Erm... big, scaly, lizard-head? No, definitely a Khajiit...




(runs off to do some editing)

Again, vivid and moving descriptions of Sudhendra's experiences. I really like the fact that, with her growing power, she reserves her anger for those who misuse power. She is compassionate to the corprus inmates and even to Yagrum, fussy elf that he is. And, as always, she refuses to rush off to do anyone's bidding- she will think and analyze first....

A good night’s sleep had worked wonders, especially as I hadn’t been afflicted by any odd dreams. I was even feeling slightly less ill-disposed towards Caius Cosades. Divayth was already hard at work in his study and didn’t seem to hear my parting words or my heartfelt thanks. I stepped outside and breathed the fresh air that was sweeping in over Zafirbel Bay and smiled. Opening the void, I directed the passageway to Balmora and stepped out into the main square. My excellent mood was soon to be shattered.

“I am being recalled,” Cosades said, throwing a handful of items into a large case. “Ostensibly it’s because of my ‘problem’ with Moon Sugar…” we both laughed. Despite the pipe and paraphernalia, I had never seen Cosades take so much as a stiff drink, let along ‘chase the Khajiit’. “I suspect, however, that the Emperor has another task for me. That means another Spymaster will be appointed to Vvardenfell in my place. Until then…

“Well, I am promoting you, effective immediately, to the rank of Operative. That makes you the ranking member of the Blades here on the island. I have some things I think you’ll need and some final orders. These garments and the ring, you might find handy. They all contain quite subtle enchantments that are difficult to detect. Oh, and here’s your pay, it’s not much I’m afraid but it should be useful.

“As for this old place,” he said, looking around, “the rental is paid until the end of next year so you might as well take the key. I fancy it’ll make a slightly more secure hideout than that Orc’s house. Now, my final orders…”

Cosades took a deep breath and I knew, in that moment, that he was sailing to an uncertain future and that he was certain that his days were numbered. “Speak to Mehra Milo,” he said, “and get your hands on copies of those lost prophecies. Milo is being watched by the Ordinators, who’ve long suspected that she has ties to the Dissident Priests. If she gets into trouble she will leave you a message addressed to ‘Amaya’.”

With unexpected suddenness, Caius Cosades stuck out his hand in the western fashion and, as we shook hands for what was to prove to be the final time, he said, “for what it’s worth, it has been a pleasure working with you Operative Vahl. I honestly believe that you are the Nerevarine…” And, with those words, he swung the pack onto his shoulder and strode out of the door. I sat a while in the now deserted bed-and-basket, sorting through my conflicting feelings. Part of me, the growing Telvanni part, was exultant. Part of me, the part that still clung to western values, was sorry to see him go.

But, sitting here feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Locking the door after me, I opened a new portal and stepped through it and onto the bridge that led to Vivec City’s Foreign Quarter. A gondolier took me from there around to the Arena and, from there; it was a fairly short walk through the crowds to the Temple. There was no sign of Mehra Milo in the library so I had to risk going to her personal quarters. The door was locked so, while the Ordinator was making his way down the stairs on his patrol, there was a silent flare of magic and the door swung open.

As I had feared, the room was remarkable for it’s lack of Milo. There was no sign of a struggle but there were a number of levitation potions on the bureau ~ sitting on top of a hastily written note. The note, addressed to Amaya, said that she had gone to the Ministry of Truth. Amaya is to speak to Alvela Saram, who is on duty outside the Ministry, and check that Milo is still there. Oh, and Amaya should remember to fetch those Divine Intervention scrolls from the Foreign Quarter. It was a childish code but it seems that the Ordinators hadn’t got around to searching Milo’s room yet. Let me make things a little more difficult for them…

Having removed the scrawled note and all traces of the levitation potions, I stood beside the door until I was certain the Ordinator was moving away and slipped out into the corridor. Returning outside, I took a few moments to consider what I should do. Far overhead loomed the floating rock that was the Ministry of Truth. Getting up there would be no problem, and I had a couple of Divine Intervention scrolls with me: no, the problem was going to be moving around inside.

Alvela Saram responded to the code word ‘Amaya’ with a start, frantically glancing around to make sure nobody could overhear us. Which, since we were several hundred feet above the Temple and standing on a bare wooden platform attached to the side of a floating rock, was pretty unlikely. “You’re here to rescue Mehra?” she asked.

Biting back a sarcastic response, I simply nodded. The worried looking female continued to speak. “There are some of us who are quite sympathetic to the cause but, if you kill anyone while you’re in there, you’ll loose what little sympathy you have. Now, Mehra’s being held in cell 6 on the upper level, I can’t give you the key to her cell but I can give you the key to the outer doors.”

“Turn around,” I said, unhooking my scabbard from my belt and holding it like a club.

“Why, what are you…” I cut short the woman’s rising voice by putting my finger to her lips. “Would you rather explain why you gave me the key if they catch me inside?” I asked. She shook her head, wide-eyed. Turning her back on me, she stood staring out at the horizon ~ right up to the moment I struck her across the back of the head with the hilt of my sword. She went down like a sack of Ash Yams. After quickly checking she was unconscious and safe, I quickly opened the outer door and stepped inside ~ coming face to face with an Ordinator.

“What are you doing here,” he asked, taking in my brown robe before adding, “Pilgrim?”

“I have some scrolls I wish to donate to the Brothers of Indoril,” I replied with a wide, disingenuous smile. Reaching into my pack, I withdrew the scroll case and fetched out a couple of scrolls.

“Let me take those,” the Ordinator said, stretching out his hand. Still smiling, I passed the scrolls to him and turned towards the door. A quick glance over my shoulder showed that the Ordinator had turned to take the scrolls into the office behind him. Swinging open the door, I fed magicka into the Shadow-Weave spell I’d constructed. Allowing the door to swing shut, I backed away from it as quietly as I could and made my way up the slope.

As silent as a shadow, wrapped in the gloom of this place, I flitted along the corridor and up to the door ~ which, quite naturally, proved to be locked. As quickly as I could, I constructed the form of Ondusi’s Lock-Breaker in my mind and, gripping the crude wooden door-handle, I pulse magicka into it. With a sound that seemed to reverberate through the whole construct, the lock shattered. I yanked open the door and slid through the smallest gap I could, pulling it closed behind me as the Ordinator’s footsteps sounded in the hallway behind me. A quick locking spell would hold the door firmly shut and prevent anyone from noticing that it had been magically opened ~ at least, until someone tried to open it with a key.

Dismissing that problem from my mind, I turned to the next: namely, how in the name of the Gods did I move through this place unnoticed. The Shadow-Weave would hold for a while longer, and I had ample reserves of magicka to feed it with, assuming I didn’t panic and make a mess of casting the spell. Ahead of me was an upward sloping passage. Since Alvela Saram had said that Mehra was being kept in the cells on the upper levels, up seemed a good idea.

Unfortunately, the direction up was filled with rather a lot of Ordinator coming down. Two of them to be exact and, in a hundred heart-beats they’d be on me. Struck by a sudden inspiration, I constructed the shadowy forms of a pair of wings in my mind and breathed life into them ~ scrambling upwards as quickly as I could. “What was that?” one of the Ordinators said, peering around uncertainly.

“What was what?” the other asked.

Pheeeww.....ok so now I can breathe again..even though you left us with that cliffie of Sud just floating around in the Ministry of Truth...over the heads of ordinatos....Oh how I remember playing that part.......really exciting!

Can´t wait to find out how she´s gonna get Mehra out.......

The scene with Caius Cosades and Sudhendra's part joy, part sadness about CC being recalled to Cyrodiil were nicely done.

English is not my native language so if I just don't understand the above quote, then I apologize; is 'along' supposed to be 'alone'?

Go for stealth and distractions...at least she didn'tdo the normal Pick-Up-A-Rock-And-Throw-It rutine.

"I could have sworn I saw something down there…”

“You’re imagining things,” his colleague said, “now hurry up, or we’re going to be late.”

I held my breath as the two guards walked underneath me as I hung up against the ceiling. With a wicked grin, I turned over so I was face-to-face with the dark rock and, feeding a little more power into the levitation spell, I crawled along the roof of the passageway like some invisible insect.

There was another door at the top of the passageway, and I allowed the two spells to dissipate as I stood in front of it. Quickly, I re-established the Shadow-Weave around myself before pulsing magic into the lock and shattering it. Behind it was the massive cavern that formed the heart of this floating rock.

Wooden decking stretched away in front of me, a series of platforms that descended to the lower third of the huge chamber. Around the edges of the chamber, and directly across the middle, ran walkways of the same wooden planking. I didn’t need to test it; I could hear the wood creaking as the Ordinator-Guards strolled around it in their assigned patrol patterns. Any attempt to sneak across the flooring would set up an awful row. It was frustrating, I could see Cell 6 from where I was standing and it would have been but the work of heartbeats to get to it. Well, I reasoned, if you can’t go across, you can always go up…

Sinking slowly towards the ground, I studied the lock on Mehra Milo’s cell. Carefully constructing the spell in my mind, I followed the guards’ patterns as they moved around the gantries. A few minutes later, I energised the spell, shattering the lock, while the guards were in the best positions not to notice. Moving quickly, all attempts at stealth abandoned, I swung the cell door open and stepped inside. A quick magical pulse barred the door ~ although anyone with the slightest skill with a lock pick or the ability to dispel spells would have it open in a heartbeat. Still, it would suffice.

“You!” Mehra Milo gasped as I allowed the Shadow-Weave to dissolve and dissipate.

“Yes, me,” I replied, opening the robe and fetching out the Divine Intervention scroll. “You were looking for one of these?”

“Thank you,” she said. “Listen, Cosades said someone would contact me about the Lost Prophecies. Speak to Blatta Hateria in Ebonheart. Tell her you want to go fishing and that I recommended her.” With that, Mehra unrolled the scroll and recited the words written on it. In a cloud of silvery sparkles she vanished from sight. Which left me standing in a cell in the Ministry of Truth. Not the ideal position for me to be in so I took care of that.

Stepping out of the Void in Ebonheart, I made my way down to the docks. Blatta Hateria was occupying the same spot on the docks as when I’d last seen her and her immediate reaction was, “whatever you want picked up from where-ever, find somebody else to do it, I’m busy.”

“That’s a shame,” I said, “since Mehra Milo said that you do some excellent fishing trips.” The woman looked at me sharply, and then gestured for me to climb aboard her ship. In minutes we were sea-borne and heading to the east along the coast. Hateria wouldn’t say where we were going, but she did say that it was likely to be a long voyage. With a shrug, I settled down in the prow of the skiff and promptly fell asleep.

“Wake up,” a voice said, interrupting my dream. “Wake up, you were dreaming. We’ve arrived…” I jerked awake, staring at Blatta Hateria with a startled look. I had been dreaming about my arrival in Vvardenfell and the eerie coincidence of her using the self-same words that Jiub had used made me shiver. She ushered me ashore, where I was met by a wisp of a Mer named Vevrana Aryon.

“Late,” he wheezed, looking at me myopically. “As in too. The monastery is closing up in a few minutes. Up the path, if you’re quick…” I turned and ran up the path he’d indicated, barely catching the words, “Milo’s in the library, with Master Barelo.” As I sprinted, I could hear a terrible grinding noise from overhead, the sound of stone against stone. Rounding the final bend of the path, I came to a clearing. There was no doorway, no sign of a monastery ~ just three walls of solid black rock rising up towards the sky.

“The portal only opens at dusk and dawn,” Aryon wheezed from behind me, making me jump. “Might as well settle down for the night.” He gave a broad grin, revealing two solitary teeth. “Me, I’m ready for a warm bed…” With that, he made a quick gesture and vanished in a swirl of purple light.

“Fine,” I snapped, addressing the empty air. “I’ll just wait out here shall I?” It was the work of a few moments to erect my tent and crawl inside.

lol! She got left outside. happened to me the first time too. i tried to go train but i got lost and got back after dark...i had to wait another day.

Great writing as always. Good description of her conflicted feelings about Caius. I also like the fact that she gets stuck outside the Dissident Priests' hideout- everything doesn't always go right, no matte how powerful one becomes.

Dawn greeted me with the same terrible grating of stone on stone. I was just in time to see a huge section of the cliff finish rising up like half-a-Kollop, revealing a short passageway. Realising that I would have very little time, I quickly bundled my tent back together and walked down to the ornate metal door at the end of the passage. It swung open at my touch and I stepped inside.

I found myself in a huge vaulted chamber, the walls rising high overhead and sloping inwards to create a vast area. In the centre of the area was the traditional votive pit of the local religion, while, high overhead, various brightly coloured banners depicting the Travels of Saint Veloth and other scenes of religious significance fluttered in the slight breeze. Approaching the lone priest, I enquired after Milo Mehra. “You will find her downstairs in the library Sed,” he replied, pointing towards the right-hand passageway.

“Sed Vahl,” Milo said, bowing her head in a sign of respect, “I never got a chance to thank you for rescuing me. Please, if there is anything I can do?”

“Actually, there is,” I replied. “I am looking for information on the Seven Visions and the Lost Prophecies.”

“Then you have come to the right place,” she said. Turning to a wizened old Mer, she introduced him. “This is Gilvas Barelo, the foremost expert on the Ashlander prophecies and religion.”

“What do you wish to know, young Dunmer?” Barelo quavered. Taking out my travelling inkpot and quill, I spread some parchment on the table as he and I sat.

“Why don’t you start by telling me why you are called ‘Dissident Priests’?” I said.

“We are loyal to the Temple, let me make that clear from the outset,” the ancient Mer replied. “However, we fear that the Sharmat, Dagoth Ur, draws his power from the same source as Ayem, Seht, and the Lord Vehk. There is some unease, for it seems that the Tribunal are weakening and, as they do, the Sharmat grows stronger.”

“The Sharmat, Dagoth Ur?” I asked.

“The dark heart of our religion,” he said apologetically. “For countless millennia, the Tribunal has kept him trapped, locked behind the GhostFence where he and his Corprus beasts could do little harm. Several centuries ago, a large force of Ordinators was sent to Ghostgate, they remain there still. And, but a decade ago, their forces were bolstered by the addition of a large contingent of Buoyant Armigers.” He paused, and Milo Mehra quickly poured him some water from a pitcher as he coughed into his hand. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, faith remained strong in the Tribunal while the Sharmat was contained. Now, even with the forces arrayed at the Ghostgate, travellers and nearby towns are beset by Corprus beasts, and faith falters. We believe that there is a saviour, the Nerevarine that the Ashlanders foretell, that will save us all. Unfortunately, the Temple feels that we should all be united in one belief at this time.”

“So,” I said, half to myself, “Dagoth Ur is responsible for Corprus.” Barelo nodded in confirmation. “Then how do the Lost Prophecies fit into this?”

Gilvas Barelo made a gesture to Milo and she scurried off, returning a few seconds later with a scroll, which she placed in front of Barelo. “This is a copy of the original prophecy, along with our annotations. We have struggled for quite some time to decipher the prophecy and our notes represent our best… guesses. In short, it says that An Outlander, welcomed as a guest, will confront the seven curses beneath Red Mountain. The Nerevarine’s hand, blessed by Azura, will wield the cursed blade, bringing justice to House Dagoth, House Dwemer, or both.”

He coughed again and sipped more water before continuing, “the prophecy specifically states that the Nerevarine will be an outlander. That would not sit well with the Ashlanders, many of whom hate and revile them. It could well explain, however, how the prophecy was lost. Please, take the scroll and our notes, they may help you unravel this mystery.”

“Will confront the curses?” I asked, “Do you know what that means?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. “There’s a notation about the seven curses on the scroll you have. The first curse is the curse of fire, the second ~ the curse of Ash, the third is the curse of flesh… and so on. Quite what it means we do not know.”

“Our best guess,” Mehra said, interrupting, “is that fire and ash have something to do with Red Mountain, Corprus is the curse of flesh. We don’t know what is meant by ‘Despair’, ‘Ghosts’, and ‘Seed’, but we think the curse of dreams has something to do with the plague of nightmares that are keeping people awake.”

“Thank you Milo,” Barelo said with a degree of asperity. “There is little more we can tell you,” he said, “but I have some books here that give various accounts of what happened at Red Mountain you may find useful.”

“The lost prophesy mentioned something about how the Nerevarine’s hand would be blessed by Azura. And something about a cursed blade?”

“These are secrets hidden from us at this time,” Gilvas Barelo replied. “Although, the Heirographa does make mention of the Moon-And-Star being born by the Nerevarine. However, this is hopelessly cryptic: the emblems of Azura are born by the Brothers of Indoril and the reference could mean anything. Although the Heirographa is adamant on one point: the Moon-And-Star are deadly to anyone other than the Nerevarine.”

I sat, the midday meal uneaten in front of me, and tried to make some sense of what I had learned. The details were bewildering to say the very least. One thing was very certain though, I needed to get this information to Nibani Maesa ~ perhaps she would have more luck in making sense of it than I could. Since I had never reset my Mark, I had a quick way out of Holamayan that didn’t require me to wait until dusk. “Ut locus Ego eram pro,” I said. The air darkened around me and I was suddenly standing at the edge of the Urshilaku Camp.

Nibani Maesa sat and listened as I told her of my experiences in Ilunibi and the effect that Divayth’s ‘cure’ had had. She was, quite naturally, sceptical but when I spent a while with a diseased Scrib without contracting the Yellow Tick it was infected with, she was convinced. “This is most disconcerting Sudhendra Vahl,” she said. “You have fulfilled three of the criteria that indicate you are the Nerevarine. I must study the prophecies that you have recovered and consult with the Ancestors through dream to understand this. Return to me when the moons have passed and I shall speak with you again.”

Bowing low, I took my leave of the Urshilaku Wise-Woman and stepped outside into the gathering coolness of the afternoon. There were a couple of things I wished to do before I retired for the night, and one of them was something I wasn’t looking forward too.

“But Sed Vahl,” Edward said, taking a step back and raising his hands defensively, “I swear that was the first time I have spoken with Cosades.” I had warped into Sadrith Mora and swept into the Telvanni Council Hall, ordering the other Mouths to leave me alone with Edward Theman. Then I had asked him how he had happened to get in touch with Caius Cosades. “A message arrived, saying that you were afflicted with Corprus,” he continued. “I’d heard that the Lord Fyr was working on a cure and that he thought he was close… So, I sent a message back saying this Cosades should contact the Lord Fyr. I swear Sed Telvanni Vahl, that’s all there was to it.”

I looked at him silently for a while, and then nodded. “Very well, I believe you Edward,” I said softly. “But if I ever hear the slightest rumour that you’ve been speaking to anyone from the Empire again… Well, it would be wise to remember that I am Telvanni.” I watched him turn pale, and he nodded. I didn’t need to speak the threat; just the reminder of who I was was sufficient. Smiling at him, I praised his quick thinking.

