Trey in Mournhold


Foreword (a portion)
By Quintinius Axibiades, Senior Librarian


The following narrative is copied from a manuscript discovered in the Vvardenfell province of Morrowind. The verifiable events noted in the original indicate that it was written sometime after 3E 427. Of the purported author, little is known. As the manuscript was discovered at Bal Isra, near the outpost town of Ald’ruhn, some credence may be given to the writer’s claim that he was a member of the so-called “Great House” known as Redoran. On the other hand, a great many books and papers were discovered at the same locality, so this piece may simply have been part of a collection. The narrator’s reference to himself as integral to a particular barbarian prophecy is an example of a plot device designed to increase interest in the story. Given the sensational and fantastic nature of some the events described, the writer most probably hoped to turn a profit by writing a popular fiction woven around known personalities and events. As far as can be determined, that hope was not realized, as no other versions of this manuscript are known to be extant.

The writing itself, while literate (barely), is not that of an educated or scholarly individual. It is plain, even crude at times; perhaps the early work of a young scribe with too much imagination and inadequate supervision. As noted previously, the first person perspective and the author’s penchant for claiming to have been present or even directly involved in events of great significance point to an attempt to capitalize on the common masses’ taste for the sensational and the scandalous, particularly when it involves royalty and the gods. The anti-Imperial tone of the piece suggests yet another possibility- that the writer was some type of Dunmeri agitator and that this tale is an attempt at allegory. Ultimately, the identity of the author or authors is of little moment; history has rightly placed this “Trey of High Rock” on the midden heap and gone on to more important matters.

Regarding the events described in the manuscript, it is left to the careful scholar to draw his own conclusions. Our purpose is to preserve all examples of the written word, no matter how doubtful the veracity or merit of a given piece. Those with a serious interest in Imperial history are directed to the official “Histories” for accurate information.

As to the physical properties of the paper, ink, &c ………



Chapter 1

For reasons which will become clear, I hesitated for many years to write the full story of my time in Mournhold. However, I feel that the right of my family to know everything outweighs the risk of premature discovery. Much time has passed since the events I am about to relate, but an enemy can have a long memory and an even longer reach. It is as much to protect my family as to tell the true story that I turn once more to my journals. The tattered, stained pages carry me back to a time when the idea of a family was as distant as the stars, when the idea that I would have any future at all was questionable. You see, someone wanted very much to kill me….

I had been unceremoniously carried off to Vvardenfell; told that, willing or not, I was a member of the Blades; and advised to “get some seasoning before I got myself killed.” With great reluctance and even greater complaining, I proceeded with the business of learning to stay alive on that frontier island. Numerous bandits and native creatures tried to cut short what I intended to be a long and profitable existence. Worse yet, I had managed to annoy the local criminal organization, as well as to draw the unfavorable attention of servants of the mad demigod, Dagoth Ur. To add that last bit of spice to my already overfull plate, someone had set the Dark Brotherhood upon me. Because that last seemed to me to be the province of the Imperial Legion, I went to them to seek assistance, just as any righteous citizen should do. The Empire’s response, in the words of Apelles Matius, Military Governor, could be summarized as,

“The Dark Brotherhood, eh? That’s too bad. You should probably do something to solve that problem. And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Although that was no more than I had expected from the Legion, it nevertheless enraged me to the point that I decided to do just the opposite. Rather than investigate the Dark Brotherhood, I decided to ignore them, to go on about my business as if nothing had happened. That might have worked if my business had not involved annoying all those various groups I mentioned earlier. In fact, I did more than just annoy the Camonna Tong; I destroyed their outpost in Balmora. The carnage there did not satisfy me, though, and I vowed to dedicate my remaining days to hunting down every member I could find of the criminal enterprise. Before I could put that plan into effect, fate intervened in the form of a Khajiit slave named Rabinna. That unfortunate creature was being used to smuggle the illegal drug, moon-sugar, by the expedient of having her swallow the packets. When she reached the buyer, he would murder her to retrieve the drugs. Her “owner” mistook me for the escort who was to take the slave to her bloody fate. Desiring to hurt the Camonna Tong in any way possible, I did nothing to correct that misperception. However, as soon as I had discovered the truth, I took Rabinna to the Argonian Mission in Ebonheart, a place where she assured me she would be safe. When I left the mission, I wandered the Imperial port, wondering what I should do next. The smell of the sea air and damp stone awoke in me a deep melancholy, perhaps accentuated by the release of the rage that had possessed me for several days. If I was not going to engage in a suicidal vendetta against the Camonna Tong, it might be wise to absent myself from Vvardenfell for a time. No one had any hold on me for the moment, but where could I go? My wandering steps had brought me to the doors of the Grand Council Chamber and I remembered a name- Asciene Rane. She was the mage who could get me to the mainland, to Morrowind’s capital. Due to the Blight, all ships from Vvardenfell were under quarantine; no one from the island was allowed onto the mainland. But if Asciene could get me to Mournhold, I might be able to find my way out…and go anywhere that my feet could carry me.

