The Neveragaine, A Morrowind fanfic Options

[Helena]

Chapter 1: I Don’t Want To Go To Morrowind

It was a weird dream, I tell you that. I mean, I’ve had some strange dreams before, but this one was truly bizarre. Images flashed across my mind in a never-ending reel: fire, storms, a barren landscape, water droplets splashing into a pond... and scrolls covered in Daedric writing, which I don’t even understand. I must have eaten some really bad food the night before.

A woman’s voice was speaking. “They have taken you from the Imperial City’s prison, first by carriage, and now by boat. To the East, to Morrowind.”

“Morrowind?” I squeaked. “I don’t want to go to Morrowind!”

“Fear not,” she reassured me. “For I am watchful. You have been chosen.”

“Chosen for what?” I asked plaintively. “And does it really have to be Morrowind? I mean, how about Valenwood? I always wanted to go to Valenwood.”

I have no idea why I thought I could reason with the mysterious dream-lady, but I guess you don’t tend to think all that rationally when you’re dreaming. It didn’t matter in any case, because at that very moment I was woken up by someone roughly shaking my shoulder.

“Wake up!” It was a hoarse, throaty voice, suggestive of a bad cold. “Wake up! We’re here.”

I opened my eyes to see a male figure, naked from the waist up, staring down at me. He had grey-green skin, red eyes, and huge, sharply-pointed ears – each studded with several earrings – not to mention a vicious-looking scar running down one side of his face. A Dunmer, I thought. Well, that explained the scratchy voice.

He looked concerned. “Why are you shaking? Are you okay?”

“I… guess,” I said weakly, trying to sit up. The back of my head hurt; I must have banged it against a packing crate. “Er… bad dreams.”

He nodded. “Yes, you were dreaming. What’s your name?”

“Um… Ada. Ada Ventura.” I was still half-asleep, my head full of sandstorms and creepy disembodied voices, but I vaguely remembered my companion telling one of the guards that his name was Jiub.

“Even last night’s storm couldn’t wake you.” He leaned a little closer as I swung my legs off the makeshift bunk, rubbing my eyes. “I heard them say we’ve reached Morrowind. I’m sure they’ll let us go.”

My head jerked up. “Morrowind? I don’t want to go to Morrowind!”

“I know,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You were saying.”

It was all right for him, I thought resentfully. He was a Dark Elf; Morrowind was his home. For me, it was different.

It’s not that I have a problem with Dark Elves in general. I’d got on fine with the more cosmopolitan Dunmer I’d met in Cyrodiil, but if there was one thing they’d all made clear to me, it was that Morrowind really didn’t welcome foreign visitors. Or, as one particularly gloomy fellow summed it up: “We don’t like outlanders.” ‘Outlanders’ it transpired, meant anyone born and raised outside of Morrowind – even other Dunmer. In fact, especially other Dunmer.

Why was I being sent to Morrowind, of all places? It wasn’t Imperial policy to deport convicts to the provinces, as far as I knew. Maybe the jails were getting too full?

Footsteps creaked on the ramp leading to the middle deck, and Jiub hastily drew back. “Quiet! Here comes the guard.”

I heard the jangle of keys as the guard, a fellow Imperial, strolled towards us. He gave me a curt nod as he approached, ignoring Jiub completely. “This is where you get off. Come with me.”

I hauled myself to my feet and obediently followed, wishing my legs didn’t ache so much. Several days cooped up a creaky old carriage, followed by the hold of a prison ship, had left me with a rather severe cramp. I couldn’t wait to get out of here and stretch my legs properly for the first time in days.

They hadn’t actually treated me that badly in the prison. I’d had adequate food and exercise, and I hadn’t been beaten or ill-treated (though the third time I tried to escape, the long-suffering guard captain told me that if it ever happened again, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions). They’d even given me paper and a quill when I begged hard enough, probably hoping that it would keep me out of trouble. I’d used it to start a journal, which was pretty much the only thing that had kept me sane during my long stay in that tiny, windowless cell.

I clutched it against me as we entered the middle deck, praying that it wouldn’t be taken away. Okay, so it contained absolutely nothing of interest (I’d been in prison, for crying out loud), but it was almost the only possession I had, apart from the ratty old clothes I stood up in and a few small trinkets. Luckily, the guard didn’t even seem to notice.

Over by the next set of steps, he turned to me and fixed me with his best “you’re a disgrace to my people” glare. I scowled back at him. “I’m innocent, you know.”

“They all are,” he said with a sigh. “Now, get yourself up on deck, and let’s keep this as civil as possible.”

I couldn’t wait to get up on deck. I practically ran at the trapdoor, shoved it open, and drank in huge gulps of fresh, salty air, blinking in the early morning sunlight. Hauling myself up on to the deck, I squeezed my eyes shut and prepared to look on my new home of Morrowind for the first time ever.

I drew another deep, heady breath, and opened my eyes. And stared.

From the descriptions my Dunmer friends had given me, I had somehow envisioned Morrowind as an endless wasteland of rocks, lava valleys, and ash storms. But the landscape that stretched out before me was lush and green, with gentle waves lapping against a grassy shore. A village of quaint little huts surrounded the docks, and off in the distance I could see some kind of tower – a lighthouse, probably – surrounded by tall plane trees. It was, to my amazement, quite beautiful.

The soldier standing beside me, a Redguard, grinned at the look on my face. “This is where they want you. Head down to the dock and they'll show you to the Census Office.” He sounded a lot more friendly than the other guards on the ship.

I stumbled down the gangplank to be met by another guard, this one in full Imperial uniform. “You finally arrived!” he exclaimed, as if he’d been waiting all his life for this moment. “But our records don’t show from where.”

I gathered my thoughts. “Er, Ada Ventura, of Imperial City. Temple District,” I added, in case it was important. Though in actual fact, I’d barely set foot in the Temple District in several years.

“Great! I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Wow, this guy was almost scarily friendly. “Follow me up to the office, and they’ll finish your release.”

I entered the census office, where I was met by an elderly-looking man who I presumed to be a clerk. “Ah yes,” he said briskly, “we’ve been expecting you. You’ll have to be officially recorded before you’re released. Now, just a few formalities…” He took up a sheaf of papers from his desk. “Your class, please?”