There was one last task that I wished to perform before I took my leave of Vvardenfell. Returning to Tel Vahl, I instructed Kallin Basalius to be on her guard. “I am likely to be in conflict with the Temple,” I explained. “It’s unlikely that the Temple will make a move against us here but I just thought I’d warn you.”

“No worries Sed Vahl,” Kallin said with a grin. “I’ve got some surprises planned for anyone fool enough to take us on here.”

“Unpleasant ones I hope,” I replied.

“Oh yeah,” she said with a truly evil grin. I grinned back and took myself off to Ebonheart. From there I had Asciene Rane teleport me back to Mournhold. Why there? It is simple enough to understand. Given the way that news travels on Vvardenfell, it was only a matter of time before my investigation into the cult of the Nerevarine and the Lost Prophecies became known to the upper echelons of the Temple hierarchy. When that happened, I was likely to be excommunicated and marked as a heretic.

If you’re looking for a heretic, what is the last place that you’d look? Right: the heart of a religious enclave on the mainland wouldn’t exactly be high on the list of likely sites to check. Besides, as far as I was aware, I was the only person who’d managed to arrange travel between Vvardenfell and the rest of Morrowind province. That meant I could spend a little less time worrying about Temple assassins and a little more time worrying about what was going on.

Things like: how long did Maesa mean when she said ‘when the moons have passed’? I had thought that she meant a month, but that seemed a rather long time to be communing with ancestral spirits. Perhaps I will wait a few days and then return to the Urshilaku Camp? There were other concerns too ~ like what part was I playing in the Nerevarine Prophesy? I still had a hard time believing that I was some Dunmeri general that had been resurrected, despite the (admittedly circumstantial) evidence that seemed to be building around me. Still, sitting and brooding on things I have no control over seemed a particularly fruitless exercise.

Clever Sudhendra! When I played this I had not the option of going to Mournhold because i had no expansions installed..

Hehe but now i have mmmmmm reading this makes me wanna do those quests once again....

Daybreak saw me back on Vvardefell and travelling up to Maar Gan by silt-strider. Since there was every chance that I was soon to be excommunicated and named Heretic, there were certain tasks that I wished to perform before the simple act of walking into a Temple was tantamount to committing suicide. Once of those tasks involved the… liberation of a Propylon Index from the Temple at Maar Gan for Folms Mirel. Wrapping myself in a Shadow-Weave, I slipped into the Temple behind some pilgrim and helped myself to the small nub of greyish-coloured stone. Like the others that I had acquired, there was nothing inherently magical about the stone sliver. Silent as a wind, I drifted out of the Temple behind one of the priests as he went about his daily business, dropping the Falasmaryon Index into my pouch as I did so.

Since I was in the area, I made my way back to Ald’ruhn. “Excuse me,” I said to one of the guards, “but do you know where the Mamaea caves are?” the guard seemed disposed to speak to me and gave me directions to Mamaea. “What’s going on over there?” I asked, pointing to a procession of robed and grave looking figures that were milling around outside ‘The Rat In The Pot’.

“Some Breton,” the guard replied. “Name’s Beauchamp I think. So far he’s come down with just about every disease it’s possible to get ~ some of ‘em he’s had twice. Every healer for miles around is trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. Seems that, every time one of them cures him of whatever disease he’s got, he immediately gets another.” I grinned, Louis Beauchamp should have known better than to pin his hopes of popularity on an artefact called The Amulet of Infectious Charm.

As I left Ald’ruhn I reflected that such pleasant conversations were likely to become things of the past. I was already unpopular with those in Hlaalu-controlled territory for my part in the Council Club killings. The religiously orthodox Redorans were unlike to view me with friendly eyes if I followed my current course.

Mamaea: I’d finally arrived at the location the Redoran guard had marked on my map after a brief detour into the Salothren Ancestral Tomb. The warped wooden door covering the cave entrance creaked open when I pushed, opening out into a small chamber. The smell, and the red candles, told me immediately what sort of problem that Hassour Zainsubani had run into.

I didn’t have much time to take in my surroundings, one of the ‘Sleepers’, those naked and crazed Dunmeri that have fallen into the foul clutches of the Sixth House Cult, had been guarding the door opposite the cavern entrance. Now he was running towards me with evil in his heart and a nasty-looking spiked club in his hand. The Last Wish, never far from my grasp, dropped out of the loops that held it to my belt as the Dunmer closed. Twisting to the side, I avoided the downward blow from the club, drawing the Wish in a cruel blow across his stomach.

With an agonised scream, the Dunmer dropped the club and sank to his knees, blood and guts leaking from the mortal wound I’d dealt. With a quick prayer to whoever, or whatever, might be listening, I spun and hammered the axe into the back of the Sleeper’s head, crushing his skull and putting him out of his misery. Now I could take stock of my surroundings…

The pale, yellowish walls of the chamber stretched ahead of me, a crude wooden door at the end of the passage I was in. from this passage, a number of smaller branches led downwards into lower levels. From these, strange moans and cries emanated, echoing around the cave. I shivered, not liking this one little bit. Other Sixth House bases I had visited were full of woe and melancholy converts to the cult but there was something else here: a miasma of evil, of ancient power and madness that filled the place like an invisible fog.

Although the door opposite beckoned welcomingly, I was loathe to leave the chambers and halls of this level unexplored ~ mainly for fear of what would be lurking behind me if I needed to make a hasty exit. With trepidation, I descended the nearest slope.

The wooden platforms that lined the small cave I discovered at the end of the slope confirmed that this had, indeed, once been a working mine ~ although I could see no trace of any minerals in the soft, yellow rock. Of more immediate concern was the tendril-faced ghoul that was scanning the cave from atop the ramp ~ whatever sense it possessed that replaced sight aware of an intrusion. Stepping back, I took what cover I could find behind one of the massive wooden beams that supported the roof, fumbling at my pack for the crossbows.

The ‘click’ as the bow-string locked into place seemed as loud as thunder and I quickly slotted a bolt into place. A quick glance around the wooden beam showed me that the ghoulish creature had heard my preparations and was now scanning the lower chamber with care. As it partially turned away from me, I stepped out of cover and levelled the crossbow. There was a sudden flurry of movement and the creature gave a high-pitched whine as the silver-tipped bolt slammed into its chest, hammering it off its feet.

I stalked the profusion of chambers and tunnels of Mamaea’s upper level, dispensing death to the Sleepers, Zombies, and Ghouls that infested the place. Once I was reasonably sure that I had cleared the area, I made my way back up the sloping tunnel and to the door. It was unlocked and opened easily under my touch.

There were more tunnels beyond the door, filled with the degenerate and misshapen adherents of this foul cult. With mounting horror and fury, I cleansed the caverns and passageways of their filth ~ unmutated Dunmeri Sleeper and grossly misshapen Ghoul alike. From one chamber, nearby, I could hear a Meric voice, shouting for help. Hacking my way past yet another sleeper, I rushed up to the barred gate that blocked my way. I had no time or patience for magic…

“Who are you?” the young Dunmer gasped as I kicked open the door to the chamber he was trapped in.

“Hassour Zainsubani?” I asked, receiving a quick, confirmatory nod in reply. “Your father wishes to hear from his son and heir.”

“Thank Azura,” he gasped, clutching my arm. “I’ve been down here ages, a prisoner of those... those… things! Can we get out of here?” he asked in a pleading tone.

“The way back should be clear,” I said, hefting the Wish meaningfully, “but I can’t guarantee it. Stick close behind me, and keep up.” There was a roar from deeper in the caves and I saw the fear in the young Mer’s eyes. “Hassour,” I snapped, attracting his attention, “we are leaving. Now.” Yanking open the door I’d recently opened, I held it as Hassour gathered himself and then raced off through the tunnels back towards the surface. From behind me I could hear the soft patter of the Dunmer’s shoes on the pale rock as he raced along behind me.

There was another roar, this time from somewhere ahead ~ where the tunnels dipped down into the lower depths again ~ and this time there was no mistaking it for an animal. Man or Mer (or what remained of one), it was trying to get between the entrance and us. “Faster,” I urged, picking up the pace. We reached the top of the sloping tunnel and raced along the passageway; strange, flickering shadows moving at the other end of the tunnel where it descended again.

“Go, go!” I screamed as the bestial sounding roar echoed through the chambers again. Flat out, panting from the exertion, we raced up the next set of tunnels towards the entrance. I was just starting to think that we’d make it when a strange figure stepped out of the shadows of the other tunnel. Slapping Hassour on the back, I shoved him towards the short passageway that led out of this foul shrine. “Quickly now Hassour,” I said, drawing Chrysamere from the sheath on my back, “this is a foe beyond your ability to fight. See you outside.”

As the youth raced for the entrance, I turned and faced the Corprus creature that had entered this chamber. Tall and pale-skinned, it bore no trace of the usual deformities that afflicted those infected with Corprus ~ although the skin was covered with rough, flaky spots, indicating that the disease was well advanced. It was impossible to tell whether this had been man or Mer, the whole of the being’s head was encased in a strange red mask. Bland, undistinguished features covered the face while a wide rim surrounded the head. “What, exactly, are you?” I asked.

“Death,” the figure hissed, raising its hands. I saw the formation of the spell, motes of arcane energy forming between the outstretched fingers and was moving ~ diving to the side ~ even as the spell was cast. The black sphere of magical energy slapped into the rock where I’d been standing, and then exploded with massive force. Blinking, I saw the figure turn towards me, more dark energy sparkling between its hands.

“Want to play, eh?” I said, wiping the blood from my face as I rose to my feet. Leaving the Paladin’s Blade where it had fallen, I extended a hand in the direction of the masked figure and said, “chan annwfn s fferedig asgre.”

The spell ripped the fine dust from the floor of the cave, whipping it into a swirling column of lambent energy as the focused spell made the temperature in the chamber drop. I gasped, feeling the heat being leeched from my body as the air thickened, a thin sheen of ice forming on the cave walls. Cutting off the magicka-flow, I allowed the spell to dissipate before it reached full power. There was a something glimmering in the midst of the still swirling dust.

“Death,” the masked figure intoned, stepping out of the now settling dust ~ the faint shimmer of an arcane shielding spell surrounding its body. Stooping, I grabbed Chrysamere and swung. There was a flicker of light as the blade bisected the field, and then the blade bit deep into the figure’s right arm. With a hiss, the creature jerked away ~ thin, reddish fluid leaking from the deep wound. “Alright,” I said, hefting the sword and squaring up to the figure. The creature seemed to be immune to magic but the bite of a physical weapon unnerved it. “Let’s dance,” I suggested, slicing the blade in a crosscut.

The masked figure howled as the blade sliced a furrow across its chest, more of the reddish fluid oozing out of the wound. I gasped, feeling the bite of Chrysamere’s magic as the creature’s innate reflection abilities deflected some of the magic. Deadly though the Paladin Blade was, under these circumstances it was likely to be deadlier by far to me than to my enemy. Stabbing out with the blade, I made the masked creature dance backwards a step or two ~ giving myself a narrow margin of time where I could drop the Chrysamere and draw the twin silver blades.

The creature watched the spinning, whirling blades as I spun them quickly, then it lunged forwards ~ clawed hands aflame with magical energy as it sought to grapple with me. Quickly I danced back out of it’s reach, the flat of the left-hand blade deflecting one clutching hand while the right-hand blade whickered through the air, neatly severing a couple of fingers from the creature’s right hand. The creature pulled back and made an odd howling sound before hissing an alien phrase.

Black fire engulfed me, a stinging reminder of Ilunibi. But the agonising pain failed to materialise and I laughed in the creature’s face as realisation hit me. “You can’t give me Corprus,” I sang, slashing a thin line across the creature’s extended palms, “I’ve already got it!”

Exultation goes before a fall, they say. If I ever meet ‘them’ I’ll have to thank them for stating the obvious. My gleeful response enraged the being and it lashed out with a spell. I screamed, feeling the bones of my body bending unnaturally as the powerful cantrip tore at me. There was a snapping sound and a flare of exquisite agony ~ the silver blade dropping from a suddenly useless left hand. Crushing down the desire to sag against the wall and howl in misery, I snapped a heel-kick at the creature’s knee as it advanced, feeling the strange cartilage creak under the force of the blow.

Gripping the hilt of my one remaining blade, I stepped close as the creature let out a howl and drove my bunched fist repeatedly into the juncture between the mask and the naked torso. Again and again I drove my bunched fist into the creature’s throat, ignoring the claws that tore and ripped at my flesh. Wheezing, the creature stepped back: giving me exactly the opening I required. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I drove the silver blade upward, catching the creature just below the breastbone. There was a crunching sound as the mutated cartilage-like bone split across the razor-sharp edge of the Nordic blade, the creature making an odd whooping sound as it’s steaming guts poured out and splashed onto the hard rock floor.

As it tried to stuff it’s innards back into the oozing cavern of it’s body, I slashed the blade across, severing the jugular and releasing a flood of thin red ichors. Its hold on the Mundus gone, the soulless creature screamed and collapsed in a shower of blackened bone and grey, ash-like flakes. And not a moment too soon: with a scream of my own, I slumped back against the rock of the cave wall, sobbing as broken bone grated on broken bone. With trembling fingers, I pulled a silvery flask from my pack and drank deeply.

“Gods Burning,” Hassour exclaimed as I staggered from the cave-mouth, slightly light-headed from the effects of the healing potion, “what in Oblivion’s name was that thing?”

“I have no idea,” I said truthfully, dropping the powerfully magical ring I’d taken from amidst the ashes into my pouch, “some servant of Dagoth Ur I guess.”

“Then the old tales are true,” he said, sitting heavily on a nearby mattock of grass. “I thought them but tales my father told to scare me when I was younger. Is it…”

“Dead?” I finished for him. “I sincerely hope so,” I added. “Listen, your father is at the Ald Skar Inn in Ald’ruhn and I think he’d really, really like to see you about now.”

“Then that is where I am headed,” Hassour said. “Mamaea, unfortunately, proved to have too many dangers for me to gather much by way of profitable resources. However, should you be back in Ald’ruhn, I am sure my father will wish to pay his respects.”

We parted amicably and I returned to Tel Vahl for the night ~ I didn’t particularly want to repeatedly use the same lodgings night after night. Call me paranoid if you like but, as any Telvanni will tell you, you’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you. And I was rapidly acquiring an impressive set of people who wouldn’t shed a tear if I were to die suddenly ~ the other Great Houses, the Mages Guild, the Camonna Tong, the Dark Brotherhood, Dagoth Ur, Duke Vedam Dren, the would-be King Helseth… They say you can judge someone by the worth of their enemies. On that basis I must be worth a fortune.

I had every intention of travelling up to the Urshilaku Camp today: a brisk walk through the eastern Molag Amur and up into the Grazelands. From there up to Vos and around the coast to the Urshilaku Camp ~ camping overnight if necessary. I figured that following this route would make it harder for my enemies to track me down. Of course, that was before I reached Yansirramus, a Daedric Shrine.

Deciding, on a whim, to explore the ruins, I quickly found myself embroiled in combat with a couple of Breton mages. Dealing with them wasn’t too hard ~ in fact, it’s a measure of my growing prowess that I barely broke a sweat whilst dealing with the two of them. The shrine was empty of anything of value save the few cheap trinkets the mages carried and, other than the glowering statue of Molag Bal, seemed a fairly safe place to get a little rest. The fight with the mages had made me feel oddly tired, despite the fact that I hadn’t had to expend much energy in dealing with them.

“Mortal, hear my words,” the white-robed figure said, “I am sore vexed.” In that odd way that you always seem to know, the flood of fear that washed over me at these words told me that this was nothing more than a dream. “Be not afraid,” the figure continued, turning to face me. As it stepped closer I realised just how massive this figure was, “for ‘tis not thee that has angered me. ‘Tis mine Minion, Menta-Na. He hath grown lazy and complacent and no longer does my bidding. I charge thee, mortal, to teach Menta-Na the error of his ways. Go thou now to his dungeon in Kora-Dur and send his shrivelled soul screaming to the Nether Wastes where I may further instruct him in the error of his way.”

I woke with a start, blinking at my surroundings. Grumbling, I picked up my pack and went towards the entrance. “Do not forget, Mortal,” the statue of Molag Bal said in a thunderous voice, “Go now to Kora-Dur ~ lest my wrath fall upon thee instead of Menta-Na.”

Needless to say, I left Yansirramus at some speed, the voice of the Daedric Prince echoing in my ears. I had no idea where this Kora-Dur place was, Molag Bal hadn’t said and I sure as Oblivion wasn’t going to ask. I was beginning to rue the day I’d read that accursed book, Daedric Shrines of Importance. It seems that, ever since I first took it from Batou’s hiding place, the Daedric Princes can address me at will.

As I pondered this, I came to a small bay where the Grazelands and the Molag Amur came close together. There, amidst the growths of Muck, was a door: the cartouche read “NAMMU”. I was intrigued by this since, as far as I understood the local language, Nammu meant No-Name or Nameless. A nameless cavern in the middle of nowhere ~ my curiosity was aroused.

My entrance into the caverns aroused one of the guards, a Redguard clad in steel armour. We glared at each other, then he launched his attack ~ a pity, then, that the fireball that engulfed him spoiled his little game. There were others within this nameless cavern and, I’m sad to say, that not a one of them was pleased to see me. These were little more than minions though, what the legion callously refers to as Magic-Fodder. The well dressed battle-mage who launched a ferocious attack on me from the wooden platform was a different matter.

With a cry of “eep”, I dived for cover as a fusillade of thunderous detonations echoed around the cavern. Fireball after fireball slammed into the pylon of rock that was providing my shelter and, I swear, I could feel the aeons-old stone groaning under the impact. As soon as the barrage stopped, I snapped a hand around the cover and fired off a few fireballs of my own. I wasn’t hoping to hit anything; I just wanted to provide a little covering fire while I moved. Having got into position, I quickly withdrew my hand ~ and not a moment too soon, the salvo of fireballs that slammed into the rocky spire I was hiding behind made the previous onslaught look like a few parlour-tricks.

Not that I cared: I now had access to my pack and, much more importantly, the wooden scroll case that was inside. Quickly sorting through the scraps of rolled parchment, I came upon the one I wanted. As the fireballs started to slow, I spoke the words on the scroll I had selected: Fi Angen Ben Blaen Llong. Instantly, the scroll was replaced with a shimmering and ethereal longbow. Knocking an arrow, I stepped from cover as the last fireball blew tiny shards from the rock, aiming and firing in one smooth movement. It was a beautiful shot, one I probably couldn’t repeat: the steel arrow flew straight and true ~ punching a bloody hole in the mage’s chest, the impetus of the blow driving him back against the balustrade where he teetered for several seconds.

As the corpse of the Battle-Mage splashed into the water far below, I heard a voice singing. Scrambling up the ladder to the platform that surrounded the central rock, I came face to face with a Redguard. “Greetings yabancı,” he said, pleasantly enough. “I don’t think Galmis Dren will be happy to see you here.”

