The Telvanni Affair, A Short Tale from the Mainland Options

[canis216]

Forward by Enric Pelitius, University of Gwylim Press
17 Last Seed, 3E 432

Now in its 2nd edition, The Telvanni Affair, as it has come to be called, is a collection of journal entries and draft reports purportedly discovered 3E 429 by the cleaning lady at a tavern in the Imperial settlement of Ebonheart, in Vvardenfell District, Morrowind. The chronicle, as it were, purports to describe some events occurring in Morrowind, the Telvanni Isles in particular, during 3E 419.

Perhaps a brief history of this work is in order. While most scholars, including this writer, believe this work to be a poor fiction, the 1st edition published 3E 430 set off a minor firestorm in Morrowind. Suggestions that Archmagister Rilvin Dral’s assassination may have been the work of a Blades operative caused quite a scandal, particularly when the Imperial Council would not confirm or deny involvement. This, in spite of the fact that no authenticated record exists of any individual by the name of Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun living in either mainland Morrowind or Vvardenfell at the time of the assassination, or when the manuscript was discovered.

It is interesting to note that one patron of the Ebonheart tavern, Six Fishes, did claim to have seen the writer/anti-hero of The Telvanni Affair. Unfortunately, this witness was found dead in the streets of Ebonheart, perforated by poisoned bolts, before Imperial scholars had opportunity for a decent interview. Perhaps, then, some mysteries are best left unexplored.

This post has been edited by canis216: Aug 12 2007, 08:40 AM

[canis216]

It's back! Yep, that impetuous Al at (shudder) age 25. Enjoy.
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At sea my troubles melt away. This morning I boarded the ship that would take me to Sadrith Mora, where the spymaster said I would best learn the ways of the Telvanni for myself. I think he was disappointed with me at our last meeting—he didn’t think I was taking his warnings about the Telvanni seriously. He was right, of course—a perceptive man. I shall have to learn to better conceal my thinking.

I suppose, considering my temper, that C. is concerned about me doing something rash. The Telvanni, he said, are slavers near as brutal to the Dres. View my kind as little better than animals. Don’t think much better of even the humans. Driven mad and made bold by their access to arcane power and by their isolation on the eastern fringe of Tamriel.

Maybe. Maybe so. Whether I believe him or not—and surely he is exaggerating—doesn’t matter. I would find out for myself soon enough.

The ship had two other passengers, a wood elf and an imperial, whom I entertained a bit by practicing my marksmanship on distant cliffracers. They were suitably impressed by my steady hand, and pleased with any effort to reduce the flying beasts’ numbers. Both my companions were headed to Sadrith Mora—the wood elf wore a strange armor shaped from bone and said he was trying to join the Telvanni as a mercenary; the Cyrodiil wore fancy duds and said he had a business at a cornerclub, Dirty Muriel’s.

It is a long ride by boat to Sadrith Mora. The shipmaster made port for the evening not quite half arrived—we ended up at a place called Tel Branora, a small Telvanni backwater town. That makes it seem unimpressive, but I assure you that it is not. I think my jaw dropped when we pulled into the dock—C. had said something about “strange architecture”, but that hardly prepared me for the first sight of… the tower. I can hardly describe it, save as tall, colorful, and fungoid—like a gigantic cluster of scaly mushrooms. Strange architecture, indeed. How could such a thing even be built?

The tower looked like it had sprung forth from the earth.

“Don’t be shy, outlander. We don’t bite. That is, in Tel Branora, we only bite fools. What can I do for you?”

The greeting was surprisingly friendly, coming from a dunmer. From a Telvanni retainer, no less. I stood outside some joint called Sethan’s Tradehouse, still a little stunned, and a Telvanni had thrown me a lifeline.

I told him my name was Al, and that I was rather new to these parts. The tattooed face smiled back at me. “Name’s Balis Favani—I’m a spellsword. What do you do for a living?”

I was going to make up something in response, but remembered something the spymaster had said:

“Don’t lie if you don’t have to. It just complicates matters and makes you think too hard.”

Exactly. Dazed as I was from just arriving in a strange land, it was best to not think too much. I’d never been much for lying in Black Marsh, anyway.

I smiled, “Nice to meet you, Balis. I’m an assassin.”

He nodded, gravely. “Morag Tong?”

I smiled again, a little wider, but said nothing. Without ever lying, I had permitted Balis Favani to get a useful wrong impression. The Morag Tong, C. had told me, was the local, legal, and respected guild of assassins. The perfect cover. I even carried a few blank writs along—blank except for the stamp of the Morag Tong—to deal with inconveniences.

Favani continued, “Just stay away from Therana and we’ll have no trouble, assassin. I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t care. We don’t care about politics. We don’t care what others think. We just want to be left alone.”



This post has been edited by canis216: Dec 6 2008, 05:56 PM