Yestere had been extremely profitable for me, as I had pretty much spent the day practising various spells, summoning, and combat techniques, not to mention a little alchemy. While there was no chance I was ever going to be partaking of the three greasy and foul-smelling concoctions I’d produced as a result of my experiments ~ the other training had been extremely beneficial albeit tiring. So, it was with more than a little impatience that I responded to the hammering on the front door that awoke me this morning. I was just about to address the young individual with the appropriate venom when he thrust a parchment into my hand, saying, “Muthsera Hleran sends her compliments.”

The note was brief and to the point:


Even though I knew that, at this stage, my stronghold wouldn’t be inhabitable, it was excellent news indeed. Dressing quickly, I spoke the words of the translocation spell and found myself in Sadrith Mora. Making my way into the oddly lit cavern, I listened to what Llunela had to say to me.

“I’m glad you came Muthsera Vahl,” she said. “The initial phase of growth is now complete. However, your tower still needs to grow more and it will need to be shaped. Traditionally, a skilled Tekton does this but, regrettably, the current expansion on the mainland means that they are all very busy there. We could leave the tower to grow wild ~ which rarely results in anything useable.

“But, when traditional means are unavailable, we have to make do with something else. It is said that the Dwemer had an artefact that could shape materials using sound. The book I read, by an Imperial named Hevou Thath, said that he’d seen designs for one such artefact in the Dwemer ruins of Mzanchend. I need you to travel there and locate these drawings, if they’re still there.”

Conveniently enough, the ruins I need are quite close to Uvirith’s Grave: so travelling there was my first priority. I followed pretty much the same route as before and soon came to the twisted knot of roots and branches that would form the basis of my tower. They had grown considerably since the last time, now being something like twice the height of a Mer. The environs, unfortunately, hadn’t improved any: the dust still lay thick on the ground and blew up in choking clouds at the slightest breeze. There was one change, however: and not a pleasant one. At the edge of the raised area of land upon which stood the hillock my tower was growing on was a campfire. Advancing cautiously, I made my way towards it.

“Greetings,” the armoured woman standing by the fire said, “what brings you to this gods forsaken plot of land?”

“This land is mine,” I replied somewhat sharply, “as is yonder tower. What brings you to my property?”

“Ahh well,” she said, raising the visor of her steel helm and looking at me. “Firstly, my apologies for any offence Telvanni. I have a tendency to speak jocularly when, maybe, I shouldn’t. As to what I am doing here, it’s complicated.”

“So, uncomplicated it,” I demanded. She grinned wryly.

“At your command. My being here serves a two-fold purpose. The first is that I am a researcher: and what I am researching is the life and times of the Mage Uvirith. Where you aware that this is the very spot his body was discovered in?” I shook my head, although given that the area was named Uvirith’s Grave, I wasn’t overly surprised. “Yes,” she continued, “and a very odd death he seems to have died too. He vanished from the Guild over in Balmora and, eventually, they became concerned enough to mount an expedition to locate him.

“After searching for many days, they found his corpse somewhere around here. It seems that he fell from a great height ~ with the inevitable consequences. Which is strange, because he was an accomplished mage and knew spells of levitation and slow-fall. Even odder was the length of frayed rope tied around his waist ~ what it was tied to at the other end, nobody knows.”

“All very interesting,” I interrupted, “but not really telling me why you are here.”

“Well,” she said, flushing slightly, “his staff was never found, although they scoured the area. It was, and probably still is, a very powerful piece of magical equipment. I had hoped to find some trace of it. The other thing is, recently I came into possession of a book of his that suggests he was looking for something very special ~ and may even have found it.”

“And what would that be?” I asked. She mumbled something quickly and quietly that I didn’t catch.

“A flying Dwemer fortress,” she snapped when I asked her to repeat what she’d said. I laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks while she stood there glowering at me.

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to splutter. “Are you telling me that you actually believe those children’s’ stories about a big flying castle that swoops down and rewards good children come New Life Eve?”

“Not in the slightest…” she started to say, then stopped and looked at me. “Perhaps,” she amended, “I’ve found that there’s often a grain of truth in even the most fanciful tales. But I’ve spent many years chasing those grains of truth and rarely found anything. Which means that I’ve spent a lot of money and have little to show for it…”

“Which brings you to the second reason you’re here?” I suggested warily.

“I have heard,” she said carefully, “that Telvanni Mage-Lords hire mercenaries and was wondering…”

“Well, I’m no Mage-Lord,” I replied “and have no need of mercenaries at the moment.”

“I’m willing to wait,” she replied. I nodded thoughtfully. I hadn’t really given any thought to the protection of my tower and, given my ambitious plans for my self, I really should. If I rose much higher than my current rank of Spellwright, I could expect the unwelcome attentions of the lower ranking Telvanni who wanted my position. A few mercenaries wouldn’t go amiss.

“I’d be willing to consider you for the position,” I said. “But I need to know that you’re trustworthy. No offence, but you could be here to gain a position with me and use that position to a rival’s advantage. Here’s a couple of hundred Septims as a retainer. Keep your eyes peeled,” I said as I handed over the money, “and when I come back I shall expect a report from you.”

Leaving Kallin Basalius to her assigned task, I followed Llunela’s directions until I found myself at the ruins of Mzanchend. The ruins were only small, much of what had existed was lost behind a massive cave-in, but they did boast a small array of those spider-type animalcules. Having filled a collection pouch with a small number of rubies and diamonds, I finally found what I hoped I was looking for ~ a small sheet of the strange material the Dwemer used for writing and drawing on, covered in bizarre symbols and lines.

There was one other interesting feature in Mzanchend. Opposite the main entrance there was a flight of stairs leading down to a small corridor. At the end was a massive Dwemer door ~ the ornate engraved kind rather than the simple iron doors that you usually find in a ruin. What made this door particularly interesting was the lock that sealed it. It was not a Dwemeric lock; rather it bore the ornate style of local manufacture. Whoever had placed the lock had seriously intended to keep people from whatever was behind the door: no amount of examination or magic seemed to make the slightest difference; it simply would not be opened.

With a resigned shrug, I left the intriguing lock (I admit, its presence there had piqued my interest) and made my way back to Sadrith Mora. There Llunela Hleran had something of a shock for me. She’d been studying the drawing I’d brought back for a while before she spoke to me.

“This device can be made: I have enough knowledge to make it myself. However it can only be used once and it’s going to cost five thousand Septims to produce.”

“Five Thousand!” I exclaimed.

“I’m afraid so,” she replied. “Some of the materials are going to be very difficult to obtain, and there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. It will take me a day, or two, to create this object but once it is done, your tower should be ready fairly quickly.”

It was with a heavy heart that I handed over the money, five thousand Septims represented almost every Drake I had accumulated since arriving here, save the money safely tucked away in the Bank of Vvardenfell. It was with a much lighter purse that I returned to Balmora ~ on the morrow I would have to see what could be done about replenishing my funds.

Good details with stronghold construction. I am going to have to study this when I write the town scenes in my story.

My plans for today were simple: pick an area on the island I’d never been to before and explore it for ruins, caves, or mines that could provide me with something to sell to get some more money. I’d never had much clink before coming to the island and had become accustomed to carrying a fair amount of coinage and buying those little things that make life so pleasant. Like food and water. I managed to sell the rubies and diamonds I’d collected yestere to Nelcarya but didn’t get anything near what they were worth. Still, I had a couple of thousand now and a plan.

“Ex hic absum, ut Ald’ruhn,” I chanted, and then found myself in the dusty square that forms the heart of Ald’ruhn. I ventured into the Mage Guild (where my reception was every bit as frosty as I expected it to be) and sought out Mrania. “I want a translocation spell that’ll take me somewhere off the beaten track,” I told her.

“Dagon Fel,” she replied without hesitation. “It’s a small Nordic outpost at the extreme north of the island. Apart from the town and a few Dwarven ruins, there’s not a lot up there except wild country.”

That sounded ideal, and I purchased the necessary spell: leaving myself in a worse financial situation than I’d been when I awoke. Another of life’s little jests. Speaking the now familiar words, I took myself off up to this Dagon Fel place. Imagine a slightly larger, much poorer Seyda Neen: then add an air of damp, cold squalor instead of the warm, fetid squalor. That pretty much sums up Dagon Fel. A massive Inn dominated the small collection of wooden huts that formed the town, the huts clustered around the sizeable docks that formed the focal point of the town. There was no ship at dock, but there were a large number of fishing vessels bobbing up and down on the waves out in the bay.

Much more interesting were the ruins that poked above the high hills that surrounded the town. Massive Dwemer towers, I could see two ~ no, three of them from where I stood.

“Aye lass,” one of the locals said when I asked him. “There’s plenty o’ Dwarven ruins tae be found up here. Them and fish. Pretty much all we got going for ourselves. Mind, there’s plenty o’ legionnaires up here as will take a dim view o’ ye going in and just taking stuff.”

Well, that seemed to mean that the ruins up here were pretty much off limits or, at least, those close to town. With a shrug, I settled my pack on my shoulder and set off in a northerly direction along the road out of town. I’d barely been walking an hour when I realised exactly what Mrania had meant when she’d spoken of ‘wild country’.

Massive craggy peaks rose up on both sides of the track I was on, their sides bare of any vegetation and glistening coldly in the damp air. Every so often, the path would wander into a small hilly area and there the path would split off in half-a-dozen different directions. Since these tracks were not signposted and there was no other centre of population on this small landmass, I was reduced to picking a direction and heading off. Since all of the canyons looked very similar, I was soon quite lost.

To make matters worse, it started to rain. Not the soft gentle rain that I’d encountered in West Gash or the Ascadian Isles, nor even the heavy rain of my childhood in Hammerfell. No, this was a curtain of water that came hurtling out of the sky accompanied by the low grumble of thunder. Tip your head back and open your mouth; you could drown in rain like this. I stumbled over rock made suddenly slick with water, cursing and spluttering in the rapidly reducing light. A titanic boom split the gathering gloom as huge sheets of lightning tore the day apart. There, a little way in front of me was a familiar shape.

Slamming the door of the tomb shut behind me, I shivered as the water dripped off me. Not even the heavy stone surrounding me could muffle the thunder’s rumblings, but at least I was somewhere dry. My pack had kept the contents dry, at least I had that to be thankful for, and I quickly changed into a dry robe. Tying back my hair, I took a look around me. Typically, there was a flight of stone steps leading down to a wooden door. Hopefully the tomb would be uninhabited by spectres, or worse, and I could find an area inside where I could light a fire. However, prudence made me draw my axe before venturing down the stairs.

It’s hard to say who was more surprised: the five lesser vampires who’d made this sepulchre their lair, or me. Actually, that’s not true, the way my luck had been running of late, I was completely unsurprised. Five at once was far too many for me to deal with and I slammed the door on their astonished looks and legged it up the stairs as quickly as I could. Even as the lower door banged open behind me, I grabbed my pack and tore open the main entrance ~ I fancied I could feel hot breath on my neck as I raced out into the rain. I had, many days ago, resolved to be much more aggressive but fate’s games with my destiny obviously hadn’t finished. When faced with a quintet of hungry leeches, running away is sometimes the only viable option.

Ignoring their jeers as they cowered from the daylight in the arch of the tomb, I made a rude gesture in their direction and set off through the rain. I needed to put as much distance between the burial place and me as possible ~ I didn’t fancy being on tonight’s menu. Head down, soaked to the skin, I plodded on through the never-ending rain, taking random turns along the path as I headed roughly east.

So it was, sometime after the midday hour that I came to a small cavern. Come Oblivion or high water, I intended to use it as shelter until the rain had let up a little. The slavers who’d made the cavern their home were less than enthusiastic about the idea but a combination of steel, magic and a very aggressive Atronach soon solved that problem. The three Suthay-Raht and the very ill looking Argonian were delighted when I set them free, and insisted on gathering the slaver’s spoils for me and assisting me in the preparation of a meal.

Slavery might be legal in Morrowind Province but there was no way I was going to leave these poor souls chained to the back of a cave to await their fate ~ especially as that fate was probably starvation. Two of the Khajiiti and the Argonian took their leave after helping me prepare and eat a meal, but one of the Khajiiti remained with me for a while.

“Dark Elf not like other Telvanni,” Ri'Dumiwa said, peering at me. “You set Ri'Dumiwa free, why you do this?” Wearily I explained why I had, that I disliked the idea of slavery in general and that ~ even if I was well disposed towards the idea, I couldn’t be responsible for the death of any number of slaves by starvation.

“Ri'Dumiwa not forget this, Dark Elf,” it said, rising to its feet. “Ri'Dumiwa remember Telvanni name.” With that enigmatic comment, it silently padded off out of the cave. I shrugged and huddled closer to the fire, feeling the chill in my bones abating as the warmth of the flames wrapped around me.

I awoke with a start, my axe had slipped from my grasp and the metallic clatter had awoken me from my brief nap. Stretching, I rose to my feet and looked around. I felt much better for my sleep and, once again, oddly invigorated. I put out the fire and sifted through the pile of spoils the slaves had gathered for me. Much of it wasn’t of any use but I did take a number of scrolls, some throwing stars and three hundred and fifty Septims.

I was surprised when I stepped out of the caves, night had fallen and the rain had stopped ~ overhead, the stars twinkled in a clear sky. Obviously my nap had been much less brief than I thought it had. I remembered a very comfortable looking hammock in the caverns that would prove ideal for the night.

Much of this day was spent clambering over rocks and sliding down steep inclines as I tried to make my way back towards the dump known as Dagon Fel. The inevitable Cliff-racers may have learned a few new swearwords, as I was fairly prolific in letting my displeasure of this benighted wilderness be known.

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way because the path I was following curved down and around to a small rocky outcrop that blocked the way. Obviously I hadn’t come this way. Backtracking, I followed the track back to the crossroads and then headed eastwards and then south at the next crossroads. This track led down to a nice seclude cove. I resolved to give it one more try and, if I couldn’t get myself back to Dagon Fel by mundane means, I’d translocated there.

I had spent much of yestere and this morning railing against the games fate plays with the lives of Man and Mer. Whatever power dabbles in the life of insignificant Dunmer rogues hadn’t finished playing with me ~ only in whatever game it played it must have rolled a six. As I trudged along the westward track I came upon a door set into the side of a cliff. A splintered sign hung askew over the weathered portal and, through the moss and grime I could make out the characters P..ai

With trembling fingers, I pushed open the door and was greeting by the warm, fusty smell of an egg-mine. Shaking myself, I reminded myself that the story was just that… a story. Still, an egg-mine, long abandoned, with a name that might have been Pudai? It would have taken someone of much stronger character not to be excited by the possibilities. Carefully avoiding the egg sacs on the floor and stepping around the Foragers and Workers, I made my way deeper and deeper into the mine.

The Queens chamber was guarded by a couple of Kwama Warriors but my trusty axe soon made very short work of them. At the back of the chamber lay seven objects and I could only shake my head in wonder. No egg sacs these, they were large and shaped like an egg. But no egg I’d ever seen glistened with the mellow tones of gold as these did. They were incredibly heavy and the weight of them convinced me that this was no delusion or fever dream ~ this was real. I resolved, right there and then, that I’d never scoff at an old tale again.

“Lassie!” Hrundi beamed, “’Tis fair to see your face again, I was a feared you’d left us for good, you bein’ a Telvanni an’ all now. Aye,” he continued with a smile, “even here in our wee hovel we get a smattering o’ news now an again. So, what is it that brings ye here?”

Wordlessly I placed my bulging pack on the table between us and fetched out the seven eggs I’d recovered from the Pudai mines. When I placed the first on the table, I thought his eyes were going to drop out, when he saw all seven he went quite pale.

“Ye’re having a wee jest aren’t you lassie,” he said looking me in the eye. “Tryin’ to fool old Hrundi wi’ some Telvanni magic?”

“Feel one,” I said, rolling an egg towards him. “Pick it up and tell me it’s not real.”

Hrundi gasped as he picked up an egg, feeling the solid reality of all that gold in one place. Carefully, almost reverently, he put it back on the table. “I believe ye lassie,” he breathed. “Ye never played me false afore. Ye have tae tell me, where in all o’ the world did ye find them?”

“Aye,” he admitted when I just smiled at him. “Perhaps it’s all for the best ye dinnae tell me. ‘Tis yer reward you’ll be wanting I figure?” With that he walked over to a heavy chest resting near the back wall and unlocked it. From its depths he withdrew ten bulking leather pouches and carried them, two at a time, over to the table. “Do you want tae count it?”

“You’ve never played me false before Hrundi,” I countered, earning a beaming smile from the Nord.

“Ach,” he muttered blushing red. “Well, anyway, there’s one o’ your lot that’ll be pleased to get those. I’ve nothing else for ye at the moment, excepting a wee promotion. Congratulations Defender Vahl.”

I staggered under the weight: the seven eggs had been quite heavy but they were nothing compared to the ten sacks of coins I now carried out of Wolverine Hall and down to the Bank of Vvardenfell. I deposited half of it into my account and converted half of what was left into a letter of credit. Having done that, I returned to Balmora, where I sold off my spare weapons, ingredients, and books before returning to Dura gra-Bol’s house for some well deserved rest.

I hadn’t forgotten my promise to the Duke and it was one I intended to honour fully ~ as much for my own benefit as for anyone who might settle around my tower. When I’d visited last, I had spotted a couple of likely bandit hideouts and I fully intended to make sure that they weren’t being used for that purpose. Translocating myself to Sadrith Mora, I made my way to Uvirith's Grave. I was surprised, and secretly quite pleased to find Kallin Basalius still camped near my stronghold.

“There is a group of bandits nearby,” she reported, “I tracked them back to their hideout here…” she pointed to the map that was spread out between us. “There’s also something quite odd going on over here…” now she circled another nearby area on the map. “I swear I saw several soldiers marching through there yestere but, when I went to investigate, I could find nothing.”

