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 13: Death And Taxes

Darius rewarded me for my help by promoting me to Trooper, and gave me a fine steel tower shield from the Legion’s armoury. I’d really have preferred a new cuirass, but I certainly wasn’t complaining, especially since I could make a decent amount of gold by selling the old shield. He also gave me my next orders: go back to the eggmine and cure the infected queen of Blight disease so that the mine could be reopened.

I did have slightly more skill in Restoration than other forms of magic, so I thought of learning a Cure Blight spell myself, but I couldn’t find anyone to teach me one. Instead I bought some spell scrolls from the Redoran village steward, making a mental note to ask about spells next time I was back in Ald’ruhn (apart from anything else, I really didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s ‘adventure’ next time I was out in the wilderness). I went back to the part of the mine where I’d seen the kwama queen, and cast the spell scroll from what I hoped was a safe distance. The angry buzzing subsided a little, so I assumed she’d been cured – no doubt it would be easy for the miners to tell.

Just as I was about to leave the mine, I spotted a narrow passage leading off to the left from the queen’s ‘chamber’. Wondering what was down there, I followed the passage and came across another small wooden door set into the rock. I opened the door a little way so that I could peer through, and gasped in amazement at what I saw.

The inside of this part of the cave looked exactly like Arkngthand, the Dwemer ruin near Fort Moonmoth: sheet-metal flooring, and the walls lined with pipes and those weird glass-tube lamps. On a rusty iron table near the entrance was a heavy-looking book titled Divine Metaphysics, and some plans for what looked like an airship. I carefully opened the book and leafed through the first few pages, but the writing was all in Dwemeris and I couldn’t understand a word of it. A book like this had to be incredibly valuable – if you could find the right buyer.

Further into the cave was a bubbling pool of lava set into the metal floor. As I drew closer the heat became almost unbearable, to the point where I had to take off my cuirass before I could go any further. I edged round the side of the pool, trying to get closer to the strange metal object lying beside it.

The thing was one of the strangest Dwemer devices I had ever seen: a sort of statue, vaguely human-shaped but made entirely out of golden metal. It had a trunk, legs, a ‘head’, and an arm with a huge spiked club welded to the end where its hand ought to be. Lying face-down on the ground with its arms splayed out, it looked for all the world as if it was dead. I felt shivers down my spine just looking at it.

At that moment it occurred to me that I probably wasn’t supposed to be there, and that someone could come in and find me at any minute. I hastily left the cavern, informed one of the miners that the queen was cured, and went back to Darius to tell him the good news.

“Good,” he said briskly. “Take these 100 drakes as a reward. Now just what the devil have you been doing to your uniform, Trooper?”

Startled, I looked down at my torn cuirass. I’d forgotten how it had got ripped when I was attacked in the mine. “Sorry, sir,” I said, embarrassed. “It was the kwama warriors in the eggmine.”

“Hmph. Well, you’re a good soldier; maybe you should have a better one.” He left the room for a couple of minutes and came back with – joy of joys – a Legion steel cuirass. I breathed in deeply as he handed it over to me; ever since I was a child I’d dreamed of wearing one of these. I held it with trembling hands, admiring the fine steelwork and beautiful decorative plating on the front, until the General told me to stop gawping and get back to work.

I was very hungry by now, so I decided to rest and eat before doing any more missions. By the time I left the tradehouse, the villagers had heard about the mine being re-opened, and I found I was a minor local celebrity. Even those who hadn’t heard the news seemed to be looking at me with newfound respect, now that I wore a Legion uniform. If I’d realised the benefits of joining the Legion back in Cyrodiil, I’d have joined long ago.

After dinner I went back to Darius to ask if he had any more orders for me. He told me that the Legion’s tax collector, Ragash gra-Shuzgub, had vanished during a visit to Arvs Drelen, the Velothi tower on the outskirts of town. “Who lives there?” I asked.

“Baladas Demnevanni, a rogue Telvanni wizard. Came here over twenty years ago and set himself up in Arvs Drelen.” He shook his head. “Be careful around old Baladas, Trooper. He’s been no trouble so far, but I don’t trust him.”

I’d got the impression that Gnisis was Redoran territory, so I wondered why they allowed a Telvanni wizard to live there. Perhaps the Council in Ald’ruhn simply couldn’t face the hassle of trying to have him turfed out.

