Altmer on a Leash Options

[Octavia]

I love writing this story and I hope this will amuse some of you. It's both comedy, romance, drama and mild horror in some places.


Chapter 1 – Jinxed

It was early morning in Sadrith Mora. The sun was just climbing over the hills to the east of Dirty Muriel's Cornerclub, warming the cap of a giant fungus for a while before it lazily moved onward. The gentle rays slid over the soft edge, slowly at first, but as more joined them a sharp beam of light formed.

In one of the cramped rooms a young high elf awoke with a sneeze that sent his long, honey coloured hair flying before his face. Squinting with blue eyes, streaked with red after a late night, he grimaced accusingly at the sun and stretched out his arm to tug at the curtain. He only managed to pull down the curtain pole, which in turn crashed down and turned over the pitcher on the rugged bedside table.

Being splashed with water was not an uncommon way for Breonnarin to wake up, but he had never caused it himself before and the lack of somebody to chase through the building somehow made it worse. He was just about to say things could not get worse when he realised that water was dripping into the drawer. He opened it with more force than necessary, out of worry for the things he kept there, and ended up holding the drawer by the handle in mid air as his belongings fell into the small pool of water that had formed on the floor.

“Oh, no!” He reached out to save the copy of Surfeit of Thieves he had got as a gift from the guild mates in Balmora. They had all put their signatures in it, recognisable marks anyway, and he valued those more than the story itself. Just as he felt the book with his fingertips he lost balance and fell off the bed with a crash.

The door opened and Fandus Puruseius, Muriel's bouncer, peeked inside carefully. When he saw that Breonnarin was alone in the room he sighed and put his hands on his hips disapprovingly. “What is all the rumble about? I though you were being attacked!”

Breonnarin moaned in excruciating pain. He had managed to fall on his back right on top of the drawer. “Help me up,” he wheezed.

The strong Imperial pulled up the young thief effortlessly. Breonnarin immediately bent down to pick up the book and wipe it off with the bedclothes. The pages were wet at the ends, meaning the book would lose shape forever if he did not press it after it dried, but the first page was all that mattered to him.

“What on...” The sheets turned red as the dye came off the cheap leather. Muriel would not be pleased and Fandus told him so.

“What are you doing?” Rissinia the Redguard grunted as he walked by, rubbing his eyes. “I intended to sleep in today, but that won't happen now.” The savant started to chuckle. “It does seem like you got an even worse start this day, so we're even. It's another matter with Both gro-Durug, though. Water should be leaking through the floor by now and his bed is right beneath yours. I'm surprised all this turmoil hasn't woke him already.”

“What is this supposed to mean?” came a harsh voice from below. “Elf! Are you wetting yourself? I swear I'll strangle you with your own pretty hair!”

“No, Both! It's water!” Breonnarin sighed. “Can somebody please fetch me some towels?”

“Why are you playing with water indoors?” Both growled and the stairs creaked as he went up to see the culprit face to face.

“Can you people stop screaming!” Muriel roared. Her ruddy face peeked over Rissinia's shoulder and anger turned into shock. “How on Nirn did you manage that?”


One hour and one hundred apologies later Breonnarin swallowed the last crumbs of his breakfast along with the last, bitter drops of tea out in the common room. Celegorn, a wood elf, was plucking eagerly at a lute.

“Please, stop that!” Breonnarin asked for the tenth time, but the little Bosmer continued to ignore him. “It sounds horrible!” Still nothing. “Your supposed music makes a scrib sound like a talented singer!”

“Oh! And I suppose the perfect little Altmer can do it better? Your little mayhem this morning didn't caress my sensitive ears either!”

Breonnarin hated when people made fun of his size, although coming from a Bosmer the insult lacked credibility. Only other high elves and tall Nord could make him feel short. He was just about to counter the insult when the door to Big Helende's room opened and she waved at him to join her.

“Have a seat, Scuttle.” How he hated that nickname! “You caused quite a mess this morning.”

“An accident.” He wriggled in his seat under her stare. “Well, several accidents deciding to happen all at once.”