Having made things too hot for myself in Vvardenfell, a trip to the city of Mournhold suddenly seemed to be just the thing. Somehow, the idea of poking my nose into the Dark Brotherhood’s business conjured visions of frying pans and fires, but one risky venture seemed as good as another. Before I went to Asciene, I reviewed what little I knew of the Dark Brotherhood. It wasn’t terribly comforting, but did give me some ideas. Unlike the Morag Tong, the Brotherhood worked strictly for money. Since they accepted some portion of their fee up front and the rest upon completion, they would keep trying until they succeeded- or until they were …discouraged. I also reminded myself that they were hired killers, which meant someone had done the hiring. And that individual was someone I very much wanted to meet. Thus it was that two of my primary motivations- vengeance and escape- came together.

Asciene was more than a little curious about my reasons for desiring transport to Mournhold; in fact, she was rather suspicious. Rather than attempt to weave a convincing lie, I told the truth- I had been targeted by assassins. At the mention of the Dark Brotherhood, her impassive expression slipped and genuine concern showed in her eyes. Warning me that the Dark Brotherhood was not to be taken lightly, she agreed to transport me to Mournhold whenever I was ready. In addition, she gave me a note for Effe-Tei, the mage who could return me to Ebonheart. Thus it was, that I arrived in Mournhold, armed with nothing more than a sword and a thirst for answers.

TREY IS BACK!!!!

I love you treydog. *hugs*

Now that I read it...

Good start! Though nothing much happened, it is a very good intro - Can't wait to see what's next!

YEAH! Very good, I was happy when I saw this...my writing's got nothin' on you man.

good intro, i think trey has come back with more of a vengeance, oh and dantrag mars volta rocks!!!

Very nice Trey. Good Job will be looking for an update.

Indeed they do.

And once again, all other stories take the back burner...(in a good way of course)

Of course, as soon as my internet goes out treydog posts again... Oh well, at least I got to read it.

YES! Great Trey, now we can have Trey fighting Almalexia and goblins, and getting Trueflame.. The start of the story is very well, also great writing.. You also have good ends too, very very very very nice!

Now as you have started on Tribunal, we cant leave out Bloodmoon can we.. Think Aki is gonna love that..

YAY!!! Trey's back telling stories! good start, I liked the Forward

Welcome back Trey, you scared the hell outta with that disappearing act you pulled.

Nice work with the story (as usual). Will eagerly be waiting for more.

Will we then see the OB main quest, and expansions?

Oh all my dreams have come true......a Trey-sequel, what a wonderful welcome-home-present.....

YAY!!!!!!!!!!!! MORE TREY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When entering a new town, the wise thief has a couple of choices: the preferred option is to arrive quietly, unnoticed by the populace and the guards; failing that, a confident, “I-have-every-right-to-be-here” entrance will suffice. What you do NOT want to do is arrive in a puff of smoke and land face-first in a flowerbed in the antechamber of the Royal Palace. That is particularly true if your previous experience of “Royal and Imperial plants” has been less than satisfactory. The best that could be said of my arrival in Mournhold was that I managed not to wound myself with my sword. Shaking off the disorientation of the teleport magic as best I could, I straightened my robe and looked around the room. Besides the ornately decorated walls, the room contained the planter I had almost landed in and an Argonian in mage’s robes. When I staggered over to him, he introduced himself as Effe-Tei and stiffly asked how he could be of service. This was a bit of luck; I gave him the note from Asciene Rane, which improved his disposition greatly. He provided some general background information on Mournhold- the most significant item was the fact that the “goddess” Almalexia and Helseth, the “King” of Morrowind, both resided in the city. Moreover, the King and the Temple were not getting along too well at present. Helseth was trying to consolidate power and turn his office into a true monarchy; the Temple and the more old-fashioned of the Dunmer preferred the traditional government by council. As usual, it was about power- who had it and who wanted it. So the King and the Temple were circling like two stray dogs that have come across a juicy bone. Neither wanted to rush in and risk an attack- but neither was willing to back away.