“Galmis Dren?” I said, “Dunmeri, long black beard, about this high?” The Redguard nodded. “Well, he’s currently feeding the fishes, if there are any down there,” I said, looking over the railing at the water far below.

The Redguard grinned, holding up manacled hands, “that’s good news my friend, for I feared that you would end up like me. I had the misfortune to enter these cave ~ Dren stripped me of everything valuable and chained me here ~ I suspect he was looking for ransom.

“Tell me,” the pleasantly smiling Man continued, “do you happen to have a scroll of Divine Intervention that I could borrow?” Opening my pack, I fetched out the dark-wood case and drew out one of the Divine Intervention scrolls that Caius had given me. The man smiled as I held the scroll out to him. “That is most kind yabancı, allow me to give you these small tokens of Jon Hawker’s gratitude. May the Nine smile upon you and all that you do.”

I looked at the well-made red gloves the stranger had given me before he had used the scroll to escape from this cave. They were of exceptionally high quality, with delicate designs worked into the deep red leather. And that was not all, each of the gloves sang with a pure magical tone, indicating that they possessed some very high-grade enchantments. Which was very, very odd: if Galmis Dren had stripped Jon Hawker of everything of value, how had the Redguard kept a hold of these gloves?

The loss of the Divine Intervention scroll was more than offset by the treasures I found in Nammu. I found a large number of swords, including some blades that already had long tales wrapped around their history: The Blade of Doom, Dragon-Slayer, and The Elven Master Sword. In addition, I also found an Apprentice scroll, an Ioun Jaga-stone, and a whole pile of Divine Intervention scrolls. Rather bemused by this turn of events, I left the cavern and continued north, stopping at nightfall to set up my tent.

cool!! Ha "i've already got it!" That was good. I hope you make more soon.

I wasn’t overly surprised at the conversation I had with Nibani Maesa when I arrived at the Urshilaku camp this morning. “Greetings Sudhendra Vahl,” the Wise-Woman said, offering me a seat and a tisane. “The ancestors were most specific when I spoke with them,” she continued once we were settled. “You, Sudhendra Vahl, have been chosen to follow the path of the incarnate ~ great powers are settling around you, guiding and shaping your destiny. And I, for my part, have been chosen to be your guide on your journey to become the Nerevarine and the ultimate defeat of the Sharmat, Dagoth Ur.”

“But surely that’s a job for a… a hero,” I protested. “Not for somebody like me, an orphaned stranger who’s just trying to make her way in the world?”

“Do you think that heroes are born heroes?” Nibani asked, peering at me through the steam that rose from her mug. “Did Trey of High Rock plan on being a hero when he broke Jager Tharn? Did the Cyrodiil Serene plan on being a hero when she went to Stros M’Kai? When Sel captured the BattleSpire, was it because he was born a hero, or by happenstance? Heroes are not born Sudhendra Vahl; they are forged by their deeds, known by their accomplishments, made heroes by what they achieve ~ not through some accident of birth.

“By accident, or design,” she continued, “you were born under the sign of the Apprentice, the same sign that Indoril Nerevar was born under, nor did you ever know your parents ~ exactly as it was foretold the Reborn would be. By accident, or design, you contracted and were cured of a disease that leaves you immune to all disease and old age ~ exactly as it says in the second of the Seven Visions. Whether you wish it or not, your feet were set on this path long ago. Whether you wish to follow the path to its ultimate conclusion or fall by the wayside is all the choice you have in this matter.”

I argued, I raved, I banged my fist on the table ~ Nibani simply sat and smiled serenely through my outbursts ~ calmly and succinctly answering my questions and dismantling my arguments. When I had finished, she spoke again. “The Third Vision says that the Nerevarine, the Incarnate, will bear the mark of Azura, the Moon-And-Star. I cannot help you in this quest but Sul-Matuul will. Go and speak to him and, when you have completed the Third Trial, you and I shall speak more of that which has to be done.”

“Nibani believes you to be the Incarnate,” Sul-Matuul said when I staggered into his yurt. “Me, I am not so sure. Still, the Wise-Woman wishes that I put you to the Third Trial and that is what I shall do, and I shall keep my own council. Before that, however, you will perform the Warrior’s Test and that will satisfy me that you are, indeed, worthy of the honour Nibani Maesa offers you, for the ways of the Wise-Women are not the way of the Warrior.

“West and south of here lies the ancient fortress of Kogoruhn… I see from your expression that you have knowledge of this place. That is good, for Kogoruhn houses the ancient halls of House Dagoth. You will travel there and return bearing three tokens as evidence. The first is Corprus Weepings, which you will find in abundance given the infestation of Kogoruhn. Secondly, you will bring me a plate or a cup bearing the device of House Dagoth. Finally, you shall bring me the Shadow Shield.”

Sul-Matuul grinned and I felt a twinge of unease. “It may be that two of these tokens are easy to find ~ few travel to Kogoruhn, fewer still return and the ruins have not been disturbed for many years. I, myself, led a troop of warriors there many years ago. We were strong of heart, proud, and we were going to bring death and destruction to the pestilence of House Dagoth. We fled that place like children fleeing from a hungry Alit.”

“If you’re trying to put me off,” I said, licking my lips, “you’re doing a damn’ good job.”

Ignoring my comment, Sul-Matuul continued, “However, the Shadow Shield lies in the tomb of Dagoth Morin, itself hidden amidst the lava tunnels deep beneath Kogoruhn. Bring me these three tokens, prove to me that you are a warrior worthy of being the Nerevarine, and I shall tell you of the Third Trial.”

“Wait,” I gasped as Sul-Matuul stood, “you mean I’ve got to do all that and then the Third Trial?”

“Are you about to say that that isn’t fair?” Sul-Matuul asked. I had been about to say that but the look on Sul-Matuul’s face told me what answer I would get. “Then listen and I shall tell you how to reach Kogoruhn from here.”

With a few additional supplies ~ mostly dried crabmeat and Kwama eggs ~ I set off for Kogoruhn. Sul-Matuul’s directions proved to be excellent, following the narrow canyons that led west from the Urshilaku camp led me to the large open wastes of the northern Molag Amur. Taking my directions from the lodestone, I headed towards Valenvaryon.

I lay atop the dune overlooking the flattened top of Valenvaryon. As I’d scrambled up the opposite slope, I had heard the deep bark of Orcish voices and now lay in the shadow of a large rock, overlooking the crude statue of Malacath that had been raised in the middle of the fort. An Orcish shaman, resplendent in a feathered headdress and long cloak, was howling the syllables of some Orcish chant ~ the spear in his hand spluttering and sparking with the magical discharge.

Sliding back down the far side of the dune, I took the long way around ~ skirting the ancient Resdayni fortress and sticking to the leeward side of the huge ash mounds to minimise my chance of being seen. Of course, my detour meant that I came much closer to the second waypoint than I’d intended. With a bloodcurdling scream, the cultist leapt out from behind a rock and swung a crude axe at me. With a fairly bloodcurdling yell of my own, I dived out of the way, crashing down on the rough, gritty surface and rolling to get some distance.

Sul-Matuul hadn’t discouraged me from carrying a full compliment of weapons, saying that a warrior should always be prepared. The rasp of the Clanbringer sliding from its scabbard was proof that I was well prepared. The cultist, now at a major disadvantage because of the disparity between the lengths of the weapons, took one half-hearted swing at me and then ran screaming for the entrance to the Ebernanit Shrine. Given the importance of what I was doing, following the cultist into the depths of the Daedric ruin would be a foolish move.

However there were other considerations. This desolate area of ash-choked wasteland would make a superb location for a Telvanni tower and the reactions of House Redoran when they woke one morning to discover a Telvanni stronghold overlooking their territory should provide a little amusement. And I could hardly send a new Master here with an inhabited Daedric shrine nearby. I mean, what if they had some powerful relic that he got his hands on?

The obscenely carved oval door ground open and I carefully stepped into the gloomy interior: Clanbringer had been returned to its sheath, now replaced by the smaller, deadlier Nordic twin blades. Directly ahead of me, a long staircase descended deeper into the gloom and I could hear a couple of excited voices echoing up the stairwell. Since stealth was not an option, I cast a small cantrip upon myself ~ a simple warding spell that I had picked up in my travels. I gasped as I felt the life-force thunder into me and grinned, almost intoxicated by the feeling of strength and health that suffused my being. Magically amplifying my voice, I yelled, “Ready or not, here I come!”

The cultist who’d taken a swing at me was at the back of the shrine, frantically struggling into some rather rusty looking steel armour while a robed mage swirled the precursor to a fireball between his hands. Infused with rather more energy and strength than were good for me, I hurled myself from the bottom step ~ twisting to avoid the sputtering sphere of arcane fire that exploded from the mage’s cupped hands. It had been an impressive fireball, compact and sizzling with energy. Which was good since the scything silver blade in my right hand silenced his magic in the simplest manner possible.

As the mage gagged, desperately trying to hold back the flood of blood that gushed from his severed throat, I advanced on the remaining cultist. “Take your time,” I said as he hopped up and down on one foot, desperately attempting to put on the final piece of his armour. The armoured boot slipped into place and, with a yell, he grabbed his sword and shield and spun to face me. This meant that he turned right into the wave of fire that exploded from my hands as I mentally completed the spell I’d been weaving. He screamed pitifully as the steel armour glowed cherry-red, the stench of burning flesh filling the shrine. When I could stand his screams no longer ~ roughly a second after his armour became red hot ~ I stepped in as close as I could and drove the Nordic blade through the malleable steel and deep into his heart.

There were, regrettably, no great and powerful artefacts in Ebernanit ~ although there were several interesting scrolls, a sizeable sum of gold, and a ring bearing the rune of Sanguine. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I left the shrine turned southwards along paths I recognised and made my way towards the steep-sided hollow wherein lurked the darkhold of Kogoruhn. The place hadn’t changed since my last visit here in search of Feril Salmyn ~ there was still the silent desolation behind which lurked a malevolent evil. Now that I knew the place was a Sixth House stronghold, I could understand that strange feeling of being under observation that I’d had the last time I was here. And standing here, staring at the dark stones of the fortress wasn’t going to find me any of the tokens Sul-Matuul wanted.

One again... As always Override you've done a great job writing!

The dialogs are very well written and natural, and I like how you take in the stories of Trey, Serene and Sel as the Wise-Woman talks to him about his destiny. Great done, keep it up!

Nice! I like your metions of Trey Serene and Sel.

Unlike the other Resdayni fortresses, Lost Kogoruhn had several structures on the broad, ash-littered surface of its top. Each bore deeply carved runes and symbols upon the doors, the original cartouches obliterated and replaced with the new names given to this place of brooding evil by the degenerate cultists of the Sixth House. I realised that I had been slowly backing away from the dark and silent fortress and, taking a deep breath to steady fraying nerves, I drew my crossbows from the top of the pack and carefully loaded them with the silver-tipped bolts. Gritting my teeth, I crunched across the gritty surface and stood before the nearest dome ~ the scrawled marks identifying it as The Dome of Pollock.

Even now, many years later, my mouth turns dry at the memories of my journey through that blighted ruin and I quail at the shadows that flicker in the corner of my memory and I know that, reliving them here, I will loose many an hour of sleep tonight. Still, you deserve to understand and know that which transpired I suppose ~ although the telling of it will cost me dear. If I falter along the way, bear with me.

Pollock’s Dome, ah yes. A miasma of evil hung in that simple round chamber, even though it was occupied by nothing more fearsome than one of the disfigured priests of this obscene cult. My first bolt, poorly aimed by a hand that trembled with fear, struck a sliver of stone from the central pillar as the Ghoul summoned a glowing sphere of lambent purple energy. What the spell was, I never found out: a few quick and steadying breaths had calmed my nerves and the second bolt flew straight and true. With an odd wheezing sound, the Ghoul scrabbled at the bolt that protruded from its left eye-socket before the malformed and horribly vital mind behind that mutated face realised that it was dead.

With a moue of disgust, I scrapped the slimy patch of pestilent skin off the cheek of the Dagoth, desperately trying not to breathe as it squelched unpleasantly into one of the small collection phials I had brought with me. Hurrying from that place, I moved around the fortress until I came to the doorway to Urso’s Dome. Inside this dome I found what I thought was the ultimate horror of this debased cult. Stooped and malformed, a mass of waving tentacles where it’s face had been, the grey-skinned Ascended Sleeper piped a string of bizarre syllables: the resulting blast of magical energy blowing me off my feet as it clipped my shoulder. Staggering, I quickly put the dome’s central column between me and it while I tried to massage some feeling back into my left arm.

Magically powerful the robed and hooded creature may have been, but the deformities wrought upon it by the Corprus made it slow and cumbersome. By moving as quickly as I could, I was able to weave around the central column, using it as a defensive bulwark against the spells before dashing out and burying silver in that transformed flesh. In this manner I was able to slowly wear down my opponent to the point where I was able to drive both blades into that reeking carcass and send the creature howling into the Void. Literally for, as I tore the blades out of that cadaverous form, there came a flash of yellowish light and an unwholesome stench as the Ascended Sleeper seemed to fold in upon itself and vanish.

There is little to tell of the Temple of Fey or the Hall of the Watcher ~ forewarned by my experiences in the other two domes, I went in with magic blazing and swords at the ready, cutting down another Ascended Sleeper in the Temple but finding naught in the Hall. Now the moment I had long feared was here. Having found neither cup nor shield in these ancillary buildings, I had no option other than to enter the darkhold of Kogoruhn itself.

How shall I relay the sense of trepidation that I felt as those heavy wooden doors swing shut behind me, trapping me in the red-tinged gloom? The gut-wrenching fear that assailed me as I crept, quiet as a mouse, through those shadowed chambers? They say the Nords of Skyrim believe there is a place in the afterlife where those who have transgressed are punished: if there is such a place, it must look akin to the warped and corrupted shell of this place. Strange sounds filled the air, moans and other less identifiable noises. Strange shadowy shapes cavorted and gestured obscenely at the edge of vision. And, over it all, a brooding and watchful malevolence ~ oppressive and overwhelming.

Some sinister and brooding corner yielded a dark metal cup, the inside covered in some dark and sticky residue that I dared not examine too closely. In tarnished gold on the outside was the hateful insect-symbol of House Dagoth. Shuddering, I wrapped it in many layers of cloth before burying it deep inside my pack.

Deeper into that ruined and unsanctified ruin I pressed, foregoing the exploration and clearance such a place so desperately needed. And so it was, at the end of some stench-filled corridor, that I came to the Nabith Waterway: a snaking sewer that lay deep beneath the darkened stones and ash-filled wastes above. How far I wandered beside those rippling waters in the stygian gloom I cannot say, what caused the odd ripples and wavelets on that otherwise glossily black surface I have no desire to know. Hugging the wall and wrapped in a cloaking spell of extreme potency, I followed the twisting, turning sewer until I came to a place where the smooth stone wall had been… broken. Deep at the back of the rough tunnel, a solitary door lay flush against the brown and glistening stone. Desperately trying to ignore the chewed and gnawed look of the short tunnel, I pressed my hands against the ice-cold door and swung it open.

The stone tunnel curved gently around and opened out into a three-way junction. To my right was a short passageway that ended in a befouled wooden door. To my left, a red glow suffused the caves and the heavy sulphurous stench of molten rock was thick in the air. There were things moving down there, malformed things, evil things. With a shudder, nerves frayed almost to the breaking point, I bolted down the short corridor and threw myself through the wooden doorway.

The Flame Atronachs that wandered these sulphurous caves were a blessed relief, something a little more familiar after the terrors ~ real and imagined ~ that had dogged my footsteps since entering Kogoruhn. Hacking them down, I came at last to the foulness at the heart of these caverns ~ a Sixth House cult-shrine presided over by another of the deviant priests. The Dagoth fell before my blades before it even knew I was there and I kept hacking at the carcass long after all traces of life had vanished. Finally, exhausted, I straightened and cast my eye about the chamber. There, resting on a stone plinth was a shield that screamed at me with a pure magical tone. I hoped that this was the Shadow Shield for, if it were not, all the gold in all of the banks of Cyrodiil would not make me stay a moment longer. Grabbing the heavy, Dwemeric looking shield, I retreated to the shrine’s entrance and then hesitated. There were… things out there, things I should have never left at my back. Now I had to return through those caves and face them.

Despite my usual reticence at casting any form of translocation spell while underground, I had no qualms about speaking the phrase “Ut locus Ego eram pro Urshilaku,” whilst in the lava caves of the ‘Bleeding Heart’. In fact, I would have kissed an Ogrim if I meant I could get out of here without backtracking through those dark tunnels and blighted rooms. To my relief, the translocation wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it would be ~ although the fleeting sensation of millions of tonnes of rock flashing in front of my eyes was one I wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

“Cup, hide, and shield,” Sul-Matuul said, looking at the tokens I’d placed on the table in his yurt. “Exactly as I requested. You should keep these tokens Clanfriend Vahl, so that when you are once more beset with doubt, they will remind you that brave heart and resolute spirit can accomplish anything. And, as a true warrior, you will be beset by doubts. I would also like you to have this, the belt of my ancestor Malipu-Ataman. It will serve to tell all of the People that you are a Clanfriend to the glorious Urshilaku.

“Now,” he said, gesturing me to sit on one of the scatter cushions, “we shall speak of the Third Trial. I will admit that I do not know what the ‘Moon-And-Star’ is, other than the symbol of Indoril Nerevar and the sacred signs of Azura. However, there is a riddle that speaks of the Moon-And-Star:


“I can tell you this, Clanfriend Vahl: this riddle is called the ‘Wisdom of the Tribes’, so perhaps taking council with the other members of Urshilaku will shed some light on the answer. But it grows late, mine is but a humble abode but it would be an honour to me to offer you a place to rest this night.”

I was about to make some comment about returning to Tel Vahl when I realised what was on offer here. And it was more valuable than Ebony. “The magnificence of your residence is more than I deserve,” I replied carefully, “and it would do me greater honour to spend the night here than you know.” As we settled for the night, Sul-Matuul on his side of the yurt, me on mine, I reflected once more on the strange courses of my life. The friendship that Sul-Matuul had offered was worth the weight of the Urshilaku in Ebony ~ to have even one of the Clans closely affiliated with the House, that was wealth beyond counting.

Yayyy..I feel special....in one of these last updates..my Serene was mentione alongside with Trey and Sel.....
And how I enjoy your detailled descriptions of the trials .......it´s just like playing it again..but better!

Awwwwwwwwwwwwww, Jonacin got left out
lol j/k

Great updates Override

I spent a while today speaking with the Ashlanders of the Urshilaku about the Wisdom of the Tribes. From my conversations, I gathered that there is a valley ~ the Valley of the Wind ~ on the northern slopes of Red Mountain. What made this valley interesting (to me) were the landmarks that the tribe used to identify the valley: at the entrance to the valley are two rock spires known as Airan’s Teeth. From another source, I learned that there is a tall spire of rock in the heart of this valley that is often described as ‘The Needle’.

