This story is a sort of what if scenario-what if, even with the dwemer disappearing, their technology was preserved and developed, to an extent where it had progressed to a state similar to that of the industrial revolution's? But Dagoth Ur and his minions were still up to their old tricks, and our good old chum the Nerevarine had to go and give the cads a kicking? (Sorry, it's hard not to get into the Victorian mindset when writing this). With that in mind, I present a tale of dashing bravery, despicable deeds, bizarre contraptions, steam and even a trip in a hot air balloon!

Morrowynd

Part the first

The mist shrouded Seydna Neen like a veil, muffling sounds and light. The town seemed to have been muted, the sound turned down. Those who walked around the town did so quickly, keen to be away from the clinging damp fog. Even the massive steamer ship, it's coal furnace driving the huge paddles round and round, seemed to curiously quiet. Even when it's massive anchor clanged against the iron hull, the sound didn't seem to echo that loudly. From the ship, a gangplank was extended, the damp wood bumping quietly against the jetty protruding over the water.

I'm sure that, to any connoisseurs of the literary world, this seems rather promising. And indeed, the true life story of Titus Buteo Decius is indeed an interesting tale.

For, as you may well have guessed by reading the famous name above, I am indeed Lord Nerevar Reborn, savior of Vvardenfel, victor of a thousand battles and all that rot. There have been cries for me to chronicle my many exploits, but I never seemed to get around to it, until one day my dear wife crossed her arms and simply said; “Get it done, Titus.” As any married man will know, when your wife folds her arms and tells you to get something done, you get that something done sharpish.

But enough of me waffling for now. Please, do read on.

Even with the mist sticking everything to the ground, Seyda Neen still stank with the same dull stench of old swamp water, smoke and waste. The town was rather dismal, I considered, sticking my hands in the ragged pockets of my prison clothes, lined with old salt from my journey across the sea (even now I hate the stuff-just having it on food is enough to make me feel queasy). I needed something better to wear, and a decent weapon-I wasn't going to kill anyone with a dagger I stole from the census office, and even an old musket or sword would do.

Now, Seyda Neen isn't the most promising place when it comes to services, but fortunately I spotted help. A tall brick building, the sign outside it cheerfully proclaiming it as 'Arille's Tradehouse,' loomed out of the mist, and I could see a large display of weapons and supplies displayed in the shop's window. Perfect.

I set out, trying to ignore the mud squelching on my precious boots, the only possessions I had been allowed to keep in my stay in prison. But before I reached it, I was stopped by a tap on the shoulder. I turned to see a blonde haired wood elf, wearing a simple workman's trouser's and jacket.

“Excuse me sir,” the wood elf said. “I was wondering if you could lend me a hand with something.”

“Of course,” I said. 'Something' probably mean business. Business meant work. Work meant pay. “What is it?”

“Well, you see, I've run into a bit of a problem,” the wood elf said. “There's a friend of mine, well hardly a friend at all, actually, who's taken something from me. A ring, to be precise. It's an heirloom, with a powerful healing enchantment, and I was just wondering if you could keep your eyes peeled for it.”

I thought for a moment, weighing up my options. The wood elf had the look of a liar about him, in my old line of work you have to be a good judge of character, but the concern in his eyes was genuine. After a moment's consideration, I decided to give the mer the ring-at the very least, there could be a reward in it for me.

“Well,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “As a matter of fact, I did find a ring not long after my arrival. Does this look at all familiar?”

I plucked the ring from the pocket and presented it to the wood elf, who's eyes widened in joy.

“That's the very thing,” he said. “Thank you sir, I can't believe you found it. I'm overjoyed. But might I be so bold as to inquire as to where you found it.”

“In an old barrel, over by the census office,” I answered.

“Believe me, you won't regret this,” the wood elf said. “Look, I don't have any gold I give you in return...”

Inwardly I slumped-I could have sold that ring for quite a tidy sum.

“But I can put in a good word for you at Arille's Tradehouse,” he finished. “I'm sure that he'll be more than happy to give you a good discount.”

The slumped part of me gave a short, hopeful rise. A discount on goods was better than nothing.

“That would be absolutely fine,” I said. “Just glad to help.”

“Of course,” the wood elf said. “I'll just go and tell Arille now.”

I followed the wood elf into the shop, and through the door. A dark elf, dressed in a neat suit and tie and sporting an impressive moustache, looked up at our arrival.

“Arille,” the wood elf said pleasantly. “So good to see you, my good man.”

“It's good to see you too, Fargoth,” Arille, no doubt the proprietor of the shop, replied. “Have you had any luck on finding your ring?”

“Actually, yes,” Fargoth the wood elf replied. “I had a help from a good friend of mine-he found it and very kindly returned it to me.”

I stepped forward, and was treated to a look from Arille that seemed to say 'look what the guar dragged in.' I elected to ignore it.

“I see,” he said stiffly. “Well perhaps the good sir would wish to make a purchase. I suppose that since you did help a good friend of mine I can give you a discount.”

I thanked him profusely, and after an hour or so of shopping had kitted myself out in an armoured greatcoat, the sort that most legionnaires wore, a fresh shirt and pair of trousers and a sword. I considered buying a revolver and some bullets, but eventually decided against it-I would probably need the money for something else.

“Oh, and before you leave, one last thing,” Arille said. He had sweetened up considerably after he had realised I had money to spend, and that my time in prison had really been the fault of a miscarriage of justice of the worst sort. “There's a cave used by smugglers over to the north of town. Normally, the guards would sort them out, but they don't seem to be doing anything about it. If you ask me, they're being paid up to leave them be.”

“And you want me to deal with them?” I asked.

“If you want,” Arille said. “Look, I'll even pay you double if you return any loot of theirs. They've been an absolute menace to my suppliers and so I'll consider it a favour.”

“Consider them dealt with,” I replied.

As I left the shop, I cracked my knuckles in anticipation.

It was showtime.