at the head of the valley had a sort of melancholic beauty. None of us was in a fit mood to appreciate it. The ruin built into the cliff at the back was graceful yet somehow misshapen. The golden metal spoke of the dwemer yet tiers of fluted arches and slender spires reared towards the slate sky and lay rusting on the poisoned ground. It spoke of beauty, but in an alien tongue.

In front of it there was a small tarn, the water was greasy and where the shining towers had fallen into it they were pitted and smeared. A cluster of tents on the left side of it gave the first indication that all was not well. Most fluttered in the breeze but at least two were reduced to blackened poles. I could see barrels lying broken like huge ribcages. We were halfway round the tarn when Keersk saw the corpse. It lay face down halfway between us and the camp. In life it had probably been a male Breton. The robe it wore was burnt and holed, revealing bloated flesh beneath. I kicked him over and the rotten skin tore like wet parchment. A writhing torrent of black flesh and white maggots splashed onto my boot.

While I swore and tried to wipe the fetid mess away Keersk approached the body. “He’s a mess - I’d say some spell killed him but there’s wounds all over his face,” the Argonain bent before continuing, “Glass. Finer than a bottle I’d say. Maybe an alembic.”

“Why would anyone hit someone with an alembic?” said Thyra.

“That is what we’re here to find out,” I answered, “How long has it been dead?”

“It’s hard to say. I’d think ten days, give or take, normally but I don’t know the climate of northern morrowind that well.”

“I’d agree normally,” I said, it was clearly just on the turning point of black putrification, “But what of this valley? It seems dead, barring the maggots.”

“I don’t know. Maybe the camp will explain something.”

I nodded and we approached it quietly. Varnan looked rather disquieted and had his rapier ready. The broken tents flapped fitfully as if trying to waft away the reek of death. As I passed between two of the outermost ones I paused. The breeze shuffled loose canvas and paper and stirred the dust but I saw no life. Their supplies lay in heaps on the churned ground. Another corpse lay in a dark patch over by a tent. I ignored it.

Varnan looked shocked at the destruction, he stood by one of the burnt out tents, its previous occupant still amongst the ashes. Keersk was also looking around, but more in the manner one surveys a market stall. Like myself the argonian had been in the business long enough that each horror brought so many memories that it barely mattered.

“What in oblivion?” I heard Thyra say.

I went over to her and stopped as I rounded an almost intact tent. Keersk swore behind me. Blood spattered the ground, a length of mouldy intestine was smeared across the side of the nearest tent. It was impossible to know anything about the person who had more of a final resting area than place. Bits lay strewn around like an explosion in an anatomy study.

“Skink did mention this,” I said. The others looked at me pointedly. “He was a little vague but said the results of transport spells could be messy.”

“I’d say this classes as messy,” observed Thyra, “Still you should have said, I tend to keep an intervention handy.”

Our gazes were locked on the fleshy detritus, Keersk, on the other hand, seemed hardened to spontaneous detonation looked elsewhere. “That’s odd,” he said, the dust somehow made his voice even gravellier, “They seem to have put up a barricade.”

“Where?”

“Over by the ruin, and facing the ruin.”

I had a sinking feeling but said nothing. I’d seen horrors but at least they normally made some sense, this was yet to come clear: Telvanni are usually fairly tidy in what they leave behind. I walked towards it uneasily. It explained where most of their barrels and storage crates had gone. The door in the ruin was almost blocked by the drifting soil, it looked as though they had dug their way to it. A ring of makeshift fortifications surrounded the entrance, another corpse lay in the dust behind them along with a couple of broken weapons. The entrance itself was blocked a little further down with a heavy metal table.

“They tried to keep something down there,” said Varnan.

“But that table must have come from inside,” I said, “And it wouldn’t be quick to move. I’d say that was to keep something out.” No one replied so I continued my reasoning, “They barricaded it from the outside. The only reason could be to keep something in. But it seems that its barricaded from inside too. To keep something out.”

“Could it have escaped and they went in to hide?” said Thyra.

“Or they were inside when the Telvanni showed up,” said Keersk.

“But if the Telvanni were here where did they go? Skink seemed to think that they would be interested in this place. Something killed them, all of them, as far as I can see.”

“The deep places hold many things best left be,” observed Keersk.

“Unfortunately,” said Varnan, “Mages seem unable to grasp that logic. But it seems stretched to think it got out and they went into the pit. There’s no link between the ways the people have been killed.”

I nodded. And looked back at the corpse behind the barricade. Arrow in the back. I felt my gaze drawn back to the entrance and noticed all the others were gazing at it. “We could go and see,” I ventured.

“We could,” agreed Thyra.

“No,” Varnan shook himself, “We should examine the camp more fully first. And rest.”

My mind took little changing. It was clear sense and I wandered why I had wanted to rush in. Finding everyone dead in strange circumstances almost fulfilled the contract anyway. I turned away from it. Thyra was the last the leave.

None of us wanted to stay in the doomed expedition’s camp but Keersk was more than happy to move two of their less damaged tents down the hill away from the ruin. While he did I went though the remaining supplies, they were strewn haphazard around the camp. Most of the perishables were too far gone, even a couple of imported cheeses had rotted within their wax seals. I did find a cache of spirit which was still good and a few pickled onions which I quietly emptied into the ashes of the fire. I knew only too well of the wind they give argonians.

As I did I saw a scrap of paper buried there. I dusted away some ash and found a scorched wooden bar from a scroll. I was digging out more pieces when Thyra appeared behind me.

“What are they?”

I couldn’t read the characters on the paper. They were the same as some of the more obscure temple texts and those of some of the less pleasant cults. “Not sure, maybe some mage’s notes. They seem to culture pointless affectations.”

Thyra took the largest scrap from me and squinted at it. “It’s a slightly obscure dialect,” she murmured her lips moving.

“You can read it?”

“Many of Azura’s texts are written in the daedric alphabet.”

I paused awkwardly, “So you do…”

“Yes,” she said dismissively, “I’ve worshiped her for over a decade. What of it?”

I shrugged.

She peered at the ash, “Onions?”

“Yes.”

“You put them there.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Thank dawn and dusk, have you any idea what Keersk smells like when he eats them?”

I nodded.

She stirred though the remains again and lifted out a fragment of paper, “It reads ‘Woe upon’ then is burned. Its defiantly a scroll, the next word would be ‘you’ but a great many read that way.” She looked though other fragments, “There’s several here, they’ve burned a whole load.”

“Why?”

“Why had someone got a retort broken over their face, why two barricades at the ruin, why the woman with a knife in her back and marks from frost magic? I know you saw the man by the ruin, that arrow was in his back. Something happened here. And the answer is in the ruin.” With that she stood and stalked away.

I hadn’t seen the woman. It failed to fit in just as well as the rest. Just then Varnan appeared from a ripped tent and waved me over.

“What?” I asked.

“I think I’ve found a journal.”

“What does it say?”

“I can’t read it. The handwriting is odd.”

I went into the tent. Inside were a few things which looked almost but not quite dwemer, a blood stained camp bed and a low desk. A couple of books sat under a lantern on the desk: ‘Book of Rest and Endings’, ‘Monomyth’ and one called ‘N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!’. I didn’t need to be able to decipher it to know it was unsavoury. The skin which bound it was a little too yellow and thin. I ignored the books, mages are indeed an odd bunch, and looked at the pile of loose pages on the table. They were blown around a bit and some were probably missing but each was headed with a date. The handwriting seemed ok to me and I read.

Your writing forces me to beg. What do the notes say??? You will tell me!
Good update, I'm as confused as everyone else as to what happened. You will reveal it to us right? I'll give you cake if you will.

Very nice work, Olen. Looking forward to the continuation.

Another fascinating chapter. I'm looking forward to the next installment with great anticipation.

Cheers for the replies, any comments are more than welcome. So without further ado the notes:


6. Diary

4E25 10 Frostfall

We have arrived, and what a gods forsaken place. The earth’s exhalations are of interest however, suggesting that the deep earth does not rest easy here and further supporting Gaston’s theory that this has dwemer origins. Certainly fascinating but I’d almost like to see him wrong simply because he is such an insufferable nyah.

The tents were pitched without incident and tomorrow we shall begin excavations, this is indeed most exciting.

4E25 14 Frostfall

Progress has been slower than I hoped but it looks like we definitely know where the entrance will be. The external parts of the ruin pose quite a quandary. In style they are reminiscent of high elven or ayleid design but it is made mostly from metal which resembles dwemer alloy. Gaston continues to insist this place is dewmeric but the design is atypical to say the least. His logic is as flawed as was Skink's when he gave us joint command.

I have an alchemist examining various aspects of this blasted valley, we've been here days and seen nothing alive. The ground seems poisoned, the lochan most certainly is. One of the slaves took a drink from it and is in a most poor state of health.

4E25 17 Frostfall

A week and we are still to break through though it is possible the night shift will. The idiot slave who drank from the pool is dead and we had to subdue one of the argonian slaves after he developed psychasthenia, a worrying sign, though fortunately enough remain. Thendil was a little heavy handed dealing with it and the argonain perished, there shall be words about such wastage guild resources.

I must say this place gets me down, the stench, the dust, the wait. It’s all frightfully tedious. Gaston continues strutting and staring like an anally retentive altmer. Thendil on the other hand is an altmer. Still there has been some study done. Further examination has almost convinced me that the architecture is ayleid though of course such a theory would risk seeming ludicrous were it mentioned without further evidence.

4E25 19 Frostfall

It took another three shifts but we have reached and broken through the entrance. So far I haven't ventured far inside, though the small amount I have seen is odd. The theme of the outside is redoubled within with further examples of skewed ayleid grace. I think Gaston has ventured further in that he was meant to, trying to steal a march on me. He also mentioned ayleids. I wander where that idea came from.

One thing I did notice was that steam could be heard inside the ruin. The slaves are becoming unhappy, especially the argonians. Other members of the group are also uneasy with the ruin, I must say is has a miasma to it which rather puts me on edge. Some of seem to delight in it though.

4E25 25 Frostfall

Murder! This turn of events is most vexatious and worries me.

We're sending most of the slaves away now. All the digging and shoring has been completed and now the work of study will continue with out the distractions they cause. They have been increasingly erratic until today one was slain. The body of a khajiit was found a way into the ruin stabbed with poison, and not bunglers bane, this was clearly prepared for. I ordered a number of slaves to stay as I worry about the air in the ruin and the potentiality of traps. Having them walk a distance ahead somewhat negates this danger.

On a brighter note our examinations of the initial level have revealed a door leading downward. The lock is astoundingly complex and seems unresponsive to magic. It may simply come the brute force, though that would be Gaston and Thendil's preferred route and would risk damaging the structure. I will block them as long as I can.

Gaston has been keeping to himself more, I begin to suspect he is up to something. Could he have found something which he is keeping to himself? It certainly seems possible. I must stay vigilant.

4E25 2 Sun’s Dusk

I have been neglecting my journal. But so much has happened I have hardly had any time. We have gone deeper into the ruins and found many fascinating yet often inexplicable objects. The whole place buzzes with magic, I can feel it. It is certainly enticing - some researchers are spending almost all their time in the ruin now. I must confess that I still find it makes me a little uneasy and I prefer to sleep outside it.

We cracked the door with fire magic in the end, even so it took too much if our supplies to focus sufficient heat on it. Behind it there were further objects and devices and also books. The only I recognised was a sload tome though there were others in that language. There is a deep shaft in this section which I intend to examine though Gaston insists he should. He seeks to undermine me at every turn and I know that soon he will attempt to seize the leadership. I will oppose him with all necessary force though I fear it will be he that initiates the violence. I am ever prepared and vigilant.