Nodding approvingly, I gave her the pack of provender I’d brought in the hopes that she’d still be here and another couple of hundred Septims. “I’d like you to stay another few days if you’re determined to serve as a mercenary for me, sort of keep an eye on the place a bit more.”

“I can do that, boss,” she said with a grin. I grinned back: her enthusiasm was certainly infectious. I decided here and then that I trusted her ~ almost trusted her, and would start by investigating the bandits she said she’d seen a little way off to the west. Following the lay of the land, I rounded the large ash-mound that lay near my stronghold and followed the path south to the little canyon Kallin had indicated. As I crouched behind some rocks and stared into the short valley, it occurred to me that the route to Zenerbael was ideal territory for an ambush. This would, as they say, be the conclusive proof of Basalius’ loyalty and veracity.

I called the summoning spell to mind and held it ready (just in case) and made my way down the rock-strewn path towards the weathered door. Arriving there unmolested, I felt a little more relaxed about following Basalius’ advice. The door, unlocked and unwarded, swung open ~ the silence with which it did so belying it’s apparent unused state.

The torches lit the dark rock walls of the downward sloping passageway, revealing a bored looking Dunmeri woman slouched against a rocky outcrop. Her eyes widened but any cry of alarm she intended to make died stillborn in her throat. That might have had something to do with the red-feathered iron arrow that suddenly blocked it and ended her life in a gush of dark blood. I licked my lips nervously, once more a lucky shot had saved my hide but I wasn’t too sure how often I could rely on such luck.

There were two more bandits in the cavern, but sneaking up on them was impossible. The entranceway led to a ledge, from which a wooden walkway descended into a large area, passing over a deep pool as it did so. Anyone standing on the walkway, or even the ledge, was horribly exposed ~ as I quickly found out. Screaming obscenities, the Dunmer who was patrolling the lower chamber drew a short, vicious looking sword and rushed at me. Fortunately, as I was at a greater elevation than him, I had a distinct advantage.

Right up until the moment the third Dunmer heard the clash of steel on steel and came rushing from another chamber to add his blade to the fray. I was hard pressed, I don’t mind admitting, and fought back furiously. Slowly and inexorably I was being driven back up the ramp since they both had room to stand side-by-side and attack me. A glancing blow opened a gash on my arm as I parried a blow. This wasn’t going perfectly. It is just as well, then, that a Telvanni rarely fights alone.

“Brythwch hysbryd, alwa 'ch ata” I chanted. Strange shadows and shapes rippled across the bare rock of the tunnel wall, finally resolving into the form of an Atronach. Between us we made fairly short work of the two Dunmer bandits. A thorough exploration of their hideout revealed that they had not been particularly successful bandits ~ although I did find a Thread and a couple of very nice shard weapons.

There was, as Kallin had said, something odd about the little canyon a way to the south of Zenerbael. A strange feeling of ‘there’s nothing to see here, look away’ permeated the valley. I watched a young Kagouti wander out of the valley and start munching on the prickly thorns of a nearby bush. And then it struck me ~ the valley floor was thick with the ash-dust that blankets this whole region and I had just seen a fairly hefty creature walk out of it. Where, then, were the Kagouti’s footprints?

Standing just inside the two boulders that marked the entrance to the canyon, I extended a hand and visualised the shape of the magic I wanted to cast. When it was complete in my mind, I spoke the words, “Ostendo sum”. There was a rippling in the air and, when it cleared, the little valley stretched in front of me.

Except that there was now a mass of footprints on the dusty ground ~ and many of them were not Kagouti: unless you know many that wear boots. Moreover, what had been a blank rock wall at the end of this canyon now sported a door. Some powerful magic was in place here, I thought as the scene returned to its former tranquillity. Moving carefully, hands outstretched, I walked down the valley until I could feel wood under my fingers. The door wasn’t locked, but did open with a creaking sound that made me freeze in place. When nothing happened, I slid my way inside.

The dark rock walls were lit from a light-source deeper in the cavern but there was nobody about. Carefully drawing my sword so as not to make a sound, I snuck further down the corridor. There was an odd warping in front of my eyes as a patch of thin air suddenly became the shape of a Bonemold armoured knight, the crash of his blade against my arm denting and cracking the chitin armour and throwing me forcefully against the rough stone walls.

I rolled out of the way as the heavy blade struck sparks from the spot where my head had been a few seconds before. Lashing out with my foot, I managed to strike the armoured warrior on the knee: eliciting a grunt of pain and forcing him a step or two back. That gave me just enough time to grab my fallen blade and scramble to my feet. My left arm ached abominably and there was an uncomfortable wetness under the armour that boded ill. We circled each other warily, seeking an opening. Silently, deep beneath the black rock, we fought ~ thrust and parry exchanged at speeds that stretched the limit of my abilities. After moments that stretched like hours, we stood apart panting as we glared at each other. He had scored another good hit on me, once more damaging my left arm so that the blood flowed freely. I had managed to crack his shield, and he was nursing a nasty cut that ran from just below his right eye to the corner of his mouth.

Spitting blood from his mouth, the knight grinned ferally at me, he now had the measure of me and knew he outclassed me. Dropping his shield, he lunged at me and I managed ~ barely ~ to avoid his thrust. Knowing that his greater reach and longer sword were a major threat, I closed the distance between us and threw myself into the fight. We grappled and slashed at each other until, with a leg-sweep, he brought me down. Straddling me, he brought up his blade for the killing blow.

Ok you post so frequent that I hardly get the opportunity to comment!! Then again my comments will be the traditional one:


Story. Hilarious. More. :lickinglips:

My hand, scrabbling for my fallen blade, encountered something thin, round, and smooth. Without a conscious thought I grabbed it and brought my hand around ~ hard. He looked at me in surprise, the sword falling from his hand as he gasped for breath. Wonderingly, he felt at the shaft of the arrow that protruded from his throat where my desperate, last gasp had embedded it. Then, with a soft sigh, he collapsed to the side and lay motionless on the rock. Shaking and in pain, I fumbled at my pack and drew out a bottle of healing elixir.

I gasped as I felt flesh knitting itself together again, and that damnable wetness on my left arm lessened considerably. I had a couple of bottles of healing potion left but I wasn’t about to squander them right now ~ the knight had been well trained and I didn’t believe he was alone in Zaintirari. Of course, a quick healing spell completed the work of the potion and returned me to full strength even though I bitterly regretted squandering my magical reserves for such a mundane task. As I sat there and silently inspected my now ruined cuirass, I realised how foolish I’d been. Somebody had expended prodigious amounts of magicka to cloak and hide this cavern ~ a fact I’d been aware of. I had neglected to consider, however, that the occupants of the cave might employ similar, high-grade magic.

To my surprise, the thick Bonemold cuirass fitted me quite well and made a more than acceptable substitute for the lightweight chitin cuirass I’d worn since my arrival here. And, because I was much stronger thanks to my adventuring, the weight of it wasn’t onerous either. Freshly armoured, I continued my advance down the tunnel ~ now moving with as much stealth and care as I could.

There were four other warriors in Zaintirari, widely separated from each other in the large system of caves and chambers. None of them were trained to the same level as the first member of their band I’d encountered: which is not to say that I had an easy time defeating them. It was on the corpse of the fourth warrior that I found something interesting. He was wearing, or rather HAD been wearing, steel armour that facilitated the work of the Storm Atronach I’d summoned. The steel armour bore the unmistakable mark of House Redoran. As I squatted by the cooling body, I considered this carefully.

There were two options that I could see. Firstly: the Mer was a bandit and had acquired the armour from some hapless passer-by from House Redoran. That seemed the most likely explanation. However, the second possibility was far more disconcerting. It was possible that the Mer was actually of House Redoran and had been sent here for some unknown and nefarious reason: either to spy on me or to assassinate me. Supporting that supposition was the high-grade magic used to hide Zaintirari from travellers passing by (such magic could not have come cheap) and the very high quality of the equipment and supplies they had.

I surveyed the pile of objects I’d recovered by looting through the various barrels, chests, boxes and corpses. There, off in a pile of their own, sat a dozen scrolls inscribed with cunning and artful spells. Next to them lay ten bundles of arrows, as well as a couple of bags of arrowheads, some boxes of flights, and two bundles of silver arrow-shafts. Piled next to them was the armour ~ most of it Bonemold, but several pieces of steel and iron armour too. Charms and rings adorned the table: most of them common and easily obtainable but two in particular caught my eye and which I was now examining. The first was a thick ring made of some dark metal: embossed on its surface were five fingers, each with some arcane symbol adorning the fingernail. The other was a thick torus of metal designed to be worn around the neck ~ it hummed with the unsettling note of enchantment designed to fortify and bolster some aspect of the wearer. Then there were the weapons, bows, daggers, swords, spears, axes ~ enough to outfit a small army. One dagger caught my fancy ~ ornate and bejewelled and crackling with magic of a type I’d never seen before.

Sweeping up the items I’d decided to take away with me, I dropped them into the Hessian sack I’d appropriated for that very purpose and took a final look around the cave. As if the Powers That Be had decided to reward me for surviving this encounter by the skin of my teeth, I found a small locked chest that I’d managed to overlook in my initial sweep. The lock crumbled before the power of the ring I’d received from Baladas and I took a look inside.

House Redoran, definitely House Redoran spies. No mere bandit would have had access to the Ioun Stones I found inside the chest. I returned to one of the corpses and tore several strips of soft cloth from his jerkin. Using these, I carefully lifted each stone out of the chest and wrapped it up before stowing them in my pack. Black, brown, and multi-hued: I had no idea what each stone did but, having heard of the power of these items, I was fully resolved to find out. At the very bottom of the chest nestled another gift: a single Ametrine.

As I reached inside, I felt a familiar tugging sensation when I picked up the glistening red-hued gem. It was odd, I was getting a powerful sensation of magic from the stone, but it was completely mute. Shaking my head at the apparent paradox, I dropped the Ametrine into the pouch about my waist and walked back to Uvirith's Grave. There I thanked Kallin Basalius for her help before returning to Balmora.

The dagger turned out to be more than just a decorative piece. By focusing my will upon it, I found that I could manipulate the arcane fluxes that surround me in such a way as to greatly enhance my luck. Some residual effect of my experimentation must have lingered on for, when I sorted the scrolls, I found that I’d picked up an apprentice scroll.

It doesn’t surprise me you’ve never heard of such a thing: they are increasingly rare in this day and age. They were much more common in my youth, albeit never a readily available commodity. These are scrolls written by a mage for his apprentice to use ~ hence the name. They differ from normal scrolls in as much as, if you study one carefully, you can actually learn the spell written on it instead of just casting it once and using up the scroll. For an aspiring Mages, such as I was back then, they were a great boon. The one I had discovered taught a very powerful cantrip of concealment and was signed by a Mage named Breva.

Interesting...

I wonder where House Redoran got such powerful magick. :paperbag:

[quote=Aki]Interesting...

I wonder where House Redoran got such powerful magick. :paperbag:[/quote]

Oh..but they have......never underestimate a Redoran.....

[quote=minque]

Oh..but they have......never underestimate a Redoran..... [/quote]

pherhaps they stole it

[quote=Alexander][quote=minque]

Oh..but they have......never underestimate a Redoran..... [/quote]

pherhaps they stole it [/quote]

Yeah right!!!! Hmm you Telvanni-guys seem to stick together, but just wait, I´ll show you Redoran-magic!!!! :madman:

Sticking with you Minque. Will show those Telvanni!
Good story. Keep it commin.

Having spent yestere most profitably collecting several alchemical ingredients, both for my own use and to sell to bolster my dwindling cash-reserve, as well as my surprise discovery of the long abandoned ebony mine just south of Balmora, I was nonplussed to receive a letter from Llunela Hleran this morning.

“Esteemed Mouth, Sudhendra Vahl,” it began, “Construction of the Dwemeri device proved much easier and quicker than I feared and its effects on your stronghold were little less than astounding. I am pleased to report that your stronghold has now completed the second stage of its growth and is ready for you to take up residence. Should future promotion elevate you in rank, I will be delighted to oversee the improvement and expansion of your Tel.”

As you can imagine, I was greatly excited by this news: I’d never had a real place of my own before. Even this place in Balmora had been acquired by force of arms and, although I lived here, it wasn’t really my ‘home’. So it was that I wasted very little time in getting myself over to Uvirith's Grave to examine my stronghold.

The approach to the tower was along the back of the hillock where I’d met the Orcish overseer: although the dust had been fused together to form a solid surface and dark, monolithic stones had thrust themselves up on either side of the path. From the brow of the low hill, a ‘bridge’ formed from a flattened and shaped root spanned the distance to the heavy circular door set in the bole of the tower. The traditional Telvanni arch arced above the bridge, from the top hung a deep red banner inscribed with black characters. Reaching up, I held the banner steady as I read the words written there: TEL VAHL.

I expect it was a speck of grit that caused my eyes to water as I stared at the banner. Licking my lips, I let go of the heavy cloth and walked the short distance to the base of my tower. There was a woman standing there, hands clasped, watching me approach. “Muthsera Vahl,” she said, bowing deeply. “I am Raissu Asserbas, appointed by Llunela Hleran to be the manager of your tower. My job is to oversee the settlement of any villagers who wish to make your stronghold their home. I also have a list of local resources and can provide the manpower to utilise them to generate revenue for your estate.

“I also act as door warden while you are away, protecting your tower with the help of any mercenaries you might employ and controlling access to your tower while you are in residence. In the name of the Tribunal, and by my ancestors, I swear now fealty to you and will serve you honourably and loyally until the end of my days.”

With a lump in my throat, I thanked Asserbas and took from her the heavy key to my stronghold. The massively complex lock thudded reassuringly as I turned it, the carved semicircular doors swinging open to reveal the lower hall. Broad and spacious, the intertwined wooden walls glistened in the light from the twin crystals that thrust up through the floor. Directly opposite me, a corridor led down to a lower level while another led up to the upper reaches of the Tel.

Downstairs, misnomer thought that is, was a long corridor with storage niches cut into the living wood of the tower. A large circular area at the end of the corridor was bare except for the massive crystalline growth that formed the heart and soul of my stronghold. Upstairs there was a chamber with a comfortable bed, several shelves, a large storage chest, and a heavy desk with a profusion of drawers. Sitting on the shelves were books and storage jars ~ along with a collection of Soul-Stones of varying size and quality. On the top of the bed, which had been strewn with the petals of some aromatic flower, lay a pair of silken sleeping garments. Finally, glistening in the light that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the chamber, I discovered a silver and onyx ring resting on the top of the desk.

“That?” Raissu said when I showed her the ring. “That’s your stronghold ring. It is ensorcelled with a powerful translocation spell that will return you to the tower from wherever you may be.”

I took a slight detour and spoke to Kallin Basalius before I cast Recall and went to Tel Vos. I directed the Bretonian woman to speak to Raissu Asserbas and introduce herself as the head of my mercenary guard.

“Well, well,” Master Aryon said as I walked into his chambers. “I hear that your stronghold is ready and that you’ve made a good start on securing the area under your control. Excellent.” He drew himself up and spoke mock sternly, “no self-respecting Spellwright should have a tower, it is most unseemly that one of such a low rank should be charged with control of an area of vital importance. Don’t you agree, Wizard Vahl?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, overriding my profuse thanks. “The promotion is well deserved Serjo Vahl; your dedication to the House is a credit to us all. Now, there are some matters I must discuss with you.

“You are, as I said, a credit and object lesson to all of us, your rise through the ranks little less than meteoric. I have no doubt that you already qualify for the rank of Master. And that is what we must discuss now. To rise to the utmost rank of the House, you will need to find a Mouth to represent you on the council. While I appreciate that you are less isolationist than those of us born to the House, the other councillors would see it as an insult of the highest order if you were to personally attend a council meeting.

“Which brings us to my second point,” he said ruefully. “There are rumblings, my dear. Not all of the councillors are happy that you are where you are. While you can easily become a representative of the House, it is imperative that you have some support amongst the other Masters. Otherwise, you and I will never be able to effect any change in Telvanni policy towards the Empire since the others will rally together to vote against any proposal you put forward. I have mentioned this to you before, but currying favour with the other Masters of the House is absolutely necessary for your continued effectiveness.”

“Can you make any recommendations about a Mouth?” I asked, tactfully avoiding making any comment about my willingness to assist in his plans for a rapprochement with the Empire.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied. “I suggest that you speak to the other Mouths in Sadrith Mora. They may know of someone suitable. Also, you will need to remember the traditional symbol of rank…”

Thanking him for his advice, I took my leave and translocated to Sadrith Mora. I did have, of course, the ‘traditional symbol of rank’ that Master Aryon had alluded to: but I was loath to relinquish my own Silver Staff of Peace. It bore a good deal of value for me, over and above its intrinsic worth: it was a symbol of my own growing power and puissance and, as such, was worth more than any amount of gold coin to me. That made acquiring a staff one of my priorities.

“A silver Staff of Peace?” Dalyne Arvel asked. “Hmmm, if I remember correctly, I think Galar Rothan might have one.” She really is a font of useful information that woman and, on a whim, I suggested that she might like to contact me at Tel Vahl should she ever require a patron. She seemed completely overwhelmed by this offer and stammered her thanks accompanied by several deep bows.

Clutching the silver staff I had purchased, I made my way into the council chambers proper and spoke to Master Demnevanni’s Mouth: Enar Roleth.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you Serjo Vahl,” he replied. “I do, however, have a message for you from my Master. He desires to speak to you on a matter of some importance. No, I don’t know what it’s concerning,” he said when I questioned him further. “Master Demnevanni would only say that it would be to your advantage to speak with him before making any decisions about your future.”

I fared better when I spoke to Raven Omayn. “There is a renegade Telvanni living in Balmora,” she said. “Edward Theman is his name, although he prefers to be known as ‘Fast Eddie’ for some reason. He is an Outlander like you, but with less patience to play the game of Telvanni politics. He will, no doubt, be willing to serve as your Mouth.” This comment caused a ripple of amusement but no explanation was forthcoming.