“My… class?” I repeated, slightly confused. “You mean my trade? Well… I don’t really have one as such.” The truth was, I’d never really studied for a trade. I’d just travelled around, learning whatever I thought was useful.

He sighed, and shoved the papers into my hands. “Here. Fill in the forms yourself.”

I sat down at the desk and began to note down everything I could think of that I was any good at. It was a bit of a mixed bag; while most of my skills were combat-related (blades, light and heavy armour, armour repair), I’d also learned to pick locks and disarm traps (useful in a tight spot) and to bargain for a good deal with merchants. Magic was a different matter; to be honest, I’d never really had much of a talent for it. The only discipline I’d studied in any detail was Restoration, and even then, all I could remember after five years was a single healing spell which I couldn’t even cast properly half the time.

“Here,” I said at last, handing him back the forms. I couldn’t really think of a good name for my lack-of-profession, so in the end I’d just put ‘mercenary’, which was pretty much accurate.

“Very good. Now, the letter which preceded you mentioned that you were born under a certain sign… which would be?”

Was this really necessary? I suppressed a sigh. “The Lady. Twenty-first of Heartfire, 3E 404.”

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Now, just make sure this information is correct before I stamp the papers…”

I checked through the information, noting the date on the papers as I did so: 16th of Last Seed. I’d been in prison for over a year.

Once I’d finished, the clerk stamped the papers with the Imperial seal, and it seemed that I was good to go. “Show your papers to the Captain when you go to get your release fee,” he said with a smile.

I walked out into a small hallway, which contained a bookcase and a table with a half-finished meal on it. My stomach rumbled at the sight of the bread and meat – they’d only given us one meal a day on board the ship – but I didn’t want to take anything in case someone caught me. The last thing I needed was to be thrown back in jail for stealing on my first day of freedom.

The door at the end of the hallway led me out through an enclosed courtyard and into another office, where a man in a gleaming suit of Imperial Templar armour was sitting at a desk. This, I presumed, was the Captain I was supposed to report to.

“Er… Captain?” I said, holding out the papers. “I’m Ada, the prisoner who was just released. I was told to give these to you.”

“Ah, yes. Word of your arrival only reached me yesterday.” He looked slightly harassed. “Still, no matter. I’m Sellus Gravius, and I’m here to welcome you to Morrowind.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he continued. “Or why you were released from prison and shipped here. But your authorization comes directly from Emperor Uriel Septim VII himself.”

I stared at him, wondering if I’d heard correctly. “What?”

“From the Emperor,” he repeated.

“The… Emperor?”

“Yes, the Emperor. Uriel Septim is still Emperor.” He gave me a rather strange look. “You do remember that, don’t you?”

Well, naturally I did. Uriel Septim had been Emperor several decades longer than I’d been alive. “Of course I do,” I snapped, then realised that it probably wasn’t a good idea to piss off the guy in charge of my release. “But… why?”

“Damned if I know,” he said bluntly. “But that's the way the Empire works. Silence. Secrecy. Let not the left hand know what the right hand is doing.”

I nodded slowly, still unable to take in what I’d just heard. Why the heck would the Emperor be personally ordering my release? He didn’t concern himself with people like me. Maybe there’d been a mistake, and the guy who was really supposed to be released had been dragged off to a salt mine somewhere.

“Anyway,” Gravius continued, “this package came with news of your arrival.” He handed me a small package. “You are to take it to Caius Cosades, in the town of Balmora. I also have a letter for you, and a disbursal to your name.”

He handed over an official-looking document and an oilskin pouch containing a handful of gold coins – just under a hundred septims’ worth, in my estimation. Suddenly I felt a lot more kindly disposed towards him. I was still thoroughly confused, but I certainly wasn’t about to turn down some desperately-needed cash.

“Right,” I said, pulling myself together. “Just let me write this down… where can I find this Cosades guy, by the way?”

“Take the silt strider to Balmora, then go to the South Wall Cornerclub and ask for Caius Cosades. They'll know where to find him.” He fixed me with a stern glare. “Serve him as you would serve the Emperor himself.”

I nodded and scribbled down the instructions in my journal, wondering what exactly a ‘silt strider’ could be. “Okay, thanks. I’ll do my best.”

“Goodbye,” he said with a faint smile, “and good luck.”

I hesitated for a moment before the door leading out into the village, then pushed it open. Bright sunlight streamed into the room, and I felt a sudden giddy rush of joy. Freedom! OK, so I was alone, friendless and nearly penniless in a foreign country with nowhere to stay and no possessions, but still… freedom! Freeeeeedom!

I looked around me, still struggling to adjust to the bright light after all those months in a dingy cell. Rather to my surprise, the first person I saw was not a Dunmer but a Bosmer – a Wood Elf, as we call them back West. Wood Elves aren’t my favourite people in general, but right now I was so happy to be free that I could almost have hugged him. I settled for a nod and a cheery “Good morning!”

“Greetings, Cyrodiil!” he said, in that high, squeaky voice that grates on your nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Welcome to Seyda Neen! Are you the one the boat dropped off? Hope the Imperials treated you okay. I swear they took my ring.”

“Your ring?” I said, confused.

“I swear one of the Guards has it. I had it last week before their weekly ‘Let's shake down Fargoth’ ritual.” Fargoth, I gathered, was his name. “An engraved healing ring, family heirloom of mine. You haven't seen it, have you?”

“No,” I said. His face fell. “But I could look for it if you like,” I added, yielding to a generous impulse.

“Oh, thank you!” he exclaimed, brightening up. “Of course, you’re an Imperial, they won’t suspect you.”

I wasn’t quite so sure about that, but I turned around and headed back into the office I’d just left. The Captain, still writing at his desk, seemed more than a little surprised to see me back so soon. “Can I help you, citizen?” he asked, with a slight frown.

“Hi there,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I seem to have dropped my, er… comb… somewhere in here. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it, have you?”

He gave me another of those slightly bemused looks. “No, I haven’t seen it.”