4E25 5 Sun’s Dusk

Gaston attempted the go down the shaft today. I prevented him but it has strained our leadership to breaking point. He has rejected my claim of authority, quite preposterous though that n'wah Thendil backed him up. They have not left the ruin for several days now and I suspect that as soon as I do they will return to the shaft, I cannot trust any other to tell me, especially not those in the ruin – they are all in league with the traitors. At least those outside are somewhat loyal, I dare not sleep in the ruin but this is ok. I have diluted two of the best rising force potions so if he tries anything with them he will surely fall to his death. The choice is his.

4E25 7 Sun’s Dusk

The treacherous scum showed his true colours today. By my cursed luck Gaston did try to enter the shaft, though later than I had suspected, but Thendil and another mage fell first and he escaped death. Immediately he accuses me of murder while he disobeys my orders! With two who remain loyal I managed to leave with all the most valuable finds to stay outside, the traitors are within. I still think they will see sense and, once Gaston has seen justice, we can continue. Still vigilance and caution are imperative so I had the few remaining slaves, we loose them too quickly now, put defences around the ruin and have two men keeping watch for the camp.

4E25 10 Sun’s Dusk

Disloyalty is everywhere, I know some person, or persons, are in the camp undermining me and supporting Gaston. Still I have the support of most of them. Oh they squealed when I put the barriers up but they don't squeal now Gaston has attacked us. We fought them off and drove them back into the ruin to regroup but I know they will come again soon. Even with his spies we shall crush them.

As soon as the wounded are healed I shall put a blockade around the ruin. We are better supplied and we shall prevail.

4E25 13 Sun’s Dusk

It is impossible! They fight from inside the ruin appearing then scurrying back like vermin. Have they no honour to face us and be crushed. I tried attacking them but it is too well defended, and what discoveries might they be making while I am stuck out here?

This very situation is impossible. What has driven Gaston to force me to these lengths? There is something about this valley, mutterings of discontent, the very air breathes perfidy. Our blockades will hold but I am not blind to the murmurs amongst my own. Soon I must act boldly to end this stalemate.

4E25 17 Sun’s Dusk

It has happened, as I suspected they conspire against me. A murder in my own camp. Verrila, a passable but thoroughly dislikeable mage, was found with her throat slit this morning. They mean to scare me but I shall show them. They might try to set up separate holdings, to court the enemy but I shall ride this storm and this excavation shall be my success. I now see my past mistake: I can trust no one! They all bask in connivery and plot.

Still they dare not show themselves for they have seen my true quality. My policy of patience and wait is coming to fruition, the enemy in the ruin make ever more desperate attacks and pleas for they are dying. My moment of triumph comes as their supplies run dry and in their desperation their minds deteriorate. They do all I could wish for and more. Truly this is my moment of triumph.

4E25 19 Sun’s Dusk

I hate this cursed ruin. I hate it but I must finish the excavations before I can get my well-deserved rest. A deserter stole away today and tried to cast an intervention spell. His ending echoed though the valley and spread him on the dry dusts. Let that be a lesson to them all.

I have decided on another lesson though. If they will conspire let them but it will break up their little game when I poison the supplies. They shall see why they should not cross their lord, see that I am just yet my vengeance is terrible. Just as soon as the last pitiful attempts of those inside finish then I shall make my move. They actually begged today, came forth filthy and grovelling, half starved and half mad from the ruin. Even as my men threw missiles and cast spells they came on. I doubt we shall see much more from them but as ever I shall be vigilant.

4E25 20 Sun’s Dusk

Someone has poisoned the supplies! What madman would try such a thing. My enemies are crushed. Divided as they turned on themselves. We can be counted on a single hand now, and watch each other warily. I was insufficiently vigilant, as ever the guard comes down just when you need it but I was not killed. Soon maybe but not yet, someone must make the first move. Then we shall see who is the true master.

4E25 23 Sun’s dusk

It comes. Soon now. Vigilance? Pah. I never even considered. I am not ashamed to admit my terror. Soon now, so very soon.


My hands shook as I shut the book. As I read Keersk and Thyra had moved to listen, trouble shadowed every face.

“I have heard of similar things,” Keersk said slowly, “There was a fighters guild job up in sheogorad which went wrong. After a month one man killed the two others.”

“That's three men. How many were here?” said Varnan.

“If there is one to be found then I think the answer will be inside,” said Thyra.

I shuddered inwardly, “Not tonight,” I said, “We should make camp and decide what to do come morning.”

The camp was subdued that night, twice I slunk away for some skooma but it did little for my mood. Keersk wrinkled his long nose but said nothing as he concentratedly drank himself into oblivion under Thyra's disapproving eye. I toyed with the notion of using the scroll Skink had given me. But what danger necessitated that? Thoughts. Ideas. As far as we'd seen there was nothing else alive in the valley. Only shadows to jump at.

I turned in early and Varnan followed close behind me muttering something about feeling awkward.

This is really an excellent story - quite well-written. What I like most about it are the ever-present dynamics between the characters. All of them are well-defined and act within their established tendencies and personalities. You can "see" the characters on the page, so to speak. And their interactions are interesting, too. You were even able to pull this off in the brief journal entry - I definitely got a sense of the deteriorating mental state of the person who wrote the journal (from a detached academic, slightly misanthropic tone to outright paranoia).

Being able to capture characters in writing is a very difficult thing to do. The ones who are best at it tend to be some of my favorite writers (Faulkner is my favorite in this department, though I have other favorites as well). You are also doing a good job of it, and as a result, I am now hooked on this story.

Bit of a delay this time as I'm rather busy. Still here it is. 10000 words in now so if anyone has any comments on the structure, characterisation, pace etc I'd be interested to hear.

7. Smoke and Memory

The next the next morning was clear and cold. I was cooking a breakfast of brose – none of us wanted to touch the supplies we'd found – when Thyra appeared from whatever morning cultism she indulged in.

“We should go inside today,” she said, “And it should be Keersk and myself who go.”

“Why?” I asked. I was more than happy not to have to enter but somehow I had to ask. I hoped she had a good reason.

“I want to and I'm more likely to recognise anything of importance. If I go Keersk will and someone has to keep watch and distract Varnan.”

The reason was good enough for me - the first three words would have sufficed. “Yes,” I answered, “It makes as much sense as anything.”

“And you don't want to go,” she said and went into her tent smiling.

A couple of minutes later she reappeared with Keersk, both wore full armour with a few torches each. I raised an eyebrow.

“No time like the present,” she said.

I shrugged. “Good luck.”

Thyra nodded and they left towards the ruin's maw. I watched them go and felt something. Shame? Not quite. More the feeling I should go. I was the best fighter. Was I ducking duty, or did they think I was past it? I watched the cold sun rise over black mountains and poked despondently at the fire. It was not long before Varnan appeared. Dark bags hung under his eyes. I knew his sleep had been haunted, I had listened to him writhe and moan all night.

“What today?” he asked.

“Thyra and Keersk have gone into the ruin,” I answered, “I plan to sit here and die slowly. Its a good place for it.”

Varnan laughed emptily. “So you didn't go?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just thought you would. Probably best you rest though.”

“Why?” I said rather sharply.

“That kagouti messed you up a bit,” I searched his face but found no mockery.

“I've had far worse,” I muttered.

“And how many moons have past since then?”

“What are you saying? If you're suggesting I'm past my prime I assure you I'm not. I'm as good as I ever was. Better, I have years left. I'm no Keersk, the drink will kill him sooner or later.”

Vernan said nothing.

The silence dragged until our separate thoughts consumed us. I'd been sharper than was necessary but equally I didn't like the suggestion that the best was done. It wasn't, it couldn't be. I was still working towards something better. It wasn't this. I could take the chance whenever I wanted and would before the passing years forced me to. A small part of me wandered why I was so rankled. I ignored it.

The sun had cleared the peaks when Varnan tried to revive conversation. “How did you end up on Vvardenfel? You don't sound like you were born there.”

I was silent for a bit but his attention didn't drift. With nothing but dusty grey soil and dead mountainsides to distract it my mind stirred though its cauldron of memories. I tried to shut them out but already some appeared. For a moment I considered telling him but then sanity reasserted itself: I barely knew him. What purpose would it serve? Best to leave some potions untasted.

He looked intently at me as he waited. “By boat,” I replied. He grunted and turned back to the glowing embers. But the valley was too dead for dreaming and my thoughts turned like a slow wheel, images of the past flickering through my mind. I got up and headed into the tent.

I sat for a moment and thought of constructive and useful things I could do. Give Varnan some training, or at least advice. Continue searching. Explore the valley. It was pointless. I sighed and rummaged into my pack pulling out the leather purse. Within was my sadly diminished stock of skooma and my old pipe. I needed a smoke. I hunched in the corner of the tent and cleaned the bowl. Why did I hide like a common thief? I was good, am good. Why did I not want Varnan to know?

It felt strange to step out the tent with the pipe in one hand and my sweet vial in the other. Varnan was away taking a leak, I breathed relief. Should I turn back? No. Would I regret this? Quite possibly but there was something in my mood, I would it anyway. I took an ember from the fire and placed it into the chamber under the bowl of the pipe. It put a drop of oily skooma into the bowl and put on the top. The skooma took a moment to get to temperature but soon soft white fumes coiled from the surface. I inhaled and savoured the sickly sweet and slightly metallic tang over my throat. I sighed it back out and opened my eyes. Varnan approached.

“What are you doing?” his eyes wide.

I took another drag before I replied, “I'd think that's obvious.”

“But it's bad,” even he realised how stupid that sounded, “You'll get an addiction.”

“Get? I have and have had for a decade.”

“And they put you in charge of an expedition. How did you get your reputation if you're off your head the whole time? I don't believe this, what was Hrundi thinking putting some sugar tooth in charge.”

When I replied my voice was low, “Don't you even consider judging me fetcher. Once you've been in this cursed business for another decade and got the scars to show it. Once you know why almost no one takes so many contracts. Then and only then.”

Varnan glared. “I'll judge how I want. I've seen enough skooma addicts sitting in their own piss in the back alleys of Cyrodiil. I don't want to be commanded by one.”

I took another long draw. I felt it replenish me with the waning yet ever-present desire. “You're from Cyrodiil then?”

“Yes. Do you have some problem with that too?”

“No,” I answered gently. I didn't want an argument. I didn't care what he thought and it would only run though the same old guar-leavings again, “I was also from Cyrodiil, originally.”

“How did you end up in Morrowind?” Varnan asked.

“How did you?” I countered.

Varnan was silent for a moment. He frowned as he said, “I'm not from rich stock. It didn’t suit me so I joined the guild and ended up out here. I wanted more than a couple of rocky fields in the middle of nowhere.”

“Money? Adventure?” I said, “Still doesn't explain why Morrowind.”

His frown deepened. “I didn't want to stay in Cyrodiil: Morrowind was easiest.” I wasn't sure whether he wanted to say more or not. I don't think he was. I didn't care. There aren’t many in the fighter’s guild who are quite what they seem.

I swirled the bowl of the pipe and blew on the ember to get the last little bit out. I was glad he hadn't pushed the subject, I didn't need to be told the problems it caused: I already knew. I knew it damaged my ability to fight. I knew it was killing me. It's harder to lie to yourself, much easier not to care. I took the last lungful and screwed up my face. It didn't taste as good as it had.

Varnan looked up and said, “What about you?” I looked questioningly, “How did you end up in Morrowind?”

“Desperation and lack of choice,” I answered. He said nothing and waited. I sighed, was it the stirring of memories long buried, or this place, or the skooma? I didn't know but for the first time in years I thought of the past. “I have never had many choices. I was born in a small farming village somewhere in Cyrodiil, I don't even know where. I was young when its was burnt to the ground, I don’t know why or who. Possibly just bandits. I hid and watched as they slaughtered everyone. Children in mothers’ arms. The elderly. Some had their fun first. I watched and did nothing.

“I don't know for certain how old I was, I never have. After they were gone I ran away into the wilds. I should have died there but a hunter found me and took me to the Imperial City. I lived on the streets there for a couple of years before the Emperor was assassinated and I was conscripted into the Legion. I was still years underage but I had no choice.”