Returning to Balmora, I figured that one of the local inns would be a good place to start my search for this ‘Fast Eddie’. It was either that, or knock on every door in town and hope that I find him.

“Gah,” the Dunmer ensconced on the stool next to me said to his companion as I waited to catch the proprietor’s attention, “I don’t care how many oaths that champion fellow Larrius Varro swears. That magistrate has got the whole area sewn up tighter than a Guar’s british boat. Short of wading in with a sword, he’s never gonna root out the corruption in this town. Riddled with it, riddled from top to bottom.”

“You hear about that Ralen Hlaalo?” somebody else along the bar proffered. “Stabbed I hear, stabbed in the vitals. He was banging on about that Atrius fellow and how corrupt he was.”

“Nah,” the first speaker said slowly, “’S got nothing to do with it. I hear that it was some lizard got uppity about being sold into slavery what done him in. Can’t trust them Argonians, nasty lot they are.”

“Do you know a Edward Theman?” I asked the barkeeper as I sipped my Sujamma ~ which I’d paid way over the odds for as a way of bribing the fellow to answer my questions.

“’Fast Eddie’? Sure, I know Fast Eddie,” he replied. “Has some dingy upstairs hole on the riverfront up by the Temple.”

“If I should happen to hear about some lost mine,” I said in a whisper, “who should I speak to?”

“Well, I reckon that information might be worth a bit more than a few Drakes on the price of a drink,” the Dunmer said. “Alright, alright, no need to get hasty,” he gabbled as I let a small ball of fire appear in the palm of my hand. “No sense o’ humour you Mages, that’s your trouble. You got information, real information; speak to Nileno Dorvayn at the Council House. You better not be wasting their time though.”

I was not amused at being compared to those stuck-up do-nothings of the Mages’ Guild but this was neither the time nor the place to teach the Mer the error of his ways. Pushing the unfinished drink aside, I walked out of the Inn.

“Edward Theman?” I asked the thin-faced Man who’d ushered me inside his house when I’d knocked.

“Yeah, ‘Fast Eddie’, that’s me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for someone to act as my Mouth when the time comes,” I said to him. His response was immediate.

“I’m that someone, believe me, I’m exactly that someone.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why are you that someone, why so eager to be a Mouth, and why are you called ‘Fast Eddie’. And, much more importantly, why ‘renegade’ Telvanni?”

“Well boss… Serjo,” he amended when I gave him a severe look. “I’m called ‘Fast Eddie’ and referred to as a ‘renegade’ for the same reason. I got into House Telvanni at an early age, one of the first Outlanders to do so. I rose quickly in the ranks to my present position of Lawman, mainly ‘cause I was a quick study… ‘Fast Eddie’, right?” I nodded, and he continued. “And that’s where my progress stalled. I’m only human, right, and I can’t compete with you Mer, begging your pardon Serjo, when it comes to longevity. Ten score and ten years, you’ve heard that expression? Well, I wasn’t getting any younger and none of the Mouths showed any sign of stepping down, or up and there were no new Masters coming along ~ leastways, none that’d have an Outlander for a Mouth.

“And that’s when Unela Arendus, the first Mouth of Master Neloth, got himself assassinated by the Morag Tong. Naturally, they thought I was guilty but, since they couldn’t prove anything, they ostracised me. So I come here, out of the way like ~ in case anyone got any bright ideas.”

“And were you?” I queried.

“Was I what?”

“Responsible for the assassination of Unela Arendus?”

“Give me a break boss… erm, Serjo,” he scoffed. “Arrange a Black Writ, on a Mouth, with the money I had? Ha, even now after five years of scrimping and saving, I doubt I could afford a Writ, Black or Grey, on a rat ~ never mind a Mouth.”

“Very well,” I said after giving the matter a few moment’s thought. “When the time comes I shall appoint you as my Mouth. On one condition.”

“Name it,” he said eagerly.

“That you never, ever refer to me as ‘Boss’ again.” I admonished.

“Agreed Serjo…”

“Vahl,” I supplied, extending my hand in the western fashion.

“Serjo Vahl,” he said, shaking my hand. “You won’t regret this, I promise.”

Taking my leave of Edward Theman, I stepped back into the watery Balmoran sunshine and considered my next move. It wasn’t difficult and, five minutes later I was blasting apart the lock to the Hlaalo manor in High Town and sneaking inside. To be honest, my motivation was a little light-fingered work just for old times’ sake but the brutally butchered body of Ralen Hlaalo, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, drove any thoughts of that from my mind. Whoever, or whatever if the rumours were to be believed, had killed him had been vicious almost beyond belief. Oddly, however, the wounds were not consistent with a knife: the weapon everyone said had killed this Hlaalu noble. They looked more… hacking wounds than stabbing wounds as though a small axe, rather than a dagger, had made them.

It was about then that I became aware of a soft noise upstairs, the sound of a woman sobbing. Moving stealthily since I had no real excuse for being here, I made my way up the stairs and pulled open the door from behind which came the soft sound of mourning.

“Please!” the Dunmeri woman squealed, “don’t kill me. I didn’t see anything, honestly I didn’t…”

“Calm yourself Muthsera,” I soothed. “I’m not here to harm you.” It took a lot of patient work to convince Uryne Nirith that I wasn’t there to hurt her and even more to persuade her to tell me what she knew. Amidst the sobs and tears, she told me that a Dunmer had killed her master.

“Not an Argonian with a knife?” I asked, determined to make sure.

“No Muthsera,” she managed between the tears. “A red-haired Dunmer with an axe.”

“Downstairs, in the main room?”

“No,” she said, “upstairs in the master’s chamber.”

“Riiiiight,” I said slowly. I had the picture now: a red-haired Dunmer with an axe, in the master’s chambers upstairs. Mortally wounded, Ralen Hlaalo had staggered to the top of the stairs, falling down them when he expired. So why, I mused as I made my way out of the manor house, was everyone accusing an Argonian?

“Elementary,” Nileno Dorvayn said when I asked her that very question. “Because the Argonian had means and motive. Nine-Toes makes regular deliveries to Hlaalo manor and was there on the day of the murder. Ralen sells slaves and was heard to comment that Nine-Toes would make an excellent slave. Means and Motive: just as I said.”

“Except I’ve heard it was a Dunmer,” I said.

“A Dunmer?” she repeated, obviously shocked.

“With an axe,” I added.

“And not an Argonian with a knife?” she said, with a disbelieving tone in her voice. I confirmed that I thought everyone was persecuting the wrong person and offered to assist in catching the real murderer. “And why would you do that, Telvanni?” she snapped.

I shrugged. “Seems to me that it would be in everyone’s best interest for the real murderer to be exposed and brought to justice. Rather than have an innocent killed…”

“I don’t trust you Telvanni,” she said, eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what game it is you’re playing, but I’m sure it’s detrimental to Great House Hlaalu."

“What if I were to say that I knew the location of the Vassir-Didanat Ebony Mine,” I said calmly. “And that I’d be willing to pass that information on to House Hlaalu for the right price? Seeing as how it’s in Hlaalu-controlled territory?” (At least, for the moment it was I added silently).

“I couldn’t help you with that,” she said. Turning around, she plucked a yellow-bound book off the table behind her. “This gives the location of all of the councillors of Great House Hlaalu,” she said, giving it to me. “I suggest you speak to Crassius Curio in Vivec City, he is the most likely to be able to assist you in that matter. I shall let him know you’re likely to contact him…?”

“Sudhendra Vahl,” I said.

Her eyes widened and she looked at me closely. “That’s strange,” she said, “Larrius Varro was asking after you just the other day. He’s based in the Moonmoth Legion fort just outside Balmora. He wants to see you about something, wouldn’t say what.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. I’d been studiously avoiding any contact with representatives of the Empire since Caius Cosades had unexpectedly made me a spy for the Blades. Now here was a Legion Champion, no less, asking questions about me and letting it be known he wanted to talk to me. And about a subject he wouldn’t discuss ~ that had an uncomfortable ring of official Imperial business about it. I decided that the best thing I could do was to go and see this Larrius Varro.

The Moonmoth fort was every bit as drab and austere as I’d expected it to be ~ undecorated stonewalls rising high around a blocky central keep. The only splash of colour was the silver device on the banner that fluttered above the shrine to Arkay in the courtyard. Larrius Varro was tall and heavily built, clad in that shiny armour so beloved of high-ranking Imperial officials.

“I have a present for you Novice Vahl,” he said, addressing me by the title that Cosades had given me. “A very nice present from the Emperor himself. But I can’t seem to remember where I put it. While I try to remember, how about I tell you a little story?

“Once upon a time, in a town that’s not so very far away,” he began as I sat down and listened to this lunatic. “There lived a very bad man in a position of power. Let’s call him, for argument’s sake, Magistrate Atrius. Now this very bad man took lots of bribes from other very bad men and, as a result of this, those very bad men never, ever went to jail. Now everybody knew that this bad man was doing this, but nobody could ever find any proof. And, because proof isn’t as important as the very powerful friends the bad man had, nobody could do anything about it.

“Now,” he continued, “at the same time there was this very good man, an officer of the law. He enforced the law because that way people were kept safe from the very bad men and safe people are happy people, right?”

I nodded, bemused and baffled by this ‘story’. Larrius carried on with his recital, “it really annoyed the good man that the bad man was releasing the criminals as quickly as the officer was catching them. The officer got very frustrated because the very bad man’s important and powerful friends protected him and made it impossible for the officer to do anything. Then, one day, the officer had a very pleasant thought.

“I can’t do anything about the very bad man, he thought, but perhaps I can do something about the people who are bribing the very bad man.” Larrius Varro smiled brightly, nodded, and carried on, “I mean, the officer thought, if those people weren’t around then the very bad man wouldn’t get any more bribes. And without the bribes, perhaps, just perhaps, he might not be able to afford his very powerful and important friends any more. And this made the good officer very happy. But there was a problem. Do you know what that problem is, Sudhendra Vahl?”

“I have no idea,” I replied, even though I had a very, very bad feeling about where all this was going.

“Well,” Varro said cheerfully, “the problem was, nobody would tell the officer who the naughty people were, the ones bribing the bad man. So the very good man offered up a little prayer, that the naughty people would get washed away… in a bloodbath… and never, ever bribe the very bad man again. Now, isn’t that a lovely story? Not a perfect story because it ends with a prayer, but a nice story nonetheless.”

“Interesting,” I said slowly, “but why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you might be able to do what I can’t,” Varro said, “namely, finding out who those naughty men are. I know that they’re members of the Camorra Tong and that the Guild of Thieves knows who they are. But, because of who I am, they won’t tell me. But they might tell you.”
“So I would come and tell you who they are?” I queried hopefully.

“Oh no,” he replied. “I couldn’t possibly do anything about it ~ there’d be no proof so my hands would be tied. But you remember my story, and the little prayer the good officer said? That the people who bribe the bad Magistrate might get washed away?”

“That’s a very interesting story,” I said, rising to my feet. “But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“I can tell you more interesting stories,” Larrius Varro said. “There’s the one about the outlaw on the Hla Oad road, or the one about… No, I know the story you need to hear.

“There once was this criminal who came to a new land and she got the chance to start a new life instead of rotting in jail where she belonged. Now the good officer, you remember, the one from the previous story? Well, he was intrigued by this, and more intrigued by the fact that, no sooner had she arrived than she was given a position in a very special organisation, one that nobody is really sure exists. Now this prisoner starts to make a name for herself with a group of very powerful people, people who don’t like the Empire very much. The good officer wondered what would happen if those people knew that their new friend was part of a shadowy organisation that represents the very people they hate?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” I spat at him as I grabbed the hilt of my sword. He smirked at me, dropping his eyes to my sword-hand. I realised how foolish I was being, attacking him here would be insanity.

“You’d be surprised at what I would dare,” he said, patting me on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “Now, why don’t you go away and think about my little stories while I try to remember where I put that nice present for you? Meanwhile, I would also think about finding out who the pawnbroker, merchant, scout, thief, smith, and servant are.”

My mind was awhirl as I walked slowly back towards Balmora. I couldn’t believe the nerve of the Man, threatening me in that manner and getting me to do his dirty work for him. The problem was, I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I had no doubt that Larrius Varro would inform Great House Telvanni that I was part of the Blades, and even less doubt about what that little nugget of information would do for my promotion prospects. To say nothing of the suddenly reduced life expectancy I would, briefly, enjoy. I had two options, neither of them good.

Firstly, I could go along with the Legion Champion’s plan, find out who the ‘naughty men’ were and provide him with his ‘bloodbath’. The problem there was that course of action would leave me open to arrest, prosecution, trial, and a very unwelcome visit to the local lockup. Or, Gods forefend, back to Alabaster Imperial Prison.

My second choice was to inform Caius Cosades of Varro’s threat. And that course of action would put me firmly back in the Spymaster’s orbit, and I would be pressured into doing whatever inane tasks he had for me. One of those would doubtlessly be to spy on Great House Telvanni: and that I would never do.

So, rock ~ me ~ hard place. Not a happy position to be and my self-delusion that I had two choices was not helping at all. Even if I spoke to Cosades, there was no guarantee that Varro didn’t have the means to reveal my ‘secret’ to the Masters of the House. Gods, but I really hate these Imperial officials. Right there and then I swore, on my honour, that I’d make Larrius Varro pay for putting me in this position: pay a very high price indeed.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Sottilde said when I asked her about the Camorra Tong.

Making sure that we were unobserved, I showed her the pile of coins in my hand. She looked at them, nodded and mouthed ‘later’ before making them vanish with all the skill of a trained pickpocket. So it was, in the dead of night, there came a knocking on my door and Sottilde slipped inside.

“I must be quick,” she said. “Otherwise I’ll be missed. So listen carefully, I’ll say this only once. The scout is Vadusa Sathryon; the pawnbroker is Marasa Aren; and the thief is Madrale Thirith. Thanelen Velas is the merchant and Sovor Trandel is a savant, not a servant.”

“Where will I find them?” I asked as she turned back towards the door.

“Where any self-respecting member of the Camorra Tong would hang out in Balmora,” she replied, “the Council Club.” And, with that, she was gone.

Sleep, poor broken thing that it was, brought no clearer council on the problem that faced me. Needing more time to mull it over, I decided that I’d go and speak to Master Aryon. If I couched the problem in careful terms, he might be able to give me some useful advice.

“A pretty problem,” he said, looking at me carefully. “This friend of yours is, effectively, being blackmailed by a person in a position of importance?” I nodded. “Hmmm, let me consider this. Meanwhile, I have a conundrum of my own for you.

“As you know, I took great pains to ensure that there was no question about the legality of your stronghold. The other Houses often complain that we are quick to establish prominence in an area where we have no authority.” He smiled, “Often by establishing illegally built strongholds. I don’t dispute that we have been guilty of this, and Hlaalu and Redoran have often been quick to attempt to wrest control of those strongholds from us. Ineffectually for the most part. Twice they have been baulked by your intervention.”

He continued to speak as realisation came to me: that’s why I’d been sent to Odirniran and Shishi! “Now it seems that House Hlaalu is taking a page from our book. Rethan Manor, built on the Odai Plateau near Balmora, is being built without a construction contract from the Duke. Therefore, under the rules that govern our presence on this island, it falls to us or House Redoran to do something about it. I wish for you to be the instrument of Telvanni justice: travel to the Odai Plateau and kill Raynasa Rethan, sack the mansion and return here.”

I nodded, although this task had little attraction. Before I left, however, Master Aryon had the advice I’d wanted to hear. “If I were your friend,” he said, “I would perform whatever task the blackmailer requires done. The time for retribution is when he feels unthreatened and secure and doesn’t fear your friend. After all, an old Telvanni proverb teaches us: revenge is a dish best served cold, and the passage of enough time can cool the warmest meal.”

With a spell I returned to Balmora, determined to follow Master Aryon’s advice to my ‘friend’. Finding the Council Club was no great problem; it dominated the little alley that ran between the main square and the river. Checking that I had everything I needed, I pre-prepared a spell and stepped inside.

“What do you want Outlander?” the Dunmer at the top of the stairs sneered. “Your kind ain’t welcome in here.” Well, wasn’t this interesting? Here stood a Dunmer with red hair: at his waist was slung a small Dwemeri axe.

“Are you addressing me?” I said with icy politeness. “Who are you to tell me where I can, or cannot, go?”

“Yes, I am addressing you,” he said, crudely mimicking my tone of voice. “Name’s Thanelen Velas an’ don’t you forget it N’wah.”

“Velas?” I said, pretending to recall something. “Doesn’t your mother work down the docks in Ebonheart. They call her ‘Ten-For-A-Drake’ Velas don’t they? Yes, every sailor’s friend from what I hear.”

“You what?” he screamed, totally taken aback. Sometimes it pays to have friends in high places, sometimes friends in low places were better. I had heard many a cutting insult from the peddlers who’d travelled through the village when I was younger and had memorised more than a few.

“I only repeat what I’ve heard,” I said. “Wasn’t it your father that was done for smuggling Moon Sugar, or was he the Argonian your mother lived with for a while?” I peered closely at his face, “Yes, you have the look of a lizard-mongrel about you.”

His only reply was to jerk his axe from his belt and take a vicious swing at me. Which was perfectly fine with me: law of the land ~ if someone attacks you, you are fully entitled to defend yourself. The blade of my axe interrupted his second swing. Grinning, I whispered, “Shall we dance Velas?”

Avoiding his wild swipe, the blade of my axe hissed upwards ~ parting the black silk of his shirt from waist to collar and leaving a thin, bloody line along the way. He sucked in a breath and swung again for my head. Ducking, I neatly straightened as he spun partially around, grabbing that ridiculous mane of hair that hung down his back and giving him an impromptu haircut.