“I believe you. Do you think you're done having accidents today?”

“I hope so.” He had had his morning tea now after all.

“Good.” The tall, bulky woman sat down facing him across the table. “I have a job for you. You know Fara?” Breonnarin nodded. “She has an annual cooking contest with Dinara Othrelas,” he froze, “who works in the Llethri manor in Ald-Ruhn. Fara needs Dinara's copy of Redoran Cooking Secrets. I thought this job would be perfect for you.”

Breonnarin's head spun.

“You look pale.” Helende crossed her arms, her polished netch leather cuirass creaking.

“Can't someone else do it?”

Helende looked thwarted. “Someone else? Of course someone else can do it, but why can't you?”

“Please, it's complicated. Horribly so.”

“Are you questioning my intelligence?”

“I grew up in that manor!” As the son of a guard, but he still had fond memories from there. Especially the kitchen.

“The more reason for you to go, since you obviously know the way. Perhaps Dinara would even lend you the book if you know her.”

Breonnarin rose up. “I'm sorry.”

“I would have expected more from an operative.” Helende eyed him disdainfully. “Celegorn will go, but I'm not responsible for the outcome.” Breonnarin struggled to swallow as a hard lump seemed to form in his throat. “As for you. You are not expelled, but get out of my sight. I may or may not take you back later. Much later.” She shook her head. “Now I know you deserve that name of yours, Scuttle.”

Am I that bad a coward? He shook his head in disbelief as he stuffed down his belongings in a bag. This could not have happened at a worse time. The night before he had been so sure he would do a job soon, so he had not thought twice about wasting the last coins in his purse on a drink or two and, in a state of bad judgement, gambling.

Stealing in Sadrith Mora, where Helende knew everything that happened, while being temporarily suspended would probably be disastrous for his career. There was no rule against stealing while out of the guild, but Helende seemed to make up her own rules sometimes.

Desperate times called for desperate methods.

“You wish to join House Telvanni?” Mallam Ryon, Gothren's Mouth at the Council, stared down at the tattered thief, holding away his fine robes in disgust.

Breonnarin nodded with a faked smile pasted on his lips. “Yes. I used to study in Mages Guild. I'm sure I can...”

“Oh, let me guess: They threw you out.” Ryon said tonelessly while his face contorted with irritation. “You outlanders are all the same, thinking that joining House Telvanni is an easy way around Mages Guild, but you're just whiny brats who can't even pick a flower if you're told to. Only the strong survive in this House. Literally!”

“I studied alchemy to the rank of...”

“Read the requirements, fool! Go, now and stop bothering me!”

To tell the truth, Breonnarin was more than afraid being watched by those hostile red eyes, the concentrated magicka between the Mouths nearly made sparks fly randomly through the air, but he left with a calm, measured walk. In the anteroom he picked up a brochure he had not noticed on the way inside. House Telvanni took in people with arcane skills in all areas except alchemy and restoration. Just his bad luck to study the wrong subject.

He only shot a single glance down the corridor leading to the Tribunal Shrine. “No. Not that,” he muttered under his breath. Not much chance of encountering ash pits that far below ground, though you could never be certain. Those made his stomach turn. With a sigh he went outside again.

Pierlette Rostorard, the apothecary, crossed her arms and gave Breonnarin a sour look.

“No. I don't need any assistance, thank you. Aren't you one of those shady figures who hang out around Dirty Muriel's? Get out of my shop!”

Breonnarin sighed and did as he was told before the woman told the guard to search him on the way out. He had no intention to go through that again. The humiliation!

This reception was warm in comparison to that of Anis Seloth. Apparently she had been visited by the thieves earlier and now made sure to be careful with what customers she let inside. It was near afternoon and the only places left to go were Fighters Guild, which was out of question since he would probably hurt himself more than others in a fight, and the Imperial Cult. Breonnarin was sure he could talk himself into the latter.