If my interest was in gaining access to the seats of power, I should speak to Tienius Delitian, Captain of the Royal Guard. If I sought treasure and adventure, the sewers provided a quick way to find both. In fact, the current city was built on top of the ruins of “Old Mournhold;” those ruins provided excellent opportunities for “salvage.” Well, I had no desire to have any interaction with the Royal Guard, let alone their Captain. What I did need was information, and the only place to find it was out in the city. The trick was to find someone knowledgeable who wasn’t too closely aligned with any of the factions. Even so, I would have to be careful- I couldn’t just march up to a complete stranger and say,

“Hello. My name is Trey and the Dark Brotherhood is trying to kill me. You know where I might find them to discuss that issue?”

While such an approach might have the virtue of simplicity, it would surely draw a great deal of unwanted attention from the assassins as well as the guards. Even though I hadn’t always been terribly smart, I had made sure to don a robe to cover my “borrowed” Dark Brotherhood armor. After all, if Mournhold really was their base, it wouldn’t take long for them to find out about a Breton parading around in their kit. Their criticism of that fashion statement was likely to be pointed…and permanent.

The first person I encountered in the courtyard introduced himself as Calvus Horatius, mercenary. For the reasonable sum of 250 drakes, he would guard my back, carry my loot, and generally make himself useful. He appeared to be an honorable fellow and I remembered a time or two that I could have used some help…. But I tended to have enough trouble taking care of myself in a fight. Then too, he didn’t look all that stealthy, what with his steel cuirass and tower shield. And I might not want a witness for everything I might do- even if he was loyal, there were potions and spells that would make him talk. It was better for me to continue as I had started- alone. An examination of the rest of the courtyard showed doors opening onto the Guard quarters, the Imperial Cult shrine, and an Imperial Legion Depot. There were also large gates that gave access to the Temple district and Mournhold’s central plaza, the Brindisi Dorom. What I needed to find was a tavern. Besides beds and drinks, they tended to serve information. Calvus told me that the best bet was a place called the Winged Guar, which was located in Godsreach, the residential district.

The tavern was a far cry from the frontier watering holes I had become accustomed to on Vvardenfell; it looked more like a mansion than a bar. I hoped the prices wouldn’t be equally fancy- all I needed was to get arrested for vagrancy. Still, it wouldn’t necessarily cost me anything to ask a few questions. Sometimes, the questions people won’t answer tell you as much as the ones that they will. Deciding to start on the upper floor and work my way down, I had what seemed to be a stroke of luck. The first person I spoke to was an Altmer named Hession who turned out to be the owner. After telling me about the bill of fare, she gave me a shrewd glance and said,

“Despite the robe, I can see that you are armored, and you carry yourself as if you know your way around. Would you be interested in a little work?”

It seemed that the usual bouncer, an Orc named Grub, had failed to show up, so she needed a replacement. All that was needed was someone to circulate, make sure everyone was happy, and deal with any obnoxious drunks or other “undesirables.” Naturally, I agreed. This was exactly the sort of opening I needed- it gave me an excuse to talk to everybody and to hang out in the tavern without drinking. Better still, if I did a good job, it would get me in Hession’s good graces. It would be hard to find a better source of information. Whenever you start to think that things are going well, prepare for the worst. Apparent good fortune is just Fate’s way of setting you up.

Very nice to see an update Trey. You have a very definative writing style.*Applause*

nice new update once again you seem to bring small quests alive, and incorporate them into the main story

great job Trey!

psssttt! are these new??

treydog...my hero. it´s a pleasure to have you back writing more about our great hero....
A quote i especially like:



so utterly..."trey-ish"--........


Oh and yes Soulseeker those are new! enjoy!

expecting a longer wait... now I will so much to catch up on when I get back.

*shakes fist*

Awsome! Not sure how I missed these earlier today...

Aweseome job, Trey!

My favorite quote from that update -

"Their criticism of that fashion statement was likely to be pointed…and permanent."

Hey Treydog, i was readin an Ashlanders tale and i was wondering if youhave ever read the 1632 sieries by Eric Flint?

Did u get HAAAKE PAAALE from there.

The first step would be to have a talk with the bartender, who should be able to point out any known problems. That individual turned out to be a Khajiit named Ra’Tesh, and he confirmed my instincts when he indicated a gaudily dressed Dunmer at the end of the bar. Tipping an ear in that direction, the giant cat said,

“Whatever you do, don’t get into a game of shells with Galms Seles. He’s a hustler who just moved here from Vvardenfell. He thinks he can outrun his reputation, but a friend in Sadrith Mora tipped me off. I wish he would leave- he’s putting a damper on the action.”

Thanking Ra’Tesh, I made my way to the dark elf who stood at a table idly shuffling several pieces of mudcrab shell. As soon as he saw me watching, he went into his pitch-

“Seles is the name, shells the game. I will place a coin under one of these shells and all you have to do to double your money is keep an eye on the shell. Ready to try your luck?”