Pouring over my map, I identified what I thought was the valley in question and it was to there that I headed. My route took me uncomfortably close to Valenvaryon and its contingent of Orcish cultists but I managed to avoid detection ~ following the same route towards Ebernanit that I’d taken before.

Passing Ebernanit, I continued along the dusty path, cutting as far north as I dared to avoid the brooding hulk of Kogoruhn. It was because of this detour that I discovered a worn cavern door set into rotting timbers ~ the remnants of some old and long abandoned mine. As I drew nearer the door, I could just make out the weather cartouche ~ Kora-Dur. For some reason that name struck a chord and I paused to take a drink of water while I thought upon it. Then it dawned upon me ~ my dream in Yansirramus, and the thunderous admonition of Molag Bal.

Hewn into the glossy black rock was a short passageway, ending in a narrow crossing of the same smooth obsidian stone stretching across a deep pool. Stepping carefully, I traversed the narrow bridge and entered into the rest of the caverns. Purplish-coloured blocks protruded from the volcanic rock and I realised that Kora-Dur had been a Daedric shrine before some antediluvian cataclysm. Immediately I went on my guard: the twin blades slithering with a faint hiss from their scabbards as I took stock.

Seeing no immediate danger, I crouched beside the noisesome pool and peered between the warped and disarrayed blocks, spotting a small channel and what appeared to be a cavern entrance on the other side of the pool. Not wishing to wade through that algae-laden water, I rose to my feet and continued along the side of the pool towards the tunnel entrance opposite me. This proved to have been a mistake for the tunnel simply looped around in a wide arc. Why would this be a mistake? Well, armoured boots are not noted for their ability to grip firmly ~ especially when you suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself in a sharply downward sloping tunnel made of slick, smooth rock down which is running a rivulet of water.

With a wild cry, I skidded down the tunnel: desperately trying to brace myself against the slick walls. I might as well have been trying to grab ice. With a whoop of fear I shot out of the end of the tunnel and splashed ignobly into the noisesome pool that I had espied earlier. Since I was now soaked to the skin and covered with the slimy algae, there seemed to be no reason not to explore the remaining passageway.

Menta-Na was indeed lazy; the Daedroth had grown Ogrim-fat and was barely able to waddle away from my blades. I fancied that I could hear the chilling laughter of Molag Bal as I despatched the creature. Shivering, I huddled close to the fire pit in the cavern Menta-Na had made its home; at least I could dry some of my clothing before returning to the Molag Amur.

Clad only in my shift, I explored the curious depression in the obsidian rock while my robes and armour steamed. A chair had been roughly hewn from the rock and a stained and battered cushion lay on the seat. There were a number of potions and a locked chest revealed quite a sum of gold and a few other interesting trinkets. Of far more worth was the massively heavy Daedric staff that lay propped up against the ‘throne’ ~ such items are incredibly rare and eminently suitable for enchanting. A few other worthless odds and ends littered the chamber and, to this day, I have no idea what purpose the withered and very dead potted plant served.

Clad in my now dry clothing, I followed the passageway around until I came, once more, to the entrance. Clutching the heavy staff as an aid to traversing the uneven surface of the Molag Amur, I went forth in search of my goal.

It was growing late, and the Dwemeri ruins of Bthuand were far behind me as I approached the twisted columns and strangely angled towers of Zergonipal. Providing there were no cultists in residence, there was a deep hollow near the shrine that would serve as an excellent resting place.

There are two valleys snaking their way up the northern slopes of Red Mountain, heading towards the GhostFence. Both have tall spires of rock at the entrance and the heavy fog means I cannot see far enough down either to determine which of them has a tall spire of rock down in the heart of the canyon. Naturally I chose the wrong one ~ this ended in the cave-system known as Dun-Ahhe.

Magic was thick in the air of Dun-Ahhe, filled with that faint tinny taste and the shimmer of sound that came from the large Telvanni crystals jutting from the sides of the passageway. Fast Eddie had warned me, quite some time ago, that there were rogue Telvanni bases set up all through the Molag Amur ~ my guess was that this was one such base.

“Hold,” I snapped, raising a hand as a robed and furious looking Dunmeri female came running around the corner of the passageway and adopted a stance well-know to all mages, and feared by most non-magic users. “I am Sed Telvanni Vahl,” I said in my most impressive voice. “I mean you no harm.”

“Arch-Magister?” the woman said uncertainly. “I’d heard that Gothren had been… displaced. Please…” and here she lowered her hands and let the swirling spark between them die… “enter freely.”

I had little time to chat with Sevame Saryon and her Altmeri companion, but I did tell her that I planned to raise a tower near Ebernanit and that, when I did, there would be need of a new Master. This news seemed to both interest and excite her ~ hardly surprising: I’ve yet to meet a Telvanni who wasn’t excited by the prospect of personal advancement and power. Plus, of course, the more people that I raised to the rank of Master, the fewer people there were to challenge me for my position.

“I do know of a cavern near here,” Sevame said in response to my question, “with a large door. I have tried on several occasions to open it but it resists all magic.” She showed me, on my map, where this wondrous door was located ~ as I suspected, it was at the head of the valley I hadn’t chosen. Thanking her, I took my leave of Dan-Ahhe.

Returning to the foot of the valley, I made my way up the other valley. This wended its way up and around the rocks, ending in a large open area. Set into the rocks was an arched doorway, filled by a massive metal door. Adorning the surface of the greyish coloured metal were Moon-and-Star designs by the dozen. From Holamayan, I knew that the door would be sealed until the sun set. Since sunset was but an hour away, I decided to wait.

There was no sign that anything had changed when dusk descended but the massive door, which had remained firmly sealed up until this point, swung silently open under my hand. With a deep breath, I stepped into the gloom. A faint bluish glow game from the fungi that grew in such profusion here, illuminating the cavern. Six mummified corpses were set, each on a small raised plinth, around the chamber. Dominating the cave was a bust of Azura, her hands clasped in front of her.

Cautiously I advanced into the cavern; hand on the hilt of my sword. There was a sudden grinding noise and a pinpoint of light exploded from the clasped hands of the statue. As I watched, the statue’s hands slowly ground open, forming a cup. More light, brilliant and eye searing, streamed into the cavern as the hands parted to reveal the spinning heart of the actinic white glow. Shading my eyes, I squinted at the tiny shape rotating at the heart of the flood of light that now lit the cavern as brightly as day. I couldn’t make out much, just metallic flashes of silver and gold.

The bowed head of the statue ground up to look at me, the stone lids covering the eyes creaking open to reveal brilliantly glowing blue fire. “Beloved, Nerevarine,” a soft, feminine voice said, “gaze now upon the Moon-And-Star and know your destiny. Speak with those that have gone before…” There was a flare of light that surpassed all the light in the cavern and then all went dark.

I blinked, aware of dimly lit figures in the soft blue light of the fungus. My hand was clenched and I realised I was holding something small and metallic. Opening my fingers, I gazed upon the Moon-And-Star, a ring made of gold, silver, and some other metal I couldn’t identify. The simple, unadorned band of the ring was made of a blackish metal. Set upon this band was a silver crescent moon and a many-rayed golden star ~ the symbols of Azura and the device of House Indoril.

Closing my hand around the ring, I turned my attention to the shades that stood, each beside one of the mummified figures, in the cavern. Strangely, I felt no sense of threat from them. The voice had said to speak to those that had gone before; my guess was that these spectres were the ones I had to speak to. I approached one, and it spoke to me.

“Greetings Nerevarine,” the translucent Dunmeri female said in a voice that sloughed and sighed like the wind. “I am Peakstar, once Nerevarine. I was called to the prophecies, but I was not the one.”

“Why were you not the Chosen?” I asked.

“I was not schooled in the ways of war,” the shade replied, “nor did I understand the settled people and the Great Houses. I was but a poor Ashlander and they would not have accepted me as Horator. I survived the Curse of Flesh but fell against an Ash Vampire because I would not learn the path of the Warrior. Take these tokens as a reminder,” she said, handing me some scuffed clothing that had seen better days, “and do not fail as I failed.”

I could not learn more from Peakstar; any attempt to engage her in conversation resulted in the same sad tale. Next was the ghost of Ane Teria, who had a similar tale of great hopes and ultimate failure to relate. She was a crusader, high in the ranks of the Temple when the Tribunal was at its most powerful. She was betrayed by the priests and put to death when she proclaimed herself the Nerevarine.

Each of the spirits had a similar story. Erur-Dan, who saw the Empire invade Morrowind and who fell fighting the Blighted creatures of red Mountain; Idrenie Nerothan, who died trying to recover tokens from Lost Kogoruhn; Hort Ledd, who couldn’t unite the Ashlanders and who fell trying; and finally, the Ashkhan Conoon Chodala ~ who didn’t heed the words of the wise-women and who fell without seeing the face of his enemies.

I looked at the half-dozen ghosts in the chamber and understood the lesson I was being given here. Like me, each of these people had had the potential to be the Nerevarine but had failed to fulfil their destiny. Some, like Peakstar, had failed because they were too focussed on one goal; others had failed for other reasons. And, like them, I too may fail in the task that lies ahead of me. And, if I do, my spirit will join these sad spectres ~ bound to this cave until the true Reborn frees us.

As I turned to leave, a wavering figure materialised in front of me. Clad in a long flowing gown of deepest blue, the fair-faced, dark-haired Dunmer stood there, hands clasped and head bowed in a reflection of the bust’s pose. She opened her hands and raised her head, eyes opening to reveal the same burning blue flames that had danced in the statue’s eyes. “Thou has passed the Third trial, most beloved of Azura,” the figure whispered, her voice a soft chorus of many voices.

“Take the Moon-And-Star and show it unto the tribes of the Ashlands and they will declare you Nerevarine. Take the Moon-And-Star and show it unto the Great Houses and they shall declare you Horator. These are the Trials that face you now.” The figure reached out a hand and stroked the side of me face, tiny crackles of energy sparking off her fingers. “Take council with the Wise-Woman, Nibani Maesa for she shall be your guide. Blessed be.” There was a flare of light and the figure vanished.

Disconcerted, I fled to Ebonheart and, from there, to the manor in Godsreach. To say I was terrified was the understatement of the Third Era. I couldn’t possibly be what Nibani, Sul-Matuul, Dagoth Ur, and Azura thought I was ~ it was just too much to contemplate.

Wonderful description of the meetings with the failed Incarnates....really nice. This story is outstanding in it´s magnificent detailed scenes. I read every part of it even if I don´t comment after every installment...there´s practically no chance....updates appear here more often than I do

Nice...I like the description of Kogruhn. I remember standing in the shrine and looking at it and you could almost see something but kind og couldn't, I THink it like that in all Shrines/Tombs.

I sat most of the night, staring into the crackling flames of the fire as I tried to come to grips with the mantle of saviour that had been thrust onto my shoulders. The heart-pounding terror of yestere had vanished but I was still scared of what was to come. Dare I accept the role of Nerevarine? Or do I deny prophesy and remain who I am? And, quite honestly, do I have any choice in the matter? I now understood that I had been manipulated from the moment I set foot on this island ~ not in all things to be sure, but in small ways I had been tweaked and moulded, shaped to fit the destiny that now loomed large in my future. Set foot on the island ~ that was a laugh, the manipulation had begun long before that: perhaps even unto the death of my real parents.

If I accept what I am being told, that I am this Nerevar Indoril reborn, then I am placing myself in the gravest of danger. The Sharmat, Dagoth Ur, is already aware of me and will bend his will towards my destruction. The Temple will certainly array itself against me, as will House Indoril, the Buoyant Armigers, and House Redoran would certainly join them. The Imperial factions were an unknown quantity, as was House Hlaalu. Of them all, the only support I could expect would be from the tribes of the Ashlanders and my own House.

Of course, eschewing the destiny that I had been shown was as dangerous. I doubted that it would take long for word of my status as Nerevarine to reach the ears of some snoop from the Temple and I would get a visit from someone asking questions I dare not answer. Plus, of course, the Sharmat was hardly likely to shrug his shoulders and say ‘Ho-hum, I needn’t worry about Sudhendra Vahl any more’. No, more likely I would awaken one morning to find Tel Vahl surrounded by minions of the Sharmat intent on my destruction.

Besides, something told me that there was a crisis coming. From what Gilvas Barelo had said, the gods of the Tribunal were weakening just at the time Dagoth Ur was growing in power. There would come a time, probably none too distant, when the GhostFence would no longer restrain the Sharmat and his creatures. And my life expectancy then could be measured in heartbeats instead of years.

I looked over at the Moon-And-Star, sitting innocuously on a small cushion on a desk. I could, I realised, put an end to some of my doubts in a single moment. Both Sul-Matuul and Nibani had been perfectly clear on this point ~ only the true Incarnate can bear the Moon-And-Star, even though they had been uncertain what, exactly, the Moon-And-Star actually was. For anyone else, the Moon-And-Star meant instant death. With trembling fingers, I picked up the ring and looked at it. Then, closing my eyes, I slipped the cool metal band onto my finger.

There was a swirl of disconnected images: strange swirling shapes and odd angles, decayed buildings standing in thin air, a council of four powerfully dressed Dunmer, the screams of the wounded and dying… With a gasp, I opened my eyes as I felt the power of the Moon-And-Star thunder into me. That was followed by the very important realisation that I was very much alive. Which settled some doubts at the very least: the ring was obviously a very ancient and powerful artefact. What it didn’t settle were my doubts about who, or what, I was. The papers and details I’d brought back from Holamayan and the oral traditions of the Urshilaku Ashlanders all suggested that the Moon-And-Star was fatal to anyone who wasn’t the Nerevarine.

Lost in thought, I decided to get some fresher air and left Velas Manor to wander around the citadel of Mournhold. I wasn’t particularly paying much attention to where I was going, but it didn’t surprise me when I looked up to discover the bulk of the Temple looming ahead. I remembered that Tienius Delitian had sought information on how the Temple would respond to Helseth’s assumption of the Morrowind Throne. Perhaps if I lost myself in the webs of political intrigue for a while I could come to some form of peace with the thoughts that rolled and echoed in my head.

Having made sure that I no longer wore the Moon-And-Star (surely entering the Temple wearing that would have been the quickest way to fail and spend the rest of eternity awaiting the next Nerevarine) I wandered the halls and corridors in search of someone to whom I could speak. Not that there was any shortage of people, but most were Ordinators or Priests and I didn’t think I’d get much help from them.

I finally found a garrulous Healer in the infirmary, one Galsa Andrano. She seemed willing to talk of almost anything and, as we chatted, I carefully guided the conversation around to Helseth. “Oh I’ve heard the most terrible things about him,” she exclaimed. “They do say he is a poisoner.”

“If Helseth sought the throne,” I asked, “how would the Temple respond?”

“Badly,” she replied immediately. “If he sought the throne in earnest, it’s likely that Ayem and the Temple would seek to destroy him and…. Oh! I really shouldn’t have said that.”

“Said what?” I said with a friendly smile. “I heard nothing that I would repeat.” She looked very relieved about that and I felt really guilty about reporting back to the Royal Palace and repeating her information to Delitian. To his disgust, I wouldn’t give him the name of my informant.

When it became obvious that I wasn’t going to give him the name of my contact, Delitian grimaced and said, “Since you seem to be able to keep your mouth shut, perhaps I can trust you with a slightly more difficult task. I have my doubts about some of the guards’ loyalty. Since you are relatively unknown to most of them, I want you to pose as a candidate for a position in the Guards. That should give you sufficient excuse to talk to the guards and sound them out. Anything you find that feels even the slightest bit off, you bring it to me immediately.”

I shrugged; the loyalty of a few Royal Guards didn’t bother me in the slightest. However, the make-work I was putting myself through allowed me to relax and think calmly about what I was going to do. Leaving the royal chambers, I went amongst the guards, speaking to them.

“I’ve been offered a position in the Royal Guards,” I remarked to one of the guards patrolling the corridor near the Lady Barenziah’s quarters.

“Makes no nevermind to me,” the maroon-clad guard responded. “If Delitian thinks you’re good enough, that’s good enough for me.”

“Oh,” I said, smiling politely, “why’s that?”

“I’m an old hand here,” the guard responded, “but the new commander has always done right by me.”

“What about my connections with House Hlaalu?” I asked, knowing that the Great House couldn’t be too happy about Helseth replacing Llethan: whatever the circumstances behind that particular transfer of power might be.

“Hmm, nothing wrong with House Hlaalu. Not sure they're very happy about King Helseth succeeding their King Llethan,” the guard replied. “But no point in hiding it from Tienius Delitian. He's bound to find out sooner or later, so you might as well tell him straight off.”

And that was pretty much the pattern of response I got from all of the guards I spoke to. All of them, that is, except the one. A particularly tall and broad guard was on duty in the Throne Room and, singling him out because of his sheer size, I told him I’d been offered a position in the Royal Guards. His response was immediate and interesting.

“D’you have any, you know, Hlaalu connections?” the tall guard asked. Thinking on my feet, I nodded ~ it was true; I had once spoken to a Hlaalu councillor regarding the Vassir-Didanat Mine. That counted as a ‘connection’, albeit a tenuous one. “Well, you should speak to Aleri Aren,” he said excitedly, “and you really shouldn’t mention it to Delitian, like.”

Which was far more information than I got from Aleri Aren when I tracked her down to the guards’ quarters. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

“But Irano said I should talk to you about this,” I protested.

“He did, did he?” she said, eyes narrowing. “Well, I still have no idea what it’s all about so, if you’ll excuse me?” As she turned and stalked off, I noticed a scrap of parchment near her locker. With a quick glance around, I stooped and, with a speed that would have made any pickpocket jealous, I scooped up the sheet of vellum and headed out of the guards’ quarters. As I headed back to the royal chambers, I read and re-read the scribbled note ~ the tiny, crabbed handwriting made deciphering it difficult. But, amidst the misspelled names were three that were always spelled correctly, those of Milvela Dralen, Ivulen Irano, and Aleri Aren.

“Very interesting…” Tienius Delitian said when I showed him the rota, pointing out that there were certain watches where only the three of them were in the Throne Room, and these watches had been underlined. “…but stupid,” he finished. “Amateurs. Still, you have accomplished what I asked; this is prima facie evidence of conspiracy. We have people who will take it from here.”

I shuddered, I could well imagine what sort of people Delitian was referring to and, for a fleeting moment, I felt a flash of pity for the three guards. Delitian, however, had no such qualms and, in fact, had another task he wished me to perform. “Since you’ve shown an aptitude for… let’s say ‘gathering incriminating’ materials… I’d like you to exercise those talents again. It has come to our attention that there may be a conspiracy amongst the Hlaalu nobles here in the Citadel, a conspiracy led by Ravani Llethan. We’d like you to pay a visit to Llethan Manor and pay your respects. And, while you’re there, you might like to pick up any incriminating letters, diaries, and things of that sort.”