“By the Nine Divines!” he rehearsed as he trotted over the bridge to Wolverine Hall, avoiding to look twice at Dirty Muriel's. “Protect the poor, that's what I've always done!” Because he had always been the poor one. He would hopefully be running a couple of errands until it was safe to set foot in the tavern again. An imperial guard looked over his shoulder at the strange performance, but the Altmer ignored him.

Ascending the steps, he beheld the view for a while. His thoughts drifted like the thin clouds that chased over the sky. That practise dummy on the courtyard made him think of home. If he had only done as he was told he could have at least defended himself enough to take more risky jobs. The only weapon he owned was a little dagger that was more indented to scare people off than actual defence. Come to think of it, it had probably rusted and stuck to the sheath. Just as well: Then nobody could take it and use it against him.

With an air of serenity he straightened his back and opened the door.

Minutes later Breonnarin left, fuming with rage. ”We cannot recruit new members, but show up in Ebonheart with a humble pledge of 50 gold and you may join.” His last resort had shattered to dust. Humble pledge? That's a fortune!

He went to the harbour, nearly thinking of smuggling himself on board a ship. Where did not matter as long as it would be away from this place. It would of course be unfortunate if he managed to get himself on a slave ship.

With a defeated sigh he sank to the ground, trying out if the water in the puddle before him was sea water or rain. After a taste he stated that it was both and not too salty to drink. It was probably full of nasty bugs and germs, but rather that than dying of thirst.

When the worst thirst was gone he started to pick with his bag, trying to decide whether it was worth it or not to rip out that page in Surfeit of Thieves and sell the book. It had been a valuable book before he managed to ruin it this morning but it was still worth at least 100 gold. Still, it had been a gift. He held it in his hands, trying to decide what to do.

The strange sound of Dunmeri voices, humming like bumblebees inside Cephalopod helms, awoke Breonnarin from his thoughts. “I'm done with this stinking cluster! There ought to be better places.” Right you are. Breonnarin shifted his position so he would be safely hidden behind a rock. Guards were always bad news, whether you had done anything or not.

“There are no better Telvanni settlements. If it stinks too bad from the harbour and the slave market you can always request a transfer to the east side.” The second voice obviously belonged to an older Dark Elf.

“You cannot be serious!”

That seemed to annoy the older guard. “Tel Branora has Therana. You don't want to be her employee. She ordered my cousin to bring her a shipload of eggs and she just played with them. Only mercenaries guard her tower nowadays, commanded by a high elf captain. Then there's Tel Aruhn. It's just the same as Sadrith Mora, but with worthless connections and there's no way to escape the smell. Tel Vos is quiet and chaotic at the same time. There are always troublesome Ashlanders to be dealt with and Aryon has a taste for foreigners, I'm afraid. His captain is from Cyrodiil.”

“How about Tel Uvirith, the newest settlement?”

“Master Zohran's tower is guarded by those Dwemer metal beasts. He is also a high elf.” The last bit sounded like a curse. In fact it was. “Tel Mora is naturally out of question.”

“Why?”

The older guard started to laugh.”You really don't know? I'll tell you why. Mistress Dratha hates men to such an extent, not a man lives in town.”

“Then I guess it's either this or a new career. Not one man?”

“I mean what I say.” That ended the conversation.

It was silent for a while as the sun set. The sky was red over a glistening sea, the last sunbeams illumining a lonely bull netch. Breonnarin imagined that the guards were admiring it. He was not. It made him think of jelly and that made his stomach ache with hunger.

“Strange creatures, those netches,” the older guard remarked.

“How do they fly? They are so big and they don't even seem to try.”

“I'd imagine that they are quite hollow, gliding on the wind currents somehow with support of magic.”

“Perhaps they're levitating?”

“Could be. Perhaps they have to stop by at Vivec once in a while and reload at the Shrine to Stop the Moon.” Both laughed hard and returned to their posts.

Breonnarin put back the book into his bag and closed his eyes, trying to absorb the last warmth from the sun where he sat, leaning against the polished rock. The sun set and the light faded away and cold, hard winds blew in from the sea.

Now was the time to move on before the sea rose and drowned him. It took a while before he walked without stiffness, but he still swayed a bit from the lack of food. Drinking water had only made his stomach anticipate food and it complained a lot for being cheated out of it.