“Okay, never mind. I’ll just have a quick look for it, then,” I said, and slipped through the other door before he could ask any more questions.

I returned to the census office where the clerk had taken my details, and had a quick hunt around for Fargoth’s ring. No one interrupted me to ask what I was doing, but it made no difference, as the ring was nowhere to be found. I even checked the cellar downstairs, but all I found were a few barrels of provisions, none of which looked particularly appetising.

Heading back into the courtyard, I was on the point of giving up when I noticed an ordinary-looking barrel standing close to the door. On impulse, I lifted the lid and peered at the contents. It appeared to function as a refuse bin, and was full of rotten food and broken crockery, but I could see something glinting near the bottom.

I reached into the barrel and pulled out… an engraved ring, enchanted with a minor healing spell. Success!

Damn, and it was a nice ring, as well. I could have done with a ring like that, especially in my current situation. I have to admit, I was sorely tempted to keep it for myself and tell Fargoth that I couldn’t find it.

I went back into the office, where the Captain was waiting. “Found it!” I said cheerfully, holding up my comb (which of course I’d had all along). “I’d just dropped it out there in the yard. Anyway, best be going.”

Fargoth greeted me excitedly as I left the office. “Have you looked for my ring, outlander? Did you find it?”

I looked into his eager little face, and I just couldn’t bring myself to lie to him. Besides, whatever else I might have done, I wasn’t a thief. “Yes, I found it,” I said, suppressing a sigh. “Here it is.”

“Oh, thank you!” he gasped, and before I could react he had flung his arms around me. “Thank you, thank you! You are now my favourite friend!”

“Er, no problem,” I said, a little overwhelmed by this display of gratitude. “I’m Ada, by the way.”

“Ada,” he repeated. “I’ll remember that. I’ll be sure to tell everyone, especially my friend Arrille who runs the tradehouse here. Go see him, he’ll be happy to see you now!”

He scampered off, leaving me feeling slightly stunned. Oh well, if he put in a good word for me with the local trader, that couldn’t hurt.

Right, I thought, time to get some food. And before I went anywhere at all, I needed a weapon and some proper armour. Caius Cosades and his packages could wait.

I took the opportunity to observe Seyda Neen more closely as I walked up to the tradehouse. It was a tiny settlement, more a hamlet than a village, set in what appeared to be the middle of a swamp. Apart from the census office, the tradehouse, and another warehouse of some kind, there didn’t appear to be any buildings of interest.

The population was a mixed bag, which I suppose is unsurprising for a port settlement. Besides the Dunmer and Imperial guards, there were several other humans around the place, and I even spotted a High Elf woman emerging from one of the houses. Several Dark Elf citizens nodded to me as I passed, showing none of the hostility that the Morrowind Dunmer were supposedly famous for. “Good day to you, Cyrodiil.”

I was a little surprised to be so quickly recognised as Imperial, as I don’t really look like a typical Cyrodiil. Women of my race tend towards the short, dark and curvy, whereas I’m above average height, with a build that can only be described as ‘wiry’. My skin is pale, with a tendency to burn when I stay out in the sun too long, and my hair a colour that I like to call ‘bright copper’ and everyone else describes as ‘ginger’. Fellow Imperials often ask if I have Nord blood in me – but I guess that to the Dunmer, our distinguishing features must be as obvious as their ash-grey skin and red eyes are to us.

The trader Arrille, another High Elf, looked me over critically as I entered the inn. I felt the back of my neck itch slightly. I’ve always had a slight inferiority complex around Altmer – deliberately or not, they somehow invariably manage to give the impression that they’re looking down on you. (It doesn’t help that they literally are, as most of them stand six inches taller than your average human.)

“Ah, you must be Fargoth’s friend!” he exclaimed, as I approached. “Welcome to Arrille’s Tradehouse. I’m Arille, publican and proprietor. Would you like to hear about our most popular potions, or our most popular scrolls?”

I leaned over the counter. “Do you have any… weapons?”

I bought an iron longsword and shield at a cost of around seventy drakes (the local term for what we call ‘septims’, apparently), regretfully passing over a rather snazzy green robe. Yes, I admit it: I love fine clothes. I wear armour most of the time, but if it didn’t get in the way of fighting, I’d quite happily run around dressed in silks and satins as the mages do. (No need for practical clothing when you can just blast enemies with a fireball spell from twenty feet.)

After that, I bought a map and a cheap meal and headed upstairs to the bar to eat. By this time I was so hungry that I could quite happily have wolfed down three breakfasts at once, but unfortunately I was already getting low on money. I’d have to make some more somehow or I’d end up being stuck in this place for ever.

The dark-skinned woman behind the bar gave me a friendly smile, which I returned. I rather like Redguards; they’re skilled fighters and they know how to have a good time, with none of the snottiness of elves or Bretons. (So do Nords, come to that – just make sure you never try to outdrink one.)

“Hello there,” she said, as I sat down at the bar with my plate of food. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Elone the Scout. If you need any directions, just ask.”

“Thanks.” We shook hands. “I’m Ada Ventura, of Imperial City. Maybe you could tell me how to get to Balmora?”

She wrote down some directions and marked various places of interest on my map, while I settled down to my meal of bread and crab meat. Seyda Neen was on the south-west coast of Vvardenfell, the large island that made up the bulk of northern Morrowind. Balmora was a medium-sized town to the north, though apparently quite a long walk away. “You’d be better off taking the silt strider,” she advised me.

“This may sound like a stupid question,” I said, “but… what exactly is a silt strider?”

She grinned. “Silt striders are giant insects. A compartment for passengers and cargo is hollowed from the shell, and the driver directs it by manipulating exposed organs and tissues. Pretty clever, don’t you think?”

Wow. Back in Cyrodiil, we just use horses.

“So what brings you to Morrowind, Ada?” she asked eventually. “We don’t see a lot of Imperial tourists here.”

“I’m not a tourist.”

“Business, then?” She looked surprised; it was clear from my outfit that I wasn’t wealthy.

“No.” I lowered my voice. “As a matter of fact, I… was just released from prison.”