I wandered back towards Godsreach; not at all sure I was doing the right thing. I had an idea that I was being used again ~ this time to stifle dissent to the plans Helseth had for himself and the Morrowind Throne. As I walked through Godsreach towards Llethan Manor, a Dunmeri woman suddenly jostled me.

“You can’t have it,” she snapped.

I dont remember this one...

Cool updates
Any chance you could tell me where i can get that Theurergist(sp) mod, the mod with Ioun stones, and the apprentice scrolls mod?

"It’s not yours, it’s mine, and I paid for it, mine I tell you, mine, mine, mine!” I blinked as the woman drew her hand back, obviously intending to strike me. A hand grabbed her wrist and the Mer dragged it down, all the while speaking softly and soothingly to the distraught woman. Another Dunmer ran up and took charge of the now sobbing madwoman and led her away while the large Mer turned to me.

“My most sincere apologies Muthsera,” he said. “You must forgive my sister; she has been most… unsettled of late.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said with a warm smile, “I hope your sister gets better soon.”

“Unlikely,” he said, his face crumbling. “She’s getting worse.”

“She was talking about ‘it’, saying I couldn’t have ‘it’,” I said kindly. “What was she talking about?”

“I have no idea,” he said, “she’s been raving about ‘it’ for weeks, accusing everyone of trying to steal ‘it’. In fact, the only person she’s spoken to in ages is that mage in the Craftsman’s Hall, what’s his name… Elbert Nermarc. Listen, you’ve been most kind and again, my apologies for my sister’s behaviour.”

Assuring him once more that it was of no consequence, I made my way to Llethan Manor. I managed to wangle my way past the Bosmeri guard on the door by claiming that I was there to pay my respects to the widow Ravani. The manor hardly seemed like a hotbed of political intrigue, there were only the Wood Elf guard and the grief-stricken Dunmeri widow in residence. Or, perhaps, not so grief-stricken after all. “They murdered him, Helseth and his spiders,” she railed when I presented myself to her. “Everyone knows, and no one lifts a finger. Imperial justice! Hah! I spit on Imperial justice! They killed my husband, and now that wicked man is king. I curse Helseth, and all his kin! May they die tomorrow, weeping, watching their children die today!”

“My deepest condolences on your loss,” I said when the diatribe had finished. A note on the desk near where we were standing had caught my eye: I couldn’t read much of it, but there were several names on it and a sketch of what looked like the royal apartments.

“Bless your honourable soul Muthsera,” she said with a quiet sniff. “Few enough have come to pay their respects. People forget their friends when the…”

Her words trailed off because I had just spoken the word “Somnus”. As she crashed to the floor and I yelled for the guard, I quickly slipped the note into my robe before assisting the Bosmeri to get her mistress onto a couch. “The grief, I suspect,” I remarked, “or possibly she was overcome by stress. Please, when she wakes up; give her my apologies for causing her such distress.”

With the letter safely hidden in my pack, I made my way over to the Craftsmen’s Hall. The madwoman’s comments had sparked an interest in what she was raving about. Since her brother had given me a name, I thought I’d check things out. “Oh, you mean Golena Sadri.” The mage said when I described the Dunmeri woman. “Yes, I’ve had dealings with her.

“I’ll be frank, I don’t think it’s an illness ~ I think she’s just gone stark-staring mad. It started a couple of months ago; she came to see me about Dwemeri artefacts.” The mage paused, and then said, “I got the impression she had, somehow, acquired an artefact. Her questions became increasingly technical, from a magical point of view. All to do with focussing the arcane flux and capacities for storage of magicka in various crystals.”

There was another pause, and then the mage said, “about four weeks ago, she came to see me in a state of great excitement, babbling almost. She said she’d nearly managed to recharge it. When I asked her what ‘it’ was, she flew off the deep end…”

“And she’s been like that ever since?” I asked. He nodded, then said, “Whatever it is she’s got, there’s a very good chance it’s deadly ~ given the forces she was using. To be honest, I was on the verge of telling her that I didn’t wish to teach her any more. But she went mad before I could.”

I wondered if her brother was aware of this and decided to head to the Sadri Manor on my way back to Velas Manor. As I headed towards the second-storey Manor, I was almost bowled off my feet by a running Mer. It turned out to be Sadri’s brother, and he was almost frantic with worry. “It’s Golena,” he finally managed to say, “She accosted another passer-by who reported her to the guards. An Ordinator went up to see her and… and… Oh Gods, the screaming and… and… Now I can’t get in, the door’s locked and I can’t get in.”

I followed the distraught Dunmer to the top of the stairs that led to Sadri Manor and tried the door ~ not that I suspected he was lying, I just wanted to get a sense of how it was sealed. There was no pulse of magic and the door didn’t appear to be barricaded. Unwilling to use a lock-breaker spell in case the High Ordinators took exception, I concentrated and attempted something I’d not tried before. There was a swirl of arcane forces and that strange doubling sensation and I found myself looking at the door from the inside. Maintaining the telekinetic construct through the door was a strain but I managed to hang on long enough to turn the key…

The Theurgist mod is by Narkybark, and you can get it either at the Summit or from HERE

The only place I know you can get Chris Woods' Magical Trinkets of Tamriel is from the Summit. There are two versions: V3 which I use and a beta version of V4.

Apprentice scrolls by Slategrey is also available from the Summit.

Have fun

Allowing the construct to collapse, I pushed open the door after instructing Alvan to remain outside. There was a very familiar coppery smell in the room, and it didn’t take me long to discover the butchered corpse of the Ordinator that had followed Golena into the manse. I grimaced, I could visualise the scene clearly: the Ordinator badgering the demented woman about ‘it’ and Golena getting more and more convinced the guard was there to confiscate whatever she was protecting. The Ordinator, suspecting nothing of what he was dealing with, would have been easy prey.

The trapdoor in the lower level of Sadri manor led, with a certain inevitability, to a section of the sewers beneath Godsreach. Crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the ladder was the Dunmeri woman who’d led Golena Sadri away. A quick check showed that she was extremely dead ~ whoever had cut her throat had sawn right through to the bone. I checked the local area, the sewer behind me ended in a catchment area, a deep pit with a grate at the bottom through which the sewer-water ran into the lower levels of the sewer.

With a sigh, I made my careful way down the steeply sloping sewer until I reached a flattish area at the bottom. The grated door opened into a dilapidated section of the sewers, an area that I suspected had been long forgotten. Several rock-falls had choked off the lower passageways and I stood there baffled: there was no sign of Golena Sadri. As is my habit, I quickly checked through the contents of the heavy crates that lay scattered around the outlet grate. It was as I was doing this that I realised that there were four crates resting on top of a trapdoor. The crates had been firmly nailed shut and whatever they contained made them far too heavy for me to move successfully. There must be someway of getting through the trapdoor ~ it was the only way that Golena could’ve gone.

It was the damp wood of the crates that told me what the solution was: a sluice nearby could be opened or closed by operating a crank. Casting a water-breathing spell, I turned the crank as hard as I could, hanging on to it as the frothing and foaming water quickly filled up the enclosed sewer. The crates, riding heavily in the water, rose up and freed the hatch. Plunging beneath the surface, I raised the hatch and slipped through into the submerged tunnel underneath.

A short swim down the water-filled sewer brought me to another hatchway, this one leading upwards. As the protective bubble of the water-breathing spell started to collapse in on itself, I put my weight against the hatch and swung it open. Clambering up the ladder, I found myself in a section of the sewer that had almost completely collapsed. Massive chunks of rock blocked off each end of the tunnel but, at the western end of the tunnel section, there was a natural breach in the rock which led through to a narrow passageway.

Crouched almost double, I made my way along the tunnel until I came to another breach in the rock, this one leading into a section of sewer that had long ago been abandoned. A short section of sewer rose up in a sharp incline to my left while ~ directly ahead, the rocky passageway was completely blocked by a rock-fall. To my right, the rocky tunnel meandered away around a sharp bend. Never one to be less than thorough, I headed up the sloping sewer section towards the top.

And stopped suddenly. The upper section of the drain had collapsed and there were hundreds of tons of fallen rock blocking the way. And there, the lids open just enough to show the enticing gleam of gold coins, sat two chests. I crouched down, squatting on my heels as I looked at the strange metallic constructions that had been pushed into the loose rocks near the chests. There was no doubt that these were of Dwemeric make ~ even after these long millennia, there’s no metal on Nirn that looks quite like the alloy they used to construct things. Small, stubby cylinders topped with a crystal dome was how they appeared ~ had it not been for a healthy dose of Telvanni paranoia, I would have taken them for nothing more threatening than some Dwemeric torch or lantern.

The soft pulse of light that had warned me of the presence of these five… devices came again and I pondered what I knew of Golena Sadri. She had approached the Breton mage and asked about Dwemeri artefacts; she had asked increasingly complex questions about focussing and charging magical crystals… It was not too far a reach of the imagination to realise that these things were some sort of Dwemeri weapon.

There were more of these strange cylindrical devices arrayed along the only other passageway. Since I was honour-bond, by my word, to at least try and find Golena Sadri, I took a few tentative steps down the tunnel. As I approached the nearest of the devices, the slow pulsing of the light coming from the crystal increased in speed. Alarmed, I stopped: only to see that the slightly faster pulse of light continued with the same beat. Slowly and carefully I advanced another pace, stopping instantly when the pulsing red light again beat at a fast rate. Nothing, not even the finest shadow-weave spell, seemed to make any difference ~ the closer to the device I drew, the faster the light flashed.

Even though I was expecting it, the powerful energy bolt that exploded from the top of the closest device and sought me out with unerring accuracy, came as a shock. Striking me square in the chest, the powerful bolt threw me down the corridor and bounced me off a rocky outcropping. “Right,” I managed to mutter after taking a fair few minutes to gather my wits about me again. “If that’s the way you want to play it…”

I could, I suppose, tell you how I managed to overcome those infernal Dwemer devices. But, as you no doubt noticed on the approach to my residence, I have not exactly been idle these last few decades. No, a lady has to keep a few secrets. A fact you would do well to remember, Cyrodiil.

Galena seemed to sense my presence, even though I was hidden from mundane sight. With a snarl, she dragged her sword from its scabbard and lunged at me. With a tiny cry of “eep”, I leapt backwards, barely avoiding the sword point. Allowing the cloaking-spell to dissipate, I drew the twin blades I had christened “Grafanc” and “Hysgithr” from their scabbards and crossed them in front of me. “This is futile Golena!” I yelled above the sound of the swirling water that filled this ruined section of sewer. “I am here to help you.”

“Mine!” she screamed, her face hidden in the shadow of the glass helm she wore. With that, the mad-woman rushed at me, slashing and hacking with the blade. I took little satisfaction in cutting her down, but her wild swings and manic approach to combat made the outcome of the fight inevitable. She may have been able to overcome an Ordinator who had his back to her and his weapon sheathed, she may have been able to overcome one poor, unarmoured and unarmed woman; but she was certainly no match for a warrior such as I had become.

The small Dwemer-metal device that hung at her belt proved to be the key to avoiding the devices on the way out ~ apparently they would not discharge their magicka at anyone carrying the device. I took advantage of this fact, adding one to my bulging pack after emptying the contents of the two chests into it.

Golena’s brother was, quite naturally, distraught at the news that his sister was dead but I think he realised she was far too far-gone to be saved. I, meanwhile, returned to the Velas Manor and placed the heavy pack on the table. From it I drew one of the devices that had lined the cavern. Working carefully, I quickly found the small panel on the side, the small recess behind it containing a partially dissolved crystal. Also inside was a small lever, which opened the top of the thing. Gazing at the odd crystalline structures and wires that festooned the interior, I realised that recreating this device was far beyond me. Baladas, however, would have a field day.

At first i just kept getting hurt and dieing, but then i figured it out. I wont tell but i will PM people if they want to know. At least My way. I Dont know hers. Ohh, and i cant wait to see whats the result of Baladas' Experiments are. Hey that would be a nice mod. Being able to pick one up and bring it to some one whou could make more so i could guard places.

Another great update Override
and I combine this praise with a query: how do I know if a scroll can be used as an Apprentice Scroll? lol

Much of today was taken up with preparation for the end of year festivals; I ordered several rather rare items to take back to Tel Vahl with me. I did, however, find time to deliver the letter I’d taken from Llethan Manor to Tienius Delitian.

“Most interesting,” he said, reading the letter. “It confirms what we’ve suspected for a long time. And the names of the co-conspirators are not unknown to us. Please wait here a moment.” With that, Tienius Delitian left the royal chambers and left me alone under the watchful eyes of the guards. I tried to strike up a conversation with them but they stared resolutely ahead and wouldn’t even look at me.

“Take these,” Delitian said on his return, thrusting three scrolls into my hands.

“What are these?” I asked.

“Royal Writs of Execution,” he replied. Over my exclamation of “WHAT!” he calmly continued, “the co-conspirators are to be executed by direct order of King Helseth. These Writs will ensure that, should the guards apprehend you, they will not arrest you. Now, listen carefully…

“Forven Berano is known as a devout Mer. My suggestion would be to start at the Temple and work out from there. Hloggar the Bloody’s current whereabouts are unknown. However, there are very few Nords in Mournhold and they tend to use the sewers as resting places. If I were you, I’d start there. Unfortunately, we have no information on Bedal Alen ~ the name is known to us from various Intelligence sources but we have no other information to work with.”

“You have got to be joking,” I said, holding the three Writs out to him. “I’m not going around cutting people down just for you or your precious Helseth.”

“I would reconsider that,” Delitian said, folding his arms. “There is the small matter of your illegal entry into the citadel during quarantine; the killing of two of Helseth’s Altmeri trainers… I’m sure, if I thought about it, I could come up with another couple of charges.”

“You slimy son of a umbrella seller!” I exploded, “after all the help I’ve given you. I’m sure that some of our conversations would raise an advocate’s eyebrows when I related them in court.”

“There would be no trial,” Delitian said softly. “However, such arguments are unnecessary. I am sure that we could come to some suitable arrangement to repay you for the work. You will find Helseth not ungenerous for those that are loyal to him. Here, as earnest of our good intentions, and anticipating your reaction, I had this drawn up.” He handed me another scroll. “It is the rights to Velas Manor, signed over to your name by His Majesty. As a property owner in the enclave of Godsreach, you have the right to travel to your residence at any time you please…”

I nodded, reluctantly taking back the three scrolls from the table. By granting me property rights in the citadel of Mournhold, Helseth had effectively removed me from any threat of prosecution for breaking the quarantine. As I walked downstairs and had the Argonian, Effie-tai, return me to Vvardenfell, I couldn’t help reflecting on life’s little ironies.

I had travelled to Mournhold because someone had set a pack of assassins on my trail. As a result of that visit, I had effectively crippled that cell of the Dark Brotherhood. Now, in one of those little ironic twists that seem to so amuse the Gods, I was being called upon to perform the functions of the Dark Brotherhood. How I was to proceed was a difficult matter to decide, and I had a good many things to manage over the next two days.

I'm glad that you're still enjoying these tales, and I apologies for not responding sooner but the last few days have been hectic (to say the very least).

You can tell an Apprentice Scroll by looking at it (reading it). You are given the option, on closing, to put it away, use it, or learn it. Otherwise, they appear exactly the same as a standard scroll

Cool update, no problem taking so long

It's weird, whenever i drop a scroll on my character screen thing (e.g Scroll of Red Despair) it comes up as all the daedric writing. But when i close it, it just closes, that's all

3rd Era ~ Year 428

The festivities had gone well, and Baladas had been delighted with his new toy ~ although he understood the conditions attached to it all too well. In fact, the first thing he asked, after examining it closely, was “How many and how soon?”

There were other matters to occupy my mind this morning however. Galas Drenim, the House representative at the Grand Council in Ebonheart arrived shortly after dawn with a report of the council meeting just concluded.

“House Hlaalu is seeking damages against Great House Telvanni,” she said, sitting opposite me and unrolling a scroll. “They claim that ‘Telvanni’ forces, authorised by the Arch-Magister, intercepted their expedition to the empty building known as Odirniran. They are claiming that they lost two hundred thousand Septims on the cost of the mission, pensions to the spouses, and another similar sum in treasure that they claim was there for the taking.”

“House Hlaalu can just go on claiming,” I responded. “Odirniran is clearly in our territory, we have prior claim to the site, and have had for several decades. Put in a counter-claim of, let’s say, seven hundred thousand Septims for the cost of repulsing Hlaalu incursions into Great House Telvanni territory. Tell the House Father of Hlaalu that, once our claim is settled to our satisfaction, we will settle their claim.”

Galas made a quick note, and then said, “The Mages of the Imperial Guild are not living up to the agreement you brokered that allows us to teach magic unimpeded. Twice in the last month, they closed down Telvanni spell-makers in Sadrith Mora, near Wolverine Hall, and they’ve laid a claim that we are teaching magic without their approval.”

“Gods Falling,” I swore, unconsciously repeating an Ashlander phrase. “Effective immediately, all trade into the Imperial Mages Guildhouse in Sadrith Mora is suspended. No trader is to supply them anything of a magical nature. Additionally, have Master Neloth withdraw their Hospitality Papers and ensure the guards are under strict instruction to detain and fine anyone without a valid set of papers. As to the other problems with them, I will have to give some thought as to how to deal with them. Meanwhile, have a quiet word with what’s-his-name? The Redoran Councillor and mention that the Mages aren’t complying with the wishes of the Vvardenfell Council. We might manage to swing a censure vote against them. Anything else?”

“Two other matters, Sed Telvanni Vahl,” she replied. “There is an Inquisitor by the name of Gandor Amsirva who has been asking for an interview with you. The other matter isn’t, strictly speaking, a House matter but I thought you might be interested. There have been several reports, reliable ones, of a spectral Orc around Seyda Neen.”

“You were right to bring that to my attention,” I said, “Orcs rarely turn up as Ancestral Spirits. As soon as I get a moment, I’ll investigate. As to the Inquisitor, find out what he wants and let me know ~ I’ll decide then whether or not to grant his request.”

We travelled together to Ebonheart and, once we reached the Grand Council Chamber, she immediately broke off and headed towards the Redoran councillor. I made my way over to Asciene Rane and had her return me to the citadel of Mournhold.

“Bedal Alen known to Effie-Tai,” the Argonian courtier hissed in reply to my question. “Many book, much learning, maybe where many book found? This I hope, helps?” I assured the Argonian that it did and left the Royal Palace, heading towards the Great Bazaar. There were several booksellers among the stalls but, if one wanted quality books, Sarothran’s Ancient Tomes was the shop to visit. Ignoring the querulous comments coming from the elderly proprietor, I raced upstairs and came face-to-face with a Dunmer in an exquisite russet and gold robe. “Are you Bedal Alen?” I asked. He nodded.