“Not so good when it’s not dark are you Velas?” I goaded, “Pretty poor when your victim’s not got his back turned or isn’t asleep in his bed.”

He lost it totally then, frothing at the mouth as the fine rain of red hair settled around his feet. I may not be the best fighter in the world but there’s one thing I do know: a furious opponent is a careless opponent. I twisted to avoid a blow that would have gutted me like a Slaughterfish, bringing my blade up hard. Over his falsetto scream, I leant in and whispered “This one’s for Ralen Hlaalo, you scum.”

Leaving him unmanned and bleeding to death, I wiped my blade on his shirt and slung it back across my pack.

“What the Oblivion was that scream?” one of the men downstairs asked as I stepped into the bar of the club. I shrugged, watching as the three of them headed up the stairs to discover my handiwork for themselves. The barman gave me a flat, menacing look ~ his hand sliding beneath the counter in a gesture that was well known to me. Giving him a little shake of the head, I silently warned him not to get involved. His eyes cut left, looking towards the arched doorway beside the bar.

Moving quickly now, I headed through the arch and down the stairs. Of the two doors at the bottom, one was locked. Stepping through the open door, I confronted a petit woman.

“Ahh, there you are,” I said cheerfully. Reaching into my pouch, I fetched out a 10-Septim piece and flipped it over to her.

“What the bloody Oblivion is this?” she said, looking at the coin that nestled in her palm.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” I replied, trying to appear genuinely puzzled. “Ten Drakes, anything goes, a good time had by all? At least, that’s what the Mer upstairs said.”

“You’re treading on thin ice Fetcher,” she hissed, spitting on the coin and letting it drop to the floor. “Do you know who I am?”

“I have a very good idea,” I said, slipping the dagger from my boot as I bent to pick up the coin. “A common little trollop with less sense than she was born with.” She coughed, eyes widening as the bloody foam stained her lips. “Message for you from Larrius Varro,” I whispered into her ear as her eyes started to glaze over, “you’ve been a very baaaa-d girl.”

Jerking the dagger-blade upwards and twisting as I yanked it out, I pushed her lifeless frame away from me, allowing it to collapse on the bed. So far I had been lucky, but I knew that the three remaining members of the Camorra Tong would have discovered the ruin of Thanelen Velas on the lobby floor and put two and two together. Even if one of them wasn’t a savant, I was pretty sure they’d arrive at the right answer. Getting this far had been easy, getting out again wouldn’t.

“Well, well, well,” the extravagantly dressed Dunmer said as I stepped back into the barroom. “Aren’t you the adventurous type? Come to right a few wrongs, have we? Coming in here like some cheap little assassin.”

“Well,” I said with great daring, “it just so happens that I have this piece of paper here.” With that, I reached into my satchel and fetched out a rolled up piece of parchment. They took a step back as I unrolled it. They actually did. Then the usual Vahl luck flared up again.

“’Ere,” the barkeeper said from just behind me, “that ain’t no Writ.”

Really cool story. Can't wait to see what happens next

There was a nasty sound, the sort of sound that can only be described as three weapons being drawn simultaneously. “Damn’” I cursed as they rushed towards me. Using the barkeeper’s considerable bulk as a fulcrum, I swung myself up and onto the counter, running lightly along it as my three opponents milled around in confusion. One of them was quicker than the others, and a well-thrown dagger slashed my cheek in passing. Diving off the bar, I tucked and rolled, coming to my feet facing the trio.

“Exuro meus Hostilis” I snapped, extending my right hand.

“Holy sh…” the barkeep squawked, diving for cover behind the bar as the fireball exploded in the middle of the room. “…it. No spells, no spells. For the love of Azura, no spells,” he yelled.

There was an entertaining moment while the three of them performed an amusing little dance, slapping at themselves to put out the flames the backwash of my spell had ignited. Then it all got deadly serious in a hurry. The richly dressed Dunmer, ignoring the still smouldering patches on his tunic, rushed in at me with his sword extended. With a twist, I hurried him on his way, hearing him emit a gasp as the pointy business end of his blade buried itself in the soft plaster ~ driving the rounded holdy bit into his ample stomach. Sparing a second, I spat “Obscurum successio” in his direction before spinning to meet the other two.

I had another trick that the Tinkers had taught me, one I’d not used in a while. Grabbing the arm of the nearest Dunmer, I bent and twisted: dropping his weight onto my hip, before straightening and heaving up and away.

“Bugger!” the barkeeper said, diving for cover once more as the lightly built Dunmer crashed into the shelves behind the bar, showering the hapless proprietor with splinters of wood and a large quantity of wasted booze. Another thrown dagger bounced off my Bonemold cuirass and I turned my undivided attention to the only one of the trio not moaning he was blind or laying slumped in a pool of cheap liquor.

I had no time for finesse, the Dunmer behind the bar was already making groggy waking up sounds and the spell wouldn’t hold the third of them for long. Feinting in with the axe, I grabbed a handful of silken fabric and slammed my head forward. There was a satisfying ‘CRACK’, closely followed by a scream of “By dose! You broke by dose.”

As the business edge of my axe cracked and separated his ribcage, his nose became the least of his worries. Wrenching it free, I spun and hurled it at the mobster who was just clambering over the bar. He threw himself flat to avoid being scalped, giving me enough time to drag my sword from its scabbard and move towards him. Faintly, from behind the bar, I heard a moan of “Oblivion’s Bells, me booze!” as the axe smashed rather satisfyingly into another shelf of flasks and bottles.

We locked blades and struggled for an advantage, neither of us able to gain it. Advantage Vahl: the blinded mobster chose that moment to blunder into his compatriot. I grabbed the Dunmer as the muscular thug righted himself and drove his steel sword forward. The blinded Dunmer made rather an effective shield. Shoving the mortally wounded Mer into his friend, I took a step back and a quick breath. Now to finish this. As Mister Muscle snarled and shoved aside the dead body hampering his movements, I reached in and laid a hand on his chest. “Vomica cruor”.

The deadly spell’s effect was almost instantaneous. The mobster staggered and looked puzzled for a moment, then roared in agony as the arcane fire did exactly what I’d told it to do. Jerking and twitching as his blood fizzled and boiled, the last standing thug managed a step towards me before his heart exploded in his chest with an audible popping sound.

A heavy hand fell on my shoulder, and I spun around furiously ~ hand extended and a cantrip on my lips. I bit back the spell as I saw the heavily armoured form of one of the local guards. “Hello, hello,” he said, “what’s all this here then?”

“Just a poor Dunmer defending her honour,” I said. “Just ask the barkeeper, he’ll tell you they started it.”

The barkeeper’s head popped up above the scorched counter like some small creature startled from its hole. As the two guards turned to look at him, I let the spell I’d almost unleashed on them flicker hungry fire across my fingers while I glared at him.

“Ummm, yeah,” he said hurriedly. “It was them, they started it. Bad, bad they were. She done nothing wrong.”

“Humph,” the talkative guard said, turning back to me. “Well then, nothing to see here ~ move along.” With a sardonic nod of the head to the bar’s proprietor, I stalked off up the stairs and out of the Council Club. Where I promptly had an attack of the hysterics.

Finally mastering my mirth, I cleared my throat and put on a serious mien. I couldn’t believe it. Me, Sudhendra Vahl, flinging spells about like some Battlemage or Spellsword, crossing blades with no less than three well-armed thugs. I tensed as the two Hlaalu guards came out of the club but they simply nodded to me and continued on their way down towards the river. One thing I was sure of, I wouldn’t be welcome in the Council Club for a very, very long time.

“You’re bleeding,” Uryne Nirith said, raising her hand to my cheek. “Here, let me.” Despite my protestations that the wound was nothing more than a scratch, she insisted on cleaning it with a damp cloth and then treating it with a thick yellowish salve from a plain octagonal box. Personally, I was damn’ proud of that scratch ~ the only visible sign that I’d had a run in with five armed criminals. When she’d ministered to the wound, I insisted she accompany me to the Hlaalu Council house.

Nileno Dorvayn was still somewhat sceptical but, after hearing Nirith’s description of the Dunmer who’d killed her master and my description of Thanelen Velas, she grudgingly admitted that she’d been wrong. With some ill grace, she counted out a thousand Septims and gave me the stack of coins.

“You know Nirith,” I said as we stood outside, “if you ever feel a need to get away from these Hlaalu scum, there is an opening for a good cook at my stronghold.”

“I… I might consider that,” she whispered before scurrying away.

With a jaunty step, I walked out through the main gate of Balmora and cut along the banks of the Odai. The directions to Rethan Manor were simple enough; follow the Odai south until you come to the Odai Plateau. As I walked past the Shulk egg-mine, a sobering thought came to me. Balmora was no longer safe for me: the guards might have brought that little song and dance about me defending my honour but I’d wager ten Septims to one that the barkeeper had run straight to the Camonna Tong with my description. And they didn’t strike me as the sort of people who just forgive and forget. Heaping still more curses on the head of Larrius Varro, I finally arrived at Rethan Manor ~ my mood as black as the gathering storm clouds.

“If you value your lives,” I snapped at the two bewildered servants that tried to bar my way, “be elsewhere.” Even in the filthy mood I was currently in, I had no desire to re-enact the Redoran slaughter of innocents at Shishi. Not that that would slow me down in the slightest, if push came to shove. I’d had more enough of these turncoats, these traitorous Hlaalu scum: the stench of their corruption filled my nostrils like the smell of Guar dung.

“Rethan!” I snarled, stepping to the top of the stairs as the downstairs door slammed shut behind the departing servants. “For building an illegal stronghold, prepare to pay the price.”

“Oh crap,” he moaned, dropping the goblet of Matze he was holding. “Telvanni. Look, look, surely we can come to some arrangement? I have money, lots of it. Or an ebony sword ~ you can have that if you like.”

“You’d better pick up that sword,” I said in a cold tone of voice. “You’re going to need it. Especially if you think you can bribe me as if I were a money-grubbing Hlaalu swine like you.”

With a snake-quick movement, he threw the concealed dagger at me. “Don’t need a sword you wussy little mage,” he said gleefully as the dagger slapped into my shoulder, puncturing the Bonemold armour and pricking me slightly.

Yanking it out, I grinned wickedly. “You need to throw a bit harder than that,” I informed him.

“No, no…” he started to say. Whatever other plea he was about to make was cut off by the sudden impact of my axe against his temple. Bone cracked and there was a spurt of blood and other less identifiable matter before he’d finished. Ignoring the fallen corpse, I searched Rethan’s chamber: the ebony sword was very nice; as were the ebony darts and throwing stars I picked up off the shelf. From his finger I took a ring similar to the one I’d found at Tel Vahl and, presumably, serving the same purpose and five hundred Septims from his purse.

I found it oddly difficult to concentrate as I made my way across the bridge outside Balmora and walked up to the fort. By the time I arrived, I was drenched in sweat and shivering despite the heat. The double-doors seemed strangely heavy as I pushed them open and stepped inside. What was wrong with…

“That’s better, sip it,” a gentle voice said. I felt cool liquid against my lips and was suddenly parched. “No, sip don’t gulp,” the voice admonished. I opened my eyes and stared into the grey eyes of a severe faced Man whose face was framed by a rough woollen hood. “You had a very narrow escape there Dark Elf,” he said, moving the goblet of liquid from my mouth.

“What?” I croaked. Licking my lips, I tried again. “What happened?”

“You were poisoned,” the Man said, “that’s what happened. Fortunately, you managed to get here before you collapsed. You’ll be thirsty for a while but keep your liquid intake down at least until the morrow.”

“Thank you,” I said, already feeling well enough to swing my feet around and sit on the edge of the rough cot. The cloaked and hooded monk inclined his head and stepped away, going about his business. When I felt well enough to do so, I stood up and went in search of Larrius Varro ~ making a not-so-small donation to the chapel funds as I left.

“Well,” Varro said expansively, “it seems my little story had a happy ending after all. I must congratulate you on a job well done, and done very discretely too. As it happens, I remembered where I’d put that little present for you; here it is with the compliments of the Emperor. And, as a personal thank you for your discretion, I’d like you to have this book from my own library.”

I thanked him through gritted teeth, with a fake smile and polite words. Someday Varro, I thought to myself as we exchanged pleasant goodbyes, I am going to make you part of a story. And it’s not going to have a very happy ending for you either.

I figured I was safe for at least one more night in Balmora: I simply didn’t feel up to travelling back to Tel Vahl. That didn’t stop me from scouring Dura gra-Bol’s house from top to bottom for hidden assailants and securely locking and warding every window. As I sat, sipping from a mug of water to slake the incessant thirst that had dogged me all evening, I glanced at the small velvet covered box that Varro had given me.

Inside the box was a garish looking ring, made of a white metal and set with yellow stones. On the face of the ring was etched “Vir Quod Amplexus Procul Unus”: ‘Man and Surroundings as One’. Carefully probing the ring, I discovered that it bore a charged enchantment of concealment ~ quite a powerful one too.

Master Aryon chortled with glee as I related the tale of my battle with Raynasa Rethan. “Oh very good,” he applauded when I’d finished. “Amusingly enough I have here a document from House Redoran which makes the usual complaints about us building a tower at Uvirith's Grave.

“What makes it particularly delicious is the message I received today from our esteemed Arch-Magister. It seems that the Redoran have done exactly what they accuse us of doing ~ building an illegal stronghold. Since you acquitted yourself so well, I’d like you to find the Indarys Manor at Bal Isra.”

My reception in Ald’ruhn was fairly unfriendly and it took me a moment to realise I was wearing the hooded robe I had been given by Master Aryon ~ the scintillating brown fabric clearly marking me as a Telvanni, even if you disregarded the House devices embroidered in gold on the collar. Well, I wasn’t about to do anything about that right now, even though it made getting directions to Bal Isra difficult. My persistence finally paid off, and I was told that Bal Isra is along the road to Maar Gan.

The walk wasn’t particularly onerous and I took the opportunity to collect a few samples of the wild plants that only seemed to grow in this area of the island. There’s a small, thorny bush called ‘Trama Root’ and a huge creeping plant called ‘Bitter-Green’ ~ the juice of which is amazingly caustic… as I quickly found out.

Indarys Manor, when I finally arrived at Bal Isra, wasn’t impressive at all. It seemed to consist of a low, squat building with a couple of those odd, oval Redoran huts clustered around it. A tall watchtower rose up at the back of the walled off area, and I made a mental note to ask Llunela Hleran about something similar for Uvirith's Grave.

“Go and get Banden,” a roughly-clad Dunmer called to a man lounging near the doorway of the squat building in the centre of the courtyard. “You can’t come in here Telvanni,” he called to me, rushing up with arms outstretched.

“And you’re going to stop me how, exactly?” I asked, flipping one edge of the robe over my shoulder. Underneath I was arrayed for war: the ebony blade I’d taken from Rethan Manor hung naked at my waist and I’d repaired and polished the Bonemold armour until it gleamed. The Dunmer gulped, and took a step back, his arms dropping to his side.

“I told Serjo Arobar this dishonourable act would end badly,” a bored voice said. “Now I’m going to have to compound that dishonour by slaying someone who’s simply following the rules. Not that you Telvanni are noted for that.”

The speaker was a young man with a shock of dark hair. An earring glinted in one lobe and a swirling tribalistic tattoo covered his left cheek. Like me he was clad in Bonemold armour and the unmistakable hilt of an ebony broadsword rose from the red and gilt scabbard hanging from his belt. I took an instant dislike to the fellow: probably because of the totally and utterly bored look on his face. Here was a young man ~ most likely only a few years older than me ~ for whom dealing death had already become tiresome.

“D’you want to set some ground rules Telvanni?” he asked with an utter lack of interest. “Or shall we just square off and have at each other until one of us is dead?”

“Here’s a rule for you Muthsera Indarys,” I snapped, unclasping my cape and dropping it into the dust. “Try to learn some manners in the short time you have left before I send your soul screaming to meet your ancestors.”

He smirked and made a small bow. “My pardon my lady, I have been a complete bore. I am Muthsera Banden Indarys, Redoran House Brother and Lord of Bal Isra. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

“I am the Wizard Serjo Vahl of Great House Telvanni,” I replied in the same insolent tone he’d addressed me with. “Mistress of Uvirith's Grave.”

“So, that’s the formalities out of the way,” he said. “D’you want to fight now, or shall we chat a little longer?”

I shrugged and drew the blade from my belt. He gave an insolent smirk and drew his own blade. “Any final words?” he asked as he took up a fighting stance.

“Yes, how about Obscurum successio?” I inquired sweetly as I let the sword fall into the dust and cast the spell. He cursed as the green mist enveloped him, then cursed much more impressively as he realised what I’d done. Sweeping up the ebon blade, I spun ~ a thin red line appearing at his throat. I stepped aside smartly as the severed artery gave way and a thick fountain of blood gushed out and splattered on the dusty ground.

(What? You think me fool enough to fight a Redoran House Brother on equal terms? I might have been improving as a fighter, but my increased muscles haven’t stopped me using my brains.)

There was a good deal of muttering from the housemen as I took the ebony broadsword from the late Banden Indarys’ hand and weighed it speculatively. Wisely they decided not to press the matter. The broadsword was shorter than the blade I’d taken from Rethan Manor and had a much better balance. I suspected that the Hlaalu sword was more of a status symbol than something actually intended for fighting. This blade, however, was clearly a fighter’s weapon. With a grunt of effort, I managed to undo his belt and took the scabbard from it.

With the mass of the sword now hanging from my own belt, I stepped inside Indarys Manor. After all, to the victor go the spoils. There was more to the manor than met the eye ~ much of the structure was buried beneath the ground. The place was pleasantly cool because of this and I admired the Redoran sense of adaptability ~ build a manor under ground in one of the hottest areas on the island: smart. In the bedchamber, I found the spoils I was looking for: some three hundred Septims and a nice set of armourer’s repair tools.