Elone’s eyes widened. “Really? What did – ” She checked herself quickly. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“No, that’s OK.” I felt a sudden urge to confide in someone, anyone. “You see, it was like this…”

*****

If I had only listened to my parents, none of this would ever have happened. Not my real parents, of course – I never knew my birth family, as they were kind enough to dump me in a basket outside the Temple of the One on the day I was born. To this day I have no idea who they were, or why they abandoned me. Supposedly I’d been wrapped in good linen, which suggested that they were well-off, but other than that there was nothing I could use to identify them.

I was taken in by a kindly local couple, Marcus and Sybilla Ventura, who raised me as their own child for eighteen years (though I called them ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle’). I won’t pretend they weren’t good to me; they brought me up well, bought me fine clothes and jewellery to wear, and pretended for as long as they could that I was going to turn out a beauty. The only thing they asked for in return was a dutiful daughter – which I unfortunately wasn’t.

It wasn’t that they were blinkered enough to deny me a trade, but their idea of a suitable trade didn’t exactly mesh with mine. They’d have preferred me to marry some rich merchant and settle down to the normal Imperial pursuits, namely: making money, making more money, hoarding it all up into a nice little pile, and then using it to make even more money. But I had other ideas: from the day I first visited the Arena, at the tender age of eight, I had known that I wanted to be a fighter. It was to lead to many, many bitter arguments between me and my family.

“I wouldn’t have minded the Legion,” Aunt Sybilla had sniffled, after one of these fights. “At least that’s a respectable profession. But what kind of trade is ‘wandering adventurer’? Messing around in horrible dirty caves and brawling in low taverns.”

I’d laughed at the time, but it was one of those ‘low taverns’ that had done for me in the end. I’d only stopped there for the night on my way to a job in Cheydinhal, near the border with Morrowind. The mead there was cheap, but powerful – the kind that doubles your strength at the expense of shutting down half your brain cells – and, fatally, I’d ended up drinking a few glasses too many.

It was all his fault, really. He shouldn’t have tried to cop a feel, and he certainly shouldn’t have called me that name when I shoved him away and told him to get lost. Besides, he was twice my size; how could I have guessed that my first punch would knock him out, or that he’d smash his head against the stone fireplace as he fell? I really, really didn’t mean to kill him.

There were plenty of witnesses to testify that it had been an accident – I’d even drunkenly tried to use a healing potion on him as he died – and I might have got away with a lighter sentence, had it not been for the guy’s family. He turned out to be the son of a noble family, one of those spoiled brats who like to show how ‘hard’ they are by visiting rough taverns and slumming it with the locals. His parents were hell-bent on charging me with murder, and they’d demanded blood money of five thousand septims – far more than I could possibly afford. I was far too ashamed to ask my adoptive family for help, and in any case, I’d hardly spoken to them since I left home nearly four years earlier.

So I went to prison, just under a month before my twenty-second birthday, with no clear prospect of release and my career (such as it was) in ruins. I’d been there ever since, rotting in a cell, only half a mile away from the fashionable district where I’d grown up.

*****

I didn’t give Elone the whole sob story, of course. I just told her that I’d been imprisoned for murder after accidentally killing a guy in a fight. She seemed sympathetic.

“Well, time to make a fresh start, huh?” she suggested. “Wipe the slate clean. Make a new life for yourself here in Morrowind.”

“Hmph.” I wasn’t too sure about that.

I finished off my meal, while Elone filled me in on the latest gossip. Apparently the local tax collector, Processus Vitellius, had gone missing. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said with a wink. “He wasn’t very popular around here.”

I wondered if there had ever been a tax collector in the entire history of the world who was actually popular with the locals. If so, he had to be some kind of saint.

As I left the bar, I was accosted by an off-duty Legionnaire at the top of the stairs. He was a typical Nord, big and beefy, with braided flaxen hair and a heavy beard. “Ho there, outlander!” His voice was slightly slurred, and I could smell alcohol on his breath – not a good sign at this time in the morning.

“Yes?” I said warily, keeping my hand on the hilt of my sword.

He leaned towards me. “You look like you could use a friend. Perhaps I could be your friend… if you help me recover some gold.”

“Go on.”

“You see, I’ve had a run of bad luck,” he confessed. “Lost a bit of money playing Nine-holes. Normally, I’d be fine, what with the money the locals pay us for… protection, but – ”

“Protection,” I said drily. “Right.”

“But I know some of them are holding out on me,” he went on. “That little fetcher Fargoth, for example. He’s come up light the last few times I’ve shaken him down. And I’ve been through his whole house, so I know it’s not there.”

I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Fargoth. The Bosmer are basically the racial equivalent of those scrawny kids who keep getting beaten up for their lunch money.

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked.

He motioned for me to come closer, and spoke in a low voice. “Find out where he’s stashing his gold. If you do it for me, I’ll give you a share of the wealth. You up for it?”

I was about to tell him to go and do his own dirty work, when I suddenly remembered how very short of money I was. I had only around fifteen septims left, which would barely be enough to pay for the silt strider, let alone any more meals (and food was pretty high on my list of priorities right now). Maybe this was not the best time to be a stickler for high moral principles.

“Maybe,” I mumbled. “So how would we share this wealth, exactly?”

He sighed. “I’ll give you a third of the gold, and you can keep any other loot you find. Deal?”

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just wait until nightfall and then watch where he goes. The top of the lighthouse is a good vantage point – gives you a nice view of all Seyda Neen. Figure out where he goes and then bring the loot back to me, okay?”

It wasn’t really stealing, I told myself as I left the tradehouse. This was a Legion soldier, after all. No doubt he was collecting that money for entirely legitimate purposes of… protection. Absolutely.

Anyway, once I had some more money, it would be time to start figuring out a way to get home. Okay, so Morrowind might not be quite as bad as I had expected – but whatever Elone said, there was no way I would consider actually living here for any length of time. I was a Cyrodiil born and bred, and I belonged there.

I knew that my Uncle Marcus, a silk merchant, traded goods through the East Empire Company in the port of Ebonheart. Maybe I could find a ship there that would take me to the mainland? It would be expensive, no doubt, but perhaps I could find someone who knew my uncle – or perhaps even stow away on board a ship. There had to be some way out of this place.