As the darkness thickened ordinary people retreated to their safe homes and the day began for others. Breonnarin knew enough of the art himself to fend off pickpockets and he hoped that he looked poor enough to avoid robbery. Looking out for Camonna Tong was his top priority. He knew better than thinking they were only present in House Hlaalu towns. Big Helende had expressed concern over it, so the threat was very much real.

Scattered about in the streets were tattered women who, despite the cold, wore cut off skirts and blouses nearly open to their waists, and some men too. Some of them even tried to pose as females. Breonnarin thought that he could be more convincing than a round Colovian man who wore a ridiculous leather corset on top of a torn lace dress, his unshaven face thick with make-up.

Breonnarin nearly considered joining them for the prospect of easy money, but a glance at the drunk Nord and Dunmer sailors who seemed to be their main customers made him drop the idea with a shudder. Good that his hair was put up today or there might have been misunderstandings.

It started to rain and eventually hail in the freezing autumn night. The delicate Altmer could take no more. He pounded on several doors, hoping for charity, but only one opened for him. By then he had almost reached Wolverine Hall again.

Behind that door was a sparsely furnished room and a Dunmer male with short, red hair that looked a bit tousled after sleeping. He just looked at Breonnarin for a moment with pity in his red eyes. Just as well. Pride was a part of dignity, which he did not possess. "Come in,” he invited with a low voice. “I guess that is what you're here for?”

A bit hesitantly, Breonnarin climbed the last steps and entered the house as if walking on clouds. This was the first good thing that had happened that day.

"Help yourself to some bread," the Dunmer said while starting to heat some water.

“You were the only one who cared,” Breonnarin said. This was the last house too. The last chance.

The Dunmer took out a clay mug from a cupboard. “People don't like to get in trouble and you look like it.”

“What about you?” Breonnarin asked between chewing two large pieces of bread. It tasted better than anything had of late.

“I don't have much to lose, see,” he smiled. His house had two stories, though not half of the furniture others would put in half of the space. Worn tapestries with religious patterns were the only luxury. He stirred down some chokeweed and green lichen with a spoon, adding some comberry for the flavour, and offered the draught to the drenched Altmer. "This will keep you from catching a cold. It would also have tasted terrific with the bread, if you had not finished it already."

Breonnarin blushed, looking down at the soft crumbles on the table, but the Dunmer laughed softly. "It is alright. You were obviously hungry."

"Who are you?"

"You don't visit the Temple often, do you? Well, with its current state I don't blame you. I'm Navis." Breonnarin waited for a family name, but it never came. Strange.

"Thank you, Navis. I will remember this.” Breonnarin looked at the sparse furniture. “I must confess that I'm not very religious."

"Religious or not, you seem like a better person than most Telvanni. The Tribunal is - not quite as influential here. Things are better after the Blight, of course. More reason to believe in the goodness of the gods again and Lord Vivec has called for reformation." He looked worried about something, though.

Breonnarin shook his head. "I am not a Telvanni retainer." Not much chance of it ever happening either.

"I should have suspected, but apart from your appearance, your accent is quite native. You obviously grew up on Vvardenfell. Or the north west. It's hard to determine sometimes."

"Ald'ruhn." It was a big settlement. No need to lie about it.

"Honour grows where only trama shrubs survive," the monk mused. “The Temple is strong in the Redoran district, though perhaps not in the way I would prefer. You cannot truly believe in something you never question.”

Images appeared inside Breonnarin's head. Hideous skulls were glaring at him, half covered with grey ash. He fetched a potion for his father in the temple in Ald'ruhn once and never more.

“It's not healthy to let an organisation take full control over a religion. The ordinators were actually trying to arrest The Nerevarine.” Navis frowned and cleared his throat. Criticism had its punishments in the Temple.