Master Aryon was delighted with my report and even had some more useful advice for me concerning the Hlaalu sword. “It’s likely to be too expensive for most merchants to buy from you,” he said. “This leaves you two options. Either you can sell it at a loss, or you can seek out a trader I’ve heard of. I have heard this trader is based in West Gash and has a great deal of money. Of course, your ebony blade may be worth more than the funds he has, but you’re likely to get much more for it from him than anyone else.

“Now,” he said, “if you wish to advance further in the House you really need to consider gaining support from some of the other Masters.”

[quote=OverrideB1]“Yes, how about Obscurum successio?” I inquired sweetly as I let the sword fall into the dust and cast the spell. He cursed as the green mist enveloped him, then cursed much more impressively as he realised what I’d done. Sweeping up the ebon blade, I spun ~ a thin red line appearing at his throat. I stepped aside smartly as the severed artery gave way and a thick fountain of blood gushed out and splattered on the dusty ground.[/quote]

This was cool. I wish that was in the game. Keep coming up with the awsome spells.

Yes Sudhendra is one cool lady.....and I agree with you jonajosa......it would have been great to have some of the events Override is describing in such a wonderful way..... :lickinglips:

Tel Branora was my first stop this morning since it was one of the most remote from Sadrith Mora. As I translocated onto the wooden dock, I had serious doubts about what I was doing. Not about my elevation to Master, but seeking to curry favour with Mistress Therana. The only time I’d met her she hadn’t exactly been the picture of stability. I still had the occasional nightmare about the poor Khajiiti.

“Are you not Sudhendra Vahl?” Therana asked. “Excellent,” she said when I confirmed I was, “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” I was astounded, she seemed to be very much in control: certainly more so than when we last met.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Serjo Therana,” I said carefully. She beamed happily and I asked the question. “I’m wondering if there is anything I can do to secure your support. You see…”

“Pish and tosh,” she said airily, waving a hand regally in the air as she interrupted me. “I know full well what this is all about Sudhendra Vahl. Well, if you want my support you’ll have to bring me something that smells of Ash Yams.”

“Ash Yams?” I asked, puzzled.

“No, no, no,” she said, stamping her foot like a spoiled child. “Not Ash Yams, something that smells like Ash Yams. Tell me, my dear, were you born this stupid or did you have to practice?”

“Where,” I asked as I bit down on a retort, “might I find something that smells of Ash Yams?”

“Why would you be looking for something that smells of Ash Yams?” she asked in a puzzled tone of voice. “Youngsters nowadays, they ask the strangest questions. I suppose, if you really want something that smells of Ash yams, you could try the Ghostgate – the smell is strongest there.”

“Anything in particular I should be looking for?” I asked, growing wary as Therana started to pace up and down.

“Bow,” she snapped as she came to a quivering halt, eyes flashing. Hastily, I bowed in front of her ~ although I never took my eyes off her. “Silly little girl,” she snapped. “Bow,” she said, making a shooting gesture, “not ‘Bow’. Now go away, I feel another of my headaches coming on.”

I hastily made an exit, sinking slowly down the access tunnel as I heard Therana engaged in a fairly heated argument with herself. If I should find this bow she sought, I wondered if she’d remember that I was supposed to get it for her.

I travelled to Tel Naga in Sadrith Mora and made my way up to Master Neloth's champers atop the tower. He regarded me coolly as I approached and I was disconcerted to notice a subtle shifting of his personal guards.

"Who have you come to kill this time?" he asked. "Am I going to need to hire still more mercenaries?"

I assured Neloth that I wasn't there for any nefarious purpose. "I am here to seek your support," I told him.

"Ah yes," he muttered, "your impending promotion to Master. You understand, of course, that I cannot guarantee my support but, if you'd like me to look favourably on your promotion, there is something you can do for me.

"There is a robe of great power, called 'The Robe of The Dragon's Pride'," he continued. "Currently, it's in the possession of Senise Thindo of Tel Aruhn. She’s a child of barely a century and the robe would have been mine but for the happenstance of her birth. Indeed, it should be mine. Provide me with the robe and I will reward you greatly and look favourably on promoting you."

I nodded by acquiescence, although I was pretty certain that it wouldn't be as simple as walking up to this Thindo and asking her for the robe ~ especially if it was a family heirloom of some kind. With this in mind, I returned to the ground and walked thoughtfully over to the docks. From there I chartered a boat to take me to Tel Mora.

Mistress Dratha was blunt and to the point. No sooner had I been presented to her than she told me exactly what I had to do to gain her favour. "You're here to gain my support for your promotion to Master," she said. "I would approve it anyway, the Council needs more powerful women on it. Especially powerful women who are not totally insane.

"So, if you wish to gain greater favour with me, you'll visit Tel Naga in Sadrith Mora. There you'll find an irritating Bosmeri named Berengeval. He used to be in my employ but Neloth made him a better offer. When he left, he took an amulet with him. I want it back."

"I couldn't help but notice," I said, "that all of your guards are female."

"Well of course they are," the Mistress replied. "After Berengeval left with my amulet I decided that I'd make a mistake employing a man. Women are so much more trustworthy and reliable."

My final step was to void-walk over to Gnisis. Inside Arvs-Drelen I found Master Demnevanni in an expansive mood.

"You really don't need to gain any additional favour with me," he said. "You have my support regardless. Although, if you feel in need of a little excitement, I have something I need done. My research has reached a very interesting point: I’ve found reference to several Dwemer artefacts that carry enchantments. Now, since the Dwemeri didn't use magic (or didn't use it in any way we would recognise) it puzzles me how they would 'enchant’ something.

"One of their most powerful artificers was a Mer named Dahrk Mezalf. Dahrk Mezalf is sometimes referred to in documents as Mezalf Bthungthumz. Now, interestingly enough, I found a reference to Bthungthumz in the Chronicles of Nchuleft. My contacts tell me that this ruin actually exists somewhere betwixt Maar Gan and the coast. I’d like you to travel there and see what you can find for me."

"I have something of a problem," I said to him after accepting his commission. "Therana has asked me to get a bow for her from the Ghostgate. At least, I think that's what she wanted."

"Poor Therana," he said kindly, "the passing years have been most cruel to her. Of course, her habit of worshipping the Mad One hasn't helped. Still...

"So she's looking for Ralyn Othravel's bow is she? I can't imagine what she'd want with it, as far as I’m aware it's not magical at all. Ralyn Othravel isn't likely to part with Auriel's Bow willingly, and I’ll warn you now that he's a powerful and puissant Ordinator, charged with the protection of the Temple at the towers of the Ghostgate. If you really seek to obtain it for Therana I recommend you take plenty of fire-power.

"And," he said sternly, "When you get back, you and I need to have a long and serious chat."

As I took my leave, I thought about Baladas' parting words. Although I knew that the ancient wizard was well-disposed towards me I wasn't very happy about the idea of a 'long, serious' conversation with him. I was also bemused by the acquisitiveness of the Masters ~ each had a desire to acquire an artefact of power. A prime example of Telvanni mores.

I returned to Tel Vahl after speaking to Master Baladas: partially to prepare my equipment for the morrow and partially to consider what I needed to do. Since the bow Therana wanted was at Ghostgate and Baladas wanted me to investigate Bthungthumz and both of these were much more remote than the other locations, I was resolved to start with these.

Maar Gan was my first destination, and I got there by the simple expedient of translocating to Ald’ruhn and then taking the silt-strider. I had taken the precaution of 'dressing down' and was clad in a simple robe and cloak that didn't mark me as a member of anything in particular. This made asking questions of the locals much easier, although the answers were not very helpful. As near as I could determine, there were two Dwemeri ruins near the top of the Foyada Bani-Dad. Either of these could be Bthungthumz.

I expected my journey up the Foyada to be uneventful; it held few dangers for me. I was to find, however, that it still held a few surprises. As I walked along, I became aware of an oppressiveness in the air ~ which had become uncommonly still. The stifling heat increased as the sky started brewing heavy weather. Assuming it to be another of those torrential downpours I’d endured up near Dagon Fel, I raised my hood and carried on.

It soon became apparent that I needed to find some shelter, and find it fast before the very flesh was stripped off my bones. At first the wind-borne ash and dust that the stiffening breeze whipped up was not a major source of worry. But as the breeze became a wind, and that wind grew ever stronger, it picked up more and bigger fragments of ash and dust. Soon the air was thick with flying grit and I could feel it abrading my exposed skin and settling inside my armour even as the surroundings became lost in the swirling morass of dust. Lifting the cloth up around my mouth and tugging down my hood, I pressed on through the ash-storm desperately seeking some shelter.

The caverns known as Sha-Adnius provided a very welcome haven from the howling wind and abrasive dust. Unfortunately, the caves already had some occupants and they were not inclined to be hospitable. Fortunately, they were completely unprepared for my sudden arrival and I’d slain two of their number before they could rally themselves.

The remaining bandits, deciding discretion was the better part of valour, made a very hasty exit from the caverns, fleeing into the still howling storm. Which suited me, I was perfectly happy to have them run or die ~ I have no time or patience for those that prey on weaker people. Like the six I found huddled and shivering fearfully in a locked cage at the back of Sha-Adnius.

“Khajiit know you Telvanni,” one of them said in a puzzled tone as I unfastened the bracer from around her wrist. “Khajiit smell magic of Telvanni on you. Telvanni all slavers, why you release slaves then?”

A good question, and one that deserved a good answer. “Let’s just say that not all Telvanni are slavers,” I said, dropping the hateful hunk of metal on the ground. “But you can’t expect the traditions of thousands of years to die out overnight.”

“Tsani know secret,” the Khajiiti said, taking a hold of my arm. “Slavers not know this secret, but Tsani tell Telvanni.” She took me to a cleft in the rock wall and reached inside. When she withdrew her hand, she had a small egg-shaped yellow stone. Reverently, I took the Ioun stone from her, thanking her gravely as I placed the valuable gemstone in my pack.

It took a couple of hours for the storm to blow itself out, uncomfortable hours with me keeping a wary eye on the six slaves who sat on the opposite side of the chamber to me ~ casting me the occasional baleful or fearful glance. The silence was thick and uneasy: we had nothing in common to talk about, they didn’t trust the fell-handed Telvanni warrior-mage sitting opposite them, and I sure as Oblivion wasn’t going to trust them for a moment. Too many deeply-rooted grievances on their part and I was uncertain whether or not one of them would dig up some ancient slight and decide I was responsible. So, it was with a great sense of relief on all our parts that we went our separate ways.

It wasn’t too long after leaving Sha-Adnius that I spotted one of my possible destinations ~ a massive Dwemeri ruin rising up from the side of the Foyada Bani-Dad. As I approached, I could determine another ruin just a short way to the north. If the information I’d collected in Maar Gan was to be believed, one of these was Bthungthumz. I did have a tiny little, almost insignificant problem. The sheer walls of the Foyada would make it impossible to clamber up to the ruins and I was loathe to expend magicka levitating over the valley walls in case I had need of some small reserves later. I had, of course, a couple of restorative potions with me but again, I didn’t want to use them when there were two ruins to explore and I might need them urgently.

As I walked past the second of the towering ruins, I saw that the side of the Foyada Bani-Dad was breached a little way past the northernmost ruin; a shallow sided gully ran east for a short way before descending into the plains of desolation known as the Molag Amur. Pleased that I didn’t have to walk all the way to the coast and cut around the volcanic ridge, I quickly set off along the defile and cut south until I came to the northern ruins.

This had once been a place of power and majesty, I thought as I surveyed the ruin. The harsh weather and passage of untold years hadn’t been kind to the exterior ~ but the remains of a magnificent bridge spanning two rocky outcrops and the stumps of two statues that had been eroded by time showed that this had been a place of some significance. Presumably, the bridge had once run to an entrance in the side of one of the towers but millennia had compressed and compacted the soft dust of the region into impassable rock blocking the end of the bridge. That left the lower access door.

Once sheltered from the excesses of the weather by the bridge, this too showed signs of intense wear. However, the Dwemeric runes were still visible on the door’s surface ~ spelling out Druscashti. Not the place I was looking for. You remember how I said that I am sometimes too curious for my own good? Well, this was one of those times. The opulence of the exterior spoke of the possibility of some great riches inside, or at least something I could turn to my advantage or profit. Unlimbering my axe, I headed inside.

Those of you who’ve been inside a Dwemeri ruin know exactly what they’re like inside; those of you who have not cannot conceive of the weight of ages and the wonders that can be found inside. There are also perils, as I was soon to discover.

My first intimation that there was something wrong was the strapping Nord I found wandering the corridor at the base of the entryway stairs. He was clad in the fashion of his people: heavy furs and tanned leather. I approached warily, hoping against hope that he was not a bandit that had decided to make Druscashti his lair. For some reason, even when he laid eyes on me, he made no response or move to attack. Emboldened, I stepped in front of him and said, “What are you doing here Nord?”

“Muhhh,” he said in a dazed voice. Other than that, he seemed totally oblivious to my presence. Even when I waved my hand in front of his eyes, he didn’t seem bothered. I backed away; concerned that he might have some disease. His head turned slowly to follow me but that seemed to be the limit of his interest in the matter.

Keeping a wary eye on him, I took a quick glance around to get my bearings. In front of me, a flight of steps led down to a lower level; behind me a similar flight of stairs led to a landing that was obviously filled with the rubble of some long-ago rock fall. To my right was the way back out while, to my left, a short corridor led away into Druscashti, tuning sharply just a short distance away. It was the short corridor that I picked, as I didn’t wish to descend into the lower reaches of Druscashti until I knew what was going on here.

I quickly came to a junction: the passageway in front of me ending in a pair of double doors while another corridor led off to another area. Just to add to my confusion, yet another corridor led off this one a short distance ahead. My indecision was broken by the sound of shuffling footsteps. As I readied myself for battle, an Argonian shuffled around the corner. Like the Nord I’d encountered earlier, he was supremely uninterested in my presence and, as I stood there, he shuffled past me without making any sign of seeing me. Just like the Nord, the Argonian seemed to be the very epitome of good health, just… disconnected in some way.

Rather more warily now, I took the route the Argonian had come from, pressing myself close against the walls and moving with every ounce of stealth I could muster. Peering around the corner, I could just make out a large open area at the end of the short length of corridor. There seemed to be someone moving about in the chamber and I assumed it was another of these dazed folk. That turned out to be a big mistake.

“RAURGH!” the Imperial roared as I stepped into the room. His eyes flashed in the darkness, not so much reflecting light as burning with a fire of their own. If that hadn’t been enough to tell me what it was I faced, the rapidly lengthening canine-teeth removed any doubt. My axe hummed through a short and vicious arc, neatly separating the vampire from the crown of his head. Even this gruesome wound was not enough to slow the vampire down as he slashed at me with fingers suddenly turned into talons.

Ducking under his raking claws, I slammed the butt-end of the axe handle under his chin, using the wooden shaft as a lever to force him away from me. As his head tipped back there was an unpleasant splashing sound and the vampire crumbled to dust in front of my eyes. Breathing heavily, I took a look around to make sure the sound of combat hadn’t attracted others of his kind. What I saw was enough to convince me that I had stumbled into the lair of a vampire clan.

This chamber was obviously a feeding place; the midden piles of crumbling and recent bones were enough to make that obvious. The vampire I’d faced had been powerful enough, after the fashion of it’s kind but had lacked the bestial power of the truly ancient vampire. That meant that there were other vampires, including an Ancient, somewhere in this mausoleum. And that was not a comforting thought.

I could, just possibly, hold my own against a fully-fledged vampire such as the one I’d faced in Shallit ~ maybe even against two. I might even be able to take on an Elder vampire, one whose span of un-life had seeped it in evil and power. But against an Ancient? I would stand about as much chance against that power as a child armed with a stick would against a Knight of Cyrodiil. I knew, from the few things I’d read about the Clans of the Illiac Bay, that Ancients abhorred even the slightest hint of sunlight and were often found in the deepest, darkest crypts and caves. If there were deep dwellings under Druscashti, that’s where the Ancient would be.

And that’s where I would most definitely not be venturing. Moving swiftly, I traced my route back to the entrance and walked into that most unwelcome of things when one is dealing with the Undead. My stay in Sha-Adnius had obviously been longer than I’d thought for, as I slung open the twin doors and stepped outside, I could see the lowering sun just clearing the low ridges. Evening was fast approaching, and evening was the time the vampires would be out in force.

Time was against me. Sooner or later another vampire would enter the feeding chamber and notice the dust of it’s former associate. It would know that one of the living had been in the lair ~ and I would then become the subject of the night’s hunt. I doubted I could make the other ruin in time and, even if I did, there was no guarantee that I’d be able to secure it against a vampiric hunting pack. Heading out across the ash-wastes or back into the Foyada Bani-Dad was just as futile ~ even if I could reach Sha-Adnius, it would be full dark before I got there… if I got there. No, just as I was running out of time, I was running out of options.

Even now, many centuries later, I do not wish to speak of it. The bitter fighting in the long dark beneath the ruins; the running, the screaming, the fear, and the fire as I unleashed spell after spell against the unspeakable evils that I found there. And of the final chaotic fight against the cackling ancient malignancy that drove and mastered the Clan I wish to speak of not at all. I count myself lucky that I survived relatively unscathed and, if I wake every so often screaming as long buried memories bubble to the surface, it is a small price to pay knowing that evil was cleansed from Druscashti by axe, and sword, and flame.

I slept not at all that night, shivering as I sat bloodied and shaken by a small fire outside the ruins. The doors to that place I warded with spells powerful and dire, draining myself of magicka in case I had left some vestige of that black sin unburned.