“I have here a Royal Writ for your execution,” I said.

“Oh sweet merciful Almalexia,” he gasped, his face going pale, “I just knew this was going to happen. I should never have got involved with…”

“Be quiet,” I snapped, cutting him off. “If you value your hide, you will leave Mournhold running and not stop until you reach the border. Then I’d recommend a brisk jog to the nearest town and the next transport of any kind heading west. Don’t stop until you reach the coast.”

“I am amazed,” he said. “Few executioners employed by Helseth would proffer that advice. And it seems like extremely good advice to me. You have shown yourself capable of great honour Muthsera, and I thank you for that. And, whatever happens, I will never breath a word about your generosity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel a sudden urge to go and buy a Divine Intervention scroll from Weerhat.”

I grinned as I made my way through the crowded market towards the Temple Gate. If Delitian thought, for one moment, that I was going to bloody my hands killing these people for him, he had seriously misjudged the situation, and the person he was dealing with. A quick tour of the courtyard brought me to a small secluded glade amidst the trees. There, kneeling before a small shrine was a Mer, deep in prayer. “Are you Forven Berano?” I asked.

“Yes, I am he” he said in a deep voice, rising to his feet and fastidiously dusting the knees of his silken trousers. “What can I do for you Muthsera?”

“Run,” I said. He raised an eyebrow, so I added, “Unless you’d like me to actually execute this Royal Writ?”

To his credit, he didn’t break down or start whimpering. Instead, he clasped my shoulders and said, “Blessings of the Nine, and ALMSIVI, and whatever gods you worship, upon you Muthsera. It so happens I have an aunt living in Glenpoint I haven’t seen in a while. Perhaps I should pay her a visit? I promise, Muthsera, I will never tell another living soul that you’ve done this. I know how risky that would be for you.”

That just left the Nord, Hloggar the Bloody. And I had seen a Nord down in the sewers, in fact only the one Nord down in the sewers. After wading through the rats and slime, I came to the small chamber hacked into the rock and face to face with the grizzled warrior.

“Let me get this straight lassie,” he said, after I’d explained the situation to him a second time. “Ye’ve a chance tae fight wi’ me… but ye’re warning me off instead?” He shook his head as though the concept pained him, and then smiled warmly. “I get it. Ye’re one o’ the good guys, no one o’ them villains that hang around Helseth. ‘Tis a shame tae be leaving such luxurious accommodation but, for the sake o’ my health, I should be getting out o’ here. Fast. I hear the mountains up near Skaven are quite the sight at this time o’ year.”

“All three of them you say,” Tienius Delitian said when I told him that the three traitors had all left town in the last couple of days. He gave me an odd look, and then perked up when I suggested, “there must be another conspirator, one we didn’t know about, right here in the palace.”

“You know,” he said, “I think you’re right. We must track down this traitor immediately. Meanwhile… well, as you can imagine, His Majesty wasn’t best pleased when he read that dreadful little rag “The Common Tongue”. He has tasked me with finding the author of those scurrilous lies and dealing with him. However, I think that finding this fourth traitor is somewhat more important than that. So, you will find the author of The Common Tongue and deal with him.”

“Where do I find the author?” I asked.

“How should I know?” he snapped back. “The man, or Mer, prefers to keep anonymous. It’s not Dwemer technomancy Vahl, just find him and deal with him.”

As I stepped into the courtyard I wondered where to begin. If Tienius Delitian and Helseth, with their network of spies didn’t know where to look for this author, I wasn’t going to have much luck. Perhaps if I tried around the Great Bazaar? There are a few unsavoury types around there who might, for a little coin, tell me something. It was with thought in mind that I headed across the Plaza Brindisi Dorum and to the Market Gate.

While I was wandering around the Bazaar, looking for some information on this anonymous author, I met a young Dunmeri female by the name of Marena Gilnith. She was sitting on one of the stone benches, watching the hustle and bustle of the market with wide and startled eyes. It was a look and an attitude I recognised: I’d been very much the same when I first arrived in a big city.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” I said, gesturing to the crowd working its way through the market.

“It’s certainly… busy,” she replied with a hesitant smile. “Much busier than anything I ever saw in Andrathis.”

“So what brought you from Andrathis to Mournhold?” I asked, sitting on the bench beside her.

“Well, you’ll probably think I’m very foolish,” she said with a sheepish grin, “but I grew up in Andrathis, and my parents took very good care of me. It’s just that, when they arranged my marriage to some greasy Nobleman, I couldn’t take it,” she paused for a little while, and then shuddered. “He was gross Muthsera, overweight and greasy, and, and much older than I was. So I ran away and eventually ended up here in Mournhold.

“I suppose I had some romantic notion that I might find my one true love here,” she sighed. “Only it doesn’t seem to have worked out that way. I brought what money I’d saved. Back in Andrathis it was a large sum ~ here it seems to run away like water.” I braced myself for the inevitable can you loan me some money request. Instead, Marena continued to speak, almost as though I wasn’t there. “I’m determined though. I will not go crawling back to Andrathis and beg forgiveness from my parents… or that loathsome man. So I started to work here in Mournhold: simple stuff, cleaning and the like. Now it’s all I ever do, and I never seem to get a chance to meet any men.”

My thoughts ran back to the recently widowed shop-keeper I’d met when I first explored the Great Bazaar. He’d been moaning about how he’d never meet another woman like his late wife. Perhaps I could persuade him to see Marena, certainly his shop could do with a woman’s touch and ~ located here in the Bazaar ~ earning a living shouldn’t be any harder for two than it is for one. “I might have a solution to both your problems,” I said to Marena. “Wait here and I’ll be back soon.”

Sunel Hlas wasn’t any more cheerful that he had been when I first met him. In fact, if anything, he seemed gloomier than ever. I broached the subject of Marena Gilnith with him and persuaded him to agree to meet her. With his agreement, I went back to Marena and told her I’d someone in mind who might meet both of her requirements ~ a pleasant man who could give her a good standard of living. It took some persuading, but she finally agreed to meet Sunel Hlas.

Back to the shop-keeper I went and gave him the information on where and when to meet Marena. As I left the ship, I couldn’t resist giving him one last piece of advice, “Don't act so depressed. Try and be optimistic. You might surprise yourself.” With an unaccustomed spring in my step, I returned to the Velas Manor.

hehe cool
i have yet to actually do that matchmaker quest

First thing this morning I headed to the Wing’d Guar. I had a two-fold purpose, firstly to break my fast and secondly, well it had occurred to me that an Inn was a very likely place to pick up some gossip. And some of that gossip might put me on the track of this anonymous author. And I desperately wanted to find him before Tienius Delitian found out that there was no fourth Mer and turned his attention to the search.

I spoke to a Redguard named Therdon after my meal. He knew nothing about the Mer I sought and seemed more concerned that he had just lost his job. “I don’t know if it’s any help, you being a pillow-fluffer,” I said, suppressing my amusement at this burly Redguard lamenting the fact he’d lost a job making fluffy pillows, “but Bols Indalen ~ the blacksmith at the Craftsmen’s Hall is looking for an apprentice. His last one… left suddenly.”

“Well,” he said, uncertainly, “I really don’t know if I’m cut out for that sort of work.”

“Look at it this way,” I said, tongue firmly in cheek, “instead of folding fabric, you’ll be folding metal.” To my amazement, my sardonic comment seemed to strike a spark of interest in Therdon. “I’ll do it,” he declared firmly as he stood up from the table. “I’ll go and see this Indalen fellow right now.”

That seemed to be the only bit of luck I was going to have at the Wing’d Guar, nobody else knew anything about the mysterious author of ‘The Common Tongue’ either. Or, if they did, nobody was saying anything. Despondently, I made my way back to the Great Bazaar to continue where I’d left off yestere. I’d been asking questions for a while before I went into ‘Ten-Tongue’ Weerhat’s Pawn Shop. The Argonian intimated that, for a price, he could provide useful information.

“Trels Varis… author Common Tongue is,” the Argonian said, making the ten 10-Septim pieces vanish from the counter. “This one not know that one,” he continued, “at Hall of the Craftsmen first Varis heard.

“Now,” Weerhat continued, having apparently exhausted his knowledge on that subject, “this one has scroll for Vahl-Mage. Very good price, very powerful, good-friend-Vahl wishes?” I asked to see the scroll and Weerhat opened a box under the counter and produced a yellowing roll of parchment. Unrolling it, I examined it briefly ~ Weerhat wouldn’t give me long ~ and realised it was a powerful spell indeed: a Sixth Barrier.

“Ssssixty Sssseptims,” the Argonian hissed. I blinked, that was a good price ~ so good, in fact, it was about a tenth of what the scroll was actually worth. I quizzed Weerhat on the provenance of the scroll but all he would say is that it was provided by someone named Ahnia.

“Where do I find this Ahnia?” I asked, but received no reply. I had to make several threats before Weerhat broke down and admitted that this Ahnia was a thief and that he usually met her in the sewers underneath the Bazaar. I have no doubt that Weerhat is adding a very healthy mark-up to the scrolls ~ if I can contact this Ahnia and come to some arrangement well, it can only be to my benefit.

With at least some idea of where to start looking, I headed over to the Craftsmen’s Hall. Therdon had done what he said he would, applied for the apprentice’s position with Bols Indalen. He was delighted to be back in work and gave me a couple of tools by way of a thank you. While I prefer to have someone like Indalen make repairs to my armour and weapons, there is no doubt that sometimes an urgent repair is needed and there is no blacksmith around. For that reason, and that reason only, I have developed some small skill in the art of metal bashing.

The locked door opposite Albrege’s shop intrigued me. It was the work of heartbeats to crack the lock with a quick pulse of magic and, before the guards came back downstairs, I was inside. Inside tuned out to be a small storeroom – several ingots of metal and chunks of raw Ebony festooned the shelves. Of much more import, however, was the securely locked trapdoor ~ well, securely locked to anyone who isn’t a thief or a mage.

The rapidly drawn swords of the three burly men made a very unpleasant hissing sound as I dropped from the end of the ladder into the small office. Several options flickered across my mind: a blatant lie might get me out of here or some violence might be needed. The latter option didn’t seem to be a very good choice as the three heavily built Mer separated carefully from their tight little group, approaching me from the front and both sides. The cool regard of the only Mer in the chamber who hadn’t drawn his sword made me consider the lying option too.

“Are you Trels Varis?” I asked, ignoring the three others and stepping towards the slightly built Mer.

“That would be me,” he responded, adding, “What’s it to you stranger?”

“Are you the anonymous author of ‘The Common Tongue’?”

“I have no comment,” he replied, a faint grin on his face.

“So you are the author I’ve been looking for,” I said. “It would be wise if you stopped printing lies about Helseth.”

“Nothing I’ve printed about Helseth is a lie young lady,” he snapped. “Every word in ‘The Common Tongue’ is the truth. And I intend to keep on printing the truth about Helseth ~ unless you think you can stop me.”

“Oh, I think I can stop you,” I said. As the guards tensed, I continued blithely, “I think you’re a decent Mer and I think a donation of oh, let’s say, three thousand Septims to the local orphans and widows fund would do it.”

“Very clever,” Trels said, waving his guards away from me. “Very clever indeed. I think we’ll have to pack up our presses and move from here to another location. But I accept your donation in the name of ‘The Common Tongue’. I will print nothing new about Helseth ~ unless there are some more conveniently timed deaths by natural causes.”

That seemed to be the best promise I could get from Trels Varis so I agreed, handing over three thousand Septims of my hard-earned cash as I did so. It was with a heavy heart that I returned to the Royal Palace, leaving behind me the noise of several very complex presses being comprehensively dismantled.

“I see,” Tienius Delitian said when I told him what had happened, carefully keeping the name of Trels Varis out of the conversation. “Well, I would have preferred that he’d been dealt with a little more… forcefully but, providing he keeps his word, this is an acceptable solution. You have impressed Helseth, not an easy task let me tell you. He has instructed me to provide you with some money to cover your expenses and a small token of his thanks.”

The purse I was handed contained three and a half thousand Septims, a sum that covered my expenses and gave me a little extra. I had an uncomfortable feeling that Delitian knew far more about my activities the last few days than he was letting on. How else would he have been able to calculate my expenses so accurately? The ‘small token of Helseth’s esteem’ was a sword, of a kind I’d never seen before. Massively long, it was made of the same grey metal as my Daedric cuirass and, like the armour I wore, strange patterns swirled across the surface of the metal. Nor was its length and mass (it was more like a Nordic claymore in length than anything else I could call to mind) the only notable features: it was bound about with some fearsome spells. Etched into the top of the blade were the words “The Oath of the King”.

I was still examining the blade when a guard marched in and whispered something to Delitian. Looking up, he passed on the message, his surprise evident in his voice. “The Lady Barenziah wishes to speak to you. Please accompany the guard to her private quarters.”

Nice...Im's sry i was gone but i have been grounded. I went for the temple way so i'm wondering how this will work out.

I followed the guard, who took me through a door behind the throne and into the private area of the palace, up the stairs and along a short corridor to a plain door. Snapping to attention, he pushed open the door and said, “In here ma’am.”

Inside the well-appointed chamber, the second oldest Dunmeri female I’ve ever seen met me. However, unlike Therana, the Lady Barenziah was in full command of her faculties. Unsure of the protocol, I bowed my head respectfully before taking a step towards the regal female. The guard, presumably her personal bodyguard, took a menacing step forward. “Oh do go away Alusannah,” she said in a very bored tone of voice. “I’m sure I’m in no danger from this fascinating young lady. Am I?” she added, brightly, speaking directly to me.

“Oh no Your Majesty,” I managed to stammer, “You’re in no danger from me whatsoever.”

“See Alusannah, I told you I would be fine,” she said, “now do be a good girl and go away. A drink?” she said, addressing me as the guard stamped off with obvious bad grace. I nodded, and she poured two glasses of a red liquid and, bringing them over, motioned for me to sit at the table.

“It might surprise you to know that I’ve heard quite a bit about you Sudhendra Vahl,” she said after taking a sip of the wine. “Youngest Arch-Magister of Great House Telvanni, Grand Poobah of the Imperial Legion, killer of a Daedric Prince ~ if stories I hear out of Solstheim are to be believed. Quite the impressive resume, even discounting the rumours I hear out of Vvardenfell.”

I must have looked stunned because she gave a tinkling laugh and laid her hand on my arm in a friendly manner. “Oh my son has his sources but he’s barely ninety years old. I have had many, many years to cultivate… let’s call them ‘sources of information’ shall we? I still have the odd contact at the Imperial Court in Cyrodiil and I was fascinated to learn that a… and please, don’t take this the wrong way… common-born Dunmeri female was being sent to Vvardenfell at the express command of the Emperor. It took some doing, but I have managed to follow some of your exploits.

“Now, tell me what really happened on Solstheim,” she said. Sipping the excellent Valenwood Red, I related the tale of my adventures there ~ omitting certain details that I felt were best left unspoken. “Well, it seems my son underestimated you quite badly,” she said when I’d finished. “A mistake I would never have made. Still, you seem none the worse for wear, a little darker and thinner perhaps, but fitter and wiser, than you were. If you’re looking to make your way here in Mournhold, you might wish to cultivate Fedris Hler, a dreadful little man to be sure, but one of the major movers and shakers here in the Citadel. He and my son are, regrettably, locked in a battle of wit and intrigue. In such an atmosphere it’s sometimes difficult to know who to trust…”

“Who can I trust here?” I asked. “Delitian wants me to spy on the Temple, Hler wants me to spy on the Court, and your son….” I trailed off, suddenly reminding myself just whom I was talking to.

“…May have been behind the Dark Brotherhood’s attempts on your life?” she finished. “Oh yes,” she continued, waving me to silence, “just one of the misguided moves my son has made in his drive to secure the throne. But, back to your question: you can always trust me and I can always trust Plitinius Maro…

“Well, it has been a rare delight to meet you Sudhendra Vahl,” she said, rising from her seat, the interview, or whatever it was, clearly over. “We must try to do this again sometime. Now, remember what I said about Hler and dear old Plitinius…”

As I made my way, unescorted, back into the Throne Room and out of the main buildings into the courtyard, I couldn’t help but surmise that the Lady Barenziah’s sole purpose for the little chat had been to aim me at Plitinius Maro and Fedris Hler. There was also the nagging feeling that I had missed something in the conversation, something very important.

I spoke to Plitinius while I was in the courtyard, and he told me a little about himself and his relationship with the Lady Barenziah. It turns out that the Imperial is an author, the writer of a well-known and quite scandalous work ~ The Real Barenziah. Despite this, he and the Lady Barenziah have become firm friends, and he told me quite a lot about her background. He also repeated the advice that the lady had given me: that I should cultivate Fedris Hler.

Fedris Hler seemed quite pleased to see me, and we spoke at length in quite friendly terms. I still couldn’t bring myself to like the officious Temple official but we were at least on good terms. I could see Barenziah’s point: Hler was perhaps the fourth or fifth most powerful person in Mournhold and by extension the fourth or fifth most powerful in Morrowind Province. Cultivating a friendship with him didn’t cost me much but it could be quite advantageous.

After we’d spoken for a while, Fedris asked why I was at the Temple and I explained that I was looking to perform some charitable acts. He grinned and said that he had nothing but, if I were feeling brave, he would introduce me to the Arch-Canon of the Temple, Gavas Drin.

“Well,” this rotund worthy said, “Fedris tells me that you have been of some assistance, dealing with those Goblins. I may have a small task for you. The Lady…” and I understood that he wasn’t speaking about the Lady Barenziah here “…has advised me that there is an ancient shrine beneath the Temple, a shrine that hasn’t been used for centuries. Now, while we officially frown on ancestral worship, The Lady knows that there is immense power in the shrine and that it can be used for the good of Morrowind.

“To that end,” Drin continued, “the shrine will need to be cleansed and rededicated. We have here a priest… blast it where has the fellow got to now? Fedris, would you go and find young Dulni and bring him back here?” Scant moments later, Fedris Hler returned with a tall, gangling and awkward-looking youth who grinned and bobbed his head to everyone in the room.

“Where was I?” Gavas Drin said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ahh yes, we have here a priest, Urvel Dulni, who is skilled in the art of shriving. But there is a small problem. The area around the shrine is infested with Profane.” I shivered, the idea of facing these creatures most unsettling. The Profane are skeletal mages of great power who haven’t quite made the transition to being a Lich. And I thanked whatever power there is that I wouldn’t have to face one of those elder nightmares, only the lesser form.

I turned, fully intending to tell Urvel Dulni to accompany me ~ then I thought better of it. The priest looked like a length of twine, with knots for his elbows, Adam’s-apple, and knees. Honestly, I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s quill. Add to this his profuse sweating, the twitching right eye, and the facial tick and you had a picture of someone you wouldn’t want following you into combat. Oblivion, I wouldn’t want this Mer following me into the Wing’d Guar. “You wait here Urvel,” I said, “I’ll return when I’ve cleared out the tunnels and it’s safe for you.”