Breonnarin understood later on that the woman who had looked for him in Balmora and asked the directions to his father had been The Nerevarine. Odd that an Imperial woman would be the reincarnation of an old Chimer general who was destined to drive away all the foreigners from Morrowind. Those prophecies were perhaps after-constructions. There was a good reason The Temple would have her arrested. The Nerevarine was to bring back the old beliefs of ancestor worship and had revealed the true power behind the three immortal gods of Morrowind. Rather than ascending through goodness they had used the same power as the devil himself, Dagoth Ur, and drawn their power from the heart of Lorkhan.

That was why Navis was worried. The heart was destroyed and the gods would eventually die. Almsivi would wither and his father had been a part in the making as the ranking Blades agent. Caius Cosades, the old layabout in Balmora, had passed on the mission to the more well educated Ghijedalyn. Perhaps the future history books would claim he was Nerevar reborn.

Breonnarin cared very little for that. He had been used as a puppet all the time his father had infiltrated the ranks of House Redoran and later revealed the corruption in Caldera, receiving mighty rewards from the emperor. The latter had been too much. Breonnarin had worked as a scribe for Odral Helvi and it was through him his father had worked by looking through his desk while he was asleep and later setting fellow spies to follow him from the house every morning. The humiliation!

Navis yawned and took out a robe and blankets from a chest. “You can change into this and let your clothes dry on that chair.” The monk went upstairs, and seemed to fall into his bed. Not many people could be that civil in the middle of the night. Breonnarin wondered if he would be grumpy in the morning instead or perhaps forget that he let a wet little Altmer in the night before. Be that as it may, now he needed to rest.

[Octavia]

Chapter 2 – Chances and Risks

He was running through the streets of Balmora as the Camonna Tong chased him. He was too far away from South Wall to reach it before they caught up with him. Darting through narrow alleys he finally arrived at Hecerinde's house and darted through the door. Why was it not locked? It was dark inside, but he managed to lock the door behind him and listened to the sound of shouts and footsteps outside while holding his breath. They seemed to run past the house, but Breonnarin did not stir for another minute.

Someone lit a lamp behind him. Turning around he saw Hecerinde standing on a stool with a noose around his neck, and holding a redware lamp was Thanelen Velas, Ralen Hlaalo's murderer and an infamous member of Camonna Tong. He had been executed two years earlier.

“Justice will fall on the outlanders,” Velas said.

Sitting up straight with cold sweat on his back, Breonnarin hoped that it was not the echo of a shout that rung in his ears. Waking poor Navis once more would be cruel. He hoped that the Camonna Tong in Balmora was under control or at least weakened. If they had killed any of his friends he would - he wanted to do something but he knew that he could not.

Breonnarin hugged the pillow and fought back the tears until he fell asleep again.

He was back at Dirty Muriel's Cornerclub. Whenever he moved he broke something, or someone. Celegorn crashed down the stairs, impaling himself on his lute, while Breonnarin accidentally clubbed down Rissinia when he returned a book he had borrowed. Fandus tripped on his bag and flew out through the window. It only stopped when Big Helende stabbed him in the guts, sending bolts of electricity through his body.

When he awoke this time his eyes were swollen and his head hurt.

“Good morning.” Navis was already preparing breakfast. He seemed just as friendly as the night before. “A new day means new possibilities, doesn't it? The weather is lovely. Nothing prepares you for the day like a big bowl of wickwheat porridge.

“Are you sure that you want to...” Breonnarin yawned.

“Please, help yourself. I have more than I can consume.”

“Navis, I've been wondering,” Breonnarin said when he was halfway through his bowl.

“Yes?” The Dunmer only ate half as much and was already done. He was now enjoying a big mug of tea.

“What do you know about Tel Mora?”

“I was there once to carry out a mission for the temple. One of the villagers had swamp fever.” Navis furrowed his brow a bit in thought. “It is a haven for women, but men are not welcome at all. Dratha believes everything bad that happens to women can be blamed on men. They just barely accepted me for a short time because I am a monk. Not because of my religion, that's the worst source of oppression, but because I probably wouldn't try anything with the girls.”

“Is that true?” Breonnarin gave him an innocent smile, but his eyes had a spark of glee.