Incredibly strong parts here, there are no words left to say ....except of course


S.G.M[u][/u]

I welcomed the morning sun with outstretched arms, feeling it’s growing heat burning the night’s chills from my bones. Sparing a little water, I washed away the gore that had dried on my skin and surveyed those few treasures I’d picked up. Packing away those things I thought valuable, and could easily carry, I piled the rest up for any passer-by to take. Hopefully, in this manner, the aura of evil that clung to them like a foul stench would be spread far and wide.

Cleansed and made respectable once more, I shouldered my now much heavier pack and followed the faint trails southwards towards the second ruins. This time I was right on the money, the runes cut into the door cleared spelled out Bthungthumz. I entered the ruins with a good deal less insouciance than I had Druscashti ~ once bitten, twice shy as they say.

Bthungthumz was a much smaller place than Druscashti or, at least, the accessible areas of the ruin were smaller. Like the vampire-infested mausoleum to the north, Bthungthumz had suffered from repeated rock falls and these choked off many of the side passages and chambers. Not that the diminutive nature of the ruin made it any less hazardous. There were several of the Type I animalcules ~ what I'd taken to calling 'Spiders'. These particular models seem to have been modified in the past: instead of relying on their razor-sharp metal legs to attack, these spat a sort of venomous cloud. Perhaps these were some sort of experimental model? Whatever the case, the supply of poison seemed very limited and the range of the modified attack very short.

There was a Type III in the ruin too, although this one had certainly seen better days. The entire left 'leg' of the 'Mace-Man' was faulty, slowing the already ponderous machine to a crawl. Standing as far away from it as possible, I peppered the thing with arrows until, hitting something vital, I 'killed' it. In the small chamber off the room with the bubbling pit of molten rock where I'd defeated the Mace-Man, I met my first Dwemer.

Or, more specifically, the shade of one. Man tall and bearded, the phantasmal Mer extended its hands and launched a fire-based spell at me. I flinched as the powerful spell splashed against the wall ~ even as it did, the ghost was launching another spell. The ghost seemed disinclined to close for combat and I was able to dodge the incoming fire. For a race that didn't use magic, the spectral Dwemer certainly seemed to have a range of powerful spells at its disposal. I had brought Umbra with me, strapped across the back of my pack: I knew it was possible to soul-trap ghosts and I was determined to find out if the shade of a Dwemer could be trapped in the same fashion. Placing my pack on the floor, I undid the straps that secured the black sword and hefted it experimentally.

As the almost constant stream of spells faltered, I launched myself around the corner and swung the massive blade. There was an odd, tugging sensation as the blade passed through the apparition and a sparkling mist sprang up around the point of impact. The Mer staggered, what appeared to be a look of consternation passing across its semi-transparent features. Again Umbra scythed through the figure, tugging streamers of ectoplasmic matter from it as the mist thickened. Once more I swung the ebon blade, this time the spectral figure threw up its arms and dissolved into a cloud of sparkling motes.

Once again I felt that sensation of heat in my pouch, what I was coming to recognise as an indication that a Soul-stone had received the essence of what I'd killed. The other thing of interest was the faint metallic clatter as the ghost disintegrated. Brushing aside the dust of its passing, I quickly located a small and ornate ring. Many magical rings sing with a pure note of magicka; this one was a chorus. The spells, if such they were, woven into the ring were incredibly powerful and totally alien to me. Scooping it up, I turned my attention to the rest of the room.

Finding little of interest, I used my stronghold ring to return to Tel Vahl where I found Raissu Asserbas waiting for me.

"Muthsera Vahl," she said, "I have some news for you. An alchemist has arrived, Gorven Menas by name, seeking permission to establish a shop and house here. I have given permission for him to find a site but told him that you will be the final arbiter."

"That's fine Raissu," I said. "You have my authority to approve the ordering of my estate. I only ask that you seek permission from me for any Imperials who seek to establish residence, and that you do not make any alterations inside the Tel without my permission. Other than that, you have my full confidence."

Baladas certainly gave me a lot to think about today when I delivered his ring to him. He insisted on rewarding me for fetching the ring, despite the fact that I hadn't gone with the intention of gaining any rewards. The first part of his reward was a ring, enchanted with a powerful spell that would call down lightning on my enemies; the second part of my reward was an ancient volume entitled 'The Use of Ioun Stones: A Practical Treatise'. This, he assured me, was the definitive work on these ancient and powerful charms, detailing as it did the use of Ioun Stones, how to create certain of the rarer and more powerful stones, and a brief description of the powers and abilities of some of those powerful stones. But, even this largess wasn't enough for Master Baladas.

"Outside, you will find something I have been working on for a while." Indicating the Type II animalcule that was currently rolling around the end of the chamber he said, "I have had a chance to repair and improve that. And, while I was at it, I had a chance to repair another Blade-Sphere. That repaired and improved Blade-Sphere will be waiting for you outside Arvs-Drelen when you leave. It has limited intelligence I'm afraid ~ just enough to follow simple orders like 'FOLLOW', 'STAY', or 'GO'. I took the liberty of giving it the location of your tower so it will return there if told to leave you.

Ignoring my profuse thanks, he turned serious, "Now we have a matter of great moment to discuss. Master Aryon seeks to elevate you to the rank of Master in the belief that he will gain a valuable ally on the Council. Some time ago, you intimated to me that such blind loyalty could not be guaranteed. Is that still the case Sudhendra Vahl?"

"Good," he said when I told him I had serious doubts about Aryon's plans to integrate Great House Telvanni with the Empire. "There is a rank other than Master you can aspire to. When you are asked if you are willing to accept a promotion, ask to be promoted to the rank of Magister."

"Magister?" I asked.

"Yes, it's a rank that hasn't been used for some fifteen hundred years but it cannot be refused to any Telvanni that seeks it," he explained. "There is only one duty that goes with the rank: duel and kill the current Arch-Magister and take his place."

I felt my knees come unhinged, and I sat suddenly. Baladas grinned, obviously understanding the depth of my response. “I know the whole concept comes as a shock,” he said, “but I’d like you to think about it. Gothren is, I’m afraid, not the right Mer to lead the House for much longer. Because of the rules that govern the House, none of the existing Masters can take the title of Magister and challenge Gothren. There are others, within the House, who might be persuaded to take the title but you are, I’m convinced, the right person for the job. I won’t pressure you, you must make up your own mind ~ but it’s something I’d like you to consider.”

As I made my slow way down the corridor of Arvs-Drelen, my mind was awhirl. What Master Demnevanni was offering was nothing less than complete and total control of Great House Telvanni ~ and not just the Telvanni here on Vvardenfell, oh no. Total, complete, absolute control of all Telvanni-held territory here on Vvardenfell and in the surrounding Province. I had entertained ambitions to rise to a high rank in the Great House but Baladas’ ambition for me was far greater than I had dared envisage.

My musings were interrupted by a rumbling sound, and I realised that the ‘Shock Centurion’ (as Master Baladas called his latest creation) had approached me. What was it he’d said to me? Oh yes.

“Go Home,” I instructed the thing. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the animalcule extended what appeared to be a dish made of fine wire from its head. This dish turned as though seeking something before folding up and sinking back into the artfully hidden recess. Rotating on its base, the Shock-Centurion folded itself down into a ball and trundled off. As it started to accelerate, I was treated to the entertaining sight of a huge Orcish legionnaire being forced to dive out of the way of the sphere as it thundered past him with no intention of slowing down or altering its course. I couldn’t help smiling as I considered the impact it would have along the route back to Tel Vahl.

That was to be the last happy moment on this particular day. I was buried deep in thought throughout the whole ‘strider journey to Ald’ruhn: contemplating what Master Demnevanni had told me about the rank of Magister. I had begged him not to mention the possibility to anyone else, once I had an understanding of the rules governing the position, while I considered his offer. Even after the shock of his suggestion, he’d been able to surprise me further by presenting me with news that another Master of the House was willing to provide me with support and backing if I took on the rank of Magister.

My thoughts were all a-jumble when I arrived in Ald’ruhn, and the walk up the steep path towards Ghostgate didn’t help to sort them out. However, the physical presence of the mystically powered barrier soon made itself felt. At first, you noticed a deep silence fall over the area ~ unless they are diseased, no creature will approach the Ghostfence. Then, as you advanced further along the path, you begin to notice the dust dancing in strange whorls and patterns: at the same time you become aware of the deep basso rumble of the Fence itself.

Tall, was my first thought on espying the Ghostfence itself. Huge pylons of stone rose from the bare rock, towering high overhead. From the top of each pylon extended massive copper rods: it was from these that the swirling mist of the Ghostfence itself was extruded. The Fence itself almost defies description looking, as it does, no more substantial than a spring mist. However, as you draw closer and the sheer power of it settles into your bones and makes your teeth vibrate, you begin to discern flickering patterns sweeping across the vast expanses between the pylons. Actually touching the Fence is impossible, eldritch forces buffet and hammer the very air within a few feet of the Fence itself ~ anyone foolish enough to make physical contact would be thrown away like so many leaves in a winter’s storm.

Head down, drowning in the throbbing hum of the Ghostfence; I trudged along the path that runs beside it for a way. Rational thought, indeed any thought, is almost impossible that close to this edifice to power. None too soon, the path turned away from the side of the Fence, descending steeply away until the hammer of sound became a faint but disconcerting bone-rattling hum again. At the foot of the path, a broad canyon swept up the mountainside back towards the Ghostfence. At the top stood the twin towers of Ghostgate itself.

Cupolas of weathered bronze capped the simple round towers, the spikes at their peaks sparking and crackling with the power of the Fence which rose magnificently on either side of the canyon ~ pylons of enormous size denoting where the Fence ended. Between the towers stood a simple gate, albeit of gargantuan size. A stone plinth stood before this awe-inspiring iron gate and, set upon it was a simple switch. This, I immediately understood, would open the outer gate and allow one to enter the dark tunnel that stretched between the towers. Partway down the tunnel was another plinth adorned with another switch. This would obviously open the gate that capped the other end of the tunnel.

Pressing my face between the bars, I peered along the tunnel and caught the tiniest glimpse of the Red Mountain region beyond. Black and glassy the steep slope looked, rising up sharply to block out any sight of the mountain beyond. There was something about that simple slope, something that made me shiver and turn away.

Inside the fortress-shrine, I was directed to Ralyn Othravel: although I’d known he was an Ordinator from my questions downstairs, it was still a shock to see that golden armour wrapped around the huge Mer. He indicated a willingness to speak with me, so I launched into the conversation. “I am given to understand that you have an ebony bow,” I said. “I have some valuable treasures here and wondered if you’d be willing to trade…”

“No,” he said flatly. I was surprised, surprised enough not to read the warning signs on his face

“But Muthsera Indoril,” I said, opening my bulging pack, “I have glass armour, an Ebony blade, magical rings of great power and worth, I even have Ioun…”

“I said no, you blathering N’wah,” he snapped, emphasising his point by shoving his mace in my chest and pushing me away.

“But…” I started to remonstrate. Something inside Ralyn Othravel seemed to snap: with a roar of sheer fury, he swung the heavy, Dwemer-looking mace at my head ~ clearly intent on separating it from my neck. “Oblivion!” I yelled, leaping backwards.

I desperately tried to calm the insensate Ordinator but he was past any rational discourse. To make matters worse, he was now between me and any way of leaving this upstairs area ~ blocking my way to the stairs and pressing me back towards a corner. I could see no other way out of this than…

“Vomica cruor” I snapped, grasping his arm. The lethal spell caught and his eyes bulged as his internal temperature sky-rocketed. But there was something very wrong here. I’d used this ghastly spell three times now; because of its sheer power I tend to leave it as something to be used as a last resort. On the previous occasions, the results had been immediate and catastrophic for those unfortunate souls I’d used it on. Indoril Othravel was still trying to hit me with his mace despite the agony etched on his face. Indeed, I took a hard blow to the chest while I stood there in shock.

Finally, inevitably, the spell wreaked its bloody work on the Mer, tearing him up inside until he could stand no more. I was shaken by the experience; I had never seen anyone so enraged before. The Ebony bow, when I finally calmed myself enough to take it from the table, seemed barely worth the destruction of a fine warrior ~ even one with such a temper.

I left the Ghostgate saddened and distressed. I had examined the ebon bow carefully and could find no trace of any spell or enchantment upon it. I had tried to draw the bow, but the thick ebony shafts meant that I could barely add any tension to the fine golden wire. I couldn’t understand why Ralyn Othravel had become so enraged simply by my offer to trade for it. Certainly, it was worth an absolute fortune but I had been sure that, after some haggling, we would have arrived at a mutually agreeable price. Could it have been simply because I was an ‘Outlander’ ~ was that what had made him loose his temper like that?

So wrapped up was I in these questions that it was only when the shadow of the cliff fell on me that I realised I’d taken a wrong turning as I walked down the mountain and wandered into this dead-end gully. The only thing of interest was the arched doorway to a tomb. The cartouche of which read LHEROS. So this was it, the tomb of the master smith Lheros. Since I was here, venturing inside wouldn’t be too time consuming.

An hour later I collapsed on the threshold of the tomb, panting and battered, looking at the two rings I’d recovered from within. It was little wonder that those pupils who’d ventured to the tomb to pay their respects had never returned. The sepulchre was crawling, almost literally, with assorted Daedra. From the relatively easy to deal with Scamp, through creatures I didn’t even have a name for, to the Winged Twilights, Golden Saints, and Dremora Lords. The rings sang with pure magic, but I was unable to determine what the enchantments did other than that they were some form of enhancement spell. I’d had a bad enough day and certainly wasn’t going to slip an unidentified ring onto my finger ~ let alone two.

I’d taken a few other treasures from the tomb, including an apprentice scroll and a large number of ingots. These went into my pack along with the rings, making the damn thing almost too heavy to carry. With a sigh, I slipped the stronghold ring on my finger and found myself standing in the bedchamber of Tel Vahl. The empty chest at the bottom of the bed took the majority of the items from my pack and, after flinging it into a corner; I flung myself onto the bed. Sleep was hard to come by: Master Demnevanni had given me much to think about and I deeply regretted the death of the Indoril Othravel.

Dawn greeted me as I left the tower and stood in the dusty vale of Uvirith's Grave. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a small growth at the side of my tower and another conical growth a little way away from it. Raissu was quick to explain that the growth abutting my tower was going to be her abode while the free standing growth (which was actually a modified root-stem from my own tower) was to be Menas’ alchemy store.

“And that is…” I asked, pointing to the deep rectangular pit that had been started off to the south of the tower.

“The mercenary barracks,” she said. “I’ve put Kallin Basalius in charge of arranging that. She’s got some stone mason in from Balmora to build the barracks.” Anticipating my next question, she added, “Kallin is off exploring the area around here for any more bandit hideouts and to scout out the area. Apparently she’s not too happy about the way these hills block the view of the approaches to the tower.”

“Show her this,” I said, quickly sketching the watchtower I’d seen at Bal Isra. “See if she can incorporate something like this into the defences.”

Raissu gave me a quick smile and assured me it would be taken care off. Feeling that the development of Tel Vahl was in good hands, I translocated to Tel Branora to speak to Mistress Therana.

“I don’t want this,” she snapped, glaring at the Ebony bow I’d given her. I’d felt a strange reluctance to hand it over but I reasoned that was why I was there so I’d given it her. “It stinks of Ash Yams. And I hate the smell of Ash Yams.” I winced as the valuable bow clattered into the corner.

“If I give you money,” she said, winking at me slyly, “will you go away?” I assured her that I would, knowing that any discussion of support for my promotion would be worthless given her current mood. She giggled like a little girl and handed me a bag she claimed contained five thousand Septims.

I left Therana’s chambers at speed: whatever else the bag contained it wasn’t money and I certainly wasn’t going to open the bag and give her a chance to realise her mistake. From the bulk and heft of it, it was armour of some kind ~ very, very heavy armour. I was prepared for just about anything other than the grey metal that greeted my eyes when I opened the sack. With trembling fingers I picked out a heavy cuirass made of the same grey/black metal as worn by Divayth Fyr. Strange designs were picked out on the surface in deep reds and crimsons and a heavy leather tabard hung from the bottom, front and back, to protect the legs. A matching pair of greaves was the other item in the sack. And both of them sang with high-grade magic.

Sloughing the Bonemold, I struggled to lift the massive cuirass onto my shoulders. There was no way on Tamriel that I could use this, but I just had to see how it felt to wear it.

“Here, let me help you,” a female guard said, taking the cuirass from me. She was wearing what appeared to be the top half of an animalcule and the head of one too. I’d seen this before, on my visit to the councillors of the Redorans and had learned it was Dwemeric armour. Almost as heavy as the Daedric armour she was helping me into, so she certainly didn’t lack for strength.

As the heavy metal settled around my shoulders I was aware of a very odd sensation. For the briefest of instants I was almost crushed under the descending weight yet, once it was in place, it was as though I was wearing no armour at all. I took several tentative steps, expecting to be on my knees after the first couple, however it was as though the cuirass didn’t exist.

“A feather spell!” I exclaimed delightedly. All modesty forgotten, I quickly unlaced the chitin greaves and threw them down alongside the Bonemold cuirass. It was a struggle to get the heavy armour into place but, to my continued delight, they too were ensorcelled with a constant feather spell. This armour was a work of art, whichever enchanter had created these items had been a master at his craft: exquisitely balancing the spell so that it perfectly counteracted the weight of the armour. As for worth, I couldn’t even begin to guess, the armour alone and without enchantments was worth more money than I could imagine. As it was, I was frightened to even speculate.

Throwing my travel-worn cloak over my shoulders, I spoke the words that would open a passageway to Sadrith Mora. From there, I chartered a vessel that would take me up to Tel Aruhn. When the ‘Elf-Skerring’ dropped me at the docks in Tel Aruhn, my first thought was that I was in the wrong place. The sight of the massive stone door set into the mountainside soon dispelled that thought. Despite the mass, the door swung open easily enough and I stepped into a winding corridor that delivered me to the other side of the mountain. Gothren’s stronghold rose up from the side of the mountain, the top of the tower hidden from the other side of the island by the mountain-peak.