“Th-th-thank yuh-yuh-you,” he stammered, “I’m vuh-vuh-very g-g-g-grateful.” I struggled to suppress a grin, this was the fellow that the Temple was pinning its hopes of cleansing the shrine on? With a barely perceptible shrug, I did a quick check to make sure I had everything and then set off to the Temple cellars. There, a trapdoor led down into the upper sewers.

The dark tunnel was deserted, not even the rats that I would normally expect to have encountered scurried through the darkness. Ahead of me I could see one of those collection areas, where several sewers come together and drain into the lower sewer-system. In the centre of this large chamber stood a wavering, semi-transparent figure. Gripping my sword, I approached the spectral Mer.

Nice writing. I remember the first time i did that quest the dude got in the way and got killed in my first fight.

“Whoooo,” the figure said uncertainly, “tremble mortal for I am the spirit of Variner, foully murdered and condemned to haunt these… these…”

“Cursed chambers?” I suggested, “and probably until you have ‘had your vengeance’.”

“I’m sorry,” the shade of Variner said, “I’m kind of new at this.”

“That’s okay,” I replied, “you were doing very well ~ although the ‘Whoooo’ was a little over the top.”

“You think?” the ghost asked, cocking his head to one side, “it seemed sort of traditional in all the stories I heard. And how come you aren’t trembling?”

“I met Narisa some time ago,” I said, “she told me that you were trying to get a message to her.”

“To anybody really,” Variner’s ghost replied. “I’m stuck here until I get vengeance on the Black Dart Gang. I tried to get Narisa down here ~ I can sort of talk to her in the watches of the night ~ but I think I just succeeded in scaring her.”

“So why the urgency?” I asked. “Sooner or later somebody will come along and avenge you.”

“Why the urgency?” the spirit snapped, eldritch fire swirling around its hands as the face flickered skull-like for a moment. “D’you have any idea how boring being dead is?” I shook my head, grinning. “Well, no, you wouldn’t,” the spirit continued, slightly abashed. “Let me tell you, it’s boring ~ I have no one to talk to except those skeletal fellows down there…” Here the spectre pointed off down one of the tunnels. “And, the last time I went down there, they tried to rip my ectoplasm out.

“And, to be honest,” Variner’s ghost confided, “I’m terrified that I’ll still be here when Narisa dies ~ waiting for someone to avenge me.”

“Well,” I said brightly, “perhaps I can be of some assistance there? Tell me about this Black Dart Gang.”

“Bandits,” the ghost replied promptly. “They dress like beggars but they have these throwing knives: very nasty poison on them, can kill you with one hit. I’m living… well, dead, proof of that. They hang out in the West Sewers,” he continued, “but I know a little secret. There’s an old cleaning system down there, designed to clean detritus out of the sewers. It’s a lever near the main door to that part of the sewers. Pull it, and you’ll flood the whole area.”

“Neat solution,” I commented, “sounds simple enough.”

“Ummm, not that I’m not grateful or anything,” the shade said, “but they have patrols out and, if they see you… Well, let’s just say that your fancy armour won’t save you.”

“Blethu arwisg chan chysgodau,” I chanted, focussing the local flux to construct the spell. As the Shadow-Weave spell enveloped me, the world developed a wavering green tint.

“That is so cool,” Variner’s ghost said, peering at me. “I can’t see anything other than a slight ripple in the air when you move. But you’re still going to have to get out of there when you flood the sewers, otherwise you’ll drown. But hey, on the bright side, you can keep me company if you fail.”

“Let me worry about that,” I suggested as I moved away. As silent as a ghost ~ well, certainly more silent than Variner’s ghost ~ I made my way up the slope the spirit had indicated, coming to a large wooden barrier: one of the gates that control the flow of water in the system. Set into the barrier was a smaller, Mer-sized door and it was this that I swung open.

“THUNK!” I jerked backwards as a finely sprung steel dart hammered into the hardened wood rough level with my face. I froze on the spot as a Mer in tattered clothing moved towards the door, his face a scowl of suspicion.

“Whoooo,” I moaned, pitching my voice as deep as I could. The bandit smirked; obviously Variner’s ghost was no stranger to these murderous cutthroats. Relaxing, he stepped closer to the door and reached up to pull his dart from the wood. I snapped out a hand and grabbed him around the throat, at the same time intoning, “Vomica Cruor.”

The Mer gave a gurgling scream, the insidious power of the spell already shrivelling and consuming his vocal chords before spreading to the rest of his body. As he threshed and writhed in the shallow water of the sewer, I turned my attention to the dart sticking out of the door. It was made of high-grade steel, which had been hammered until it was extremely thin and flexible. The handle, a simple cylinder of steel wrapped around with leather, was integral to the weapon. The flexible dart, which, in truth, did look more like a knife than a dart, had a wickedly sharp point and the edges of the blade were sharpened to the same sort of keenness you get in a razor.

I rolled the now dead bandit over and quickly checked the body. Under the loose rags the bandit wore a shirt of quite high quality and a leather harness over the top of this. There were more of the springy dart weapons tucked into the loops of this harness ~ each loop designed to hold a couple of the throwing-blades. The two pouches that hung at waist level yielded up two small phials ~ one of Black Spider poison and one with a clear liquid that I didn’t recognise. The harness wouldn’t be much use to me, but the darts and the poison certainly would. Gathering everything together and stuffing it into my pack, I ventured deeper into the sewers.

The curving tunnel lead around to a second barrier, this time there was no dart-thrower behind the door. This short, downward sloping, section of sewer was closed off at the other end by another wooden barrier. More interestingly, there was a large rusty lever protruding from the wall. Allowing the Shadow-Weave to collapse, I sprinted down the passageway and hauled down on the lever. With a grinding squeal, the iron bar started to move down the short slot. As the motion cleared the rust, the lever suddenly sank into the lower rebate with a solid clunking sound.

There was a roar, and water came thundering down the slope in a crashing wave, quickly rising up to my knees. Huge grates had opened near the top of the slope and water was thundering through the apertures at an alarming rate. I struggled to walk against the weight of the water as it rose quickly to waist-level. After several more attempts to ascend the slope, I was chest-deep in water and only yards away from the lower door where I’d started.

As the water rose to chin-height, I tipped my head back and shouted the words of the spell that Jaron had taught me, “Na Awyra? Ad 'u anadl ddyfrha.” In seconds, held down by my water-filled armour, I was submerged. With an annoyed shake of the head, I struggled up the sloping tunnel and came to the wooden access door. Huge steel bars now stretched across all three doors ~ presumably some mechanism to prevent careless workers flooding the rest of the sewer-system.

The doors at the bottom of the slope were not barred, and I could go through into another downward sloping section of the Temple sewers. As I shuffled along the now flooded sewer, I spotted a glint of metal on the wall ahead – metal in the form of a wheel. Making my way over to it was easy; actually turning the rusted wheel was a nightmare. Finally, after a good five minutes or so (during which time I had to restore the water-breathing spell), I managed to turn the wheel.

At first I thought it was wasted effort but, as I looked about, I noticed that the murky water was getting lighter. In moments, I could see the surface of the water descending towards me and, shortly after that, my head broke water and I coughed and spluttered as I made the adjustment from breathing water to breathing air. Once the waters had receded, I made my way down the various tunnels ~ encountering the corpses of the Black Dart gang as I did so.

After a couple of hours I was laden down with throwing darts and esoteric poisons ~ many of which were a complete mystery to me. With a smile I returned to the junction where I’d encountered Variner’s ghost, fully intending to tell him that his vengeance had been served. There was no sign of the spectre when I arrived so, wishing him well wherever he now was, I placed a Mark in the tunnels, and made it back up to the surface and squelched my way to Velas Manor.

Lol "squelched my way to Velas manor." Nice. There is alot of better parts like talking to the ghost and giving hip tips but this is most memorable

Yestere had been an entertaining diversion, but had brought me no closer to locating the lost shrine or defeating the Profane that infested it. After breaking my fast at the Wing’d Guar, I cast Recall and quickly found myself back in the junction of the sewers beneath the Temple. I was determined to find the wrecked Temple today so, with a determined step, I headed off into the darkness.

My wanderings brought me, after a while, to a crude wooden door in a rocky passage off one of the Temple sewers. Making sure that Grafanc and Hysgithr were loose in their scabbards, I blew out the torch I was carrying and muttered the cantrip, “In Obscurum, Visum.” As the blackness gave way to a green-tinged view of the world, I carefully swung open the door and stepped into the dark passage beyond. The short curving passageway hewn into the rock brought me to an arresting sight.

Before me stretched a large chamber, filled to about ankle depth with the cool, clear water that cascaded in from spouts, fantastically carved into grotesque creatures, on two of the walls. Dominating the centre of the chamber was a large dais with exquisitely worked pillars rising up at each of the cardinal points. The remains of a statue, perhaps of whatever deity had been worshipped here, stood in the centre of the dais. The cavern was filled with huge fungal growths: fantastic constructs that would warm the heart of any Telvanni who visited. Other flora grew here too, strange pale flowers with leaves of darkest ebon grew in wild profusion and, here and there, patches of luminescent lichen dotted the walls and boulders.

My reverie was crudely broken by the unmistakable rattle of bone against bone and the Last Wish was unslung from my belt even before the skeletal warrior strode into view. With a yell, I rushed through the water at the creature ~ drawing the axe back in preparation for the blow. The jabbing sword missed, and my axe crashed against its skull, shattering the fragile bone and whatever foul magics powered this creature. Nor was it alone, several other skeletal warriors met a similar fate. With a final glance at the odd beauty of the central chamber, I explored the burial chambers that ranched off it until I found a tunnel that led deeper still into these ancient ruins.

If the previous chamber, what I was now thinking of as The Sunken Garden, had been a place of breathtaking beauty, what awaited me at the end of this tunnel was an edifice to the power and skill of the previous inhabitants of this city. Protruding from the rock that had subsumed this place was the façade of a massive building ~ the carefully painted plaster still in situ. Some form of brazier flickered in some of the niches carved into the façade, casting light by unknown means after untold centuries. Other niches were home to statues ~ most in a state of poor repair but still possessing a sense of patrician sternness. The two masculine figures I didn’t recognise ~ one bearing an axe and the other bearing a sword. The female figure, however, had an odd familiarity ~ one I couldn’t quite place. Of more interest to me, however, was the oval metal door that was set into the frontage of this forgotten temple.

Ancient hinges groaned softly, oxidised metal crumbling as the door creaked open on its hinges. Beyond, visible in the last glimmerings of the fading Night-Sight spell, was a steep ramp of naked stone that led down to a tiled floor. The darkness was rent by a crackling discharge as the robed figure hurled a powerful spell in my direction. Cursing that I’d neglected to grease the hinges of the door before opening it, I threw myself onto the bare rock to avoid the spinning sphere of swirling, spitting energy. The Profane showed little inclination to ascend the slope preferring, instead, to send further bolts of arcane magic thundering into the rocks around me. This suited me fine as I struggled out of my pack and lay it on the ground in front of me.

Cursing softly at recalcitrant buckles, I opened the pack and fetched out the two hand-held crossbows. The carefully wrapped package of silver bolts made for me in the Skaal village will occupied the side pocket of the pack and I wasted no time drawing back the crossbows and loading them. As yet another thunderous explosion of magic threw tiny shards of the dark rock up into the air; I raised my head, sighted, and fired. And cursed as the glittering bolt tore through the hood of the robe and clattered harmlessly to the rocks beyond. The second bolt, fired after yet another spitting spell had crashed against the stones of my hiding place, fared far better ~ the skull beneath the robe splintering into innumerable fragments as the silver bolt slammed into it. For a second or so, the Profane stood there ~ then, with a clatter of bone against rock, it simply crumbled and collapsed.

Reloading the crossbows, I rose to my feet and moved carefully down the slope into the main chamber. I didn’t make the same mistake with the door that led into the next chamber ~ I slathered the twin hinges with a liberal amount of Dwemer Grease before even attempting to open the door. The thick and gooey lubricant did its job perfectly, the rusted hinges making not a hint of noise as the heavy oval door swung open. Beyond lay a huge bowl of stone, across the tiled floor of which four more Profane glided with sinister purpose. My skin tingled, there was some extremely powerful source of magic in that chamber.

Yellowed bone exploded as the twin bolts crashed into the skull of the nearest Profane, the ragged black cloth of it’s robe instantly billowing to the floor as the creature inside converted into the dust that should have claimed it centuries ago. There was a moment of eerie silence and then the cavern exploded into starkly light relief as three thunderous bolts of lightening crashed into the walls around me. Strings clicked back into their ratchets, quivering tautly as I slammed two more bolts into place. Snapping off two shots, I drew the Nordic blades and scrambled down the incline and into battle.

Ducking under a grasping skeletal hand, I slashed Grafanc across the chest of the Profane nearest to me, the tattered fabric of its robe giving easily under the blade and scoring across the yellowed bone underneath. My other hand, gripping the hilt of Hysgithr, hammered into that perpetually grinning face; the rounded steel pommel of the blade cracking and chipping the bone. The Profane jerked, an untamrielic groan issuing from it as the spell of another of the profane exploded against its back. I grinned mirthlessly, using the momentary distraction to smash the slender column of bone that supported the skull.

Spinning away as the black robe fluttered to the ground, I snapped off a quick fireball in the direction of the most distant Profane before rounding on the closest. Too slow, far too slow. There was an explosion of pain in my chest as the writhing sphere of arcane power detonated against my armour. The world went grey as I was thrown back to crash against the rocky wall ~ Grafanc and Hysgithr clattering to the floor as I involuntarily lost my grip on the blades.

With a curse that would have startled Gavas Drin, I rolled to the left as another explosion of magical power gouged a small smouldering hole in the tiled floor. Surging to my feet, I grabbed the grinning skull and twisted, pulling as I did so. With a crunch the spinal chord shattered, leaving me with a handful of dust as the Profane dissolved and crumbled. I had no time to express my revulsion, throwing myself behind a handy spire of rock as the last Profane threw a fusillade of spells in my direction.

Would these creatures never run out of magicka I thought as another barrage of spells crashed into the pillar of rock that was providing me with sanctuary. I glanced towards the Nordic blades but they were out of reach ~ and I was rapidly running out of time. The Profane was stalking slowly around the chamber, firing spell after spell and I was rapidly running out of cover. Not really expecting it to work, I extended a hand in the direction of the skeletal mage and snapped, “Narro Haud Magis Veneficus!”

For a brief moment there was exactly what I’d cast for ~ silence. Stepping from behind the pillar of rock, I concentrated before speaking the words of the most powerful spell Jaron Scorchblot had taught me. Instantly the temperature in the chamber plummeted, making me shiver as the swirling column of arcane energy literally sucked every trace of heat from the room. Gritting my teeth, I poured more and more of my magicka into the spell surrounding the Profane. The walls behind the skeletal mage glistened as ice formed on them, faint fingers of frost crawling across the floor as the spell eagerly sought to consume every last trace of heat it could find. “Moloch!” I screamed as the spell’s tendrils wrapped eagerly around my booted feet and started to wind their way upwards. Instantly the column of energy collapsed inward, the frozen air smashing into the transfixed profane like a million hammers, shattering it into fragments.

As the last of the would-be lichs crumbled to dust, I sank onto the stump of a shattered pillar and took several deep breaths. One thing had become remarkably obvious; I needed a better defence against spells than diving for cover behind the nearest rock. Something for me to look into when I returned to the surface. With a groan ~ a bath was something else I’d have to look into ~ I rose to my feet and started to retrace my steps through the caverns and tunnels. As I left the chamber wherein sat the ruined temple, I saw that a section of rock had collapsed to reveal a chamber beyond.

Perhaps, I thought as I detoured towards the exposed cavern, a stray spell had made this section collapse. Whatever it had been, there was a long tunnel that debouched into a chamber. Funerary urns and sarcophagi lined the walls while, just ahead, a short ramp led to an upper area. As I ascended the ramp I shivered, a sudden sense of malignancy suffusing the air.

All tombs are, by their very nature, creepy and unsettling ~ bringing as they do intimations of our own mortality. This chamber, however, had a foul and malevolent air far beyond any I have ever encountered. Even the desecrated shrine with its attendant Undead guardians hadn’t had this… this… air of pure evil. I shivered again, my steps faltering. Suddenly convinced some eldritch horror was creeping up behind me, I span ~ sword extended as if for an attack. Dark, empty, foul: the passageway extended away into the darkness, free of any unutterable horror. But now there was the feeling of something behind me, where before had been nothing.

I was shaking by the time I clambered up the rock out of that loathsome place and back into the tunnels that led to the sewers ~ even though the trip down the ramp and back through the forgotten and blighted catacombs had been done at as fast a run as I could achieve. I sat by the entrance to the new chamber for as long as I could before an indefinable sense of unease made me move away.

My sleep was a poor and fitful thing, twice I woke up convinced that something ~ thing not one ~ was looming over my bed. Finally exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep.

Nice update
That thing she went into is the one for that Crimson Plague quest, right?

I made my way back to the Temple after breaking my fast. With the Profane destroyed, guiding Urvel to the forgotten shrine shouldn’t be too onerous a task. Nor was it, unless you counted the times I had to wait while the young Mer picked himself up after once more demonstrating his uncanny ability to trip over thin air. At last we came to the temple and, once he’d picked himself up off the floor, I guided Urvel into the ruined building. “There’s the shrine,” I said, pointing to the canted black stone.

“Stand aside,” the Mer said his voice deep and resonant. Surprised, I glanced back at the lanky and unfortunate young Mer. The stoop and twitch had vanished, there was an odd blankness about his face as he stood there, ramrod straight. He stepped towards the shrine and I winced, turning my back and squinting as sphere of brilliant white light appeared around his hands ~ the actinic glare throwing shadows of deepest black around the chamber. “Glanhawch,” his voice thundered and the light, already at the edge of what was bearable, scaled indescribable heights of brilliance.

“Cuh-cuh-can we guh-guh-go buh-back now?” Urvel Dulni stammered as I blinked away the after-images of that brilliant light. Urvel was stood, stooped and twitching, that odd blankness gone from his face. I nodded, taking him back the way we had come ~ all the while wondering what force had acted through young Dulni.

“You’re back?” Gavas Drin said, the surprise evident in his voice, “and with young Dulni in tow and unharmed, and as clumsy as ever” he added, as there was a clatter from outside and the sound of the stammering youth apologising to an Ordinator. “Well, I expected that to take you much longer than it did ~ perhaps there’s more truth than I expected in what the Lady told me.”