“Are you questioning my credibility?” The monk sounded far from upset. Either because he had a clear conscience or because he was already too immersed in sin to care. Breonnarin thought that the former was the case and was proved right. “They had nothing to fear from me. Even if I had a looser grip on ethics, I'm not particularly fond of wood elves anyway.”

“They're not very likeable.” Breonnarin grimaced at the thought of Celegorn. He was the only one he had not felt sorry about in that dream.

“They are like children in most cases,” Navis explained. “Give them something sweet, or do them a favour, and they're all over you, but make them mad and they'll bite.” The Dunmer took a sip of his tea. “Or put an arrow in your back from a hundred paces away and eat your corpse.”

“Please!”

The wide smile that spread over the soft face made Navis look ridiculously likeable. “Just stay away from them and you won't have to worry about it.”

After Breonnarin switched back to his own clothes he went down to the shore for a little fresh air, wondering how he would survive another day like this.

Then he saw it. A large pink spot on the sea floor, accompanied by smaller ones, with a bright white colour.

Please let there be pearls. He did not want his newly dried clothes to get wet again, so he looked around carefully before taking them off. Telvanni had a wicked sense of humour sometimes.

Five minutes later Breonnarin emerged from the water, clutching three shiny pearls in his fist. He could very well survive on the money he would get for those pearls until Big Helende's disposition changed to the better. He could even give her one as a present to speed up the process.

When he was dry enough to get back into his clothes he sold the pearls in Ancola's booth and walked up to Gateway Inn. He was discouraged when he saw a line of people waiting to get in stretching all the way to the harbour. He tapped a decent looking Breton fairly close to the entrance on the shoulder. “Excuse me, what is going on?”

“We're here for the autumn market! It starts tomorrow, you know.”

Breonnarin remembered now. He had looked forward to finishing a job and returning just in time for the market. Now he had to save the little money he had to make it last and there was nowhere he could stay with all the newcomers. Some of them would have the same problem and crowd Tel Aruhn as well.

Breonnarin kicked at the ground every other step. It had started so good! Perhaps he could help out at the market, but that meant another night without a place to stay and he could not trouble Navis any more. Trying to pay the monk would probably be an insult to his beliefs.

“If I only were a woman Dratha would protect me!” He stopped in his tracks, remembering a trick he had used in Balmora.

”I feel ridiculous!” Breonnarin growled as Sugar-Lips Habasi applied pink rouge to his cheeks. “Why can't Sottilde go instead?”

“Do you expect me to be seen in the company of a Nord?” Hecerinde was combing his tawny hair in front of the same mirror. “I would be too ashamed to show myself in public.” The fair skinned master thief put down the comb and tugged at his jacket. “Besides, she is not by far elegant enough to attend to Ralen Hlaalo's birthday.”

Rumour had it the nobleman possessed vintage brandy, which an affluent client sought for. By going as a pair they would draw less suspicion and could work together to reach their goal.

“We will hide a fake bottle in friend Scuttle's skirts.”

They were let inside without the guards looking once at the fake invitation because they were dressed well enough to pass for nobles and Hecerinde knew how to talk convincingly. After going with the flow for a couple of hours they managed to spot the bottle, which was in open display.

“Just follow my lead,” Hecerinde whispered in Breonnarin's ear and nearly pushed the young thief backwards until he covered the shelf with his body. The older Altmer proceeded with kisses, to hide their real intentions from eventual onlookers. Breonnarin could see the Dunmeri guests' disgusted glances, but all they would remember seeing was two Altmer fondling each other in a corner. No one saw that Hecerinde switched bottles.

When the deed was done, Breonnarin slapped his partner, grabbed his skirts to get a firm hold on the bottle, and could get out of the building unhindered. From the corner of his eye he saw Hecerinde put on a silly face and mutter under his breath while stroking his hair in a frustrated gesture. The ladies shook their heads at him.

That had been the night before the murder. Everybody had thought that the killer took the brandy and there were no suspicions against Thieves Guild.

Of course, a place like Tel Mora ought to have some treasures in it and he would be a poor thief, in both senses, if he never took an opportunity. Could I really do that again?