I paused to collect my thoughts. Varnan sat patiently. “It turned out I was good at killing so they got me to do that. I'd have been a bit more than half your age when I was routinely murdering, they were desperate times. I hated it and should have left after the crisis but a woman came into it. I signed up for another few years. It didn't work out. Eventually I got my demob. I got the addiction and frittered my wages away trying to recover. I couldn't stay in Cyrodiil so I came here. I need money and thanks to the legion there's only one thing I know how to do.”

I lapsed into silence. I'd stirred my memories and all the blackened muck had come floating up. I wanted another pipeful but resisted the temptation.

Hours passed.

A very thoughtful update - plenty of fleshing out of the characters. Again, it's the characters that make this a good story.

It's not everyday that you come across a protagonist that's inherently flawed. It'll be interesting to see where this one goes. Keep up the good work, Olen.

Thanks for the comments. Bit more happening in the next few updates.

8. Into the Maw

Hours passed. The winter sun slunk low around the southern horizon. We waited. As it touched the first of the western peaks I began to regret not setting a time for Thyra to return. They had many torches, and might have found more. Without the sky they would have not sure way to tell the hour. The sun continued its low descent and I started a pot of broth.

“We're going to have to go and look soon,” said Varnan.

“Once this is done, yes.”

We ate the broth. They failed to appear.

“I can’t say I’m looking forward to this,” I said.

“Nor me,” said Varnan, “But I don't see what choice we have.”

I smiled grimly, “I've never been so convinced in free choice. Fate lacks subtlety with myself. I suppose we had best go.”

I went into the tent to don my armour. Some fighters almost never take it off, I've never been one of them. Its heavy and uncomfortable but my bulky plate pauldrons offered some consolation for going into the ruin. I'd never felt so uneasy about going underground in my life. I'd met living dead, witches, bandits, cultists – even daedra. What could be worse in there? I pushed away thoughts of the journal from the night before.

I emerged fully armoured. Two sacks lay packed next to Varnan who bucked on his bracer. I grimaced at its excessive decoration, “I see we're not going for stealth then,” I said and shouldered one of the packs. Varnan stuck a torch into the fire and followed.

The black waters of the tarn rippled. “We have to go, don't we?” Varnan said.

“You can stay behind if you must,” I said.

“No, no,” he said quickly, “I'll come.”

I didn't reply but for once I was glad of his need to prove himself. We followed the footprints of Thyra and Keersk round the tarn and though the barricades around the entrance. The door itself was down a steep slope dug into the dusty ground. Golden runes in the metal doorframe flickered in the light of Varnan's torch, I lit one of my own off it and we entered.

I'd been in dwemer ruins a couple of times before but they were nothing like the corridor we found ourselves in. It rose ten feet to a pointed arch above us, decorated pillars were set into the walls at intervals. Yet it all appeared to be made from the same golden metal the squat and pragmatic delvers had left behind. The strange lights they used were set at intervals along the wall - all broken of course. I didn’t stop to gawk. Any traps would have been disarmed and if the mages weren't sure what to make of it there was not point in my wondering. At the end of the tunnel I glanced back at Varnan, he looked around in awe but flinched at shadows. His knuckles were white on his sword.

I stepped into the room at the end. Like the tunnel it was elegant and graceful even though desks and weapons and paper cluttered it. One corner was stained with soot; the wreckage of artefacts, furniture and writings lay scorched at the base of it. Varnan followed me in and whispered, “Shouldn't we be a little more cautious?”

“With you in that armour,” I snorted, “Not much point.” It would have been champleve even as a ceremonial piece. “You do realise that it probably weighs getting on for half as much again as it should?”

“I'm learning,” he answered sullenly.

A body lay in the other corner. I ignored it. The arch opposite the one we had entered through caught my eye, it was a masterpiece, its form flowed almost water-like from a delicate apex in a sublimely portioned cascade of gold. Beyond it was dull but hinted at a vast space. Then it dawned on me: it was dull not dark. I waved Varnan away from the detritus, “There’s light though there.” He looked and nodded. For a moment he waited for me but then he brushed past and entered the hall. I followed just behind.

It was huge.

The light of our torches didn't penetrate the gloom to the far side. Other lights did though: they were mounted high on the walls and around the four great pillars which rose like the pillars of heaven, slender despite their vastness. Their tops were lost in the darkness of the ceiling. Any of the cantons of Vivec could easily have fitted into the edifice. Good place for them too, I mused. Several open floors jutted from the wall opposite to perhaps a quarter of the total width. The rough ladders and pulleys set up by the excavators looked crude and out of place amidst the grandeur. In the middle of the floor before the stacked mezzanines was a pool of glittering green water.

Even allowing for the scattered detritus I was reminded of my thoughts on the outside. Something was essentially wrong. In spite, or perhaps because, of the sheer scale and eloquence of its construction it felt deformed. An insidious somesthesia grated like nails in my mind. There was no doubt it was beautiful but a sophistical beauty.

I wandered over the corroded metal floor to the pool. The corpse of an altmer lay in it, minus head. Stab wounds rent its back. I looked down into the waters. Hints of more debris, or dead, hid down there but I would have bet any money that Keersk hadn't gone that way. A shout from Varnan shattered my contemplation. I looked up, my hand halfway to my sword. He staggered back from the pillar to my right and vomited. I ran towards him but when nothing attacked I slowed again to a walk.

What I found behind the pillar shook even me. A woman stared at the ceiling though ruined eyes. Rough gashes were gouged her from brow to jaw, her clothes were stiff with dried blood. She gaped in a rictus of pain, her mouth parodied by rips in her cheeks, her nose half gone. But it wasn't the wreckage of her face nor even her crushed and scored eyes which horrified me. Her fingers were ensanguined up to the knuckle and her nails were split and crusted with blood.

She had done it to herself.

“What on the gods' earth...” I breathed. The magnificence of the place had almost blotted out memories of outside, but this returned them, and more. The hall seemed dark now, oppressive. The pillars loomed, their willowy grace deformed to totems of darkness. It glittered, but there was no gold.

“Lets go,” said Varnan, “Did one of them wear metal boots? There's scratches in the rust leading this way.”

“Thyra did - as if you didn't know,” I said. Varnan had shown too much interest in those boots.

He smiled. It seemed hollow, too much like the corpse behind me. I turned to the marks in the floor. They lead to one of the larger of the many doors around the walls. What had possessed them to go beyond this hall I had no idea. I followed them but couldn't help but think loyalty is a terrible thing. As we followed the trail we passed scorch marks and worse on the ground, the door they lead to hung at a crazy angle from a single bent hinge. The rust and grime had been scraped from the floor by something. Inside was dark.

I stopped, a small creature gazing into the maw of the beast. I entered: I had no choice. Inside a makeshift barricade blocked the corridor beyond. The stub of a burnt out torch lay on it.

I touched it. The char was fresh. Mine wasn't halfway burnt, either they had come a lot more slowly than us or they had explored more. The first seemed unlikely. But why in hell would anyone do the latter? I jumped over the barrier and Varnan came just behind. I cupped my hand behind my ear. It might have been the rush of blood. Or I might have heard something from further down.

“Firen. I don't like this,” whispered Varnan. He looked terrified.

“We're no closer to knowing what happened,” I said, “And I'm not sure I want to. Once we find Thyra and Keersk we're leaving.”

“If they're alive.” I set of down the stair without replying, “This frightens me,” he continued. He looked embarrassed when I turned. I could hardly believe he thought I wasn't. I descended and strained to hear what I could over my own heart.

Another room, and the source of the noises. A great conglomeration of machinery boiled from the floor at the bottom of the stair. Cogs, pulleys, gears and pipes wove an intricate mess. All were still save for the hiss of steam and the grind of a great wheel's mournful turning. Another dead mage lay on a bedroll between the machine and ourselves, a blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around his chest.

Varnan's footsteps receded toward the other end of the room. My eyes shot up and I followed. He stood at the edge of a hole in the floor, the bottom was lost in the gloom but all around it were fresh scratches in the floor.

“Look's like they've gone down,” he said.

He always seemed to have bad news. “Well there's a rope,” I said needlessly pointing to one tied to a pipe on the wall, “but what inspired them to is beyond me.”

“Do we?”

I didn't want to. Not one bit but I already knew I would. “Yes.” The knot looked sound and before I could think any more I threw my torch down. It made a point of light at the bottom. I looped the rope about my chest and started to lower myself down. I was halfway before I considered that the rope might not reach the bottom. A little bit further I felt a breath of wind from below. I stopped and looked around, my torch seemed a long way below me. It was very dark. Did the air stir again? I wasn't sure, maybe it was just the lack of skooma. But I'd taken some before we set out.

I shivered and continued down. My mind flickered between images of the rope giving way and whatever nightghasts lurk in the dark. I stifled a cry of alarm when I felt the ground beneath me and turned, my fists ready. Nothing but shadows moved. I looked up, Varnan was waiting for my call but the shout froze in my throat. Some basic instinct made me want to be silent, to hide. You're jumping at shadows, I told myself. “Ok,” I hollered. My veins ran icy cold until the echoes died away.

I breathed deeply and looked at what I could see. Two bodies lay in the shadows of the small chamber. I lifted my torch. Both were argonians. The first was quite decayed, and enchanted slave bracer was still locked on his, or conceivably her, wrist. I moved to the second.

It was Keersk.

Intense. Great work.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again - this is VERY good. One of the best TES fanfics I've ever read. It might be THE best by the time it's done with if it stays at the current level of quality.

The lingering mystery and palpable fear give this story an incredible intensity that made me hold my breath far longer than I had planned. I look forward to learning more about this mysterious ruin.

Thanks for the comments, bit of a delay this time due to exams and this bit being rather difficult to get right. It really needed the fresh atmosphere and flow of the part before to make it work but I think my rework has more or less solved it.

Enjoy


9. Unto Darkness

He lay on his back, his armour dented. The bottom of his plate cuirass had buckled deep into his flesh. He must have fallen, but it hadn’t killed him. There was too much blood – the floor was slick with it. And someone had cut away some of the armour and half dressed the wound. He’d bled out, and not so long ago.

Something behind made me turn, sword ready. My feet slipped on the sanguine floor. I glanced around. There was nothing but dancing shadows. A moment later Varnan lowered himself down next to me. He looked ill.

“My torch died on the way down,” he muttered. I gave him mine to relight. When he’d done I snatched it back.

“I’ve found Keersk,” I said needlessly, “He fell and bled out from it.” I was too tense for emotion. Something in the ruin was wrong. Deeply wrong.

“Why would Thyra leave him?”

For a moment I wandered how he knew but it was obvious. Keersk hadn’t dressed the wound himself. But why she hadn’t returned to the surface, or at worst stayed with the corpse, I couldn’t imagine. “Maybe he bled out while she was dressing the wound.”

Varnan believed the lie. The wound had been bleeding when Thrya left and corpses don’t bleed. I turned away from the thought. Something had made her leave…

Varnan spun, his sword half drawn. He stopped. “Sorry,” he muttered, “I thought I saw something.” He twitched. “Did you feel that?”

“What?”

“A chill, or something.”

“No, wh-“ a breath of wind cut me short, “I felt that.”

“What?”

I swore. Copiously. “Probably just me,” I said.

The shaft had a single narrow exit, the torches’ smoky light barely penetrated the gloom within. I stepped towards it and all my instincts screamed. But at what I didn’t know. I needed to find Thyra and as yet we’d seen nothing alive. Only shadows to jump at.

I held my torch before me and stepped into the passage. The dark stone walls pressed in, suffocating. I crept forward through the gloom. I couldn’t say how long the passage was, only that it felt far longer than it could possibly have been. At length I realised the gloom was less, there seemed to be a slow vacillating light from ahead. I barely see it for the torch, but there was no way I would lower the light for a better view. I padded on and the glow grew.