I narrowed my eyes as I walked through the slave-market that thrived near the stone door. While I understood perfectly that slavery was legal in Morrowind Province, such blatant displays made me distinctly uneasy. It was also an indicator of the Arch-Magister’s nature. Of all the Telvanni sites I’d visited, only Neloth and Gothren openly promoted the sale of slaves. Therana had her slaves, but no market selling them, while I hadn’t seen a single slave at Tel Vos, Arvs-Drelen, Tel Fyr, or Tel Mora. Of course, I hadn’t fully explored any of the Tels except Master Aryon’s so I might be making a mistake about that.

“Senise Thindo?” the House guard replied to my question. “She’s a retainer of Gothren’s, you’ll probably find her in the living quarters atop the tower.”

That took me closer to Arch-Magister Gothren than I liked. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but I couldn’t avoid the feeling that people were watching me rather more closely than they normally would. Perhaps it was simply that I was a stranger in a place that strangers rarely visit, and I really hoped that was the case
.
Senise Thindo turned out to be much younger than I expected, barely out of her teens. She greeted me amiably enough, only developing a frown when I told her why I was there. Moving possessively in front of a chest of drawers, she said, “Who are you here on behalf of?”

“Does that really matter?” I asked, maintaining a friendly attitude.

She shook her head. “I suppose not,” she said, “but I’d be willing to wager money that it’s Neloth. That greasy pig has been trying to get his hands on the Robe of The Drake’s Pride since my mother left it to me.” My heart sank; I’d been hoping that the robe would be easy to obtain after my experiences with Othravel and the Ebony bow. To find out it was the final gift of a dying mother was a bitter blow.

Not all was lost though. I had noticed a large number of Soul Stones scattered around and quickly confirmed that Senise was a trainee enchanter. Although it grieved me to do so, I made her an offer. “Look,” I said, “I will make no bones about this; I’m here for the robe and I mean to get it. I’d much rather not have to resort to bloodshed if it can be avoided. So, here’s the deal. You give me the robe and I will give you this ring.”

She looked at the ring critically as I took it off and dropped it in her outstretched hand. Suddenly she stiffened and examined the silvery metal more closely. “Is this real?” she asked tremulously.

“Yes,” I confirmed, “that is the Mentor’s Ring.”

“You’re willing to trade this for my robe? The ring is worth much more than the robe ~ simply for its provenance.” I confirmed that I was willing to trade one for the other. With a nod, she slipped the ring onto her finger, her face flushing as the power it conferred coursed through her. Turning, she slid open the topmost drawer of the chest and fetched out a carefully wrapped package. Cutting the twine, she opened the waxed paper parcel and took out a green robe.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked, somewhat crossly.

“I was just trying to imagine Neloth wearing that,” I spluttered.

Senise looked at the green robe, taking in the fine golden chains across the part that would expose the wearer’s midriff; the raised and filigreed collar; the flare of fabric falling in pleats from the waistband of the garment. She started to chuckle. Soon we were both helpless with laughter, drawing several very strange looks from the other occupants of the tower as they passed by about their business.

With the transaction complete and the Robe of The Drake’s Pride safely back in its waxed parcel and tucked away in my pack, I again opened the way to Sadrith Mora. There was one more item I needed to collect.

Why are Bosmeri so difficult to deal with? I sometimes wonder if it’s the lack of greenery in their diet that give the whole race a collective death wish. I’d taken the same approach with Berengeval as I had with Senise Thindo: namely, offering some expensive item in exchange for the specific item I sought. Where it had worked with the young Dunmeri female, the offer seemed to enrage the Bosmer.

To cut a long and sorry tale short, I ended persuading the sawn-off runt to give me the amulet Dratha wanted with the sharp edge of an axe. He was an excellent marksman armed, as Bosmeri so often are, with a crossbow. It didn’t seem to occur to him that his shots were bouncing harmlessly off the armour beneath my robe. Rushing towards him, I closed the distance quickly enough to render his crossbow completely useless and applied a little persuasion.

I returned to Tel Naga this morning, having spent the night at Fara’s ‘Hole-In-The-Wall’. As I expected, my reception was distinctly chilly.
“Ahh,” Neloth sneered, “the mercenary-killer. I hope you realise that every time you visit my tower I end up having to employ a new mercenary? Who have you come to kill today?”

“I’m not here to kill anyone,” I replied, biting back the obvious answer. “A robe you wanted, a robe I have.”

“Excellent,” Neloth said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “I might almost forgive you Berengeval and Engaer for this. Vares, pay our dear guest for fetching me the robe.”

Neloth’s bodyguard stepped forward, reaching for the robe as he extended a hand. My eyes widened when I saw what was being proffered, and I quickly snatched the robe out of the way. “TEN Septims,” I said in outrage. “You plan on giving me a lousy ten Septims for the robe?”

“Of course,” Neloth said calmly. “Taking into account the cost of replacing the mercenaries you’ve killed, ten Septims and my promise to consider approving your promotion is far more than fair. Never let it be said that Master Neloth is ungenerous.”

“I’ll give you some clues as to what else will be said about Master Neloth’s generosity in a minute,” I said, shaking my head at the sheer gall of the Mer. “Unless you’re going to substantially increase that offer and give me a guarantee that you’ll support me, I’ll take the robe and leave.”

“Leave then,” he hissed, “but if you do, remember that I’ll never give you my support.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to make do without your support,” I said, packing the robe into my pack and preparing to leave.

His eyes narrowed and he gripped the edge of his chair so hard that his knuckles went white. “You’ve made an enemy here this day Vahl,” he spat.

I calmed down somewhat on the boat trip to Tel Mora and, by the time I’d arrived at the docks and made my way up to Mistress Dratha’s chambers, I was able to view the situation with Neloth with a surprising degree of calm. Dratha was far more empathic than I’d given her credit for ~ which might explain the exceptionally close rapport with her Mouth.

“That is exactly what I wanted,” she said when I displayed the Amulet of Flesh Made Whole. “I do hope that fool Berengeval put up a fight. As to payment, I have here some scrolls I thought you might find useful. They’re to summon Golden Saints. Now, while that might not seem too generous a reward for obtaining such a powerful amulet, I will tell you that I have pledged my support to Master Demnevanni’s plan and will support you whether you take the rank of Master or Magister.”

So it was Dratha that Baladas had been talking about, the other Master that would support me in my promotion. I thanked her gravely. She had some additional information for me, “Gothren is old and partially blind on his left side. If you direct your attacks from that side, he’ll have a great deal of difficulty dealing with them. Of more concern are the two bound Dremora Lords that act as his bodyguards. Some artefact he has summons them on a continual basis and binds them to protecting him.

“If I were you, I would isolate each of the Dremora and deal with them one-on-one. Trying to take both of them and the Arch-Magister on at the same time would not be a good idea if you have plans to survive for long.”

It was after imparting this information that Dratha surprised me with her empathy. “You’re troubled, what is it?”

I explained the situation with Master Neloth and she started to laugh. Slightly offended, but not wishing to offend her, I raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Neloth had no intention whatsoever of supporting you,” she chuckled. “Gothren says ‘jump’ and he doesn’t even stop to ask ‘how high’. And Gothren is, of course, strongly opposed to your promotion.”

“Why is that?” I asked in alarm.

“Simple,” she responded. “You’re a protégée of Aryon’s and Aryon’s desire to forge closer ties with the Empire is well known. Arch-Magister Gothren believes that you will be the pivotal vote on the Telvanni Council, allowing Aryon to push his plans through. And that, let me assure you, is the last thing Gothren, Baladas, or I want.”

I felt I was getting into murky waters here, there were layers upon layers of House politics that I simply didn’t understand. “If you and Baladas are opposed to Aryon’s plans, why are you siding with Baladas against Gothren if Gothren is opposed to them too?”

“To put it simply,” she said, “Gothren is too old fashioned. He believes that Great House Telvanni should have no contact at all with the Empire. Aryon believes that we should open up the inner workings of the House and integrate ourselves with the Empire, like those Hlaalu are doing.

“Gothren believes that you are ‘irrevocably contaminated’ by your upbringing within the Empire. Those are his words, not mine,” she added, smiling. “Because of that, he cannot conceive of a situation where you wouldn’t work with Aryon to promote Aryon’s plan. Aryon, on the other hand,” she continued, “believes that you are strongly pro-Imperial and will, by default, approve of any plan that brings House and Empire together.”

“Both of them are wrong,” I said hotly. I was infuriated that Aryon had made such assumptions about me, even more furious that Gothren had made the same assumptions without ever meeting me.

“That’s what Baladas and I hoped you’d say,” Dratha said happily. “Tell me Serjo Vahl, if you were in the position to dictate how Great House Telvanni works with the Empire, what would you suggest?”

“I’d suggest that the House looks closely at any allegiance with the Empire,” I replied, “to see whether it benefits the House or the Imperials. Where the benefit is clearly to our advantage, we should seize the opportunity. Otherwise,” I finished, “we should leave the Empire whistling in the breeze.”

“I had so hoped for an answer like that,” Dratha said, her eyes shining. “Baladas was right about you, you are just what he and I are looking for. You see, my dear, we believe that there are great advantages to be had by complying with some Imperial edicts while defying others. Unfortunately, Baladas was unaware of my support for such an idea when he accepted Aryon’s promotion to Master. He would have made an excellent Arch-Magister.”

Dratha finished her crash-course in inter-House politics by saying, “There will be some opposition to some of the things that we do but, if you discuss them fully with us I’m sure we can bring the others around.”

I recognised the trap in that statement, and was quick to set the Meric female to rights. “If I’m Arch-Magister,” I pointed out, “I may seek your advice on some matters, but you will not be allowed to dictate Great House Telvanni policy.”

She looked at me for a very long time, and I feared that I might have overstepped the bounds of what Dratha considered polite. Finally, she nodded and smiled and I felt a great weight shift off my shoulders. “The perfectly correct response,” she said. “I look forwards to working with you… Sed Vahl.”

I left Tel Mora feeling much happier about taking the promotion than I had since the whole idea had been suggested. I was still unsure what step to take next, but I knew I had the support of two powerful people regardless of what I did. Aryon would, I was sure, come around to accepting the new status quo if I went forward with deposing Gothren. If not… well, there are ways and means of dealing with that situation if it arose. Neloth’s nose would be put out of joint if I became Arch-Magister while I seriously doubted Therana would even notice, or care. It was the thought of Neloth’s reaction that helped me decide. I loathed and detested the Mer for the way he’d behaved and I could think of no better way to repay him than cutting away his power base.

“I hereby appoint you as my Mouth,” I said to Edward Theman. “Here is your staff of office and here are five hundred Septims. For Azura’s sake, get yourself some decent clothes before you turn up in Sadrith Mora.”

Edward lived up to his nickname; leaving his hovel in Balmora so quickly I swear he left scorch-marks on the rugs. Squaring my shoulders, I spoke the words that would return me to Vos, “Ut locus Ego eram pro”.

“You want what?” Master Aryon gasped when I told him. “You want to be made Magister?”

I confirmed that that was my intention and he gave me a slow and careful look, the sort of look that comes when someone realises that their carefully laid plans are about to go up in smoke and that you have the burning taper in your hand. I was about to speak when Aryon sighed heavily. “I knew you were ambitious Serjo Vahl, sadly I underestimated just how ambitious you are. Well, since I cannot deny you the rank, I hereby name you Magister.

“You realise, of course, that I am honour-bound to advise Gothren that you’ve taken up this rank? His response is likely to be… heavy-handed,” he said.

“So, if it were to be done,” I said, “’tis best it were done quickly.” Taking my leave of a visibly shaken Aryon, I made my way down towards the docks at Vos. Hodrim the trader was at the docks and we shared a moment or two while I waited for the boat to finish unloading. True to his word, he let me take the pick of his stock as a reward for having cured his Guar: I boarded the ship with a set of Ashlander chimes tucked into my pack.

Tel Aruhn: and it was obvious that word of my coming, and the reason for it, had spread with the usual uncanny speed. People I’d exchanged friendly words with yestere now turned away quickly, seeking other business to attend to. The House guards were spectacularly conspicuous… by being nowhere in sight. Even the lower levels of Gothren’s tower were empty ~ obviously a lot of people had suddenly remembered pressing business elsewhere. That suited me perfectly: this was unlikely to be a battle of blade against blade and, when powerful magics are being exchanged, innocent bystanders tend to get hurt.

“So,” a cold voice said, drifting down from the upper chambers as I set foot on the stairs. “You think to come and end a thousand years of my rule? Imperial upstart, did you think it would be so easy?”

There was a flicker as the two House guards, each armed with crossbows, stepped from the magical concealment that had hidden them. As they levelled their weapons at me, I sneered. Both Baladas and Dratha had been adamant on this point. “Stand aside,” I ordered. “By the absolute authority of my rank as Magister, I order you to stand aside.”

They hesitated, and I spoke calmly and clearly so that they’d be in no doubt. “You know the rules of the House. I am declared Magister and none may stand in my way.” Then, in a kindlier tone, I added, “I’d leave if I were you lads, this will be no place for you in a short time.”

“Sorry Serjo,” one of them said as they put aside their weapons and started to descend the stairs. “The Arch-Magister never told us you had the rank of Magister. He simply said that you were coming here to kill him.”

“Traitors!” the Arch-Magister screamed furiously as they made their way downstairs. “I’ll deal with you later. After I’ve dealt with this Imperial scum.”

I made no move to continue my approach for a few minutes, waiting until I’d heard the soft click of the door downstairs closing behind the soldiers. I had not jested; this was going to get nasty. Sure that the three of us were now alone in the upper chambers of the Tel, I finished ascending the stairs and stood in the short corridor that led to Gothren’s chambers. I had one clear shot and, unshipping my bow I withdrew one of the Ebony arrows I’d found at Rethan Manor, drew back on the string and took careful aim.

“Scared to finish this?” Gothren’s voice sneered. I made no reply but simply let fly with the arrow. As the enraged roar of the Dremora Lord echoed around the chamber, I dropped the bow and drew Umbra. Heavy, metal-clad feet pounded along the corridor and, like a storm the Dremora was upon me. Yellowish magic flared, and the creature was suddenly armed with a pair of Ebony axes.

Umbra crashed into the grey Daedric armour of the Dremora Lord, a thick mist sparkling with arcane power quickly obscuring the impact site. The Dremora growled ferociously but, as I easily eluded its counter strike and struck another resounding blow, I saw uncertainty in its crimson eyes. Again and again we exchanged blows, the heavy ebon blade scoring and denting the Dremora’s armour while I, for the most part, avoided the whirling Ebony war-axes my opponent wielded. Those few blows that got through tore and ripped my travelling robe but the heavy Daedric armour beneath turned them harmlessly.

With a final bestial roar, the Dremora Lord sparkled and dissolved as I landed a blow that would have killed any mortal creature. Without a moment’s hesitation, I spun to face the chamber door and intoned “Exuro meus Hostilis”

Nor was that the only fireball I blindly fired into the chamber of the Arch-Magister, two more followed in quick succession. While I had no hopes of actually hitting anything, I knew from the aggrieved shouts that the backwash of the powerful spells was causing havoc in there. And the more havoc I could cause, the better. My plan worked, I heard the Arch-Magister snarl something to his remaining bodyguard and the sound of armoured feet coming down the hallway. Pressing myself against the side of the door, I waited as patiently as a spider.

“Vomica cruor” I yelled, grabbing the heavily armoured Dremora by the arm as it burst from the doorway. As the eldritch fire of the boiling blood spell bloomed and sparked around the creature, I drove the short steel dagger into its neck and danced out of its way. I knew that the dagger and spell combined would have little effect on the Dremora other than to enrage it. It threshed around wildly, stung by my spike and baffled by the roaring fire that spat and hissed, eagerly seeking some mortal flesh it could consume. “Brythwch hysbryd, alwa 'ch ata” I snapped out as it turned feral, angry eyes on me and started to advance.

The Storm Atronach hammered its fists into the Dremora, halting its advance immediately. I hoped that my spells had weakened the Dremora Lord enough ~ it was of a higher order in the hierarchy of infernal servants than the Atronach and, theoretically, should be able to defeat my Summoned easily. Now I could only hope that I’d inflicted enough damage to render the contest a little more equal. Sidestepping the two battling creatures, I flung a final spell down the corridor and raced to face Gothren himself.

As I skidded into the chamber, there was a huge flare of light and I felt something very hot and very compact flash past me and impact on the wall behind. The heat from the spell was ferocious and I realised, there and then, that exchanging combat spells with Gothren could end only one way. He’d had a millennia to hone and perfect his skills, I had but twenty-five to set against that long tale of years. In arcane combat, there would only be one outcome.

The Wish sang as it whipped through the air, startling the Arch-Magister badly enough that whatever spell he was formulating fizzled and died. With a frustrated cry, he withdrew a short dagger and lunged at me. Remembering the advice that Dratha had given me, I circled to the left and launched another attack. The blow caught Gothren high on the shoulder, making the grey-haired Mer stumble. Quickly righting himself, he raised his hands and began to mumble something as his hands wove in strange patterns in the air.

I groaned in frustration: wreathed in residual lightning and looking very battered, the Dremora Lord stood in the doorway. Desperately, I swung the Last Wish and was rewarded with a choking scream. Blood poured down the front of Gothren’s robes as he vainly tried to staunch the gaping cut that stretched from one side of his throat to the other. The Dremora stood uncertainly, it progress across the chamber halted as its master focused all of his will on fighting the injury I’d inflicted. It was a battle he was destined to loose. As Gothren sank to his knees, the Dremora Lord flickered like a mirage and suddenly vanished in a sparkle of yellow light. Simultaneously, Gothren slumped forward onto the floor and breathed his last.