I definitely did not plan to stay in Morrowind.

[Helena]

Chapter 5: It’s Off To Work We Go

I wasn’t in the best of moods as I set off from Balmora, following the directions I’d been given to Arkngt… okay, I wasn’t even going to try to pronounce that name. I was still a bit pissed off that Hasphat expected me to fetch him this Dwemer box thing, which he was apparently too lazy to get for himself, in return for telling me a few stupid Dunmer legends. Since he hadn’t gone himself yet, presumably that meant the place was infested with bandits or spiders or huge mutated bunny-rabbits or something. Still, at least it meant I’d get in some sword practice.

The weather was bright and sunny, but not too hot – one of the few things about Morrowind that I actually preferred to my home country. Summer was drawing to a close, but in Cyrodiil it would still be baking hot this time of year. I remembered the long hours I’d spent in my stuffy jail cell, longing for fresh air, and then longing for shade whenever they let us out to work or exercise.

As I crossed the last of a long series of bridges over the Odai river, I saw a large stone building looming up in the distance – Fort Moonmoth, the local headquarters of the Imperial Legion. It was built in the classic Imperial style, and looked weirdly out of place in the alien surroundings; a little piece of Cyrodiil here in Morrowind. I paused to look at it for a few seconds, and felt a brief pang of homesickness.

The road leading north sloped gently upwards. I followed it until I came to a sign pointing towards ‘Molag Mar’; then, as I’d been instructed, turned onto a dirt track leading north-east. I had to admit that I was a little curious now to see this Dwemer ruin – I vaguely remembered hearing that they constructed entire fortresses out of iron and steel. Though I could have been mistaken, as I’d never really paid that much attention to my history tutors.

“The Dwarves were a fascinating people, Ada,” they would tell me. “Amazing scholars and craftsmen. They weren’t really dwarves, of course, just another Elven race – they only got that name because…”

“Quite,” I would agree, while my mind drifted off to happy thoughts of ancient Ayleid ruins and treasure chests and shiny, shiny swords.

My first glimpse of real-life Dwemer architecture came in the form of a bridge over a wide canyon, edged with thick metal pipes. Coming closer, I could see that they were indeed made of iron – amazing that it hadn’t rusted away completely after all these years. There was some kind of writing carved into the railings, but as it was all in Dwemeris I had no idea what it meant. For all I knew it was saying, “Caution: Serious structural faults have been found in this bridge. Cross at your own risk.”

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted something in the distance, at the other end of the bridge: a male human standing beside a pile of crates. I froze. Friend, or foe?

I got my answer a few seconds later when he spotted me – and began running towards me with a distinctly non-friendly gait. I drew my sword quickly and shifted into a fighting stance, only for him suddenly stop about twenty feet away and cast a summoning spell. Oh crap, a mage! I wasn’t prepared for this!

Slightly panicked, I backed away a few steps as the bonewalker summoned by the mage headed straight for me. A blast of shock magicka struck the ground right by my feet, and I leapt aside, trying to get closer to the guy without getting hit by a spell. I knew from experience that it was best just to ignore the bonewalker; it would disappear when the caster died, and if I killed it he’d just summon another one.

The next blast of magicka hit me dead on, and for a second I felt as if I was being roasted alive. Honestly, you haven’t experienced true agony until you’ve been hit by a shock bolt. I gasped in pain and stumbled to the side, just as the bonewalker’s axe slashed down on the spot where my head had been half a second ago.

One chance. I knocked the bonewalker back with my shield, then raised my arm and gasped out a fire spell as my opponent prepared to cast another shock bolt. Amazingly, it worked. This time it was the mage’s turn to roar in pain as I rushed straight at him and smashed the flat of my sword down on his head. I spun round, just about managed to parry another blow from the bonewalker, then summoned all my strength to deal the caster a final vicious blow.

The mage toppled and fell. The bonewalker vanished. I lowered my sword and stepped backwards, gasping for breath.

What was a bloody battlemage doing out here in the middle of nowhere? I groped in my pack for a healing potion and swigged it down, grimacing as I felt the burning sensation gradually fade away. Talos, I had to pick up some kind of magickguard spell before my next mission.

I searched the man’s body – he was a Cyrodiil, from the looks of him – but didn’t find anything to indicate why he’d been standing in the middle of a bridge waiting to attack hapless travellers. He didn’t look like a mage, I thought resentfully, observing his simple clothing and heavy iron cuirass. There ought to be some kind of rule.

I scanned the horizon carefully while crossing the bridge, wary of further attacks. The place seemed deserted, but the winding path up ahead looked like the perfect place for an ambush. The place was almost eerily silent; the only sound to be heard was the piercing shriek of birds in the distance, which didn’t exactly reassure me.

Still, no further assailants appeared as I made my way up the steep track towards Arkngthand. The fortress wasn’t what I had expected; at first sight it appeared to be built into the rocky hill, as if it had been swallowed up by a landslide. Only a few strangely-shaped towers poking out of the ground suggested that this was a building, as opposed to a cave. Where the door ought to have been was just a hemispherical bulge, like half of a giant stone ball.

Approaching the ‘door’, I could see a long, thin crack in the stone surface – clearly the two halves of the sphere could be slid apart if you knew how. I poked at it and tried to slide the blade of my sword into the gap, but absolutely nothing happened. Sighing, I turned around to look for clues, wishing I had done some research on Dwemer architecture before coming up here.

A little way down the hill was another of those metal pipes with Dwemer writing on it, and looking closely I could see some kind of crank handle attached to the pipe. With nothing to lose, I turned the handle, and heard the creaking of machinery in the distance. The two halves of the stone sphere slid apart and around, revealing a small circular platform.

As I stood and watched for a few seconds, the sphere closed up again. I turned the handle once more and ran towards the platform, cursing the Dwemer for their bizarre architectural quirks. What was the point of a door like that?

The outer doors closed up behind me to reveal another door, this one made of metal and covered with lettering and images. It swung open at my first touch, and I entered the fortress.