I had heard better patter, but I was sure there was nothing wrong with his sleight-of-hand. The trick was simple- while appearing to place the coin under a shell he would palm it. Then, after my pick turned out to be “wrong” he would flip a different shell, “revealing the coin. There were a couple of ways to handle this, and I decided to use the one that would be most effective- and most likely to get me noticed. So I laid down a fifty-drake piece and said,

“Let’s go.”

The hustler’s eyes bulged when he saw the size of the wager, but he recovered and started his routine, shuffling the shells and intoning,

“Round and round they go. Keep your eye on that little coin, Sera.”

Finally, he stopped his passes and lifted his hands.

“Now, my fine Breton, tell me where that coin is hiding.”

Unable to resist a bit of showmanship myself, I made a great production of the choice, hesitantly reaching toward one shell then another, muttering to myself, “This one. No… wait- that one. Oh dear.”

I kept at it until I calculated that his annoyance was almost equal to his greed, then said brightly,

“I know! I’ll use my lucky sword!”

With that I drew my sword and laid the blade across the middle shell, tip pointed toward Seles stomach. Maintaining a grip on the hilt with one hand, I quickly flipped over the left and right shells, revealing- surprise- no coin. Maintaining my air of false cheerfulness, I gestured broadly and chirped,

“Well, if it isn’t under either of those, it MUST be under this one. We don’t really even need to look, do we? After all, my lucky sword never fails.”

Just to add emphasis, I wiggled the sword slightly. Sweat breaking out on his forehead, Seles managed a trick I HADN’T seen before- he proved that a Dark Elf could turn pale. Knowing that I was onto his hustle, he swallowed and said,

“Look, friend, I’m just trying to make a living here. No need to start pulling swords. If you’ll let me stay, I promise to run a square game from now on.”

I guessed that his promise was good for a few weeks at best, but it was enough for me. Besides, as he said, a man had to make a living. So I sheathed the sword and said,

“It’s a deal.” Then I added, “Oh, you might want this, though,” and flipped him the coin purse I had lifted from his pocket while he was staring at the sword.

Ra’Tesh thanked me for dealing with the gambler, and then asked if I had seen a Bosmer named High-Pockets around. He’d had a little trouble earlier with a Nord and hadn’t been back since. The little Wood Elf wasn’t really a friend, but he was a regular, and Ra’Tesh couldn’t make any money if he lost customers. The description fit a fellow I had seen pacing up and down on the walk outside, so I promised to have a look. A glance out the front door confirmed that the Bosmer was still there, still pacing and muttering threats. I called out,

“High-Pockets? Are you going to come in? Or are you just going to wear a trench into the cobbles?”

He broke off his muttering to glare at me then said,

“If I come in, it will be to deal with that clay-brained Nord! I swear I will have my revenge on that ignoramus!”

When I asked what Nord he meant, the little elf exclaimed,

“Holmar! I was minding my own business when that drunkard starting taunting me and then threw me the length of the bar. Then he picked me up and tossed me into the street. I’m going to pay him back. Say, you wouldn’t want to help me, would you?”

When I promised to take care of the problem, High-Pockets was all smiles. He followed me inside and peeked around me as I found Holmar, who was weaving from an excess of celebration and shouting for another drink. He rolled a blood-shot eye at the Bosmer and grumbled,

“Isn’t this the blasted Wood Elf I jus’ tossed out of here? Back for another round are you? So once wasn’t enough, you little tree frog? Come on, I’ll take you and your Breton friend, too.”

Having dealt with Nords before, I knew of two things that would NOT work: telling him to sober up would just make him mad and fighting him was a good way to get hurt. But as I watched him swaying gently back and forth, I thought of a third possibility.

“Say Holmar, why don’t I buy you a drink or five? You like kind of thirsty.”

After only two brimming flagons of sujamma, the Nord was snoring on a table. It was as easy as…well, as easy as getting a Nord to drink himself unconscious. High-Pockets was so pleased that he gave me 250 drakes and a magic ring. Then he laughed maniacally and said,

“Now for my revenge!”

I was afraid he was going to hurt the sleeping giant, but quickly saw that such was not his intention. The flowers he wove into Holmar’s hair were a nice touch, and replacing his sword with a whisk broom was clever, but I really thought the pink skirt was a bit much.

that's jonajosa's story - not trey's.

LOL that bar's like a college dorm! Get people drunk and play pranks on 'em!

Good update, as always

Very nice as usaul.

Thats all I got....

Oh yeah! That thing about the Dunmer turning pale... funny!