And abruptly the tunnel opened. I stepped out into a gallery and into madness. Enchantment hung in the air like burnt tin. Fountains of light danced blue reels in fonts set along the floor. But they was not the worst. Every surface; walls, ceiling, even the floor, squirmed with alabaster sculpture. It was like a moment frozen in hell. Every manner of man, beast and mer crowded the room. They screamed, and writhed in an iconoclasm of debauchery. Every sin there could possibly be was depicted in flawless sculpture. And that is what was worst – they were perfect and in that perfection terrible. Every detail, every hair, pore and anguish was exposed in the flawless white stone. The effect was horrific.

I tore my gaze away. What sort of mind could devise to create such things, let alone succeed? My stomach felt twisted. I took a deep breath. Onward or back? I hesitated to step from the darkling haven of the passage. What magic ruled here? Would I become as them – the statues? I swallowed, such thoughts are madness, and stepped.

My heart crashed back into its rightful place as my foot touched the shoulder of a mer, the plight of whom I tried not to note. Nothing happened. I was still Firen, a scarred addict but a man. They were simply statues. And yet as I stumbled over them they seemed to whisper, to move when I looked away. Almost I could hear their moans and screams.

I approached the first fountain of dancing light. I had seen their like before, in Cyrodiil. Alyeid structures, wells of magic sunk into the land. The mages went mad for them. I gazed into the fascinating, hypnotic light. I reached out. Would just touching it fill me with power? I would know great sorceries, be free of my shackles and able to aspire. I cupped my fingers. Greatness chuckled and splashed in the magic bowl.

A breeze cut through the hall and through my folly. Our torches guttered. I drew back, leaving fate untempted. Nothing is so simple; they could keep their devilry.

The torches recovered. Varnan moved closer.

“We should leave,” his whisper seemed all too loud in the gloom.

I nodded. That we had seen nothing corporeal no longer mattered, I wanted to leave. But she might be round the next corner. So I continued on, cursed with a sense of duty.

Varnan kept ever closer as we struggled over the bodies, limbs and worse to the end of the corridor. I could see how tense he was in his movements and I didn’t blame him. Things seemed to move in the shadows at the edges of my vision. Half imagined sounds kept me glancing at corners. Whenever I did I had the feeling that the statues had been moving infinitesimally before I looked. I was acutely aware of how my armour chaffed my shoulder, of my right bracer being a fraction too tight, of my full bladder.

Tension, I told myself. It was all in my mind, Varnan’s discontent had set me on edge. I breathed deeply to calm my shredded nerves. It didn’t work. Fortune favours the bold. My old mantra felt out of place. This was more akin to insanity.

All the same I kept on to the end of the gallery. There were no more dramatic gusts but the air was restless, its metallic tang rang on my throat. Varnan hung behind me, torn between fear of whatever was ahead and of being left behind. Just what I needed to back me up. After the final magic fountain the gallery narrowed again. Inside the passage the darkness was pure. I gazed in, things flitted thought it. Just tricks of the eye. Probably. I drew my sword and shifted the torch into my left hand.

The tunnel was bare. It was also short. I inched round a tight bend and got the impression of a large space ahead. Faint sounds echoed. I realised I was squeezing my sword and loosened my sweaty grip to avoid fatigue.

It was an effort to step into the chamber beyond. Thick dust padded the floor. The air was redolent of age and magic. I lifted my torch and weird machines loomed out from shadows, I could not make out the walls. A mosaic path led into the darkness. Varnan held his torch up and I saw something on it at the very limit of the light. I approached it while Varnan trailed behind. It resolved into a black pedestal with something slumped on it. I stepped forward and my first thought was confirmed. Thyra. By the congealed blood under her eyes, nose and mouth she was dead. Varnan stepped up behind me.

“She’s dead,” I said. I noticed that her fingers lay scorched a fraction from the sole item on the pedestal: a sphere of perfectly black crystal. I looked at it for a moment then felt Thyra’s neck. It was cold.

Suddenly her head cracked right round. My heart clenched and I sucked in a breath. Then she fixed her blank eyes on me and screamed. I lashed out with my sword and it met bone. The scream ululated on though the cavern. An empty sound of pain and fear and a cold bleak grave. Its aberrance made me recoil. I stumbled back and sucked air.

I felt rather than heard something behind me. I turned and stepped. My reactions saved me; a vast metal blade crashed into the ground an inch from my arm and threw my sword into the darkness. A giant of metal clicked and hissed before me, a machine given life. The great arm swung up then blasted down at me. I sidestepped. Into the path of another metal limb. It twisted and reached out. A multitude of blades pulsated at its end. I let instinct take control and took it on my pauldron. The limb hissed out and collided. It’s power was immense, the armour straps cut into my oxter before they snapped and dropped me on the floor.

The first huge arm was poised above me. I tired to roll inside its reach and immediately realised my mistake. It crashed down where I had been and scraped back. I was crushed against the main body of the machine, I couldn’t turn away, I struggled for breath. I felt my ribs begin to bend. Spots flashed in my vision then there was a groan and a tremendous crack. Wild hissing filled the air and the iron crush loosened. I crawled out and panted.

Varnan pulled me away. He held what remained of his sword, most of it was ruined in the workings of the great mechanical arm, the steel chewed like paper. The arm juddered spasmodically, a thing broken. Then I saw movement behind it and realised that it was not the source of all the hissings I could hear. I scampered back and first felt the damp warmth around my crotch and thigh.

“Where’s my sword?” I panted.

“It was thrown into the dark,” Varnan paused. The noises were getting greater, an insectile cacophony of clicks and hisses and chirrups. “I don’t think we should stay and look.”

We backed away, cloying darkness pressed in all around. I glanced over my shoulder. Which side did the noises come from? Where should I look? Some arcane force pulled the torch flames into streaks as if a great wind blew them. I felt no such wind. Then as one the noises ceased.

The silence was worse. It stalked the chamber, coiled around me like the insidious whisper of a nameless doom. I shivered. Never had I been so afraid, I had come close to death on more than on occasion but it had been an honest death. Fear is worst when it had nothing to focus on, when it can resonate unhindered into crippling terror. I beseeched unto the darkness.

Click.

Varnan whimpered.

Click. Footsteps from the other end of the hall. Hands clapped and there was light. Brilliant and bright it illuminated the chamber in its full vastness, bright metal shone on the nightmarish contrivances which stood frozen in a dance of madness around the walls.

I barely noticed them. My eyes were fixed on the source of the light: a tall figure dressed in long robes of dust at the bottom of a stair about fifty yards away. Light blazed from an upraised hand, parchment like skin stretched over angular bones. The countenance within the folds of the robe was a waxy yellow – like a three-month corpse in the ashlands. A ruin of a face hung from dented cheekbones, the nose sunken to nothing, the eyes oversized but lacklustre. It breathed in a series of death rattles.

I gazed at it, rooted by fear. It stopped at twenty paces and coughed. The sound was like cart wheels on gravel. When it stopped the mouth leered like a skull. I was horrified to realise the crackling breaths had been laughter.

Sounds a bit like they've stumbled upon the lair of a powerful lich who's had an eternity to conjure up a subterranean death trap. While there's no way to tell for sure, it seems they've already survived longer than the 2 member of their team whose deaths they just discovered. I hope they'll be able to find a way to survive a bit longer.

I'm running out of things to say about how great this story is.

10. Failed Divinity

“Welcome,” its voice had the sibilance of a crypt door, “To Arkyngisal.”

I backed away. Heart pounding.

“Come now, its been so long since I was trapped here. You would be impolite to go so soon,” it waved a hand and I was unable to move, “You wander how one as strong as I got trapped? Certainly stone cannot hold me,” it rasped another hacking laugh and waved a hand. The floor under and around it melted, brimstone cloyed in the air and haloed the figure in the lava’s hellish glow. It drew a series of abrupt breaths a grin covering its face, “Stone!” it spat, the lava hissed, “Not even death could hold me. But I am old, so old. This body wears out, I preserved life with magic but it takes so much, always more and always they must come. I outlived them though, here where the magic runs free, here I could endure.”

I couldn’t move my eyes to look at Varnan but I could hear his laboured breaths. He was stuck as surely as I.

It continued, “I so miss the moon, I used to throw fire at it you know? At first I was only here occasionally - to recharge as it were. But with the slow decay of time I needed longer and longer here beneath the earth. Now I must always draw from the source, hence my most lamentable display of magic for you. My humble apologies,” it paused for a moment and turned the ground beneath it back to stone. “It was a pity about the mages, they were all too paranoid or power obsessed or simply intelligent to be useful. Still we must settle for what we get yes? Yes. But I am talking to myself again, speak.”

I felt feeling return to my dry mouth but dared say nothing.

“Speak!” it screeched and danced in circles. The machines in the room scattered like toys. It focused on me.

I felt crushed but couldn’t move. Invisible bands of iron pressed in on me, I felt my skin bruise and bones bend. “Yes,” I gasped. The bands were gone, “You made this place?” It was spur of the moment but it played to the beast’s arrogance.

“Me?” it said in surprise, “No. It is older even than I. Such arts were lost with the races who created them. There is less magic than there was, I feel sure of it,” it coughed, a ribbon of phlegm escaped its mouth. Blood dyed it sanguine. The creature looked at it and then coughed again, it staggered but quickly recovered itself. The air between it and the pedestal where Thrya still lay swam and leapt with magic. “Hmmm,” it said, “I think it is time, most regrettable.” It looked straight at us again. “I suggest,” it said, “You run.”

The fear that had been building as it spoke reached a monumental crescendo as it dropped its hold on us. I fell flat on my face but felt nothing, my terror was complete. I scrabbled away and up, my fingernails tore and broke against the ground but I didn’t notice. I ran, not for a moment did I think of Varnan, or even the sudden sounds and lights and madness which came from the ancient creature behind me.

I crashed into the corner in the tunnel to the gallery and vomited but I ran on. I didn’t care that it covered me. I tore a knife from its sheath at my side and, still running, attacked the straps which held on my armour. The statues seemed alive, hands reached out and clawed, they howled in their eternal damnation. I fought free of my cuirass less than halfway though the gallery, it crashed to the ground behind me. Soon my greaves and remaining pauldron followed it. The dread which lay behind had become something more than death, a flawless fear of what might follow. Not for a moment did it cross my mind that had it wanted it could certainly have crushed me. I simply needed to be away.

In the shaft room I heard Varnan behind me. I stepped in front of him to reach the rope first and hauled myself up it with a strength born of terror. He grabbed my foot and I stamped on his hand. He screeched and let go. I pulled on up and vaulted over the top. My heart hammered. My vision blurred. I breathed in ragged gulps but I didn’t wait for Varnan. I sprinted though the ruin, my injuries irrelevant. Stream rose from the great pool in the first room, skipping wheels of light danced from its depths across the ceiling. I paid it no more attention than the rest of the darkling edifice.

The entrance was a square of golden light, I scrabbled up the rocky excavation and into the blessed open air. But still I ran. A short way past the expedition’s camp my toes caught in the loose earth and I fell. I crawled on a short way to tired to stand then was still. I hauled air into my burning lungs.

A short time later I heard Varnan run up behind me, his steps irregular. He looked down at me and collapsed. I looked over at him, his fingers were badly bruised. I grimaced and looked away.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked him, “We're leaving.”

He hadn't the breath to answer but nodded and stood. I got up and shook away the dizziness. With the ruin behind me I started down the valley. What had the thing been? Humanoid, certainly, but if it had ever been human that was long gone. What had happened as I ran? I shook my head; I would puzzle it once my fear abated. If it did. I still quivered with it.

Our meagre camp lay away to my right. We didn't make for it: getting away was in the forefront of my mind. But close behind my blanket of terror an old beast rose its head. I licked my chapped lips and realised I’d been scratching my arms since I'd left the ruin. The raw skin wept. It was so long since I'd had a fix. Even the thought of it released tension in my shoulders.