I found myself at the top of a massive underground cavern, with a stone ramp leading down and around the walls to the ground far below. Most of the light came from torches, a clear sign that the place was inhabited, but the lamp above the door I’d just come through was the strangest I’d ever seen. It was a kind of glass tube bracketed to the wall, and inside it was some kind of glowing… thread? Wire? It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen in the Ayleid ruins in Cyrodiil.

I took a few cautious steps onto the next section of ramp and felt it shift slightly, producing a loud whirring noise. Instantly I heard shouts from down below and saw a couple of men – both human, by the look of them – draw their daggers. I watched in astonishment as they ran out from cover and up the ramp towards me, possibly the stupidest move I had seen in my entire career as a fighter. Clearly they were either very inexperienced or extremely dumb.

This time I was ready for them, and fighting them off was ludicrously easy. I simply knocked the first one back with my sword as he approached, sending him skitting into the second man just behind him. After that it was an easy matter to deal with them before they could even begin to untangle themselves.

I made my way down to the ground below, then up another ramp onto a platform made of studded metal. Somewhere further into the fortress I could hear loud creaking sounds, apparently from some kind of machinery. How could it possibly still be working after so many centuries, millennia even? There had to be some type of magic involved.

This part of the cavern seemed to be used as a home base by the inhabitants, but the only furniture of note was an old cabinet. I searched through the drawers and bottom cupboard, but found them frustratingly empty of Dwemer puzzle boxes. What I did find was a couple of very ancient-looking coins, probably of Dwemer origin, and a rusty metal cog. I decided to take the coins with me – if they were ancient and rare, they might well be worth quite a bit.

At the left side of the room was a round iron door with another of those strange lamps above it. I put my ear to it and listened for sounds of life, but couldn’t hear anything over the groaning of the Dwemer machinery. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

The first thing I saw on entering the room beyond was a large and mean-looking man wearing a rusty cuirass. “What the…?” he began, then his eyes fell on my blood-covered sword and he seized up a heavy axe lying beside him.

There are times when it’s actually an advantage to be smaller, lighter and more agile than your opponent. As the man rushed at me I froze in mock terror, then leapt to the side just as he swung the axe. It crashed into the wall just inches from my head, and I darted out and around him before he could raise it for another blow, skewering him through the chest from behind.

“If you’d just stopped to talk, maybe we could have sorted this out peacefully,” I snarled as he collapsed to his knees, groaning.

This chamber was small, low-roofed and filled with old crates and rickety-looking shelves. A hiss of steam escaped from a crack in the pipe that ran through the centre of the room. The creaking sounds were a lot louder here, to the point where I could hardly hear myself think. Luckily I spotted what I was looking for almost immediately – a small cube, engraved with glowing runes, just sitting there on one of the shelves.

There was nothing else of interest in the room apart from a few more of those Dwemer coins. I briefly considered exploring the rest of the fortress, but as I wasn’t being paid to cleanse it of bandits or outlaws or whoever these idiots were, I decided not to bother. Despite what you might think, I don’t actually enjoy killing people – even in the Fighters’ Guild, most jobs involve things like escort duty rather than actual fighting. (Doesn’t stop snotty mage-types from portraying us as bloodthirsty thugs, of course.)

By the time I got back to Fort Moonmoth, it was well past noon and I was very hungry. I wondered if I might be able to get some supplies at the Fort; it couldn’t hurt to try, at least.

The soldiers patrolling the courtyard nodded to me as I passed, and a few of them greeted me as an ‘Imperial sister’. The inside of the fort was instantly recognisable to any Cyrodiil, with its typically Imperial construction and wall hangings showing the dragon, the symbol of the Empire. It felt almost like home.

Some traders had set up stalls in the main hall. I approached a Nord wearing Templar armour, who seemed to be in charge of the fort, and asked whether he knew of anyone who might be willing to buy Dwemer coins from me. “I found them in the Dwemer ruins up on the hill,” I explained. “I’m sure they must be worth quite a bit.”

He gave me an odd look. “They certainly are,” he said slowly, “if you don’t mind being arrested for smuggling. Don’t you know that trading in Dwemer artefacts is illegal?”

“What?!”

“Figured you hadn’t heard.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Trying to sell contraband Dwemer artefacts in an Imperial fortress? Well, I never.”

Burning with embarrassment, I deposited my haul of coins with the much-amused guard and went off to search for food. I approached an Imperial trader selling a variety of goods, and immediately wished I hadn’t when he greeted me with, “Welcome! May I tell you about the Imperial Cult?”

“Actually I’m a member of the Temple,” I said hurriedly, glad to have a real excuse for once. (In Cyrodiil I’d have responded with, “No, I worship Malacath,” or “I serve the Night Mother. Praise the Unholy Matron!”)

He looked shocked. “But you are Imperial! You follow the Nine, surely?”

“Well, yeeesss,” I admitted. “I do pray to them now and again. But – ”

“Then why should you not join the Cult as well?”

I stared at him. “You can join both? Isn’t that kind of… cheating?”

“The Nine will not judge you for it,” he said calmly. Actually, that was probably true; the Nine are almost ridiculously liberal by divine standards. If you’re a Daedra-worshipper and betray your patron god, heaven help you.

“Uh… maybe some other time,” I said, not keen on joining yet another faction who’d expect me to perform tasks for them. The man’s demeanour grew noticeably colder, and I’m positive he decided to raise his prices right then and there. Still, I wasn’t buying much, so it didn’t matter.

I ate my food in the courtyard and then set off for Balmora, now very much in need of a rest and even more in need of a bath. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone can stand actually living in a place like Arkngthand. I’d make the worst bandit ever; after a week or two I’d be so fed up of the living conditions that I’d probably turn myself in out of sheer desperation.

“Here we are, Hasphat” I announced as I returned to the basement of the Fighters’ Guild. “Your Dwemer puzzle box.”

He put a finger to his lips. “Not so loud, my friend. Don’t you know it’s illegal to trade in Dwemer artefacts?”

“I do now,” I said. “I tried to sell some at Fort Moonmoth. I wish you’d told me that a little earlier.”