I went straight over to the old Velothi tower, a round building constructed in a similar style to the Temple. It certainly looked out of place among the Redoran-style buildings of the village. Inside, the place appeared deserted, but a short way along the first corridor I found a door leading to an underground cell. The iron bars on the door and windows allowed the jailer a full view of the tiny room.

A glum-looking female Orc in a Legion uniform sat on a hammock inside the cell. When she saw me, she waved frantically as if she were afraid I wouldn’t notice her there. “Hey! Baladas Demnevanni locked me up in here. Can you get me out?”

I messed around with the lock on the cell door for a minute or two, but soon realised that it was far beyond my lock-picking skills (and even further beyond my Alteration skills). “Wait here for a moment,” I told her, “and I’ll look for a key.”

At the top of a ramp on the other side of the passage was a wooden door. I pressed my ear against it to listen for anyone – or anything – that might be inside, then knocked cautiously. No one answered.

I pushed open the door – it wasn’t locked, surprisingly enough – and found myself in what was clearly a bedroom. Lying on a small bedside table, next to a copy of The Wolf Queen, Book V, was a key which obviously belonged to some sort of door. Surely it couldn’t be that easy?

I took the key and returned to Ragash’s cell to try it in the lock, but I couldn’t make it fit. “Damn,” I announced. “This isn’t the right key. Do you know where Baladas is now?”

She jabbed a finger upwards towards the ceiling. “Up there someplace. I just came to collect taxes as I was told, and he lock me up in this room!”

Poor Ragash; it was clear that she wasn’t particularly bright, even by Orc standards. I could just imagine her stubbornly demanding the taxes from Baladas, not realising that there are times when it’s best just to let these things go. It wouldn’t surprise me if some smartarse in the Legion had deliberately chosen her for the task.

I made my way through the winding corridors of Arvs Drelen, ignoring the interesting noises coming from some of the doors I passed (just what the hell was this wizard keeping as pets?), and finally reached another locked door leading to an upper level. I tried the key again, and this time it actually fit – probably a good thing, as I could see that the door was enchanted with some kind of magical trap to deter intruders.

As the door swung open I heard a deep growl, and found myself facing one of the crocodile-headed Daedra known as a Daedroth. I leapt backwards with a gasp, grabbing my sword, but amazingly enough the thing didn’t seem interested in attacking me. It just paced around the room, growling and waving its arms around in a vaguely threatening manner.

Very, very carefully, I inched my way across the room – staying as far away from the horrible beast as possible – and up the next flight of stairs to the top level of Arvs Drelen. This was a large workroom of some kind, containing several cupboards, bookshelves and tables covered in clutter. There was no one in sight, but in one corner was a large, gold-plated metal sphere that seemed somehow familiar.

I took a few steps towards the strange object, then let out a small screech of fear as it suddenly rolled over – entirely of its own accord – and began to unfold itself. Within seconds it had taken on the shape of that weird metal ‘man’ I had seen in the eggmine, only this one was… alive. I stared at it, paralysed with horror, as it rolled back and forth across the ground with a faint whirring sound. What the bloody hell?

Clockwork, I told myself, trying to stay calm and ignore my frantically-thumping heart. Clockwork and… magic of some kind. Had to be. At least it didn’t seem to be trying to kill me, though it was a full minute before I dared move again for fear of ‘upsetting’ the strange mechanical creature.

Once I’d managed to convince myself that the thing was harmless, I relaxed a little and began to examine the room more closely. It was littered with the tools of the wizard’s trade – full and empty bottles, alembics, bizarre alchemical ingredients, and books. Lots and lots of books.

I took a closer look at one which was lying open on the shelf: The Dragon Break Re-Examined. “The late 3rd era was a period of remarkable religious ferment and creativity,” it began. “The upheavals of the reign of Uriel VII were only the outward signs of the historical forces that would eventually lead to the fall of the Septim Dynasty...”

Hang on, ‘late 3rd Era’? ‘Fall of the Septim Dynasty’? Unless I had been spectacularly misinformed, this was the Third Era, and Uriel Septim VII was still very much in power. As I read on, I suddenly realised what the author was doing: the book was written from the perspective of some imaginary future historian, looking back on the Third Era. How very… curious.

“Ahem,” said a gruff voice behind me.