God I suck at replies, sorry Trey.

heh that sounds fun, i should do that to somebody once...


grat update trey

Great update Trey

Ah treydog! Such a funny part this was.......you really describe the small quests with feeling and add a lot of details...juust awesome you know!


Oh and a memorable quote:



I can just see him in front of me sweet Trey..reasoning with himself..well aware that the gambler tries to fool him....

Great as always.

After a period where the three giants slumbered, aka yourself, Minque and Override, you all come back and post at the same time, which neatly coincided with work being a pain. Thank the deity for weekends, I get to catch up on my fanfic dosage. My face when I saw Trey had returned must have been a glowing picture of delight. I'm not sure, but there may even have been a squeal. Your trademark mix of rich detail, thoughtfulness and humour remains unsurpassed, and the knowledge that this story has many more installments to go will keep me happy as the summer passes into winter. I won't say it'll keep me warm, I'll let the brandy do that, but this makes the perfect companion. A "hurrah" might well be in order.

ARGH!! I missed it! Oh well... Great update, I almost burst out laughing several times. I really loved the scene with Seles.

Hehe...that had an unusual amount of humor in the last part of it...I also liked how you solved Seles' gambling trick. Very nice.

Great writing as always, Treydog. There are so many fan fic stories to read that I didn't comment your Tribunal story yet, sorry. I really liked the introduction to 'Trey in Mournhold' and as others have already said the humor in this latest update in the bar. Looking forward to a good, long read together with all the other writers this fall and winter.

Disengaging myself from the laughing High-Pockets as graciously as I could, I continued to check on the patrons. Everything seemed to be going smoothly- a couple of taciturn Redguards were drinking quietly and not causing any problems. As I started up the stairs to tell Hession that all was well, a brown-robed Bosmer blundered into me and exhaled his alcohol-laden breath up into my face. As I made to step around him, he clutched my sleeve and slurred,

“Where’d you think yer going, Breton? Just like you to push people aroun’ and then try to run when they stand up for themselves. Ought to ship the whole lot of you back to… back to… that place, got a name, sounds like ‘dye socks’… back to that place where you came from.”

Aware of Hession glaring at the confrontation, I kept my hand away from my sword and tried to reason with the obnoxious little elf.

“Sera, I think perhaps you have had enough to drink. You should probably go home now.”

By way of an answer, he belched still more matze-tinged breath into my face and sneered,

“Yeah? And who’s going to make me, Blondie? Nobody tells Denegor when he’s had enough. ‘s a nice bar and I’m staying. Why don’ YOU leave?”

With that last, he shoved me in the chest and stood back with an expectant smirk. I firmly stepped on my anger at being pushed, again reminding myself that this was a quality establishment, not a bucket of blood like the Razor Hole back in Balmora. Besides that, it wouldn’t do for me to get involved in a very public killing on my first day in Mournhold. Not only would such an event annoy my employer, it would also mean answering questions from the authorities. With more restraint than I was accustomed to, I said,

“Sera, if you won’t leave quietly, I will have to use force.”

Apparently, that was just what Denegor had been waiting to hear; suddenly appearing much more sober, the elf unleashed a rain of punches at my head and midsection. I was momentarily stunned- despite their irritating personalities, Bosmer are not generally violent, at least not in a face-to-face way. It was rather like being savaged by a duck. However, a punch that connected with my sensitive nose woke me from my amazement and I began to fight back. Unfortunately, my ability with a blade was not matched by any skill at brawling. Perhaps it was due to the contempt I had felt for my “foster father,” a man who was always quick with his fists, perhaps because of my still-naïve notions of “chivalry,” but I had always seen hand-to-hand combat as decidedly lower-class. Such snobbery from a stable hand may be comical, but one will find superiority, including imaginary superiority, where he can, even if it isn’t logical.

As I began attempting to defend myself, it became clear that there was more at work here than my relative inexperience in unarmed combat. I noticed that Denegor bore the telltale scars around the eyebrows and puffiness of the ears that revealed a seasoned tavern brawler. More disconcerting was the power his punches carried, far more than might be expected from an elf of such small stature. At first, I tried to stay on the defense, absorbing his blows on my arms and keeping my head out of the way. I had some vague hope that he would tire quickly and that perhaps the alcohol he had drunk would also slow him down. The only things that plan gained me were bruised arms and a blacked eye when I wasn’t able to slip a punch fast enough. Clearly, I was going to have to hit back- even if he couldn’t knock me out, the longer I let the Bosmer pummel me, the worse it would look. After all, no one wants to admit that they were beaten up by a wood elf. Therefore, I began to respond in earnest. My longer reach helped as I kept a constant barrage of left jabs flicking at his face, forcing him to stay back. Too, I think my speed surprised him- he expected someone of my size to be more like a Nord- all muscle and no finesse. The problem was, he was still a better fighter, landing 2 or 3 punches for each one I got in. If it continued this way, there was a very good chance he would manage a lucky shot that would put me down. And if that happened, I might as well go back to Vvardenfell- no one would take me seriously if I lost a simple bar fight. Thinking about Nords put me in mind of my other advantage- weight. Many a Nord won fights not through superior skill at punching, but by grappling.