I could go to the camp and get it. Go to the camp. The thought echoed, the desire soured. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and the ruin as I could. Shadowy ghasts skipped though my thoughts, my mind juggled a circus of horrors which might be behind us. Mystery is so much more terrifying than the known peril. There was quite enough without me imagining more. I did anyway. I needed to get away.

I needed skooma.

A battle raged in my mind.

Ultimately the beast ripped though the shroud of fear. The addiction won. My feet veered towards where we had spent the previous night. Varnan shot me a reproachful look but followed.

I didn't mess about. I ripped my sack open and let its contents spill across the ground. I stuffed a knife into my trouser belt. For the first time I felt a stab of regret at discarding my armour, I still had the boots and bracers but the rest was gone with my weapons in the ruin. I brushed a sheet of parchment aside and scooped up the bag underneath. Inside was my liquid gold. I took a gulp. I stood to find Varnan staring down the valley.

“Ready to go?” I asked.

For a long moment he didn't answer, then he drew a sharp breath and shook himself. “Hmm? Sorry,” he said and looked down at himself. His armour was tattered, apparently he had tried to follow my example with less success. He searched quickly and got a knife which had belonged to Thyra and finished the job. “It's heavy and ruined anyway,” he muttered. I didn't hear him. The scroll I'd cast aside had caught my eye. Skink had given me it. Don't use teleportation, he'd said but we could contact him with it. Maybe. If I could work it.

Varnan fruitlessly raked though Keersk's possessions for any equipment he could use. Mainly he found cheap spirits. I puzzled the scroll, the script was one I barely knew. Trust a mage to give you help you can't use. Fetchers. Varnan stood and I waved him over.

“What do you make of this?” I asked.

“What, and can we walk while we do it.”

I started down the valley, “Skink gave me it. He said we could contact him with it.” I had expected an outburst from Varnan. Instead I got a preoccupied silence and he accepted it mutely. “Take a look,” I passed him the scroll.

He held it for a moment then passed it back, “Is that Cyrodiilic? Looks funny.”

I gave him an incredulous look, “No. Can't you recognise your own language?”

He didn't reply. He glare didn’t leave the dead ground for the next couple of miles.

There was a bit of ill scrub when I stopped again. Varnan stopped and looked up. “I'm going to see if I can read it, I know almost all the characters but not the language. Something might happen.” It was also an excuse for another dose of skooma.

OMG another one I haven't yet commented on....so now I took the time to read it through!

Excellent work!



This made me really smile!

Keep up the good work, Olen. I like how you portray addiction as the weight that it is and don't gloss over it.

Well, we seem to have turned over a new leaf on the whole mystery. I wonder where the story is going to go from here. I await the next update with even more anticipation than usual.

Once again, I'd like to point out that the characterization in this story is top-notch. The dynamic between Firen and Varnan is developing in a logical fashion - especially now that the other two members of the party are dead.

Ok sorry for the long wait, its all still there, well a lot is so it will keep coming. A combination of christmas, a hard drive disaster and too much time spent seeing people I haven't seen in too long got in the way.

Thanks for the comments, yes there is the odd bit of possibly malapropos humor in this though it receeds somewhat.

11. Another Man’s Dream

I'd been though it a couple of times within my head, it was time to try the magic. I stood straight and held the unfurled scroll before me. Then I lowered it to loosen the bracer which had been slightly too tight. I rolled my shoulders and breathed out. Here we go. Roll up, roll up. Come and see the exploding man.

I read. The words came hesitantly and without rhythm, more a series of sounds. I felt a little power stir. I read on. The final line was more complex, I had fought my way though the first half when I faltered, trying to decipher a bizarre compound symbol.

“Chignyee Nga,” prompted Varnan.

With astonishment I realised that the symbol could be read as such. I repeated his words.

The crack was deafening. A hissing whine followed it, like a union of wind in ships rigging and the pipes of the devil. It ululated round the valley then as suddenly as it had started it was gone. The ashes of the scroll crumbled in my hands.

I turned to Varnan, “How in hell did you know that? Don't tell me you recognised that symbol set.”

He shrugged, “I wasn't even looking at the scroll. It just seemed to... fit.” He shrugged again.

“But you couldn't read the thing. How could you know that?”

“I don't know. Its enough that I did,” his tone sealed the subject, “I don't think it worked anyway.”

I didn't answer. I had read it well enough, but almost certainly soured some phrases of it. It probably hadn't worked, not fully anyway. I was too relieved not to be laminated over the hillside to care too much.

Before we continued down the valley I filled my pipe. Its calming bubbling accompanied us down the valley. At first Varnan shot me disapproving glances but they became less frequent. It was a generous bowlful. With the hill and without the bags we travelled fast, by the time I had taken the last draw we were near the mouth of the valley. I wandered at how bleak it had seemed on the way up, it was as verdant as Pelagiad in spring compared to the top.

I put away the pipe. “Have you ever tried giving up?” Varnan asked.

I laughed humourlessly. “Every time I empty a bottle.”

“You could have been great you know, when I joined up you were moderately known.”

I stepped over a fallen tree. “Great,” I spooned sarcasm onto the word, “I could be known throughout Morrowind as a killer, people could sing songs of all the lives I've ended.”

“Yes,” Varnan sounded a little unsure.

“Firen: most prolific murderer in Morrowind,” I muttered to myself, “Amazing what skooma can do to you.”

“They say you were good when you were in your prime, you did more contacts than almost anyone.”

I glared at him. “I am still in my prime,” I said flatly.

“Are you trying to say a Kagouti would ever have gotten you five years back?”

I breathed deeply. I knew I was as good as I'd ever been. Knew it. “Luck doesn't change with age, and luck that was.”

He had the sense not to answer directly. My irritation at the subject couldn't have been less veiled. “One day I will do as many contracts as you did in your prime.”

I let the implication go. I was fairly sure it was incidental. I stopped and turned to face him, “Ever wandered what drove me to do so many contracts - why I still do so many? Why only a very few do so many? There is a good reason.” I paused to breathe, “You've not done many have you?”

Varnan's reply was awkward, “I've done a few... Not so many though.”

“You can remember them all I dare say. Maybe even remember everyone you've killed-”

“I've killed more animals than I can remember.”

“I was talking about people. People with lives, loves, family. I can remember the first couple but after that...” I started walking again, the path was a bit further inland than the one we had taken on the way in.

“If they are evil-”

I cut through that drivel, “Evil? I'd like to think true sadistic evil is rare. Most are just doing a job like me. They need to make bread money. Is that evil. What happens to anyone who depends on them after they’re gone?” I laughed blackly, “Don't expect to keep your soul in this job.”

Varnan didn't reply. We walked on south along the narrow path. For the first time I was calm enough to ponder not just where we were fleeing from but where we were running to. Firewatch was nearest. It was a Telvanni town but there was transport from there. The guild wouldn't like the result of this job but it was too late to worry about that.

It wasn't long before the sun was nearing the hazy skyline of Vvardenfell in the west.

“If you hate this job why do you stay in it?” Varnan asked.

I rubbed my forehead. Part of me wasn't going to answer but I did, “I'm stuck. Skooma is expensive, can't save money and killing is the only trade I know. Maybe I could set up and settle down but I doubt it. I've been in this business too long, I have tastes to go with the money...” Another silence yawned, long buried memories stirred from their graves. Another man's hopes and fears. When I spoke again my voice was low, “Get out while you still can. You're young enough.”

“And be what? A farmer in some incestuous nowhere village?”

“If only,” I said to myself. “If only.”

The sun boiled red, igniting the dusty horizon the colour hot iron, or blood. The path was treacherous in the half light, and doubly so once the sun had drowned in the western sea but we pushed on for a full two hours past sundown before collapsing exhausted.

We had no tent, I had not even a cloak but was pleased to see Varnan had taken two from our camp. I stripped and flopped into one exhausted and waited for sleep.

“Being a farmer isn't so great,” Varnan said. I rose from a half doze. I pushed aside my irritation, he'd listened to my talk. Now it was his turn. Not that his timing overjoyed me. I waited for him to continue and said nothing, as is often best, “I could have been, I suppose I was really but that I ever saw it that way. I was better than them, I wanted more, needed more.”

I suspected there was more to it. I didn't push, if he wanted to talk he would. “But why the guild?” I asked.

“The excitement, bard’s songs, to see the world. Surely that’s more than being a nobody peasant in a non-place.”

“I'll bet you had something there. Have something there.”

“Had,” he muttered, “I wouldn't be welcome back. They needed me but they didn't care what I wanted. I had to get out, I was better than them...”

I waited for more but none came. Slowly the soft fingers of sleep dragged me into darkness.

***

That night I dreamed. I always did when I took too much skooma. I was in Cyrodiil again. It was a confused selection of images and faces I barely remembered. Memories I'd spent a life forgetting so that dreams were the only time they could haunt me. The small village burned, the faces burned, faces of family and friends I couldn't put names to. They faded into the smoke and fear and flames. Next a huge city, at least it seemed so. Hunger. Cold. Loss.

Then heat. This one was more coherent, I wore armour. The armour of the legion and was marching to Morrowind in the aftermath of the crisis which ended the third era. The memory was less buried, it was far from fond but there was more than pain to it. I hated the legion. But I was glad to leave my homeland and all the pain it represented. A new life. In the dream I was eyeing up one of the company mages who marched a few ranks ahead. Reneria. In the dream I knew the future, the pain to come, but to my surprise I intended to change nothing.

Another awesome installment. And it's not even my birthday. Yays!

Just a short one. Cheers for the comment, there's not so very much to go now.


12. The Past Resurgent...

The blue dawn brought with it a chill. I dressed quickly and enjoyed the comfort of not wearing a sword and armour while I wandered at how much I had said the previous day. It had been a long, long time since I'd opened myself so much. I'd paid for it before but for now I felt something of the weight lifted. What surprised me even more was that I felt any interest in Varnan.

The dawn was bright, but dark clouds conspired in the south. The mountains were silhouetted darkly against them. My eyes scanned them for any interesting places to avoid. Staying near, though not directly at, the shore seemed the best course to avoid the panoply of lairs, towers, keeps, citadels and dungeons which litter the wild lands north of Firewatch like warts on an orc. A tendril of smoke showed up in front of them. It rose from the next valley, visible only because of the cloud streaked sky behind it. Whoever warmed themselves there knew enough to use dry hardwood, but they weren't burning it hot enough.

Varnan shouldered his pack and stepped beside me. “To Firewatch then?” I nodded, hunger stirred slightly in my stomach but it was far from bad yet. We didn't have a bow so it might be a hungry day, or two.

The sun was slow to show itself, it had risen in the cleft of two mountains and peaked from behind the southern peak like an agoraphobe unwilling to expose herself to the new day. I walked the dusty path and, though lightened by the knowledge that the every step took us further from the valley, I was far from peace. The grim landscape of crumbling peaks and dead plants was a place for dark moods and we spoke little.

The sun had passed its zenith when we crested the low ridge and looked down into the next valley. It might as well have been any other. Poisoned plants clung to grey dust tinged with ash blown over the sea from Dagoth Ur’s black crater. A greasy stream oozed its way down to the sea. A short way towards the shore a lone alit chewed carrion. I approached it purposefully. I only had a kinfe but that I was watching it before it was even aware of my presence was advantage enough.

About twenty yards separated us when it looked up. Yellow puss ran from under one of its eyes. It stood for a moment but then ran away. I relaxed.

Varnan was staring intently down into the valley, “There was smoke this morning, I’d say from somewhere not so far from here.” Before I could reply he spoke again, “And that plant can be eaten.” He hurried over to a cluster of parched leaves I had over looked as lifeless.

“Great, dead leaves,” I said. I didn't recognise the plant.

“You can eat the root under the leaves,” he said kicking away the dust to expose them, “But the tops are no use raw.”