Hasphat ignored me, too busy examining the box. “Hmm… the inscriptions on the box seem to be the directions for setting a Dwemer key to open a specific lock. If you’re interested, after you’ve delivered your report to Caius, come back, and maybe I’ll have a key you can take back to Arkngthand.”

Why the heck he thought I would want to go back to Arkngthand was beyond me. “Okay… thanks. Er, can I have the report now?”

“Here are the notes for Caius. And I’ve given you some Sixth House references he should read.” He handed me a sheet of paper with a list of books, above which was a single paragraph:

House Dagoth is an extinct Great House. In the wake of the ancient Battle of Red Mountain, its leadership was revealed to have plotted treason, and was discredited. Many of House Dagoth died defending the House; those survivors who were faithful to the Great Council were redistributed among the other houses. The Temple says the ancient, legendary evil beings that dwell beneath Red Mountain in the Dagoth Ur region are the original leaders of this extinct house, sustained by some powerful, evil sorceries.

I flung down the paper in disbelief. “Four lines? That’s all? I could have got all that just from reading a history book!”

“Then I suggest you do so,” he said with a wink. “Try the bookseller Dorisa Darvel in the Commercial District.”

I glowered wordlessly at him, unable to believe that I’d trekked all the way out to Arkngthand when I could have just walked down the road to the bookseller’s. “You b**tard. All right, what about the Sixth House Cult?”

“I’ve heard something about a cult worshipping Dagoth Ur,” he said. “That’s the leader of the extinct House Dagoth. They plan to overthrow the Temple and drive the Empire from Morrowind… and I've heard they also smuggle goods, or hire smugglers, or something like that.”

I wrote all this down. “And the Nev… uh, Nerevarine?”

“Well, Nerevar was the general who led the other Great Houses in battle against the Dwemer. The Ashlanders – the native tribes of Vvardenfell – believe that a reborn Nerevar, the ‘Nerevarine’, will unite the Dunmer against the outlander invaders. But the Temple denies the prophecy, and persecutes those who believe in it.”

“So do you know anything about this Nerevarine cult?”

He shook his head. “Not a lot. Tell Caius that Sharn gra-Muzgob would be a better person to ask.”

My ears pricked up; that name sounded Orcish. “All right,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thanks, Hasphat.” For nothing. Honestly, I doubted he’d told me anything that wasn’t fairly common knowledge.

I took Hasphat’s notes along with the ones I’d written myself, and returned to Caius Cosades. I did not visit the bookseller first; there was no way I was going to buy all those books for Caius. If he wanted them, he could damn well get them himself.

“Here are your notes,” I told him, handing them over. “They’re a bit… brief.”

He glanced at the papers and nodded, his expression unreadable. “Very well. Thank you, Ada.”

“There’s one thing I don’t get,” I said slowly. “If this ‘Dagoth Ur’ betrayed Morrowind to foreign invaders… why would he be worshipped by people who want to drive out foreign invaders?”

“A good question,” he acknowledged. “I think we may need to investigate this further. But right now we need more information about the Nerevarine cult.”

“Hasphat mentioned Sharn gra-Muzgob.”

He nodded. “Ah yes, you’ll find her at the Mages Guild. Very smart… for an Orc. She’s always worried that the Temple will bust in and stick her in a fire, and with good reason.”

“Why?” I asked, astonished. “Do they hate Orcs so much?”

“No. Well, yes, but no more than they hate most other outlanders.” He shook his head. “But Sharn has a somewhat unhealthy interest in… well, you’ll see.”

Now that he’d mentioned it, I did remember seeing a female Orc wandering around the Mages’ Guild. She stuck out like a sore thumb in a place dominated by Elves, Bretons and Argonians. I had to confess to being a little surprised to see her there; the Orcs aren’t exactly known for their love of scholarship. Still, nice to see someone defying the stereotype.

After dinner and a bath, I went to the Mages’ Guild to see if I could catch a few minutes with Sharn. She was in a secluded area of the Guild, filled with bookcases and alchemical equipment, but she looked very busy. I decided to buy some spells first and come back to her later.

“Do you have any magick shield spells? I asked Estirdalin, a haughty-looking Altmer (honestly, the phrase ‘haughty-looking Altmer’ is a bit redundant).

She shook her head. “Try Marayn Dren; he handles Alteration.”

Marayn Dren, a Dunmer mage, was a bit more helpful. “Yes, I have shield spells. Would you like to guard against fire, frost, shock, poison or other magickal attacks?”

“Um… all those things?”

He shook his head. “Only one type of shield can be cast at a time. You could enchant an item with all those effects, but it would be expensive.”

Gods, why did they have to make everything so complicated? This is why I’ve always hated magic so much. Why can’t anyone come up with a simple all-in-one magickguard spell, as opposed to five separate ones? Why do I have to learn one spell to cure myself of a common disease, but a different spell to cure someone else of exactly the same disease? And come to that, why do they have to give all of them stupid names like ‘So-and-so’s Gift’, rather than something descriptive like ‘Thirty-second Light spell’ or ‘Summon Useless Daedra’?

I decided to forget about shield spells for the moment, and instead purchased a spell called ‘Ondusi’s Open Door’ which Dren assured me would open around half of all locks. That was, if I could ever manage to cast it in the first place. (Let’s just say that Alteration was never my strongest subject.)

Afterwards I went back to Sharn, hoping she might have time to speak to me. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem too pleased to see me: no sooner had I begun to speak than she broke in with: “I cannot think with all these interruptions! Please leave me alone!”

“Look, I’m sorry to bother you but it’s quite important,” I said testily, my own patience wearing thin by this point. “Caius Cosades sent me here to ask you some questions.”

Instantly her expression changed. “Oh, you’re one of Caius’s associates? Well, why didn’t you say so? That is a different matter, of course.”

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “I need you to tell me about the Nerevarine cult.”

“Well, I’m sure we can come to an… arrangement,” she said. “But first I need you to do an errand for me. Bring me the skull of Llevule Andrano from the Andrano ancestral tomb.”

“Oh, not you as well!” I threw up my hands in disgust. “What am I, a bloody courier service? What’s so special about this Llevule Andrano, anyway?”