Again protecting my head, I began to force the Bosmer back toward a corner, using my body as a ram. Once I had him against the wall, I managed to get a couple of solid punches into his stomach. As he gasped for air, I threw my arms around him and drove us both to the floor, making sure I landed solidly on top of him. With his arms still pinned between us, I freed one of my hands and grasped his hair, slamming his head into the floor several times. Brutal it might have been, but it was a better alternative than killing him. When he at last fell unconscious, I stood up and gingerly felt my face. For a wonder, I still had all my teeth and my nose wasn’t broken. Hession, who had largely ignored the brawl while it was happening, rushed up and said,

“Wonderful. You handled things as well as Grub would have. Here is your payment.”

The 1000 drakes went a long way towards soothing my bruises, enough that I didn’t ask why she hadn’t whacked Denegor over the head from behind. Still, I had to wonder what I had really accomplished. I had stopped a gambling cheat, gotten one drunk to drink himself into a stupor, and pummeled another. And none of that got me any closer to my goal of finding the Dark Brotherhood or the person who had hired them.

As I nursed my bruises at the bar, holding a piece of chilled nix-hound meat against my tender eye, I happened to see a cheaply printed broadsheet emblazoned with the title “The Common Tongue.” Avid as always for the printed word, I picked up the paper and began to read. One article in particular was of interest- bearing the title “Mysteries of the West,” it discussed the deaths of three people. The reason these particular deaths were of interest was what they had in common- all three were ruled to be from “natural causes” and all three of the people had been “inconvenient” for one Prince Helseth, formerly of High Rock and now King of Morrowind. The clear implication was that the King had been instrumental in “removing” these obstacles to his quest for power. Curious, I asked Ra’Tesh about the broadsheet and its contents, upon which he shook his head violently.

“It is nothing Ra’Tesh knows about. Someone leaves it here on Ra’Tesh’s bar, but it does not belong to him.”

As for Helseth, all he would say was,

“Helseth is the new king. Long live the king,” in a mechanical voice.

I put away the broadsheet and replaced it with some gold. Sweeping the coins into his pocket, the Khajiit admitted that he had “heard things.” Among the things he had heard was that some people were curious about the death of the old king- Athyn Llethan. Although he was an old man, he was healthy- it just seemed odd that he had died so soon after Helseth arrived in Mournhold. Then there was the question of Talen Vandas, Llethan’s nephew and heir. Everyone had assumed that he would be the next king, until his fatal accident. All of this was very interesting- assuming one was interested in high-level gossip and court intrigue. Given the fact that I intended to stay as far away from such things as possible, it appeared to me to be no more than the usual rumblings of discontent. While I sent my best wishes to anyone who wanted to make life miserable for the Empire and its petty kings, I had no desire to get involved. The games of kings had nothing to do with me.

WOOOO, UPDATE!

Yes, that's just how intellectual I become after seeing you post here.



Bootiful. Tears of laughter.

Hey that happened to me once...the duck thing not the Bosmer...He almost but my oinky off.

Very nice Trey...I liked how you dealt with the elf, I'm very amused with your story, update soon.

Being savaged by a duck, what's odd about that? *Suddently remembers that not everyone present is Dutch*

HA HA HA a duck lol that really hit home(ish) becuse I just finished watching the pacifier with a duck that acts like a guard dog hilarious

The fight with the Bosmer was well written and detailed. I especially liked the reasoning of Trey thinking about his opponent, his own poor h2h skill, and why he had to stick to it.

As always a beautifully written update ~ I especially enjoyed the being savaged by a duck comment. Trey's adventures in Mournhold look set to equal, or even surpass, your previous opus

The money I had earned for my temporary services made a pleasant weight in my pack as I stepped out into the light rain. As I considered how to approach the problem of the Dark Brotherhood, a Nord loomed up out of the rain. I braced myself for another confrontation, wincing at the thought of adding still more examples to my collection of bruises. However, one look at this fellow’s eyes quickly convinced me that he was innocent of any ill-intent, was in fact, innocent of even the ability to plan violence. What he sought was not a fight, but a friend. He smiled shyly at me and said,

“You look like a nice man. Maybe you can help me find Dilborn. My friend Dilborn. He is gone for three days. I am sad.”