I whirled round and found myself face-to-face with a genuine Telvanni mage for the first time. By appearances he was an ordinary, rather grumpy-looking middle-aged Dunmer, but at the same time there was something ageless about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Remembering what Caius had said about ‘thousand-year-old wizards’, it made me wonder just how old – and powerful – he really was.

“Ah. Excuse me,” I said, slightly embarrassed to have been caught examining his private stuff. “Baladas, er… Demnevanni?”

“Speaking,” he said coldly. “Hurry up.”

I decided not to bother with introductions. “I was sent here by General Darius, sera. You, er, seem to have taken one of our soldiers prisoner.”

Baladas frowned. “She came demanding tribute for the Empire of men. I was here before Gnisis, before the Empire of men; I will be here after Gnisis is gone and after this short-lived Empire has crumbled. The people of Gnisis live only because I tolerate them. Why should I pay tribute?”

Something told me that appealing to this guy’s sense of civic duty probably wasn’t going to work. “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” I said soothingly. “Anyway, surely she’ll have learned her lesson by now?”

“What? So soon?” he said with a snort. “Even the short-lived Orcs need time to reflect on their transgressions.”

Oh dear, this wasn’t going too well. “Please, Ser Baladas,” I said, trying to sound respectful rather than desperate. “Let her go and no one will trouble you again.”

He scowled. “You trouble me now. Do you think I have nothing better to do than listen to such lies? Leave now, or you shall join the Orc in my prison.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, raising my hands. “But before I go, please could I just ask you something? Are you interested in the Dwemer, by any chance?”

As I had expected, he looked a little taken aback by the question. “Yes, I have studied the Dwemer for many centuries. What is your reason for asking me this?”

“I was just wondering if you’d heard of a book called Divine Metaphysics?”

The sour-faced wizard caught his breath, and I immediately saw that I’d struck gold. “You have a copy?” he asked almost hoarsely.

“I don’t, but I know where you can get one,” I said. “But you’ll have to let Ragash go first.”

Baladas hesitated only a second before handing me a key from the pocket of his robe. “Very well, here is the key. Now tell me where to find the book – and if I find you have lied, be sure that I will kill you.”

“Okay. You know the eggmine up on the hill?” He nodded. “Inside there, some of the workers have uncovered a Dwemer ruin. I saw a copy of the book and some kind of airship plans. You’d better get there quickly before someone comes and takes them away.”

He still looked suspicious, but finally nodded. “Very well. Now leave, and take the Orc with you.”

I hurried back downstairs before he could change his mind. A crazed wizard who lived alone with tame Daedroths and strange Dwemer machines was not someone you wanted to mess with.

Poor Ragash nearly cried when I came to free her from her cell. “Thank you so much,” she said when we were finally outside the building. “You help me escape from that crazy guy. I thought I’d never get out again.”

“You okay? He didn’t set his pet Daedroth on you or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “Go tell Darius that I’m okay.”

Darius was happy to hear that I’d got Ragash out safely, and rewarded me with a promotion to Agent and a Legion helmet and gauntlets. If I went on like this, pretty soon I’d have the whole set. “Are you ready for further orders?” he asked me.

Well, why not? “Yes, sir!” I said, throwing caution to the winds.

“Well, I suspect there is something going on with some of my troopers. Informants have told me of a conspiracy brewing involving the Talos Cult.”

“Talos Cult, sir?” I was confused. It’s more common to worship the Nine as a group, of course, but there are cults devoted to individual Gods and Goddesses all over the Empire. “Are they dangerous?”

He shook his head. “They are a group that reveres Tiber Septim. It’s not the group as a whole that concerns me, but rumours of a conspiracy within the membership. Talk to your fellow soldiers and see if you can find out more.”

I obediently set off for the barracks, though I couldn’t imagine what kind of conspiracy a bunch of Talos-worshippers could be involved in. The few I’d met before had been almost fanatically devoted to the Empire, as you’d expect from people who worship a former Emperor. Unless they’d gone crazy and decided we need to exterminate all Dunmer or Argonians or something… actually, yeah, I could kind of see Talos-worshippers doing that.