Wearily, I left the chamber – bone-deep aches and pains wracking my body where the spells and weapons had caught. I needed to rest and recuperate. As attractive as the idea of just collapsing on the spot was, I managed to fumble my stronghold ring onto my finger and returned to Tel Vahl.

My injuries now, for the most part, healed, I awoke this morning with a feeling of loss: a loss of direction. For a while now I’d been struggling up the ladder of Great House Telvanni. Having reached the top, I was unsure what I should do next. Actually, what I should do after I’d done the next thing.

“I’m sure that you will make an exceptional Arch-Magister,” Aryon said, confirming that I was now Head of House. “There are certain duties you will need to perform, from time to time, but nothing too onerous. Of course, Sed Vahl, if there’s anything I can do for you, you have but to ask.” I could almost see him rubbing his hands together with glee, sure that his ‘master plan’ was nearing fruition with me installed as Arch-Magister. There would be time enough to show him otherwise. Indeed, given the techniques he had taught me, I had at least a couple of thousand years to teach him otherwise. And that was quite a sobering thought for a twenty-five year old to have.

“…matter, Arch-Magister.” I heard him say.

“I’m sorry Aryon, what did you say?”

“I said, Llunela Hleran wishes to speak to you about an important matter, Arch-Magister,” he repeated. Nodding, I thanked him for passing on the message and made myself scarce before he started going on about bringing us closer to the Empire.

“Firstly, let me extend my congratulations to you,” Llunela said, bowing as I approached her ever-present fire. “The House has stagnated under Gothren’s rule for long enough Sed Vahl.”

“Thank you,” I said, returning the bow. Here was another that had chaffed under Gothren’s authority. Given the usually… pro-active nature of the Telvanni, I wondered what it was about the old Mer that had had everybody so cowed and willing to accept him. With his sudden and messy demise, I was never likely to know.

“We need, I think, to discuss your stronghold,” Llunela said after pouring us both a tisane and we had taken a seat by the fire. “While the stronghold is certainly suitable for a Master, it is not a worthy dwelling for someone of your rank. I had a request from Raissu Asserbas this morning, asking for a contingent of House Guards now that you’ve been promoted. How is Raissu Asserbas working out for you, by the way?”

“She’s a gods-send,” I replied happily. “Exactly what I need to run the estate while I’m off… well, erm…”

“Adventuring,” Llunela supplied with a smile. “Oh don’t worry Arch-Magister, I don’t think any of us expect you to settle down just yet.

“So,” she continued, “I will send some House guards to you, along with Tadaves Saren: a highly skilled Tekton from the Mainland. It’s Saren that’ll be in charge of expanding your Tel to something more appropriate. But I think you need something a little special. You see there are a number of Telvanni who are going to look at you and think, ‘I could beat that slip of a girl’. And that would open up a whole internecine battle within the House as various factions fought to promote or control whoever would be Arch-Magister.

“Baladas has been doing some wonderful work with animalcules lately and I think he could be persuaded to provide you with a force of them to protect your stronghold,” she said. “They’d be loyal, nobody would be able to bribe them, and it would make a definite statement to anyone who thought that they could just march in and take over your position.”

I couldn’t argue with the logic behind that and the thought of a small force of incorruptible animalcules filled me with a secret glee. There was only one small catch. “There is a book that details the secretes of Dwemeric animalcules that Master Baladas will require. The book is in a Dwemer ruin close to your stronghold: the ruin is called Galom Daeus.”

After getting Llunela Hleran to give me directions to this ruin, I used the ring to return to Uvirith's Grave. When I told Kallin Basalius where I was going, she gave me a worried look.

“I don’t want to talk out of turn,” she said carefully, “but Galom Daeus doesn’t have a very good name with the Ashlanders in that camp down south. They all clammed up like Kollops when I mentioned it to them.”

Assuring Kallin that I would take great care, I followed Llunela’s directions to the Dwemer ruins. After an hour or so of walking through the blasted wastelands around my stronghold, I finally caught sight of the ruins: the towers rising up against the skyline on the other side of a lake of bubbling, molten rock. There was a small rocky path leading around the lava-pit, following this I quickly came to the heavy iron doors of the ruins. There was a good deal of scuffing in the dust before the door, but not enough to disguise the presence of footprints leading in and out of Galom Daeus. When I entered, I would not be alone.

I had feared that Galom Daeus was the home to a group of bandits who’d moved in to take advantage of the increased traffic near my stronghold. The reality was much, much worse. The patrolling vampire was not expecting me and I, forewarned by the marks outside, was expecting someone. Just not a vampire. As I crouched in the shadows at the top of the stairs, I saw the leather-clad figure moving around: the instant I caught sight of those glowing eyes I knew what it was I faced. Carefully knocking an arrow, I took aim at the doorway at the bottom of the stairs and waited for the undead woman to pass by again.

The arrow flew straight and true, unfortunately my aim was not as good as I would have wished. With a meaty thud, the arrow lodged itself in the woman’s shoulder. With a bestial snarl, she turned to face me. Sometimes I wonder at whatever power it is that rules my life, to say it is capricious would be a major understatement. For, as the woman turned, her foot caught on the lip of the lava-pit that dominated the room and, with a despairing shriek, she staggered backwards ~ blooming into flame even before she struck the roiling surface of the molten rock.

Knowing that she’d been a lesser vampire and that such creatures tended to travel in packs, it was with extreme caution that I made my way around the room and to the corridor that led deeper into the ruins. A grate of some dark metal stretched away from me down the corridor, which took a sharp right turn some thirty paces away. Beneath the grating more of that molten rock steamed and hissed. I was sweating profusely by the time I reached the corner: moving across the grate without making a sound proved difficult and taxing. The intense heat from the lava below didn’t help much. Peering around the corner revealed a short flight of stairs and another length of corridor.

Placing my bow back atop my pack, I drew out the Dwemeric axe and gripped the handle tightly. With as much stealth as I could muster ~ roughly that of a drunken Nord after a night on the mead ~ I made my way foot by careful foot down the stairs and long the passageway to the next corner. Pressing myself flat against the wall, I peered around the edge. And came nose to nose with a Cyrodiilic vampire that had caught a hint of my presence and had had the same idea!

“WAH!” we both yelled, recoiling violently.

this really is writing of the upper quality, I haven't really added any comments here lately, but amazing override, thruly amazing.

and as someone mentioned elsewhere, maybe looking in to doing this for a living or something like that would be a good thing.

exceptional work.

cool story. I love the way they both get a shock when they look around the corner like that

“Ummm,” the young Imperial said hesitantly, “I kind of don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

“And I’m pretty certain you aren’t supposed to be anywhere other than in the grave,” I replied.

“Typical,” the youth moaned. “I’ve been undead less than a year and everybody hates me. They hated me when I was alive, and now they hate me when I’m not.”

I blinked in surprise. Vampiric angst, that was precisely what I needed right now. The fledgling vampire continued, “Raxle said it’d all be different when he turned me. I’d have power and, and women, and everything I… urk!”

I coughed as the dust of the vampire I’d just beheaded settled on the floor. Really, I thought as I stepped over the youth’s final remains, I’d done him a favour. I’d certainly done the rest of the world one. His rambling discourse had done me one favour though, I now knew that I was facing a vampire clan rather than just a pack of the leeches. Vampiric packs hunted to feed, not to create new vampires ~ it was only the Clans that did that, expanding their power by creating new vampires. I shivered, I still had nightmares about the clan I’d decimated beneath Druscashti and I hoped against hope that this clan was younger than Clan Quarra.

I was faced now with a choice: directly in front of me was a round iron door, to my right was another. The door on my right bore some Dwemer runes but they were faded and difficult to read, even if they hadn’t been I wouldn’t have understood what they were telling me. However, it quickly became obvious that the choice was no choice at all ~ the door to my right was locked and the Dwemeric mechanism that secured it proved too complex for me to pick and remarkably resistant to the powers of Ondusi’s ring. That left the door directly in front of me. Licking my lips, I applied a little grease to the rusty hinges and then pulled it towards me.

The door swung open silently and would have secured me the element of surprise against the occupants had not the bare-chested Breton been looking directly at the door as it swung open. He’d been about to say something but the words died on his lips when he saw me. Grinning evilly, he vaulted effortlessly over the table in front of him and began advancing on me. Nor was that my only problem: swirling purple sparks surrounded a vampiric female at the back of the chamber as she cast some spell to enhance herself and started to stalk me too.

“What are you? Ahh, I see.” A third vampire had made its presence known, stepping from behind the thick pillar that had obscured her from my sight. Three against one: not exactly my favourite odds, even when the three weren’t slavering blood-suckers intent on my demise… or worse. I suddenly had a vivid image of myself wandering these halls with a slave-bracer clamped to my wrist ~ a handy snack for any of the Clan who felt peckish.

“Brythwch hysbryd, alwa 'ch ata,” I yelled desperately as the trio moved closer. There was a familiar grinding noise and the massive frame of a Storm Atronach ripped itself free of the metal walls and stood before me. Strange lights flickered in its eyes as it glared down at me and I gulped, aware that sometimes these Summons turned on their Summoner. The greed of the vampires is probably all that saved me, the bare-chested Breton rushing to close the gap between us ahead of his female companions so he’d be the first to feed.

Massive metallic hands clamped themselves around the vampire’s head as the Atronach yanked him up and off his feet, muffled screams issuing forth as the Summoned’s power ripped into him. Shaking him like a doll, the Atronach proceeded to hammer the hapless vampire against the metal walls, each impact a knell of doom. It had the added advantage of causing the two females to slow their advance as they realised it was no helpless adventurer that had invaded their stronghold.

A hastily thrown dagger found its mark, the handle blooming from the left eye-socket of the nearest vampire. While she was occupied with rolling around on the floor and screaming, I cast a quick fireball at the third vampire and then rushed her as she tried to recover her balance. The Last Wish hummed as it travelled in a short killing arc, the curved blade burying itself in the vampire’s chest. I had been aiming for the heart but the Chitin armour had slowed the blow enough to prevent it from reaching its intended goal. Ripping the blade from her chest, the vampiress grabbed me and lunged forwards, fangs extended.

I felt a sharp prick at the throat and screamed. Unbidden, the boiling blood spell rose up in my mind as I attempted to shove the leech away from me. Then it was the vampire’s turn to scream as the spell wrapped itself around her. Shoving the rapidly blackening and threshing form away from me, I staggered to my feet ~ clutching my throat to stop the flow of blood from the twin wounds there.

The ruined face of the vampire I’d thrown the dagger at leered at me, her remaining eye glowing as she muttered some arcane cantrip. I staggered, feeling my will to resist fading as her eye grew brighter ~ the foul infection from the bite already working within me. Her smile widened as her jaw unhinged, glistening canine-teeth lengthening as she drew me closer step by staggering step. The descent of the huge metallic fist came as a real surprise to both of us. The Atronach, finding itself clutching naught but a handful of dust had turned its attention to the last remaining vampire, and its intervention certainly saved me from the proverbial fate worse than death.

As the Atronach faded from view, I bent and picked up the axe ~ swinging it in a short and final arch that decapitated the vampire easily and neatly. As the fine dust settled, I sank to my knees and gasped heavily, panting for breath. That had been a little intense… and it was about to get worse.

The door at the back of the chamber opened with a boom of metal on metal and two more vampires raced into the room, each yelling variations of “What’s going on in here?” Three piles of dust mutely answered their questions and their baleful gazes turned on me. With a heartfelt sigh, I raised myself to my feet and gripped the shaft of the axe.

“Let’s dance,” I suggested. There followed a whirlwind of motion as, drawing on reserves of strength and fortitude I didn’t know I had, I rushed at them ~ the Last Wish humming a song of death as it whirled and span in my hands. My mind is a blur about what happened next: I have recollections of severing various appendages and casting spells but there is nothing specific there. I can only suppose that fear and need blanked out all conscious thought while my survival instinct and reflexes took over.

My next clear memory is of draining a phial of restore magicka potion. The front of my robe was sodden with gore and the curve of the axe was pouring a stream of blood onto the floor. For some reason, my sword was jammed into the doorjamb of the unopened Dwemer door and a pile of gritty black dust spoke of the death of a vampire there. The atmosphere was crackling with recently discharged magic and large charred scorch marks marred the walls of the chamber. Perhaps I should rely on fear and instinct more often?

I shuddered uncontrollably as the memories of the bite came back. I fancied I could already feel the infection warping and twisting my nature. How long I had before the disease of vampirism corrupted me I didn’t know, and despair washed over me. The treasures I found in the two chambers scarcely lifted my mood, even the presence of a pair of boots in the same heavy material as my armour failed to cheer me. Although, truth be told, my depressed mood didn’t stop me from taking them, and the glass boots, and the multitude of lock-picks, probes and repair tools I found. As I sifted the fine dust of one of the vampires into a collection jar, I spotted a strangely wrought key.

The complex Dwemer lock clicked as I twisted the key and the heavy iron doors swung open. In the yellowish glow of the Dwemer lights a short corridor was revealed, terminating in a large circular chamber. Beside a workbench in this chamber stood an elderly Cyrodiilic male.

“So you’ve killed all my children have you?” the Man said, turning to face me. “Well, Clan Berne isn’t destroyed yet ~ I have aeons to rebuild and replenish. And I fancy I’ll start with you.” He stepped forward, eyes burning brightly. “Although I see you’re already well on your way to becoming one of us,” he leered.

“Not in this lifetime vampire,” I spat.

“For three hundred years I stalked the streets of Camlorn,” Berne said, “until those blasted vampire-slayers came. Gathering the remains of the Clan I came here. And some chit of a Dark Elf female isn’t going to stop me.” His shoulders hunched and there came a tenebrous creaking noise as his head dropped. I stepped back, as the vampire elder seemed to swell, growing taller and broader. There was nothing remotely mortal about his face when he looked up ~ huge fangs protruding from a cavern of a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, nose flattened, and forehead bulging. From beneath the shelf of his brow, his feral eyes gleamed with a luminous red light and the desire for death and destruction.

Snarling, he rushed at me ~ all claws, fangs, and the need to feed. My axe hammered into him as he came, the back and forth blow barely slowing him. Whipping the Wish up, I brought it down hard on the spot where his thick, studded armour met his muscular neck. He howled, throwing his head back ~ allowing me the time to step back and draw my Ebony blade from its scabbard. Furious, scared senseless, desperate, I drove forward with the blade, embedding it in his black heart and forcing him, teeth snapping, backwards towards the wall of the chamber. With a thump, he struck the wall and I braced myself, working the blade deeper and deeper until I felt the point grating on metal.

“NO!” he screamed. “THIS CANNOT BE. I AM RAXLE BERNE. I AM…” The soft patter of dust on the floor prevented me from hearing what he thought he was ~ his sudden dissolution catching me unawares and causing me to pitch forward into the wall. Ears ringing and various constellations whirling about my head, I staggered backwards and sat down ~ suddenly and undignified.

I let out a weak laugh of triumph that dissolved into a series of sobbing cries. Shakily, the storm past, I rose to my feet and staggered over to the workbench. Using it to support myself, I took a while to adjust to the fact that I was still standing and, for the moment, still alive. How long that state of affairs would continue remained to be seen. My prize, a thick and antique volume, lay on the work bench: the dust of ages thick on its cover.

Blowing the accumulated dust of the ruins and Raxle Berne off it, I picked it up and opened it. Page after page of bizarre drawings annotated with spidery Dwemeric script greeted me. I skimmed though the book, coming at last to the final page. Sparkling script in yellow ink caught my eye and I felt a hammer-like blow to the head. Screaming, clutching my eyes as cold, soulless sounds in a language long forgotten thundered in my mind, I dropped the book and sank to my knees. “Please,” I begged, “no more.”

I don’t know if the power that watches over me heard, or whether whatever I had triggered ran its course, but the thunderous sounds came to an abrupt end. Shakily, I reached out and picked up the book, flinching when I saw that it was still open to the final page. A blank page. Frantically, I flipped over the heavy, greasy feeling parchment ~ page after page of drawings and notes but not a trace of the strange yellow text.

Bone-weary, I staggered from the ruins, wincing as the sun struck my bare flesh. Everything seemed too bright and too hot despite the fact it was after the noon hour. Dragging my pack through the dust, I staggered back the way I’d come. Never has the sight of my Tel been more welcome than when I crested the final hill and weaved my way down the slope. Kallin Basalius and Raissu Asserbas saw me and came running towards me.

“Here, let me take that,” Raissu said, taking the strap of my pack from my unresisting hand. “My Gods, you look terrible.”

“Get the apothecary,” Kallin snapped, taking the bag from Raissu.

“What?” Raissu said.

“Quickly,” Kallin hissed. “Can’t you see she’s been bitten?”

Clapping her hand to her mouth, Raissu raced off towards the stronghold while Kallin, supporting my weight helped me walk the last couple of hundred yards. The apothecary, Gorven Menas, was waiting for us when we drew near. Walking over, he examined my eyes and checked the inside of my mouth. “You were quite right Kallin,” he said sombrely, “definitely suffering from the vampiric disease. Drink this Arch-Magister,” he said, pressing a small silver and glass flask into my hand. I drank deeply, feeling the corruption withering and dying as the potion restored and reinvigorated me.

“In its early stages,” the apothecary told me as I returned the handsome flask, “vampirism can be treated like any common disease. A simple potion, scroll, or spell will fix you right up. The disease takes fully three days to irrevocably corrupt…”

“You mean I could have cured myself at any time with a spell I know well?” I wheezed in amusement, interrupting him. He nodded, and I laughed aloud. Not that I had any intentions of tangling with another vampire Clan, like ever, but it was good to know that I had the means to prevent myself from joining their undead ranks. Kallin helped me into the tower and guided me towards the bed. Gratefully, I collapsed onto the soft mattress and relaxed.

[quote=OverrideB1]
“WAH!” we both yelled, recoiling violently.[/quote]
^
That = funny.

Great work as always Overribe, keep it up... :goodjob: