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 7: Indecent Exposure

I took the Guild guide to Caldera the next morning. Like Pelagiad, it was a newly-chartered settlement built in the Imperial style. The town was set in a region called the West Gash, which was somewhere between Ald’ruhn and the southern regions in terms of landscape: not as dry and dusty as the Ashlands, but not as green and leafy as the Ascadian Isles.

As I was walking out to the mines, something very strange occurred. I spotted a figure up ahead, by a crossroads, who looked for all the world like he wasn’t wearing any clothes. As I drew closer I realised that the figure was a male Nord, and that he was, indeed, stark naked.

Now, I’d met a few Nords in my time whom I wouldn’t have minded seeing naked. In fact, there were one or two whom I had seen naked, and been very happy about it (just don’t tell my parents). This guy was not one of them. He was middle-aged, hairy, and possessed of numerous colourful tattoos which did not enhance his beauty.

He called out to me as I approached, not seeming at all embarrassed. “Hail and well met, stranger! As ye can plainly see, I require some assistance, if ye be kind enough to grant it.”

From his heavy accent and dialect I guessed him to be a native of Skyrim, rather than Cyrodiil or some other part of the Empire. “Here, take this,” I murmured, handing him one of my spare shirts from my pack while trying not to look at his groin area. “No, don’t try to wear it – it’s much too small. Just … wrap it around yourself or something.”

“Thank ye,” he said agreeably, tying the shirt around his mid-section. I wouldn’t be asking for that one back. “Now, I need help finding the festering witch who has robbed me blind and left me for dead.”

“A witch?”

He nodded. “A witch she had to be. I was on my way to Caldera when I met her. She was a stranger here like myself, and she was quite friendly, and, well, y’know, we set up camp together.”

“Yes, I get the idea…”

“But that night,” he went on, “she revealed the witch inside. Cast a spell on me. I couldn't so much as blink! Stole everything, even me worn out clothes, but most importantly, she took my prized axe Cloudcleaver!” He clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Join with me, stranger! And let’s find her and extract her entrails together!”

I looked at him in exasperation. “But I’m here on a job! Oh, all right,” I sighed reluctantly, seeing the anguished look on his face. “But you’ll have to wait until I finish my mission for the Fighters’ Guild.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I knew you had the bloodlust in you, stranger! Just… try to hurry up, will ye? It’s a bit chilly today.”

I eventually found the Telvanni agents holed up in a cave not far from the mines. Not being trained fighters, they didn’t pose much of a challenge, and the fight was nasty but short. No doubt the Thieves’ Guild would be pissed off with me if they found out what had happened, but if they were hiring themselves out to the Telvanni as saboteurs, they had only themselves to blame.

Afterwards I rejoined my Nord friend, whose name turned out to be Hlormar. “Onward, friend!” he cried. “We must find this witch before she moves again. I can feel Cloudcleaver calling out to me to rescue it from the clutches of evil!”

We set off down a path leading north-west, which was the way Hlormar thought the witch had gone. After walking for some time, I spotted a robed woman off in the distance. Hlormar let out a roar. “That’s her! That’s the witch!”

We ran off in pursuit of the woman, who turned and stared at the sound of Hlormar’s angry voice. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Excuse me!” I panted, somewhat out of breath. “My friend Hlormar here claims that you stole his axe.”

She let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! A right funny story that one is! Tell me, did he inform you that his name is actually ‘Hlormar Wine-Sot’?”

“Oh?”

“The true story,” she explained, “is that I took Hlormar on as a travelling companion for protection. Along the way he was getting entirely too friendly for his own good, so I had to cast a sleep spell on him. Just to teach him a lesson in manners, I stripped him and left him by the road.” Her lips curled slightly. “And to be sure he didn't come after me for retribution, I took that Cloudcleaver he's always fawning over as well.”

This drew a cry of rage from Hlormar. “Lying witch! Are you going to help me, friend, or are you believing the lies spilling out of that witch's face?”

I looked from one to the other, and threw up my hands in despair. “Sort it out for yourselves! I’m not getting involved.” I walked off, leaving them yelling at each other. Sheesh!

Since I was already part-way there, I decided to walk the rest of the way to Ald’ruhn. Unfortunately I had rather misjudged the distance, and it ended up taking a lot longer than I had expected. If I hadn’t had the sense to bring food and water with me, I don’t know what kind of state I’d have been in by the time I reached the city.

Coming into the Ashlands region, I rounded a corner and stopped short, struck by a powerful sense of what the Bretons call déjà vu. There in the middle of the road, a short way ahead, stood yet another axe-wielding Nord man – tall, hefty, bearded, and completely naked. Actually, I tell a lie: this one wasn’t completely naked. He wore leather boots, gauntlets, and some kind of fur helmet.

I blinked a couple of times, wondering whether I really was going mad. Had I been starved of male companionship for so long that I was starting to hallucinate naked men everywhere I went? If so, you’d have thought they’d be a little more attractive.

As I walked up to the man, I could see that he was looking extremely angry. “You!” he roared. “You will speak with me now, or you shall feel the bite of my axe!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah, OK. You might want to put some clothes on first.”

“Grrrrrrr.” The Nord ground his teeth. “When this enchantment wears off, Hisin Deep-Raed will shed some blood!”

“Enchantment?” I clasped my hand to my forehead. “Don’t tell me. You ran into a witch, right?”

“That I did,” he admitted, calming down slightly. “That foul witch has given me some enchanted disease, leaving me rooted to this spot! She called it Witchwither.”

I couldn’t suppress a choke of laughter. “Well, with a name like that, I guess it could have been worse…”

“Foul temptress!” he snarled. For a moment I thought he was addressing me; then I realised he meant the witch. “I had been her escort; she was a big woman, friendly... you know. Then the damned witch ensorcelled me – leaving me at this spot, nearly naked, to display my shame to the world!”

“Okay, calm down,” I said, fighting a powerful urge to giggle. “Let’s see what we can do about this. You say she gave you some kind of disease?”

He nodded. “Well, I’m not much of a spellcaster,” I went on, “but I might have a Cure Disease potion here somewhere. Just let me take a look.” I managed to resist the temptation to ask him exactly how he had contracted the disease; that would have been a little too cruel.

Hisin looked gratified, and a little surprised. “You have honour, stranger,” he acknowledged. “I am a man of standing among my people. My father and my father’s father, and his father before him, have had songs sung of their deeds, and I shall be no different! Treat me fairly, and I will reward you.”

Once again I found myself struggling not to giggle. “Well… let’s hope this particular deed doesn’t end up in the songbooks, hmm?”

I managed to find a Cure Common Disease potion in my pack; it was one of the ones I’d purchased from Aurane Frernis in Vivec. I had to hold it to Hisin’s lips for him to drink, as he was completely unable to move. As he gulped it down, I saw the rigid muscles in his arms and chest relax slightly.

“Yes, yes!” he cried. “I’m free of this enchantment! Hisin Deep-Raed calls you friend, er…”

“Ada.”

He removed the fur helmet from his head. “Take this, my family’s helm, Icecap. It was worn by my father, and his father, and his father before – ”

“Yes, I get the picture,” I interrupted hastily. The helmet stank of sweat and unwashed barbarian, but I could see the faint glow that indicated an enchantment. “Is that a Resist Frost enchantment on it?”

He nodded. “It will protect you from the coldest of nights. Wear it with honour. And now, I must go kill that witch!”

I caught him by the arm as he was about to run off. “Um, Hisin?” I held out another of my shirts to him. “Perhaps you’d like to, er, cover yourself a bit first?”

Hisin’s face turned several shades redder. He snatched the shirt from me without a word and tied it round himself, before stomping off down the southern path. “Filthy witch!” I heard him growl to himself. “I’ll feed her entrails to the nix-hounds!”

I walked on, shaking my head. Akatosh, what was it with all these Nord barbarians getting seduced and robbed by witches? I’d have to hope I would get to Ald’ruhn before I ran into any more of them, not least because I was starting to run out of shirts.

To my immense relief, I didn’t come across any more naked Nords (or anyone else) on my journey to Ald’ruhn. It was late afternoon when I finally arrived, and the sun was still high in the sky. I had to admit that the place didn’t look quite as bad in bright sunlight, but there was still a thick coating of ash over the parched ground. Dunmer children jumped around in the dust and threw handfuls at each other, while older residents stood outside their doors, sweeping it into neat little piles.

Before going to Skar, I decided to pay a visit to the Ald’ruhn Fighters’ Guild to repair my weapons and armour. In the lower hall I was greeted by an intelligent-looking Imperial, probably in his early fifties, who introduced himself as Percius Mercius.

“I used to be the Master of the Fighters Guild,” he told me. “But I took the opportunity to retire here in Ald’ruhn. The current Guildmaster is Sjoring Hard-Heart, over in Vivec.”

Ald’ruhn certainly wasn’t the place I’d have chosen to retire to, but each to his own, I guess. When I explained that I was a member of the Balmora guild, Percius raised his eyebrows. “Working for Eydis, are you? Well, if you need any advice on orders you’ve been given – anything that seems out of the ordinary to you – let me know. I'm more than willing to help out.”

My mind flashed back to the Caldera mine mission and Sottilde’s codebook. “Okay, thanks. I will.”

“Things have really gone bad since I was the Master of the Guild,” he said with a sigh. “Sure, Sjoring’s a good fighter, no one disputes that. But I've heard – ” He stopped suddenly.

“What have you heard?”

Percius shook his head. “I’ve said too much already. Maybe when you’ve proven yourself we can talk again.”

I got the distinct feeling that whatever he had to say, I wasn’t going to like it. Gods, I hate Guild politics.

It was getting a little late to be heading over to the clothier’s store, and I didn’t want to arouse any suspicions, so I stayed the night in the Guild building. Sleeping there for the first time was a rather strange experience, as – like most buildings in Ald’ruhn – it was mostly built underground. I kept worrying that I’d run out of air and suffocate, until I remembered that I’d slept in caves plenty of times with no ill effects.

The next morning I hurried over to Skar, anxious to get my mission over with as soon as possible. Was it my imagination, or did the patrolling guards look even less friendly than they had on my previous visit? It had to be the former, but that did little to reduce my paranoia.

My fears turned out to be groundless, as the meeting with Bivale Teneran went very smoothly. She was alone when I entered her shop, so I simply handed over the scroll to her. “Yes, as I expected,” she said, after a quick glance at it. “Tell Nileno Dorvayn that I received the scroll and understood the message. Oh, and why not take this outfit?”

She handed me an exquisitely-tailored shirt and pants. I stared at them in amazement, scarcely able to believe that she would just give away these lovely clothes. “For… for me? Really?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “A present for my efficient courier.”

“Wow. That’s… really kind of you,” I stammered. “Thanks ever so much.”

As I was walking back to the bridge after leaving the store, I saw a Redguard woman walking in the other direction. It was Neminda, the Redoran retainer whose orders I’d intercepted during my first Hlaalu assignment. There was no way for me to avoid her, and I very nearly panicked – until I realised that there was no possible way for her to recognise me or guess what I’d been doing here.

“Greetings, stranger,” she said with a friendly nod. “Nice to see another human in Ald’ruhn. Are you new here?”

I nodded. “Just arrived in Morrowind a week ago.”

For a moment I was afraid that she would recognise my voice, but if she did, there was no sign of it. She simply held out a hand in greeting. “I’m Neminda, a drillmaster for House Redoran.”

“Ada Ventura, of Imperial City.” I tried to think of something else to say, but my mind had gone blank. “So, uh… you’re a Redoran?”

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. “We are true and noble warriors, the hereditary defenders of Morrowind. Were you thinking of joining the House? You look like a fighter.”

“I can’t,” I said, with genuine regret. “I’ve already joined House Hlaalu, I’m afraid.” I was beginning to wish I’d taken the time to do some research into the Great Houses, rather than blithely signing up with Hlaalu the moment I arrived in Balmora. From what I heard of Redoran, it sounded like it might have suited me rather better, but it was too late now.

Neminda arched her eyebrows, and while she refrained from commenting, I could see that I’d sunk a couple of notches in her estimation. “I see,” she said, in a voice that was still polite, but a little less friendly. “Well, no matter. Enjoy your stay in Ald’ruhn, sera.”

She went on her way, and I hurried back to the Mages’ Guild, relieved that I seemed to have got away with my little impersonation. Even so, I had no intention of staying any more nights in Ald’ruhn – no doubt Neminda was aware of the trick played on her by now, and you never knew when she might suddenly make the connection.

When I got back to Nileno Dorvayn, I found her looking somewhat harassed. “Ah, Ada!” she exclaimed. “Have you delivered the scroll? Good. I’m promoting you to Retainer, effective immediately.”

“Oh. Thanks,” I said, a little surprised by her abrupt manner. “Is something the matter, Nileno?”

She let out an exasperated sigh, massaging her temples with her fingers. “A Hlaalu noble has just been murdered.”

“Murdered!”

She nodded. “Ralen Hlaalo was a noble who lived here in Balmora. Here, take this key and go to Hlaalo manor.” Her expression was grim. “When you find out who murdered Ser Ralen, kill them. Make sure no ever dares raise their hand against a Hlaalu noble again!”

Thus I found myself playing detective for the second time in little more than a week. I wasn’t complaining, though; it made a nice change from spying, looting ancestral tombs, and other assorted skulduggery.

Ralen’s body was still lying on the floor of Hlaalo manor when I entered; he must have been killed only hours earlier. Needless to say, the place was a mess. A pool of congealed, sticky blood surrounded poor Ralen – who, from the look of him, appeared to have been attacked with an axe or something similar. He lay on his back, his pale face gazing up at the ceiling with blank, sightless eyes.

I couldn’t see anyone else around, though overturned furniture and smashed crockery suggested that some kind of fight had taken place. Surely there had to be witnesses? I found it hard to believe that a struggle like that could have taken place without anyone seeing or hearing anything.

I bent over the young man’s body, searching for clues, and looked up to see a middle-aged Dunmer woman watching me from the foot of the stairs. When I straightened up, she gripped her skirts nervously and retreated a couple of steps. “It’s OK,” I told her. “I’m a member of your House, here to investigate the murder.”

After a brief hesitation, she nodded and beckoned me closer. “It’s just terrible,” she whispered. “Ralen Hlaalo employed me for years. What will I do now?”

“Could you give me a description of the murderer?”

She nodded, her eyes darting nervously around the room as if she feared that someone might hear us. “I saw him with my own eyes. He was a young Dunmer with red hair in a tall row over his head, as is fashionable these days. He wore bonemold armour and wielded a Dwemer War Axe.”

“Any idea who he was?”

Another brief pause. “No, I do not know more than that. I am sorry.”

The slight hesitation, combined with her reluctance to meet my gaze, was enough to tell me that she was lying. Clearly she did have at least an idea who the murderer was, but was too afraid to tell me. Given that she’d just seen her employer hacked to death with an axe, I couldn’t entirely blame her.

“I’ll find the guy,” I promised. “Don’t worry.”

She gulped and nodded. “I wish you luck.”

I spent the next hour or so asking around town to see if anyone recognised the description, but it was hopeless. I saw clear signs of recognition in the faces of several of the Dunmer I spoke to, but when I pressed them for information, they all insisted that they didn’t know anyone who looked like that. Finally, in despair, I went to the Fighters’ Guild in hopes that someone there might be willing to talk.

After collecting my pay from Eydis, and picking up my next orders – some sort of debt-collection job in a town called Suran – I asked various Guild members whether they knew any red-haired Dunmer men. I wasn’t too hopeful, but rather to my surprise, an Imperial woman named Flaenia seemed to recognise the description. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “That sounds like Thanelen Velas over at the Council Club.”

The Council Club! Well, that certainly explained why everyone had been so reluctant to identify the guy – he was Camonna Tong, of course. I should have guessed.

After turning it over in my mind for a while, I decided to enter the Council Club, but with extreme caution. I was well aware that one false move could leave me with an axe embedded in my own skull. As luck would have it, the first person I met there precisely matched the murderer’s description, and was alone. He was sitting on a small table, staring absently into the distance while chewing on some kind of leaf.

I waved a hand in front of his face. “Excuse me. Are you Thanelan Velas?”

The man folded his arms and looked me over for several seconds, his expression clearly showing that he wasn’t impressed. Finally he said, “What’s it to you?”

“I represent House Hlaalu,” I told him. “A Hlaalu noble was murdered last night, and you fit the murderer’s description.”

Rather than getting angry or defensive, the man just shrugged, a bored look on his face. “You are mistaken. It was Nine-Toes who killed him.”

Hang on, ‘Nine-Toes’? Apart from the fact that that was clearly an Argonian name, I was pretty sure he was one of the Blades trainers that Caius had recommended to me.

“So Nine-Toes is a red-haired Dunmer, is he?” I asked. “Because the witness I spoke to was pretty clear about that part.”

“And who was the witness?”

“I’m not telling you,” I said. “All you need to know is that they saw you leaving the house after the murder.”

Thanelan was too smart to fall for this, however. “Well, they cannot have seen me, because I was not there.”

“Why did you kill him, Thanelan?” I said quietly. “Was it over money? A woman?”

A brief flash of rage in Thanelan’s eyes told me that I had hit very close to home; however, he wasn’t about to give up so easily. He slid off the table and stood up, looking me directly in the face.

“I did not kill him, outlander,” he said, slowly and clearly, as if talking to a child. “It was the Argonian, Nine-Toes.”

We faced off for several seconds, doing our best to outstare each other. I was almost sure that he was the killer, but what could I do? I had no proof. If I attacked him on the spot, I’d be arrested for murder myself – not to mention that he probably had friends down below who’d come running at the first sign of trouble.

“All right,” I said at last. “I’ll carry on gathering evidence. Don’t go anywhere in the meantime, will you?”

His only answer was a snort. As I turned to leave, gripping the hilt of my sword, I heard him mutter, “N’wah”.

Gritting my teeth, I went back to Nileno, who was busy with some kind of paperwork. I got the impression that the Hlaalu councillors often left her to handle tasks they should really be doing themselves. “Yes, what is it?” she said irritably. “Have you found the murderer yet?”

“Yes, I think so,” I said. “He’s a Camonna Tong member named Thanelan Velas.”

“And is he dead?”

“No.”

“Well, why not?”

“He’s Camonna Tong,” I hissed. “What am I supposed to do, wipe out the entire Council Club? Besides, I don’t have any actual proof.”

Nileno flung down her quill in exasperation. “Then find some proof,” she growled. “Or find another way to kill him. Or bribe a guard. But whatever you do, Ada, I want Ralen’s murder avenged. Do I make myself clear?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her why the hell she didn’t just kill him herself if she thought it was that easy. Somehow, sanity prevailed and I forced myself to remain calm. “All right, I’ll try,” I said grudgingly. “But it may take a while.”

She shrugged and went back to her paperwork. I left the hall, barely resisting the urge to slam the door behind me.

Since I couldn’t immediately think of a way to deal with Thanelan, I instead went to Vivec to look for a bank. By now I had far too much money to simply carry around with me, and my current solution – keeping it locked in a chest in the Fighter’s Guild – was not a particularly good one. After finding a place to deposit my gold, I visited an enchanter in the Foreign Quarter to pick up more spell scrolls, and was just preparing to leave when I heard a loud commotion outside.

“What’s that?” I asked. “Why all the shouting?”

Miun-Gei, the Argonian enchanter, scowled darkly. “That annoying fool! Did you not see him as you entered? It is that Marcel Maurard. Outside my shop he stands all day, selling ridiculous wares.” He sighed. “Get rid of him I would like to, but the law says he is within his rights. Perhaps you might find a way?”

I considered this for a minute. The silt strider to Suran didn’t leave until evening, so I didn’t exactly have a whole lot else to do right now. “I suppose I could try.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Make him go away, and I will have rewards for you!”

I went outside, where Marcel Maurard – a handsome but rather effeminate-looking Breton – was hawking his wares to largely uninterested passers-by. “Excuse me,” I said. “Would you mind doing that somewhere else? You’re scaring people away from Miun-Gei’s shop.”

“Leave here? I could not! It is the finest spot in all Vivec from which to sell my wares. Otherwise, I'd have nothing upon which to support myself.” He heaved a melodramatic sigh. “A man in my line of work must find a way to make a living!”

“And what line of work is that?”

“I am an actor!” (He pronounced it ‘ac-tor’, with emphasis on the ‘or’.) “Or at least I hope to be. I am the poor player who struts and frets for a while on a stage and then has lunch. I am full of sound and furiousness! Oh, if there were but a good theatre troupe in this town, I could give up selling these baubles. Oh! Woe is me!”

I nearly burst out laughing. Was this guy serious? “Well, I’ll see if I can find one for you.”

“Oh, to be an actor,” I heard him murmur, as I walked away. “To act, perchance to earn some money!”

After asking around about the theatre scene in Vivec, I was directed to Crassius Curio, a noble in the Hlaalu canton. Apparently he was quite a patron of the arts, and was currently looking for actors to star in his new play. I took a gondola to the Hlaalu canton, which was all but identical to the Foreign Quarter, complete with those scary-looking Ordinators around every corner. How the people of Vivec could stand to have those guys watching their every move was beyond me.

I was a little apprehensive about marching into Curio’s splendid top-tier mansion and asking to see him, but when I explained that I was a member of House Hlaalu, things went pretty smoothly. A Dunmer servant directed me to Curio, who was ‘busy with his writing’ in his room below. In hindsight, I guess I should have found it a little strange that he chose to receive visitors in his bedroom.

The moment I saw Crassius Curio, I felt that there was something faintly sleazy about him. He was almost a stereotypical Imperial noble, decked out in elegant Western-style clothes and jewels that were perhaps a little too flamboyant. I stiffened a little at the wolfish grin he shot me when I entered the room, but I was determined not to let it bother me.

“Crassius Curio?” I asked, looking him straight in the eye.

“Yes, I’m Crassius Curio,” he said with a smile. “But you can call me ‘Uncle Crassius’.” Uncle Crassius?

“I heard you were looking for actors for a theatre troupe,” I said, trying to ignore the ‘Uncle Crassius’ remark.

His eyes lit up. “A company of players, yes! But there are so few in the area that are willing to act, even for a good price. I need an actor with wit, grace, charm, and a firm...oh, never mind.” His eyes roved over me in a way that made me feel deeply uncomfortable. “You wouldn't be a bad choice, muffin.”

“Me?” I said in alarm. “I can’t act!”

“Ah, well,” he sighed. “If you see someone else who fits the bill, send them to Uncle Crassius.”

“Actually, I do know someone who might be interested,” I said, and gave him a brief description of Marcel Maurard.

‘Uncle Crassius’ nodded thoughtfully when I’d finished. “Yes, he sounds exactly right for my new play, The Lusty Argonian Maid. A rather bawdy tale, but I think it will play well with the people.” He gave me another of those rather disconcerting smiles. “You do like plays, don’t you, pumpkin?”

“I love plays,” I admitted. I’d often snuck out to see plays when I lived in the Imperial City, particularly the ones that my parents didn’t think were ‘suitable’. “In fact, I had an idea for a play once.”

“Did you indeed?” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “And what was your idea?”

“Well…” I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to share it with him.

“Come on, sweetie, don’t be shy.”

I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Well, there are these two noble families that have been feuding for generations. Say… one from House Hlaalu and one from House Redoran.” He nodded. “Anyway, a boy from the Hlaalu family falls in love with a girl from the Redoran family. But of course, their parents won’t hear of it.”

“Ah, forbidden love!” he exclaimed. “Do go on.”

“So they marry in secret,” I continued, warming to my theme. “But then, the man accidentally kills another Redoran in a fight, and has to flee the city.”

Crassius’ eyes widened. “My goodness! What happens next?”

“Well, in the meantime, the girl’s parents have arranged a marriage for her. But of course, she can’t tell them that she’s already married. So she goes to the local alchemist, and buys a potion that’ll make her appear to be dead – ”

“Ah, I see it now!” he breathed. “The fair Dunmer maiden, swept off her feet by the handsome Crellius… Caro, mad with despair – ”

“Well. Um.” I hesitated. “I suppose the hero could be an Imperial. But… I think it would be more effective if they were both Dunmer.”

“But it all ends happily, of course?” he continued, appearing not to hear.

I took a deep breath. “Actually… I was planning to have both of them die at the end. You see, the point is – ”

“Oh, but you can’t have a sad ending, poppet!” He shook his head, chuckling. “Got to give the punters what they want, eh? No, I’ll tell you what happens: The girl has a saucy Argonian maid – or maybe a Khajiit – who carries her messages to her lover. When he hears about the marriage and the potion, he returns to the city in disguise. Then all you need is a few more misunderstandings, a mix-up with a false moustache, feuding parents see the error of their ways, and all ends happily. Much better, don’t you think?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “I… suppose so.”

“I shall start work on it at once,” he declared. “That is, once I’ve finished The Lusty Argonian Maid. Here, take a look at the work so far – I think it’s scrumptious!” He pressed a copy into my hands before I had time to answer.

I dutifully opened the manuscript at a random page and glanced at the dialogue inside. It showed an excerpt from ‘Act IV, Scene III’:


Lifts-Her-Tail: Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your chambers.

Crantius Colto: Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?

Lifts-Her-Tail: I have no idea what it is you imply, master. I am but a poor Argonian maid.

Crantius Colto: So you are, my dumpling. And a good one at that. Such strong legs and shapely tail.

Lifts-Her-Tail: You embarrass me, sir!

Crantius Colto: Fear not. You are safe here with me.

Lifts-Her-Tail: I must finish my cleaning, sir. The mistress will have my head if I do not!

Crantius Colto: Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my spear.

Lifts-Her-Tail: But it is huge! It could take me all night!

Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.


Yes. Well. I probably wouldn’t be rushing to see that one on opening night.

“I think it’s marvellous,” I told him, anxious to make my escape. “But I really have to go now. I’m sure Mr. Maurard will be delighted to hear you have a place for him.”

“Goodbye, my little sweetroll,” he said, with a wink. “Remember: Be sweet to Uncle Crassius, and there’s something in it for you, sweetcakes.”

Ye gods, this guy was creepy even by the standards of theatrical types. Just talking to him left me feeling like I needed a long bath. I left the place hoping fervently that I’d never have to see him again, play or no play. Oh, if I’d only known…