I didn’t have much experience with infiltrating religious cults, but I guessed it wasn’t a good idea to just barge in and start asking leading questions. Instead I joined the other Legionnaires as they ate their evening meal, sloshed around a good deal of ale, and ended up recounting my daring rescue of Ragash gra-Shuzgub from the fiendish wizard Baladas. (I’ll admit that my account may not have been 100% factually accurate.)

“…so I said to him, ‘Listen, you Telvanni b*stard. Let her go right now or I’ll shove this longsword up where the sun don’t shine!’” There was a general roar of laughter and approval, and one of the soldiers handed me another drink. I just hoped I could get out of Gnisis before this version of the story got back to Baladas.

“So,” I said casually to the guy sitting next to me, once the conversation had moved on. “You guys worship Talos, right? I heard something about a cult.”

The soldier, an Orc, looked a bit uncomfortable. “Look, I’m not really into it, OK?”

“No?” I said, acting disappointed. “You can’t tell me how to join, then?”

He sighed. “Talk to Oritius Maro. That’s all I’m saying.”

The next morning I tracked down Oritius Maro, one of the few other Imperials in the Gnisis branch of the Legion, and asked about the cult. Immediately his face lit up. “Yes, we are those who worship the true following of the Legions. Protecting the Glory of Tiber Septim, Talos, the Dragonborn.”

“I’ve always admired Tiber Septim,” I told him. “Truly the greatest Emperor of all time.” (Actually I’ve always preferred Alessia, but he didn’t need to know that.)

Maro looked pleased. “I heard about you and the wizard, sister. Perhaps you could be of some use to us. Do you have interest in becoming a member of the Talos Cult?”

I nodded, and he handed me a key. “This will unlock the door to the shrine downstairs. Look in the storeroom for the door. While you’re there, speak with Arius Rulician, and he’ll tell you more.”

Well, that was surprisingly easy. I went to the storeroom and found the door he was talking about – actually a trapdoor down into a small basement area. There was nothing much there apart from a shrine to Talos, guarded by a single Imperial soldier who was presumably Arius Rulician.

“Ah, so you’ve spoken to Oritius?” he said when I introduced myself. “We are always interested in meeting those who sympathise with our cause. Feel free to look around and hear of our plans.”

He left the room before I had a chance to ask what those ‘plans’ might be – I got the impression that he thought I already knew. Anyway, I didn’t know what he was doing or how long he’d be gone for, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

The only things I could see on the shrine were a sword, a collection plate, and a small wooden strongbox with a heavy lock. A quick examination of the lock showed that it was actually a fairly simple one, and it took only seconds for me to spring it with one of my picks. The only thing inside was a brief note written by Oritius Maro:

There are rumours that Uriel will be visiting Vvardenfell in person. If so, we must act sooner than anticipated. We must watch his actions carefully and strike if the opportunity presents itself. We must also recruit more and swear them to the oath: That we shall die to put a strong man back on the throne of Tamriel.

Burn this note.

Oritius

I blinked a few times, overcome with a sudden sense of being stuck in a bad novel. If I’d read that correctly, Oritius was talking about assassinating Uriel VII and replacing him with a ‘stronger’ Emperor. Surely this kind of thing didn’t actually happen, in this day and age?

I read the letter through once more to be sure I hadn’t misread it, but there was no mistaking the phrase ‘put a strong man back on the throne of Tamriel’. They were planning to kill the Emperor. I felt my hands shake slightly as I realised what I’d got myself mixed up in. Okay, so they’d probably overestimated the chances of Uriel making a state visit to Darkest Vvardenfell, but still – this was treason.

Unfortunately, Arius chose that moment to come back and see me holding the note. If I’d thought more quickly I might have been able to save the situation – “Right on, brother, death to the Emperor!” – but I was just too shocked. He spotted the open box, saw the expression on my face, and immediately drew his sword.

The fight that followed was short and brutal. There wasn’t much space to move around, or even swing a sword properly, so all we could do was hack at each other while desperately trying to defend with our shields. Arius was fighting for his life – he knew what was likely to happen if anyone else found out about this – so there wasn’t much chance of him surrendering. It was pure luck that I managed to get in the first blow, and that it managed to penetrate the chainmail armour he was wearing.

To make matters worse, Oritius Maro was the first person to greet me as I hauled myself out of the trapdoor. He saw the blood on my sword and cuirass, and let out a roar of fury as he realised what had happened. Another brief and violent struggle followed, and again it was mostly my superior armour that saved the day – boy was I glad Darius had given me that steel cuirass.

