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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Awwwwwwwwwwwwww, Jonacin got left out
lol j/k

Great updates Override

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t have it,” she snapped.

I dont remember this one...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apprentice scrolls by Slategrey is also available from the Summit.

Have fun