One hour later, Breonnarin was trying out a purple skirt and a pink blouse Ancola had picked out for him after he convinced her he was going to perform at the market. He also wore lace stockings and a pair of leather boots with semi high heels that seemed to have belonged to a Nordic woman with big feet. All in all he had wasted ten gold on the right equipment and gotten hold of straps of old sheets that he tucked inside the blouse and wound around his hips to make them look wider.

Breonnarin rubbed his chin thoughtfully when he struggled to find a proper name for his alter ego. Gyande from Imperial City would do nicely. No use to pretend to be from Summerset Isles when he hardly knew how to behave like an Altmer.

He smiled to himself, picking up a scratched mirror from from his bag. Not able to afford real cosmetics, Breonnarin applied some fire petal pollen on his cheeks. Turning his attention to his eyes, he took out some charcoal that he had picked up when passing by the smith's.

At the first try of darkening his eyelashes he accidentally poked himself in the eye with the brush and ruined the rouge as tears streamed down his face. With a curse the Altmer wiped the alien material out of his eye, drying the area enough for a second attempt. When he was finished a feminine enough face looked back at him from the mirror glass. A smiling face. After brushing and styling his hair he smoothed his skirt and went down to the harbour.

Half an hour later the ship sailed smoothly on the waves a bit north of Sadrith Mora. The captain had obviously fallen for the trick. Breonnarin shot worried glances at the steering wheel. Perhaps he has fallen a bit too much. Captain Arethi returned the glance with an honestly smitten stare. At least the captain's interest protected him from the sailors. Better to have just one more thing to worry about except what he would do when he arrived at Tel Mora.


Zohran of Evermor kicked the dirt with a snarl. How long would he have to wait in this dripping cave? The tall, red headed Altmer, Master of Tel Uvirith, was in a worse mood than usual. Those worthless Dwemer scrapheaps had disturbed him again last night, colliding with each other, bumping into furniture and ruined important alchemical experiments. Those Animunculi of his were hardly able to do their job. He had complained to Llunela Hleran but she had just shrugged her shoulders and told him to leave her alone.

Of course a hermit would not know what it was like to anticipate a good, solid manor and end up with a cramped mushroom in a sulphurous pit in the middle of nowhere. There were even dead workers left behind in the dungeon, which was certainly not roomy enough for his taste. That issue he could at least do something about without breaking the contract. Nothing in it said that he was not allowed to expand his own living area under ground.

Finding workers had turned out to be easier than expected. He stumbled upon a slave smugglers' cave on a glass mine expedition in the Grazelands. The smugglers were disposed of and the slaves freed, all six of them healthy Khajiit with mining experience. They were employed as real workers with fair salaries, but their motivation made them have the job finished on time and the affair turned out a cheap one.

He needed something do put in the dungeon, though, and he liked Dwemer furniture. The thing was, almost all the ruins were looted and the goods did not stay on Vvardenfell for long.

The door to the inner rooms opened with a loud creak and the Dunmer who had told him to wait ten minutes earlier held it up for him.

"Back already, Orethi?" Zohran cocked an eyebrow at the rogue. He had waited for at least a quarter of an hour. “Only fools make a Telvanni wizard wait!”

Givit Orethi did not look impressed. "Take the door on the left. The boss is happy to see you."

Zohran nodded and watched the rest of the smugglers. They were stretched out by the fire, roasting hound meat and playing dice. A Redguard female with a mismatched bonemold and steel armour, a clean shaven Nord male in worn leather armour of western style and a female dark elf in a full set of polished chitin armour, her helm lying on the ground next to her. They all watched the Telvanni wizard with wary eyes, but did not let their body language betray any anxiety.

He had just happened to stumble upon this cave the week before when he was out looking for ingredients and it started to rain. Was it just luck or was there something else to it, like... skill? He did not believe in fate.

Their leader was a strange man and probably related to Crassius Curio, Zohran's favourite playwright. That meant that they were most likely sponsored by House Hlaalu and he would have no big trouble with Duke Vedam Dren if he was caught dealing with them.