I frowned at this unexpected knowledge and wondered if he would be insulted if I expressed my surprise. I found I didn't really care, “How do you know this? You can barely tell bunglers bane from a netch.” He glared at me. A slight twinge of regret surprised me, “The plants here are different. Where did you learn about them.”

For a moment I thought Varnan wasn't going to reply then he said, “I don't know. I just recognise the plant and know its good to eat. Well not good but not poison.” He scooped some up and wiped the earth off them. “Want one?” The woolliness of his knowledge was somewhat troubling but my stomach growled and I took the proffered root. He bit into the crisp white flesh and chewed. “Yes I remembered they taste like a bitter radishy potato.”

I took a nibble of my own, thick starchy juice ran into my stubble and I made a face. It was quite like raw potato, but with much more taste. I wasn't fully certain whether that was an improvement.

I finished it off as quickly as I could and we continued down the slope. “How far is Firewatch?” asked Varnan.

“Not fully sure,” I replied, “We should reach it by tomorrow - if we're lucky.” At that moment something caught my eye. I put a hand on Varnan's shoulder and he stopped. I looked again but caught no sign of movement, in spite of the open landscape I didn't hold many hopes about seeing anything, the dusty hollows would easily hide several men, even without a spell. And given the types who live north of Firewatch magic was most certainly on the cards.

Even magic, however, has its flaws. It might help the person to hide but it doesn't stop their feet kicking up dust. It was hard to say exactly where the person, or, gods forbid, people, were but once I looked for it I saw it. There was a small haze of dust directly below us, more than would be kicked up by wind alone.

“Did you see anyone?” I whispered and immediately wandered why when moments before we had spoken normally.

“Where?”

“See the dust haze below us? Someone has put that up but I can't see them.”

Varnan squinted down the valley, “Do you think they've seen us?”

That was the crux. Our dusty cloaks would offer some camoflague but Varnan's blond hair and red tunic were only a little worse than my own green attire. “What do you think?”

He looked around the valley then at us, “I think I'm going to get some less colourful clothes for this sort of thing. What do we do?”

I raised an eyebrow, he was seeing his mistakes now. Still green but perhaps not so wet behind the ears. “We pretend we haven't noticed anything and hope they give themselves away.” I started to walk again, I kept my pace even and unhurried.

“I'll keep my eyes peeled,” said Varnan. I grimaced. The memory the phrase conjured was unpleasant.

We carried on down the hill, my outward calm fooled even Varnan but my eyes worked overtime. My gaze jumped between every bush, stone and hollow like a Khajit on hot stones. The haze dissipated. They had bedded down and weren't moving. They could see us, we knew nothing about them. My thoughts tumbled. I wanted to run. It would be futile, we didn't know the area, we had no weapons or equipment or food.

Fortune favours the bold, I ran the old idiom though my head. It was the veteran of too many desperate situations. I walked on, tense as a lute string.

Seconds later a figure rose from the shadow of a rock less than twenty paces ahead. My fingers flew to my knife. The person pushed back the hood of a travel-stained cloak to reveal long black hair. The woman raised a hand.

My hand didn't leave my knife as I glanced around for any other people. I saw none, “Good day,” I called. Varnan followed my lead and looked about for any ambush.

“I'm looking for some people,” she called back.

I love this line. Evocative.

And excellent work, overall, of course. If she's looking for who I think she's looking for, there is more trouble to be had.

13. ...In Glorious Dreams

I looked at her. “We've seen no one out here,” I replied.

“The people I'm looking for might have attempted to call for help with a spell yesterday. Its a rather simple spell, I do wander how they made such a guar's ear of it.”

“Who sent you?”

She stepped forward before replying, “That would be telling, they seem keen that no one knows.”

“Who didn't send you?” I looked at her again, for longer this time.

“It wasn't the Telvanni...” she sighed, “The charade tires me. Are you a Fighter's Guild party sent here from Vvardenfell to check on a certain group's interests?”

“That would be an apt description.” I replied.

She began to walk towards us, I started forward warily. I noticed her peering at me. I looked back and this time felt a tingle of recognition. The tingle grew to a suggestion. It was impossible. When five yards separated us I stopped. So did she. We looked at each other challenging our senses, or reality, and daring them to change, or not.

“Firen?” she asked eventually.

“Renera.” I didn't question. Its one thing to dream of a chance meeting, quite another when the wish comes true stripped of the rose tint of memory. I didn't know what to think, or feel.

“I'm surprised to see you here, I assume you were sent to investigate a certain ruin?”

“Yes, though I doubt Skink would appreciate you being so open. What would you have done if it hadn't been us?”

“Killed you both,” she said it as a simple statement of fact. That was enough to tell me the years hadn't changed her much, “I doubt Skink would appreciate you mentioning him.”

“Oblivion swallow that n'wah. If he didn't owe me so much money I'd sell him out.”

She raised an eyebrow, “What went wrong?”

“He sent us to some gods forsaken ruin because reports weren't getting though.”

“What was really happening?”

I took off my pack and pulled out my pipe and skooma. Renera glanced at them then at the ground. She said nothing. I lit the bowl and puffed a plume of whitish smoke. “I'm not really sure,” I replied.

“Well tell me what you found,” she asked.

I did, though I didn't say that Thyra had almost certainly left Keersk still alive and bleeding. I found myself embarrassed to say just how terrified I'd been and glossed over our escape and how I lost my armour. Varnan stared blankly at the dead landscape and said nothing.

Renera was much as I remembered her, she was intent but detached and only questioned to clear up any ambiguity or for extra information on things I might have omitted as unimportant. My actual memories were sketchy and I could rarely give adequate answers to the latter. By the time I finished the sun was well into the west.

My pipe had gone out while I spoke. While she mulled over what I'd said I relit and tried to enjoy the fumes but somehow every sweet breath only reminded me of the disproving look she had first given the pipe. I decided I didn't care, but the smoke still wasn't as good.

“I would like to take a look at this ruin,” said Renera at length, I shuddered. Nothing could make me return there. “We should go there now, we could be inside it again next morn-”

“No,” Varnan awoke from his stupor. I was glad he led the objection, “Some things are best left.”

“I am quite a powerful mage,” Renera flicked a fly away, “I would understand more than you, these magic wells sound rather fine too.”

“You would be mad to draw from them,” replied Varnan, “And it would be most unwise to return, I would not anyway. The world is wrong there.”

“He's right,” I said before she could reply, “I have no desire to go anywhere near that place again. It's unnatural.”

She pursed her lips, “Very well. Firewatch is less than a day from here but we would arrive late if we set off now. Anyhow I have travelled quite a distance in the last day and a half and wouldn't mind a rest. Now I've found you I can afford myself some comforts. And get you both some more equipment,” she gave a predatory smile.

I'd taken enough skooma to get away from the jitters and didn't want to continue where this was headed sooner than I had to so I returned the pipe to my bag. The sun was high and in spite of the season the sheltered valley was quite warm so I put my cloak in on top of it. I had a stretch and noticed that the alit I'd frightened off earlier had returned. I sighed and started to get up to scare it away again. There was a crack from beside me and a bright flash. The alit dropped with flames licking the boiling skin on its flank.

Varnan alternately looked between the dead alit and Renera.

"What do you suggest?" I asked when the silence started to drag.

She lowered her hands and smiled, “There are some smugglers in the next valley, I'm sure they will share the yurt they stay in.” I decided that shaking my head in disbelief would be unwise so I waited until she got up before I stood and followed her.

On the way across the valley I managed to fall behind with Varnan. By the time we were crossing the turgid waters of the stream I was certain we would not be overheard. “As soon as you get to Firewatch disappear. If you can before that even. Don’t get mixed up with her.”

I think my grave tone surprised him as much as the words. He looked at me.

“She’s bad news,” I said meaning every word, “I… knew her, years ago. Do not trust her, don’t even speak to her if you can avoid it and by all the gods never think there is anything she won’t do.”

“What do you mean?”

I glanced at Renera, she was still far enough ahead. “Have you heard of the Wayrest Assembly?”

He thought momentarily, “Originating in High Rock, and, I would presume, ostensibly an organisation for the development of magical knowledge while more precisely being a resistance to the growing control of the Mage's Guild and growing imperial…” he trailed off to silence. A moment later he shook himself. “Sorry, I’m not sure where that came from. Something to do with mages but I don’t know.” I stared at him. Had the stress of the cave cracked him? But I’d never heard of anyone being brighter after going over the high side. “What are they?” he asked.

“A group of mercenary spellcasters with half the integrity of the Blackwater Company. They will work for anyone. Well anyone who pays. She,” I nodded to the figure a few scores of paces ahead, “Managed to get thrown out.”

“How do you know?”

“We were in the same company in the legion… As I said I knew her…” I hesitated, “Quite well. She was discharged a year after I signed up for my second term. She was too independent, and unreliable. After that I saw less and less of her, it’s been close on fifteen years since I saw her last.”

Varnan said nothing. Sometimes it’s the best thing to say.

I thought back, had I been happy those days? Probably not but better off than I could remember being at any other point, except maybe the day I left the legion. We’d gone out; me, Ceno and Drem, both men from my squad, and drank two days straight. Ceno had a home to return to, a farm to take over and all the likelihood of a family. Drem had boiled with hopes and dreams and ambitions. Even then I had been flat, the world had stretched ahead, a marvellous jungle of locked doors and burned bridges. Drem died six months later after taking bad skooma. I’d drifted back to the only thing I could do – killing. Another memory shattered. I brushed the pieces back under the carpets of my mind.

“Just be wary of her,” I said and quickened our pace to catch up. But even as I said it I pondered whether I would have the sense to take my own advice.

This is very good, Olen. One minor problem I saw was with this part: "...I do wander how they made such a guar's ear of it.” I think wander should be wonder. Other than that, I liked it.

14. Shelter

The yurt lay amid a mass of crates and barrels. I had little doubt that every one was stuffed with contraband; smugglers always try their luck just beyond the reach of law. Renera led us down the narrow path to the camp, I followed with Varnan behind. It looked peaceful against the gently rolling sea. A single masted boat bobbed in the sheltered cove. The sound of a lute drifted fitfully on the breeze. I put the likely fate of its inhabitants from my mind – they would only be natives after all.

The sentries were either dozy or as drugged as myself for we were less than a hundred yards from the camp when the music stopped mid-line and a lone dunmer appeared. His chitin bow and lean figure confirmed my guess that ashlanders worked these coasts.

“Turn back,” he called. His accent thick.

“We are but simple travellers,” Renera didn’t even try to make it believable, “We seek shelter and food for the night.”

“This is no inn, swits,” said the ashlander, he had an arrow notched to his bow, “Begone.”

I knew he wouldn’t back down. I also knew Renera wouldn’t, unless she had changed beyond recognition.

“We will have shelter in your camp tonight,” she had not, “and food.”

A second smuggler appeared. Renera took a step forward but I did not. It was not that I was in any way afraid of them – far from it; armed I would have taken them both alone. But they reminded me of too many others like them. At first it had been glorious, then necessary but with every one I killed I saw more background. Wives, family, children. One leads to the next, I’d never married and thoughts of any offspring I may have spawned were banished to my darkest nightmares. Even so I know all too well what drives men, and all too well what every death leaves behind.

I looked away.

“You will have no such thing,” the second mer said, “Turn back.”

“Or what?”

“Or you will die human,” Ashland diplomacy never ceases to amaze me.

“Thank you.” Renera’s tone made me look. That was a mistake.

A mighty flash burned itself onto my eyes. I dropped and turned away covering them. They felt full of salt. A glowing image of the magical lightning burned in their lids. I shook my head and eased them back open, through the blazing after-images I saw two corpses. I had known I would. One was still smoked.

Renera already strode towards them. In spite of my profession I do not care for killing. But they were outlaws, it was merely justice. Behind me Varnan was looking in shock. I ignored him and continued after Renera, there would be another inside the yurt no doubt, and he would also have to die. The second ashlander bore horrific burns, he also had a dagger in one hand. I took it form him.

Renera waited for me outside the yurt, I offered her a smile, “It been a long time,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“There’ll be another inside.”

“Yes.”

I nodded then took a deep breath. I hadn’t used a short blade in a long while and my hand wasn’t as steady as it had been. I breathed again then swept the curtain door of the yurt aside.

A fire in the middle, burned to embers. Clutter round the walls. A single dunmer. All the impression I got before he screamed and pulled a dirk. He ran towards me and took a wild lunge at my face. A clumsy strike. I turned sideways and planted my blade into his throat. His own momentum drove it home and warm blood ran over my hand. He was dead before he could cry out. Renera entered behind me. She looked at the corpse and nodded.

“It’s been a while,” I said.

“Maybe too long,” she answered.

I bent to the corpse, he wore native armour. They made it from the shells of some of the weirder fauna which afflicts Morrowind. I had tried a couple of pieces of it before, it hadn't impressed. I dragged the corpse outside, the mere act brought back more memories of the past. It was not the first time I had cleaned the mess Renera and I had made. She stayed inside; just as the dead chief had. I wandered what she would do now. Sell us out? Help us? Go back to that cursed ruin? I doubt the gods knew.

Outside I lay him by a small chest round the back of the yurt. The dead eyes glowered an accusation. I closed them. I could never have taken his armour under that empty stare. With them shut I could forget that the wearer had lived and loved but moments before, I could forget that others had loved him. I shut off the layers of pain my actions had caused and stripped him of weapons and armour. They were still warm as I strapped them on.

I straightened from the black work. The chest caught my eye. Probably because most of the goods were in crates, but maybe just fate punishing me. Or rewarding. It was full of small vials sealed with a crescent moon. Skooma.

Sweet white smoke wreathed me when Varnan approached, he glanced about him as if in a surreal nightmare. I looked up at him though eyes blinded by the golden tint of bottled peace, dressed in the bloodied armour of a foe, pipe in hand. His eyes didn’t meet mine. He was fixed upon the corpse propped next to me.

“There was no contract on them,” he murmured.

“But they were outlaws were they not? Evil men: they deserved it.” I gave him his own words back.

He frowned, for a moment I thought he would walk away but then he said, “You told me-“

My laughter cut him off. The skooma lent it a maniacal edge.

“I don’t understand,” he said and sat next to me, “Why?”

Such a question. I took another draw and ignored it.

“Does it give you such relief?”

Don’t ask me. Please don’t get into this.

My prayers were answered, he scowled and left. I took another deep draw and stared at the eternal sea. I didn’t see the waves, questions filled my mind. Why did I so fervently not want Varnan to ask for a draw? Was it refusing or allowing which terrified me? Admitting fault or leading?

Below those questions more writhed like worms at the heart of a rotten apple. No matter how common I still wandered at the morality of killing smugglers. Crusaders, the Temple and Cult called them; killers who hunt outlaws to make a living. I avoided that train of thought, I couldn’t blame Renera, I couldn't wander if we might be her pray.

I looked at the dead ashlander. “What am I?” I asked the corpse. “Who have I become?”

***

That night we sat around a fire outside the yurt. Both the past hours and the skeletons of a past decade were obscured by the same sickly pall of white smoke which maintained my sanity. Renera alternately scowled and smiled at me. We had taken the best of the yurt’s food and I was stirring a cauldron of soup with a rather unsteady hand.

“Smells like that scrib jerky has seen better days,” said Varnan without taking his gaze from the spot on the horizon it had been fixed on for the past hour, “Some alleron might help disguise it.”

“Alleron?” I looked at him blankly, it was the first time he'd spoken since the afternoon.

“It’s the aldmeri word for thyme,” said Renera, “Where did you grow up to use it?”

Varnan shook himself. “Yes,” he said, “Thyme. I meant thyme.”

Renera shot him a quizzical look but didn’t press him. “Is that stew ready?” she asked.

“It needs a few minutes yet.”

“Fine, just time for you to tell me again of this man you met in the ruin.”

I grimaced. We were far enough away that I could half bury the memory but it still scared me. “It was no man,” I said.

“What was it then?”

“I don’t know. Terrifying.”

Renera thought for a moment, her gaze wandering into the distance. A mirror of Varnan’s. “Have you ever come across demoralisation magic? It’s a branch of illusion.”

“No,” I answered flatly.

“I wander how much of the fear was… enhanced.”

“Would I know?”

“Probably not, it does feel different – so I’m told – but not so as you’d notice, unless you knew what to look for.”

“What do you make of what it said to us?” I didn’t doubt that she remembered every word I’d said.

“Its hard to say. It seemed to say it required a great deal of external magic, certainly your description suggests the place didn’t want for it. But how much was mad ranting or simple lies I have no idea.”

“One of the dead mages had a tome in sloadic, using the old runes,” Varnan said musingly. His brown eyes flickered from the distance and pierced into me.

It took me a moment to recover. “What,” I spluttered, “How in oblivion would you know?”

His stone gaze lasted another moment before he dropped his eyes and put a hand to his forehead, “Sorry.. I feel a bit off,” he said and paused. “Perhaps a bowl of stew would help.”

I ladled him a bowl. Renera frowned but kept her own council.

15. Wasted Dreams

The stew was rich and hot and I felt better for it. Varnan gazed across the glowing sea. The western sun ignited its surface and silhouetted Vvardenfell black against a cabal of clouds. I glanced up at Renera from my bowl and was surprised that she already looked at me.

“Its been a while,” I said.

“It has. Maybe too long, how has the past decade treated you?”

“Much as life ever has. I can’t see it changing until someone finally gets a lucky hit in, or I get some very bad skooma.”

“You’re even jollier than you were,” she said, “What happened to the recruit I knew?”

“He was abandoned.”

She lapsed into silence. I didn’t notice whether it was awkward, my own thoughts wrapped me. I didn’t know how to feel now the past confronted me.

Renera glared at Varnan. After a time she sighed, “Do you remember the heartlands?”

“Yes.” I forced a smile. I remembered it alright. We had got to know one another there, but I remembered those verdant braes still better from six years before that. Even after two and a half decades of running and horror enough for ten times that the spectres of my village still haunted my dreams.

“Fond memories,” her words were a sharp antithesis to my thoughts, “Do you ever wonder what could have happened?”

The sea lapped gently at the shore. The fire crackled. It took me a while to work up a reply but I wasn’t going to lie, “Yes. But things took quite a different path.” And maybe for the best… Maybe.

“They did,” she nodded, “You were right.” I raised an eyebrow. “Back when I left the legion,” she explained, “I made all the money I wanted but now I see that the cost was so much more. Hindsight.” She spat the last word.

“I avoid looking back,” I said.

“To busy going forward?”

I laughed, “No, its too depressing.”

She smiled uncertainly. The half-joke was a little too close to the bone. “Still they were good days,” she sighed deeply, “What I wouldn’t give to get them back.”

“For their part, but you’re not the first to pine for youth.” I said. Varnan’s words of the day before still stung. I’m not over the hill yet. Not yet, I’ll have sorted my urgent business by then. “I never heard much of you after you left.”

“You listened?”

“Yes.”

She grimaced and her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “So did I, and I heard a bit. You were one of the guilds finest, I never did understand why.”

“What choice did I have? I have one hell of a sugartooth - what else makes that sort of money?”

She nodded, “I didn’t think… I might have come to see you again…”

“You’re here now,” part of me screamed. She had just murdered two relativity innocent smugglers – certainly not deserving of death. I’d just murdered for her. I knew fine well that she was bad news. That my feelings were as much for lang syne as for her. I didn’t care.

We spoke about the rose-tinted past over the cherry embers of the fire. The sun was a hazy red disk suspended above the burning sea when I noticed her gaze flickering again to Varnan. I’d forgotten he was even there, he was never that quiet. His eyes still stared to the darkling horizon. He sat still but was far from relaxed, tension racked him, his hands contorted into clawlike fists.

“Something happened in that chamber.” Renera’s voice was sharp. “Varnan you will tell me.”

Slowly he turned his gaze on her but said nothing.

“Speak.”

He looked blankly.

"You will tell me what came to pass in that place. Speak."

Nothing. I had rarely seen Renera this agitated. Her glare could have cracked rocks.

"What is your name?"

Languidly he opened his mouth and his lips quivered for a moment but only a hissing growl emerged.

Renera was on her feet, her voice boomed in a language I had never heard before. Confusion froze me but my fingers already crawled around my sword of their own accord.

Varnan answered. It was no language I had heard before, the creaking syllables dripped from his tongue. The sounds had no meaning to me but even so my hackles rose.

“Begone,” Renera’s voice boomed, unnaturally, “Leave this place.”

A laugh like rusted hinges escaped Varnan’s mouth.

Renera’s hands wove frantic patterns in the air, a beam of light leapt from them. Almost casually Varnan wiped it away but already Renera muttered some incantation. A second flash came; Varnan raised a hand. The magic was unaffected. A glow glimmered around him as it struck then guttered and died. He screamed. He looked at his hands as if he’d never seen them. A thousand opposing emotions warred across his face. He writhed as if in the clutches of a manic puppetmaster.

“What…” I spluttered, “What’s happening?”

They ignored me.

Varnan tried to stand but his legs failed. Renera advanced on him, an aura of magic shone around her. Varnan managed to sit up. A tongue of flame leapt from Renera’s hands and licked across him. He fell back, his shirt scorched.

I stood, unsure of what I intended. Help Renera? But I didn’t want to hurt Varnan. Help Varnan? No. Renera would have her reasons. So what? Renera towered over Varnan now, a haze of magic danced around them. Its heavy sourness hung in the air like smoke. I stepped forward, still uncertain. Then it was too late.

The blinding flash knocked me back a step and for the second time that afternoon my eyes burned. Varnan rose his hands as if shielding his face. An arc of sparks leapt where they blocked Renera’s magic. She staggered back, surprise flashed over her face and was gone just as fast. Determination replaced it. Grim determination. She stepped forward again, her eyes narrowed as if in immense effort. I could hear the magic now. A vociferation of nature scraping my soul. It burned like hot pins-and-needles on my face. Varnan’s hands collapsed down but he still bent in concentration. His mouth twisted with effort.

“Yes,” said Renera, triumphant, “You try that.”

I hadn’t a clue what she meant.

For a moment they faced one another then without any warning flame leapt from Renera’s fingers. A hair from Varnan it bent away from him melting the sand. Renera screamed a curse. With one hand she reached for her belt knife, the other became a blur as it tried to do the work of both. She flicked the knife and it stuck in Varnan’s shoulder.

It was his turn to scream, and scream he did. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t have time to. With a crack there was silence. My ears rang. Renera breathed deeply, relief flooded her face. “I’ve never,” she panted, “dispelled anything like that before.”

I glanced to the growing red stain on the remnants of Varnan’s shirt. Her eyes followed mine. Then Varnan moved. The relief on Renera’s face curdled. He smiled.

“Too early,” he growled and pointed a finger at her. A beam of light not thicker than a goose quill emerged from it. Black light. It chilled me. Light should not be black. Not in nature, not in magic. The beam lasted a couple of seconds then Varnan collapsed face down.

I looked in confusion at him then to Renera. Shock blanched her white. “It managed it,” she whispered the words as if she didn’t quite believe them. “It managed it,” she said again.

“What in the name of Tiber just happened?”

“I thought…” she still spoke to herself. I was shocked to see tears in her eyes. “The thing in the ruin…”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“It was an ancient necromancer,” she realised that I knew almost nothing of magic, “The slaodic books suggested it. They can take the bodies of others to evade death.”

I didn’t really understand but I thought I saw where she was going, “Varnan?”

She nodded. “I think it must have been very weak, or else Varnan stronger than you’d expect. It took a while,” she stopped abruptly as if pain racked her. When she spoke again her voice was less steady, “He resisted the necromancer's control. That’s why he seemed odd and was getting worse.” She stopped again.