While I was trying to digest that snippet of information, the High Priest left the room after bidding me to wait a while. When he came back, he was carrying a long, leather-wrapped object. “This spear has been especially blessed by The Lady,” he said reverentially. “She has asked that I present it to you.” I took the spear from Drin, marvelling at the lightness of the material and its design. While I prefer to use a sword or axe, I could see the advantage of a spear ~ it could keep your enemies well away from you.

“And, as a personal thank you from the Temple,” Gavas Drin continued as I slipped the spear back into its case, “I am promoting you to the rank of Diviner. Congratulations Sed Vahl. Now, Fedris would like a word with you.”

Slightly dazed by the unexpected promotion, I made my way into the main hall of the Temple and spoke to Hler. “Congratulations Sed Vahl,” he said, “however with rank comes responsibility. The Lady Ayem is well pleased with you, pleased enough to request that you be assigned a most difficult task. Many years ago, a powerful wizard named Barilzar created a ring of great might which he called ‘The Mazed Band’.

“Quite what this ring’s powers and abilities were are unknown to me,” the priest continued. “However, The Lady tells me that the ring is beneath this very Temple in an abandoned crypt. The Lady wishes you to go and recover this ring and return it to us at once.” Fedris hesitated and then, quietly, added, “In fairness I should tell you that we sent one of Her Hands down there to recover the ring. This was several days ago and he has not yet returned.”

I pondered this as I made my way down into the lower levels of the Temple ~ the Ordinators of Mournhold were, from what I had learned, the elite of the elite. Well versed in many forms of combat, with excellent magical skills: they were not to be trifled with. And now one of these well-trained guards had vanished whilst undertaking the very task that now lay before me. It certainly wasn’t an encouraging sign.

“Excuse me Sed,” a voice said, cutting across my chain of thought. “Are you here to deliver the potions?”

“I’m afraid not,” I replied, “I am on my way into the sewers.”

“Ahhh,” the woman said, frowning deeply, “that’s a shame. I’ve had a couple of cases of an odd disease, one I don’t recognise. I was hoping that you could deliver a potion for me.”

Leaving the woman, I made my way into the cellars and, from there, down into the sewers. The directions that Fedris had given me were scrawled on a scrap of parchment, and I used this as a guide to get me to the North-West Sewers.

There were definite signs that there had been a good deal of work done here ~ a doorway that I had vague recollections of passing had been removed from its hinges and the neatly stacked piles of stone in the sewer tunnel showed that the passageway beyond had been cleared. Ducking below the protruding rock above the lintel of the door, I entered the passageway and made my way across the uneven floor. A short way in, the floor became leveller and smoother and I was able to proceed with greater ease. Not that that stopped me from exhibiting a fair degree of caution ~ whatever had prevented the High Ordinator from returning could be lurking around anyone of these corners.

Nor was my nervousness assuaged as I pushed deeper into the tunnels: the skeletal remains of several previous adventurers littered the tunnels. Non-ambulatory skeletons are not a problem; even skeletal guardians are fairly easy to overcome. The skeletal figure in the chamber at the end of the tunnel was a different matter. Fortunately, I spotted the creature before it spotted me and quickly drew back into the shadows. “Lich,” I breathed, for there was no mistaking the nature of the creature that prowled in the semi-darkness.

The spell exploded in the darkness of the chamber, its violet light clearly outlining the figure of the long-dead magician as it drained the magicka from it. As the robe collapsed in on itself, there was a faint tinkling sound as a simple silver band dropped to the floor. Nor was the now vacant robe the only thing sagging, the spell had been remarkably complex to cast and had left me with the thumping headache that is the result of running your magicka reserves almost completely dry. With a sigh I drained the restore magicka potion I’d taken from my backpack and dropped the silver-wrapped phial back inside, ready to be refilled.

The silver band proved to be a circlet of the kind worn by nobles long ago: it’s heavily tarnished surface some indication of the length of time it had encircled that bony globe. The tattered black robe had a greasy, unpleasant feel and I quickly dropped it before scrubbing my hand against the cloth of my own robe. Shuddering, I took careful stock of my position ~ I had a shuttered lantern (unlit) hanging from my pack along with a few simple torches. Several carefully wrapped restorative potions nestled in my pack along with a selection of darts and poisons. Added to this was the mass of the Last Wish atop the pack and the reassuring weights of Grafanc and Hysgithr at my waist. Slung over my shoulder was the Guar-leather quiver, loaded down with a goodly number of arrows.

All very well and good, except that the Lesser Lich that had prowled this chamber wasn’t alone. A fact that became very apparent as I rounded the corner of the tunnel that led out of the room and came face to face with a grinning visage. I back-pedalled rapidly as the Lich raised its hands and hurled an impressively glowing globe of spitting energy at me. Some fancy footwork prevented me from meeting an ignoble end at that moment and I dived for cover behind the central pillar as a second bolt of energy hurled itself towards me. As the report of its explosion echoed around the chamber, I realised I was getting pretty sick and fed up of hiding behind bits of scenery. Time, I thought, to go on the offensive.

“A ddyhea-cama at gwna 'm caseion alaetha!” I intoned, rising to my feet. Instantly there was a sensation of weight in my outstretched right hand as, amidst a storm of swirling yellow motes, a massive great-bow took shape. Reaching into the quiver, I selected one of the heavy black-tipped arrows I’d found on Solstheim. Knocking the heavy arrow in the strangely-patterned Daedric bow, I took a deep breath and stepped from cover as another thunderous explosion shook the chamber, drawing back on the bowstring as I did so. Exhale ~ and…. Fire. The ebony-tipped arrow made a peculiar screaming noise as it tore through the air and punched through the robe of the Lich.

Grinning ~ for it could do nothing else ~ the Lich reached down and grasped the arrow… just as the intricate spell woven into that ebon arrowhead discharged. Imagine one of the Ehlnofey coughing, and then magnify that sound a million fold. For a wonder, the spell did not bring down the roof of the cavern, nor bring this tale to a premature ending. It certainly made very short work of the Lich, the outcropping of rock upon which it had been standing and introduced me to the wonders of a short, horizontal and decidedly unmagic flight.

How long I lay crumpled at the foot of the wall which had interrupted that experience, I cannot say. What I can say is that I very carefully took the four remaining ebony-tipped arrows from the quiver and examined them with great care. They had struck me as being wholly unmagical and, probe as hard as I might ~ in truth not as hard as I could for fear of triggering that spell with me in closer proximity ~ I could detect no trace of magic within them. I was tempted to leave them there but the fear that some other adventurer might come this way and discover them prompted me to return them to the quiver.

The caverns surrounding the chamber I was in were labyrinthine, winding round and about each other in a confusing maze. I realised this, quite quickly, when my travels brought me to a ruined wall that I could have sworn I’d passed before. The mark I’d left on my second visit was still there on the third and fourth visits. I was beginning to despair when I realised that the lower chamber had an exit I’d overlooked ~ a narrow crack at the back of a long fry fountain. This narrow passageway led to a chamber, in the centre of which was a Lich.

No lesser creature of magic this, this Lich was a creature of age and power. Its raiment may have been tattered and rotting, but the decaying Cyrodiilic silk was of high quality and the coldly glowing crown atop that bony brow left me in no doubt that I faced a being of great age. “Barilzar I presume?” I said, bowing low while keeping a careful eye on the Lich.

In a voice like the dust of ages, a voice that made my skin crawl, the Lich replied, “Verily that is how I be called. Why doest thou mine domain disturb?”

“I seek a ring, the least little thing,” I stated, “called The Mazed Band.”

“NEVER!” the Lich roared, “never that shall I relinquish, for it hath great power.”

“Then we have a problem my lord,” I responded, dropping my hands to the hilts of my swords while I hurriedly began constructing the counter-magic spell in my mind. “For I am instructed by the Goddess Almalexia to recover it at all costs.”

“Thou hast a problem, mortal,” the Lich said, reaching out and clasping a darkly glowing staff. “The whims of the witch-queen to me matter not.”

“Narro Haud Magis Veneficus!” I spat, feeding the spell as much arcane power as I dared. To my horror the swirling green light of the spell failed to envelope Barilzar ~ instead seeming to be absorbed by the staff he carried. Some slight edge of the cantrip seemed to get through, yellowish bone took on a darker hue and the garments seemed to rot and decay a little more. But it was far too little to destroy the Elder Lich and, with a dusty roar, he swung the staff at me ~ forcing me to dance backwards as I quickly drew Grafanc and Hysgithr.

I had no idea how long the spell I’d cast would prevent Barilzar from casting and the reach and heft of the heavy staff made it difficult for me to get close enough to him to do damage. In addition, despite my speed and prowess with the twin Nordic blades, those few blows that did get through did very little harm to the Lich. To add to my consternation, the vindictive spells woven into the blades only served to fuel Barilzar further, making the magical being nimbler and stronger.

Quickly disengaging, I let Grafanc and Hysgithr fall to the floor while I grabbed The Last Wish from its strap on my pack. The heavy Dwemer blade made a satisfying thrumming noise as it cleaved the air, the golden-coloured blade clanging against the heavy staff and knocking it aside. Barilzar’s eye-sockets flared with a dark light as I swung the Dwemer axe, and his attacks became more cautious.

The staff whipped across, the heavy end slamming into me and making me stagger. As I struggled for balance, the dark staff sliced my feet from under me, sending me crashing to the floor. Looming over me, the Lich raised the staff like a spear and prepared to plunge it into me. Desperately I swung the Last Wish, the wickedly curved blade slamming into the Lich’s right thighbone. There was a sharp cracking sound and Barilzar staggered the tip of the staff striking sparks from the rock as the now unaimed tip slammed down next to my ear.

Bleeding from where the stone chips had cut me, I drew my left foot up and kicked the Lich in the midsection as hard as I could. Even though there was no accompanying crack of breaking bone, the force was enough to make Barilzar stagger backwards. A protruding rock, slightly above knee-height, pitched the crowned skeleton over as I scrambled to my feet. Light flared in its sockets as I stood over it, axe raised. “Oh bugg…” the Lich boomed as the axe descended, cracking the fragile cranium like a Kwama egg.

As the creature’s tenuous hold on the Mundus faded, the clothes rotted almost instantly to mush and the gold of the crown took on the tarnish of untold ages. There was a flare of light from the now relaxed right hand as the ebon staff fizzled and sparked. Bending down, I grabbed it and found that it was no more than a simple rod of age-blackened iron: whatever magical powers it had possessed had obviously come from Barilzar rather than some enchantment woven into the staff. Of more interest was the gleam of gold around the skeleton’s left ring-finger.

The ring I took from the Lich Barilzar seemed unremarkable ~ a plain band of gold with no stones or decorative work. I probed it carefully and, finding no enchantment upon it, scanned it fully. Despite my best efforts, the ring remained exactly what it appeared to be: a plain band of age-tarnished gold. There wasn’t even the faint echo of expended magic from the ring. Puzzled by this, for it had been described as a puissant artefact, I returned to the Temple and presented the ring to Fedris Hler.

“This is it?” he asked, obviously as puzzled as I had been. “Gavas would like a word with you. Please,” he handed the ring back to me, “take this with you.”

I made my way up to the offices of Gavas Drin where he was waiting for me, seated behind his desk and looking somewhat annoyed. “Fine,” he said, most ungraciously when I told him I had the Mazed Band. “It is to be presented to the Lady Ayem immediately. You will find the door to the High Chapel unlocked.”

Hehe, he was gonna say oh bugger
But i thought that was the Vahl battlecry or something?

So that was it, I thought as I walked to the plain wooden door that would lead me into the High Chapel. Gavas was out of sorts because he had wanted to present the ring ~ instead that task had fallen to me. And I wasn’t too sure how I felt about it…

I had been brought up a Stendarrite, not through choice but because the people who’d adopted me had followed Stendarr. As a young child I was exactly as devout as I needed to be to avoid getting into trouble with my ‘parents’. For the first couple of years after my departure, religion was the last thing on my mind and, to be honest, I’d pretty much fallen out of the habit of attending whichever Cult Shrine happened to be close by. Then I’d come to Morrowind Province and come into contact with my House.

There I had been exposed to the old ways, the worship of the Daedric Princes. Not in the wide-eyed insane manner of the cultists who infested many of the ruined Daedric Shrines ~ although that was debatable in Therana’s case ~ but in a quiet, personal way. The fleeting contacts I’d had with these alien avatars of power had affected me deeply ~ in a childhood of quiet devotion no single Divine had ever made its presence known to me in the manner Sheogoraph, Azura, and Malacath had.

Then there was my time with the Temple, the quietly devout zealots who worshipped the Tribunal. From these people I had absorbed a deep sense of awe concerning Vehk, Seht, and Ayem. It was difficult for me to reconcile the attraction I felt towards the worship of the Daedric Princes with the profound sense of awe I got from contemplating living gods that moved among the people. And now, beyond the door that stood in front of me, was one of these gods, a living, breathing entity with powers beyond anything I could imagine.

Trembling, I opened the door and stepped into the High Chapel. Guards stood around the walls, Her Hands arrayed in their full glory. In the centre of the circular chamber was a raised platform, bounded by pillars of Gold, Adamantium, Silver, and Ebony. The chequered pattern decorating the floor of the dais was comprised of rare stones and delicate scents drifted from the braziers burning at the foot of the four pillars. High overhead, the roof of the chamber gleamed with the muted and unmistakable glister of pure gold reflecting the fires beneath.

Yet all of these glories faded into insignificance before the slender feminine form that floated above the dais. Her skin was golden ~ not the yellowish gold of the Altmeri but the burnished metallic glow of pure gold. Tresses of thick black hair cascaded around the naked shoulders, partially obscuring the swirling tattoos that covered the woman’s arms. Her chest was uncovered but she wore a tabard around her waist identical to those worn by her Ordinators. Bangles and bracelets clinked softly around her wrists and ankles as she lowered her arms and raised her head, sinking slowly to the floor.

I gasped, taking a step back as those eyes ~ black as midnight ~ turned on me and the corners of the mouth turned up in a faint but welcoming smile. The eyes, black, on black, on black, regarded me coolly and I could see the power of the female warrior-god crackling in the ebon depths of that regard. Dumb-founded, I held my hand out with the Mazed Band sitting on the palm. The smile grew warmer and the ring floated from my hand and swooped across the room to drop into Almalexia’s outstretched hand.

“DRAW CLOSE,” a soft chorus of voices sang, “FOR I WOULD REWARD THEE FOR THY VALOUR.” I blinked, moving towards the figure of the Goddess without volition on my part. Ayem inclined her head, speaking without moving her lips, that soft chorus of voices speaking for her, “YOUR PART IN THE RECOVERY OF THE MAZED BAND IS KNOWN TO ME MY CHILD, AND FOR THAT I THANK AND REWARD THEE...” as she spoke these words, I felt a strange sensation: the sort of all-over tingle you get when you have been out in the sun for a long while, “…I SHALL HAVE FURTHER TASKS FOR THEE ANON.”

I stumbled from the High Chapel in a daze, awed by the sheer power of the Goddess Almalexia. My state might explain why I almost stepped into the Healer Nerile Andaren as she hurried along the hall. Fortunately, she understood my slightly bedazzled state and was quite forgiving ~ although she did repeat her request that I deliver some potion.

“Of course,” I replied, “where do I need to take it?”

“To Geon Auline,” she replied, “He has a small place in Godsreach.” Taking the plain ceramic vial from her, I left the Temple and made my way towards the residential quarter. I hadn’t noticed it on my way to the Temple this morning but the streets were… less crowded that usual. Oh, for sure there were still plenty of people going about their business, but the usual crowds seemed oddly thinned.

Auline’s residence was easy enough to find and, receiving no answer when I knocked, I went in. Geon Auline was in a very bad way, a very high temperature and huge splotches of crimson on his face and exposed arms. I blanched, stepping back from the infected Cyrodiil, and then laughed. It had been such an instinctive reaction to the disease that I had reacted without thinking ~ the disease was, of course, no danger to me. Crossing to the bed, I helped the Man into a sitting position and carefully poured the sickly-smelling tonic down his throat.

It didn’t take long for the elixir to work: his stentorian breathing, laboured and rasping, was the first thing to clear up, the angry-looking crimson splotches starting to fade away at the same time. After three or four minutes, he seemed to be completely cured, albeit still very weak. “Thank you,” he husked, sitting on the edge of the bed ~ about as far as he had been able to get. “I feel much better now.”

“You’ll feel even better when you get back into bed,” I said kindly. Ignoring his protests, I pushed him back into his bed and went into the small food-preparation area of his domicile. A while later, Geon Auline was sitting up in bed and sipping hot vegetable broth from a bowl and seemed much better.

“Thank you for the soup,” he said, “it’s really quite good. Let me ask you something, can I impose on your good nature a little more?”

“That would depend,” I replied.

“I am a collector,” Auline said, pointing towards a heavily locked cabinet on the wall. “I have been collecting Lesser House blades and I came to Mournhold simply to get my hands on a House Droth Dagger. There’s a lady named Arnsa Thendas whose husband, recently deceased, was a fellow collector. I know he had the dagger I’m looking for but, in my current state, I can hardly approach Thendas. Could I prevail upon you…?”

I shrugged, it was hardly a difficult task and Thendas Manor was scarcely more than a hundred paces away from Auline’s rented accommodation. Arnsa Thendas proved to be a much younger woman than I’d anticipated, but the Legion shield and ‘pot’ told me all I needed to know about her husband’s death. “Forgive me for intruding,” I said, “but I am interested in purchasing something from your late husband’s collection.”

“Did you know my husband?” she asked, looking at me closely, “you have the look of the Legion about you.”

It would have been easy to lie, to claim kinship with her husband in the hope of securing a favourable response. “I’m afraid I never had that privilege,” I replied. “He and I must have been stationed at different garrisons.”

“Oh,” she said, looking slightly crestfallen. Then she asked, “What was it from my husband’s collection you were interested in?”

“A House Droth dagger,” I replied. She nodded, crossing to a small flat box and unlocking it. From within the chest, she brought out an ancient Chitin dagger, the handle of which was decorated with inlaid glass ~ the decoration taking the form of a clenched fist.

“I was about to put the whole estate up for auction,” she said, “before I return to Tear. I don’t see that there would be a problem with selling this separately. My husband prized it highly, and valued it at six hundred Septims. I suppose I could…”

“Six hundred Septims will be an acceptable price Muthsera Thendas,” I interrupted. Opening my purse, I took out six of the huge 100-Septim coins and placed them on the table. She nodded her thanks and, picking up the coins, passed me the dagger. Geon Auline’s face lit up when I showed him the dagger and, without even blinking when I told him I’d paid six hundred for it, he made me an offer of eight hundred Septims.

Two hundred Septims better off; I made my way through the quiet streets to Velas Manor. Twice I could have sworn I heard quiet laughter from behind me but, when I turned around, there was no one to be seen. By the time I reached the manse, I was deeply uneasy and I planned to speak to the Temple Healer on the morrow.