As his vacant eyes had signaled, this was one of those who are said to have been “touched by the gods.” With that realization, I relaxed and asked him to tell me his story. Perhaps I should have just moved on, but the sight of this poor fellow standing in the rain waiting for his friend was something I could not bear. He reminded me of a man from back in High Rock who had helped with the horses from time to time. Kennet had loved horses, even though one had kicked him in the head, rendering him forever child-like. He had also been one of my few friends. This man’s story was quickly told: Thrud, as he named himself, was friends with Dilborn, “a great wizard.” In addition to being a wizard, Dilborn read books to Thrud and took occasional trips down into the sewers- alone. He had gone into the sewers three days ago and not returned. Thrud wanted me to go and find him, which would make Thrud very happy. Though I did not really want to explore the sewers, I simply couldn’t ignore the appeal in the big man’s eyes. A friend who had read books to him…. If Dilborn really was a wizard, he could have easily lost track of time; scholars are often like that. It would probably just be a simple matter to nip down to the sewers, remind him of his obligations, and return. The sewers were accessed by means of a trapdoor set in the cobbles in the northwest section of the Godsreach district. I had, with some difficulty, convinced Thrud to let me go on alone. Although I hoped for a safe, simple trip, I did not wish to wager someone else’s life on my hope. If I would not take responsibility for a mercenary, a man who knew what he was doing, how much less I desired to have the well-being of this simple giant on my hands. Eventually, I used a piece of string to demonstrate the game of “Cat’s Cradle” to him. Leaving him deeply absorbed in the loops of string, I raised the trap and descended the ladder.

I cannot convey to you with words what the sewers of Mournhold were like. First, they were much larger than I had expected, stone-lined and cavernous. But the smell… To simply say that the sewers “smelled bad” is less than useless. I had lived in a stable for most of my life. I had dealt with the inevitable organic by-products of horses every day of that time. That material “smelled bad.” The miasma in the sewers of Mournhold was a physical, all-but-visible assault with a blunt object. I could only be thankful for the current rain, which served to wash away some of the worst material. Breathing as shallowly as I could, I surveyed the vaulted ceilings that disappeared into the gloom. Most of the light filtered in through the overhead grates; there were a few guttering torches spaced in such a way as to throw much of the area into deep shadow. Still worse were the constant echoing whispers and shuffling that came to my ears. Shaking off the effects of the assault on my senses, I tried to think logically. If Dilborn really was a wizard, he would almost certainly be carrying some sort of magical item or device. My innate ability to cast Beggar’s Nose would allow me to sense the direction and distance of any such enchantments. At least that was the plan. What the spell detected was at instead half-a-dozen possibly hostile creatures in close proximity. I really hoped they were rats, but the grunts and coughs that sounded from the archway ahead showed that to be a vain dream. Conjuring a bound longbow, I crept up to a turning in the underground labyrinth and tried to become one with the shadows as I peered around the corner. What I saw bid fair to turn my already blonde hair white…for it was a squad of goblins.

By the Nine! Goblins in Mournhold? How could this be? I realize that some who have led sheltered lives may not understand my shock, so let me explain. The goblins of Tamriel are not the mythic bogies of children’s stories, dispelled by shining a light into the dark places. They are relatives to the Orcs, fierce fighters who traveled in packs and used their inhuman strength to wield weapons that could do terrible damage. Moreover, they were supposed to be largely confined to the wild places of the land, such as the Dragontail Mountains. They most definitely had no business in the middle of the capital city of Morrowind. Thus the questions came- what were they doing here? And how had they gotten here with no one the wiser? Somehow I doubted that the goblins were in the mood for a round of twenty questions. And, whatever the answers might be, my course was clear- I had to get out of here…NOW! One goblin would give me a serious fight- six would soon be using my broken body in a tug-of-war. I turned to slip away…and kicked a pebble which went rattling merrily across the stone floor of the sewers.

DUHN DUHN DUHNNNNNN...Trey really stepped in it this time, Literaly.

Ah now Trey volunteer to help that poor Nord..hmm very nice of him, but then again who is he not to help someone that reads BOOKS .....mmmm wonderful installment as always.

I´ll quote a humorous line here that made me laugh:



Having played that part and met the wretched goblins, this was really amusing.

Thanks for posting your wonderful story treydog!!

Why hadn't I read this earlier? Okay, I'm all caught up with Trey and all I can say is, amazing. I've invented a new word to describe good RPs, and that word is Trey-esque.

goodjob trey. please keep up the good work.