I could think of nothing to say.

Tears ran freely down her face now, “That’s not the point though. It’s in me now. I’d wanted… Hoped that we could be together again. Not any more.”

I wondered how long she had pined over the lost past. When had she found out who she was coming to rescue? When had she began to hope and dream? I sighed, disappointment is the only result of hope. Even so there was a certain sweetness to the idea… But now she said it could never be.

“It could have worked out.” Was she trying to convince herself or me? I didn’t know.

“Perhaps,” I answered at length. It was a nice idea. And really it could have worked. Another opportunity dead, and other door locked. I put my arm around her. She shook.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, “I can already feeling parts of my mind going,” she huddled in closer to me.

I said nothing. What else could be said?

I held her for a while but then she pushed away. I shot her a questioning look. “I’m as good as dead,” she said, “I don’t want to be near you when it takes me. I don’t know what I’ll do, what it will do.” She shuddered.

I nodded reluctantly. I saw the sense in what she said. Logic didn’t seem so good any more, “You know best,” I said.

“What do I know?” emotion weighed down her voice, “I made so many mistakes.” She turned away, “Good bye,” she choked.

“Bye,” that single word tempered my hatred and bitterness in the fires of despair.

She walked away. She didn’t look back. I hunched by the shore and tried to forget that the sun would rise again. She had wanted to carry on. All this time she had wanted it.

Secunda lay in Masser’s arms and looked down at me, alone, on the beach.

The final part, thanks to all who read an commented, I hope you enjoyed reading. Any comments on this part and/or the story overall would be most appriciated.

16. Firewatch

A groan shook me from the grey fields of desolation. I blinked, surprised how dark it had become. Another groan. It came from Varnan. In an instant I was by his side, he lived. The knife was still wedged into his shoulder but it hadn’t killed him outright and he hadn’t bled out. Yet.

I cursed myself for a fool as I rolled him over. Why hadn’t I checked? There was a lot of blood on the burnt remnants of his shirt, the skin beneath was blistered and raw. I tried to peel the embrued cloth from him but stopped when the skin came off with it. I swore inwardly, the wound would bleed when I removed the knife but there are no healers in the wilderness.

I propped him against a rock and went into the yurt. I tired not to look at the fresh blood mottled on the earth floor, and for once almost managed. Pots and crates and baskets flew as I searched; food, curios and clutter fountained behind me. The yurt looked like a heard of kagouti had stampeded though it when I found what I looked for. Small paper bundles of alchemical ingredients. I ripped them open looking for the few I knew would help wounds. My heart lifted when I opened one to the smell of marshmerrow but one look told me it was rotten. I swore and tore at another, my fingers met sticky ooze between the folds of the paper. Resin. One look told me there was already powdered something in it: corkbulb, or whickwheat. I hoped.

I crunched back out of the yurt kicking aside the things crushed beneath my boots and returned to Varnan. A trickle of blood ran from around the knife, the next few moments would decided whether he lived or died. It was down to luck, and my scant experience as a healer.

I reached for the knife’s hilt and drew back. Best have the resin unwrapped. I reached out again. My hand shook. Perhaps I should go and see if there was anything else of use in the yurt? I recognised stalling tactics, they weren’t going to help Varnan. I took a deep breath and cursed my tattered nerves. Quickly I pulled the knife free.

Blood rushed out in a torrent. Varnan stirred and tried to move but could only manage a squirm. I cast the knife aside and pulled a thick strand of the sticky resin. I fed the end of it against the rushing blood and packed it home with my thumb. The blood slowed. I tore off another length and pushed that in on top. In a few moments I had the wound sealed off. I sat back and let the shaking take me. Varnan was slumped and white.

When I had calmed myself I felt his wrist a pulse. Nothing. I felt harder but there was still nothing. Apprehensively I reached for his neck. It took a moment but I found a weak beat. I sank back and put my head into my hands. I had done all I could. My treacherous fingers were loading my pipe before I knew.

I got little sleep that night.


The dawn was as hazy as my mind. The first thing I knew was that I had taken far too much skooma. I wandered why. Then I remembered. I fought back the regrets and staggered up to check on Varnan.

His colour was better but the wound was angry and red, faint red lines reached out from it. Not far but I suspected they would grow. Just as I suspected his already high fever would. For a moment I considered letting him sleep it off but I cast the thought aside, he needed a healer. That meant Firewatch.

It took me three attempts to wake him. He looked around though pain-misted eyes.

“We need to get to Firewatch,” I said giving him a drink from a waterskin.

He answered with an indecipherable groan.

I got him to drink some more and chew some scrib jerky before I stood to go. He nodded wearily and I hauled him up and supported him over one shoulder. It was going to be a long walk.

Luck was with us. We saw nothing living. Even so I was bone weary when the smokes of Firewatch appeared on the horizon. My shoulders burned from propping up Varnan who stared intently at the ground and put one foot before the other. I hadn’t dared stop since lunch, I doubted I could get Varnan going again. We crested a rise and the town was spread below.

Even in my desperation it was an anticlimax. What little I’d heard of Firewatch had been uncomplimentary. From my vantage point on the rise it looked halfway between a nest of flies and a midden. Ramshackle buildings leaned drunkenly at crazy angles over filthy streets. There were no walls round the edge of the town, though a decrepit palisade did ring the centre. I started down the slope.

Varnan was a dead weight. I panted as I half carried him the last hundred yards to where the houses started. At first there was only shacks, randomly arranged beneath the shadow of the larger wooden buildings I’d seen from above. Everything stank of rot. The few people outside stared at the ground and ignored us. Few had shoes and all looked as if they had long since given up.

“Can I have some help,” I called two two dunmer men who were ambling a few yards ahead. They turned and looked as if surprised. It was only when I fished out a few gold coins that they walked over.

“What with?” said one.

“And what are you offering,” added the other. They had strong accents, both smelt of cheap shein.

“I’ll give you ten gold a head,” I wandered at how they pricked up. It had been a starting bid but I had expected to pay double, or more, “If you can direct me to the mages guild and an imperial healer and help me carry him there.”

“Meersa’s the best healer in town,” said the first. Several scars ploughed the left side of his face like a field. His left eye was cloudy.

“I want an imperial,” I said.

He dunmer shrugged, “There’s an imperial cult shrine over by the fort but the healer’s not as good as Meersa.”

“Take me there,” I answered. To my surprise the dunmer were quite strong and wrapped Varnan’s arms around their shoulders. His fever was stronger than before: the wound had gone septic. I winced as I straightened my back. The dunmer were already walking. I followed.

Firewatch was more like a village swollen beyond proportion than a city. The air reeked of brimstone from the multitude of tiny smeltings where the local ore was converted to metal for shipping. The low smoking sheds seemed to be small family businesses trapped between the much higher inns and vendors and taverns. There were no mushroom houses like in most Telvanni towns but the stink of rot was no less. The potholed roads were unsurfaced.

After a few minutes we passed though the earth and wood walls which stood around the inner city. Not much changed inside. The buildings were somewhat higher but just as ill repaired. The people looked richer but far from wealthy and had the same downcast look as those outside.

We came to a long street with some slightly more prosperous businesses. I was surprised to see that the guards were Telvanni even though the town had originally grown around the imperial fort which towered before us at the end of the road. The bottom story of its walls were undressed stone which then gave way to the same rotten wood which made up the rest of the town. In spite of the late hour few of its windows showed light. We hurried towards the gate.

The guard didn’t even look up as we passed, I suspected it would be similar to the Wolverine hall and Sadith Mora. The guards would have nothing to guard but their own fort which, even more so in the case of the mouldering pile I was eventing now, the Telvanni could level whenever relations with the empire were deemed unimportant.
I followed the two dunmer up a flight of stairs to a cracked door. The only hint that a shrine lay within was a faded relief carving on the lintel. The dunmer stopped and sat Varnan on the top step, “This is the Imperial Chapel, the mages guild representative is somewhere in the fort. The chaplain should know,” said the one with the scarred face.

The other simply held out his hand. I dropped the coins into it, “My thanks,” I said. They didn’t reply as they left down the stairs.

The door was locked so I banged on it. After a moment I heard muttered swearing from within and it opened. An elderly man looked out, “What do you want?” he asked. A scowl plastered on his face.

“My friend needs a healer,” I said.

The man glared at Varnan and sighed. “Fine. Don’t just stand there, the heat’s getting out.”

I pulled Varnan upright. He looked at me dazedly, his legs jelly. The old priest cursed again and I dragged him inside. The room was low ceilinged and lit only by a few cheap tallow candles. The collection bowl on the alter was almost empty.

“Ceril,” the old man shouted though to the next room, “Come here you lazy son of a nix.”

A painfully thin young man scuttled though from the next the room. By his looks he was Breton. He hunched and looked at the uneven floor, “Yes father Nuncius?”

“There’s a man needs your skills.” He turned to me, “There is the matter of payment though.”

“What?”

“Gold. It doesn’t grow on trees, neither does the wood for the fire, as I’ve surely known this winter.”

I pulled out a fistful of coins, “There father,” I spat, “The mages guild should sort out any more you need.” He counted them out, his lip curling. Without a word he went to a door behind the alter and went though it, I glimpsed a bed before he slammed it.

I turned to the man he had called Ceril. Already he looked over Varnan, “His fever is high,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, “The wound was from a knife a day ago, its gone bad.”

The healer looked, “It has, what did you dress it with?”

“Resin.”

He nodded, “I might have tried that, it appears it has not worked. Give me a hand with him though to the store would you?”

A hand turned out to involve me moving him, laying a blanket on the floor and rolling him onto it while Ceril got in the way. Once done Ceril bent over him. “Best leave us, I’ll do what I can to draw the poison tonight and drop the fever though he may just have to burn it off.”

I nodded, “Where is the mages guildhall?”

“There’s no guildhall,” he answered in surprise, “But they do have a retainer upstairs. It the second room on the right.”

“Thanks,” I left him looking over Varnan and went out the chapel.

Outside I yawned. The events of the past days weighed heavy in my mind. I doubted I would be paid. Two guild members dead, another injured. And problems I didn’t even understand: such a debacle could well get me demoted. And Renera. Thoughts of her lay over the others like a silhouette. I hadn’t thought I’d see her again. Then I had. Then I’d lost her. Again.

I needed a smoke, and a drink. In that order. Now I didn’t have Varnan to worry about the mages could wait. I went down the stairs and left the grim fort for the bleak city. Somewhere in the city there would be a tavern dismal enough to suit my mood. And waiting for me in that Tavern was the oblivion I so desired.


THE END

Good story. One of my favorites. I would've liked to see it go on for a bit longer. The ending seems a bit...abrupt. It doesn't feel like an ending. If it has to end here, I would've liked to hear some kind of summation of the "moral" of the story, or lack thereof - however cynical it might have been. And at this point in the story, cynical is the only way you can end it (something like "What does it all mean? Nothing - not a damn thing"). The subtext could be brought just a tad bit more to the foreground in the ending (i.e. getting old, which was touched on earlier).

Otherwise, I thoroughly enjoyed this story, and I hope you write more of them. You're really good at this.

I agree with BBQ that the ending seems a bit flat. It's a good story, though.

Thanks for the comments. I agree the ending is weak and I wasn't wholly happy with it but I couldn't think how else to end it. As far as a moral goes, if you choose to see one, I'd say it's cynical and about the futility of trying to improve youself, or possibly about the lure of self destruction being greater than any 'higher' motive.

In all honesty there may be a continuation but having a break there fits what's likely to happen (if there is to be a break at all) and emphasises the above. I wouldn't hold you breath for it though, I'm writing some non-tes stuff just now.

Ye olde thread excavated

All I can say is that I loved it. Now I understand what happened to Varnan and Renera. The ending was a bit abrupt but I understand why having read your Today's burning.

The scene in the ruin was truly terrifying. Tense a lute string indeed.