She shrugged. “He was no one special. A journeyman enchanter. But I need his skull for my… research.”

I shot her a suspicious glance. “You’re not a necromancer, are you?”

“No!” she retorted, rather too quickly and vehemently. “I told you, I simply need it for research purposes.”

“Research into… necromancy?”

“NO!” She glared at me. “And don’t say that so loud! Just go and bring me the skull, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Great. Spying, extortion and now grave-robbing. By the time I got out of Morrowind, I’d probably have progressed to drowning kittens and stealing money from charity-boxes.

“Oh, all right, if you insist.” I heaved a sigh. “But you’ll have to wait a while. I have important business for… House Hlaalu.” I didn’t, but I soon would.

“Well, take this old sword,” she said, handing me a shortsword with a fire enchantment on it. “Some of those ghosts are immune to normal weapons. And these scrolls might come in handy… here, let me write you down some directions. Good luck now.”

I stored all my gear in a chest in the Fighters’ Guild and went to the Council hall, which luckily was still open. “Ah, you’re back!” Nileno Dorvayn exclaimed, the minute she saw me. “Are you here about business? Because I have the perfect task for you: Guar hides!”

“Guar hides?” I wasn’t even sure what a guar was.

“That’s right,” she said briskly. “House Redoran sells more guar hides than House Hlaalu. Someone needs to convince the alchemists in Vivec to buy only imported Hlaalu hides.”

I stared blankly at her. “But… I don’t know anything about guar hides.”

“Then make something up,” she snapped. “You’re an Imperial, aren’t you? Flattery and deceit ought to come to you as easily as breathing.”

I decided to ignore this disgraceful slur against my race (not least because it’s largely true) and just focus on the payoff. “Okay, I’ll try,” I said, suppressing a sigh. “Which alchemists, anyway? I can’t go back to Aurane Frernis – I told her I was a Redoran.”

She sighed, in a ‘do I have to explain everything’ kind of way. “Well, we’ll start with Rolasa Oren. Go to Vivec and convince her to buy imported House Hlaalu guar hides instead of local House Redoran hides.”

“But surely imported ones will be more expensive?”

“Of course,” she said, shrugging. “You will just have to be very persuasive.”

I’d had a long day, and at this moment I was sorely tempted to tell her exactly where she could stick her stupid guar hides. It was a good thing these people were paying me well, I can tell you that.

It was getting fairly late by the time I left the manor, so I stopped by the Eight Plates tavern for dinner. Following that, I went over to the Mages’ Guild and badgered one of the alchemists into telling me everything she knew about guar hides. By the end of the evening I knew far more about the bloody things than I or anyone else could possibly want, and I still wasn’t particularly confident in my ability to convince Rolasa Oren.

It was too late to do anything else that night, so I’d have to leave this particular piece of ‘business’ for the next morning. Not that I was exactly looking forward to it in any case.

I slept at the Fighters’ Guild again that night, and had a very strange dream. I was in some kind of graveyard or cemetery, surrounded by dead bodies, and following a man dressed only in a golden mask and a loincloth (I really didn’t want to think what sort of issues my subconscious was throwing up here). The strangest thing was that he was speaking and laughing with each figure as he passed, though they (obviously) weren’t replying. I tried to cry out, but found myself unable to speak, and I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat.

“Off to Vivec again?” enquired Masalinie Merian when I turned up once again at the Mages’ Guild. “What in the world are you doing there?”

“You don’t want to know,” I mumbled.

Over in Vivec I located the alchemist Rolasa Oren, who had a stall in the upper waistworks of the Foreign Quarter, and spent nearly half an hour explaining why imported House Hlaalu guar hides were superior to local (and less expensive) House Redoran hides. Of course, I had no idea whether this was true or not; I’d made the whole thing up based on the notes I’d taken at the Mages’ Guild. Rolasa was understandably skeptical, and I’m pretty sure she finally agreed just so that I would shut up and go away.

The whole thing left me feeling faintly disgusted with myself, just like the other missions I’d done for House Hlaalu. Imperial or not, I simply didn’t have any taste or aptitude for this kind of wheeling and dealing. I’d become a fighter to get away from that kind of thing.

I have to admit, though, that my principled objections wobbled a bit when I found out just how much Nileno was paying me. “A thousand septims?”

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. “Think of it as a small share of House Hlaalu’s future profits.”

I could only shake my head in wonderment. In the Guild I’d have been lucky to make that much in a month, let alone a single job. I couldn’t just walk around carrying that kind of money; I’d have to open a bank account or something.

“Tell me, Nileno,” I said carefully. “Are all the Houses quite as… ruthless… in business as Hlaalu?”

She sighed. “The Redorans are honourable and fair in their dealings with other Houses, but they have no business sense. Those of us in House Hlaalu understand the power of wealth, and do not ponder morality day after day.” Well, that I could certainly believe. “Speaking of which, how would you like to undertake another mission to Ald’ruhn?”

“Uh, maybe,” I said warily. “What is it this time?”

“A very simple matter.” She took a sealed scroll from her bag. “I need you to deliver new orders to Bivale Teneran, the clothing merchant under Skar. She keeps an eye out for us in Ald’ruhn.”

Ah, more secret-agent stuff. Well, delivering orders wasn’t too bad – I just hoped they hadn’t put out an alert for someone fitting my description after my last visit to Ald’ruhn.

I took the scroll and was about to leave, when a thought struck me. “By the way, Nileno, could you tell me something? What is a guar, exactly?”

She stared at me in amazement for a few seconds, then suddenly burst out laughing. “You don’t know?” You managed to persuade Rolasa Oren to buy our guar hides, and you don’t even know what a guar is?”

“I know what a guar hide is,” I said, shrugging. “I know all about guar hides. But no one ever bothered to explain what a guar was.”

Nileno was still chortling. “A guar is a herd animal kept by farmers,” she said at last, when she had calmed down enough to speak. “A little like your cows or sheep, perhaps.” She shook her head. “Well, Ada, I congratulate you. You will go far in House Hlaalu.”

Hmph. Right now, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to.