I like how Trey decides to turn back when he discovers the pack of goblins. His decision and fear of them add to his believable character who isn't superhuman. Of course, the pebble rats on him and he will prevail but his intention to turn back is a nice touch.

Yes Trey, you do a wonderful job of making him feel human while keeping the reader interested in whats going on, very descriptive and great read as always.

Hehe i finished Tribunal last night, and those bloody Goblins were the most annoying thing i've fought so far. I used up sooooooooo many healing potions trying to stay alive

Anywho, great update Trey

Any hope that the noise had gone unnoticed was dashed by the hooting grunts of a goblin pack on the scent of prey. Forsaking stealth for speed, I took to my heels, desperately seeking the ladder that would take me to the surface and safety. Surely these creatures wouldn’t risk appearing in the manor district in daylight. The distance to the ladder seemed much longer than I remembered. What if I had passed it in the gloom? Although I knew better, I couldn’t help looking back. My fears were confirmed- a misshapen figure was hopping after me, covering great distances with each bound. It brandished a huge club, apparently fashioned from the femur of some beast out of a nightmare. The goblin’s wickedly curved fangs and sharp claws glistened in the torchlight, and its eyes stared at me hungrily. What madness possessed me in that moment, I cannot say, but I stopped running and faced my pursuer. For the moment, this goblin was alone- the others still gibbered and snarled around the bend of the corridor. It was not courage that caused me to stare down the foul beast; it was anger. I had no wish to be in Mournhold, or in these sewers, fleeing for my life. I had not asked to be set upon by the Dark Brotherhood or by goblins; all I wanted was to be left alone, to make my way in peace. But, if that was not to be, I refused to make it easy. Anyone who attacked me would know that they had been in a fight.

Calmly, I nocked an arrow to the ethereal string of my conjured bow and sighted on the point where the ungainly creature’s ugly head met its hunched shoulders. I drew a deep breath and released it, loosing the arrow at the same time. Hard behind the first arrow, I drew, nocked, and fired a second. Both flew true and the goblin collapsed in a boneless heap some 3 paces away from me. Still possessed by that unnatural calm, I turned to the ladder as several more goblins finally came into view. Dispelling the bow to free my hands, I began to climb. Just as I reached the trapdoor and pushed it open, I heard an explosive grunt from below and felt a clawed hand grab my left leg. One of the goblins had jumped for me and now sought to pull me back. Clinging to the top of the ladder with both hands, I could not draw a weapon or fight back in any way. My leg seemed to be on fire as the claws dug deeper and the goblin pulled still harder. As I struggled to hold on, I wondered which would be worse, losing my leg or simply being pulled down into the darkness. As my arms began to weaken, I sensed a shadow looming over me and seemed to hear a voice shouting, “No!” There followed a series of solid thumps, interspersed with snarls and yelps, then the grip on my leg loosened. I felt my body rising upward, even as my mind seemed to fall into a dark well and disappear without a splash.

When I woke, it was to find myself sheltered on the porch of a manor house, back propped against the wall, and my enthusiastically if inexpertly bandaged leg stretched in front of me. When the pain in that injured limb caused me to hiss involuntarily, a friendly voice spoke from behind,

“Hello, friend. You feel better now? Thrud made the bad green man go away. Thrud fixed your leg. Did you find Dilborn? Dilborn reads books to me. All the words.”

I turned my head to see Thrud, still engaged with the string I had given him, leaning comfortably against the wall. Beside him was a large oak stave with a splintered end- clearly the weapon he had used to fight off the goblin. Before trying to answer any of his questions or my own, I downed a restorative potion and felt the healing warmth immediately spread through my mangled leg. As the waves of pain receded, I was able to think more clearly, to remember what I had seen in those hectic moments beneath the streets. My wounded leg certainly proved that the goblins were real, but what else? The ones I had seen were largely dressed in scraps of rough cloth, but they also wore leather harnesses… and on those harnesses…. Yes. They had worn rank and clan badges, as well. That pointed to an organized band, rather than a small group of rogues or outcasts. And that meant that they were in Mournhold for some specific purpose, at someone’s bidding. Each answer I deduced presented more questions, the most significant of which was- what did I intend to do about this problem?

While I tried to come up with a coherent plan, I rummaged through my gear, giving my nervous hands something to do. Potions I had in plenty- mostly for healing, and a considerable number that provided levitation. Useless in Mournhold, at least according to the gossip I had heard- levitation did not work in the city. Some said that the restriction was a manifestation of Almalexia’s vanity- the goddess did not want anyone to ‘stand higher’ than she. But wait- that only applied to the city proper, not to the ruins of Old Mournhold…or the sewers. The sewers, with their high, vaulted ceilings…. The outline of a plan began to take shape in my mind.