Antonius Curio rose from his rugged desk when the Altmer entered his office. "I hope you did not find your wait too inconvenient," he said nervously. Though the cave was cold, almost unpleasantly so, the brown haired Imperial sweated. Zohran thought that most of the time had been wasted on dragging out the man from under his bed and letting him breathe in a bag. The man was constantly sitting on needles and walking on hot coals. Being married to a Dunmeri woman could turn decent people into madmen.

"It gave me time to contemplate.” Zohran slammed the door shut in Givit's face. “I asked Master Aryon some days ago, not outright of course, what the current price of Dwemer furniture is. Apparently the prices have dropped heavily since Ghostfence disappeared. With all the... opportunity seekers, that means there are many more items on the market and far less Animunculi still intact since those are smacked into scraps by mere thieves and peasants with shady contacts." Antonius looked pale now, but Zohran was not done yet. "Taking into consideration the Imperial laws that are meant to stop these things from happening, one must be sure one can trust the other part in an agreement."

"Believe me, Master Zohran, we will not try to trick a Telvanni wizard."

"Who said I was talking about you?" The Altmer gave the smuggler a green eyed stare. He held it until he got the wanted reaction. Antonius swallowed, looking as if a legion would storm into the cave any second. Zohran chuckled and sat down by a table, helping himself to a goblet of flin. Still smiling, he pulled out a paper full of scribbled calculations from his pocket and put it in the middle of the table.


The negotiations between Antonius Curio and Zohran of Evermor continued for at least an hour. Meanwhile four tense bandits were waiting by the fire. Givit shot worried glances at the door but it was below him to eavesdrop.

“We're mad to do business with that elf,” Rimer huffed and threw the dice, getting worthless numbers. He was just like any other Nord: Tall, bulky and fair skinned. Being relatively young and working mainly at night his looks had not weathered away. It was good to have him too. He added another pair of strong arms, a quite handy boat and a brilliant addition to their defence. Nobody combined swinging an axe with frost spells the way he did.

“We'll be madly rich when we deliver the Animunculi to our client,” Givit said. The rogue was not playing with the others. As always when he was nervous he sharpened his sword, trying to think of other things.

“It's a bloody long way to Mournhold,” the pale haired Nord argued, but he was interrupted as Malexa, the Redguard knight, cheered and claimed the silver dagger Rimer had staked. He sighed and leant back against the wall. “Bah! Just take it, I'm not playing any more.”

“Two people can't play dice properly!” Dovsi Llendu argued. “Givit?”

“No, thank you, I'm not in the mood for losing my belongings to Malexa right now.” The knight's insane luck was a blessing for business, but a curse for the people who had to live with her.

Dovsi pouted and gave the Redguard a furious stare.

“Don't give me that look!” Malexa tucked away the dagger into her packing. “It's not my fault.”

“Fine!” Dovsi put her chitin helm on. “Now I'm not giving anyone a look.”

Rimer chuckled and poured up a tankard of Sujamma, eyeing Malexa thoughtfully over the brim as he drank. “Do you want any?” he asked her. Givit smiled to himself and eyed the scene from the corner of his eye.

“I'd prefer not to be drunk if that wizard attacks the boss and we get into a battle.” Malexa's gaunt face held no visible emotion.

Givit shook his head. As if he would ever bother to attack poor Curio. Take the drink, woman! He wants you to. Rimer had to be the clumsiest suitor in all of Tamriel. At least that was what Givit thought he was getting at.

“You're missing out what battle is all about,” Rimer joked.

“Nords!”

There we go. Givit put away his sword and crossed his arms over his chest. He was not going to intervene. They had to work this out for themselves.

The door suddenly opened with a creak and the tall wizard left the cave without even a glance in their direction. Antonius followed, looking as if he had fallen into a snake pit and survived without a bite. He tried to talk, but he could only produce hoarse whispers.

“Here you go,” Rimer said and handed over the entire bottle. Antonius tilted his head back and poured down every single drop. Everyone sighed simultaneously and braced themselves for bad news.