By this time several other Legionnaires had come running to see what was going on. There were gasps of horror at the sight of Maro’s body, and I realised I had to get out of here now. “Murder! Treason! Conspiracy!” I shrieked, and then bolted for the door before anyone could react, leaving them staring after me in bemusement. I was already at the door of the tradehouse by the time I heard sounds of pursuit.

Back in Darius’ office, I showed him the now rather bloodstained note and did my best to give him a coherent account of what had happened. “A conspiracy against the Emperor?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “Thank the Divines you found this evidence. And that you managed to bring justice to the traitors.” He shook his head. “It saddens me that this could happen to men under my command.”

“Did you have any idea this was going on, sir?”

Again he shook his head. “We all swore to serve the Emperor, no matter what happens. Well, you’ve earned my gratitude, Agent. For this I believe you deserve promotion to the rank of Champion.”

I was astonished, hardly knowing whether to feel gratified or uncomfortable. Champion was quite a high rank, certainly not one you’d expect to reach after only two days in the Legion. I could only hope my fellow soldiers wouldn’t resent me for being promoted over their heads like that.

Darius gave me two fine Imperial steel pauldrons to complete the set, and after cleaning and polishing my armour, I finally stood resplendent in my full Legion uniform. I held out my shield in front of me to admire my reflection, and felt a stab of pride. Who would have thought that less than a month ago I’d been languishing in a prison cell? I couldn’t wait to see the look on Caius Cosades’ face when he heard about this.

Since Darius didn’t have any more tasks for a Legion Champion, I decided to leave Gnisis the following morning, and set out to visit the Shrine of Valour in the Koal Cave. It wasn’t far from the village, but it took me quite a long time to find the entrance, tucked away between some rocks by the waterside. The book told me that “only experienced and capable adventurers should attempt to re-enact the epic battle with the dreugh in the cave”, so I decided to give that a miss. If I ever felt an uncontrollable urge to fight a dreugh, I could always come back later on.

I took the next morning’s silt strider back to Ald’ruhn, arriving late in the evening. The streets were still filled with people, and once again I noticed the difference in their attitude now that I wore a Legion uniform. It was particularly obvious with the Redoran guards I passed – where once they’d just have ignored me, or looked at me with mild suspicion, they now nodded to me with grudging respect as I walked by. Why the heck did I wait so long to join the Legion?

Neminda raised her eyebrows when I entered the Council hall in my new get-up. “Well, don’t you look smart,” she said approvingly. “You must have been busy since I last saw you.”

“I’ll say,” I said. “Let’s see, I… fought off a bandit attack, rescued a pilgrim from some Ashlanders, solved a murder case, helped a guy who’d had his pants stolen – ”

“His pants?”

“Yes. It’s a long story,” I told her. “Anyway, where was I? Ah yes… freed a kidnapped tax collector, nearly died of a fever, and cured the Gnisis eggmine’s queen of blight disease. Oh, and foiled a plot to kill the Emperor.”

Neminda’s mouth was hanging open. “You’re not serious.”

“I am too,” I said.

“A plot. To kill. The Emperor?” she repeated, with obvious skepticism.

“That’s right. Why do you think I’m Champion of Fort Darius now?” I showed her the band on my arm indicating my rank.

Neminda stared at it for several seconds, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing, then finally pulled herself together. “Well, then, I guess it’s probably time to talk about your advancement in House Redoran.”

We went off to one of the practice rooms, where I demonstrated my combat skills to Neminda by sparring with her for a while. She was good, but I managed to hold my own pretty well. “Not bad,” she said at last. “You’re as good as me – maybe better. Perform a few more tasks for the House and you should rise through the ranks pretty quickly.”

She promoted me to Oathman of House Redoran, and reminded me that I’d need a sponsor once I reached the next rank. In the meantime, she gave me a book called The Red Book of 3E 426, containing the names and residences of all the Redoran councillors.

I opened the book and read the first name on the page: “Archmaster Lord Bolvyn Venim, by Grace of Almsivi, Chief Councilor of Redoran Council, Vvardenfell District, Lord Ald’ruhn of Bolvyn Manor, Manor District, Ald’ruhn, District of Vvardenfell, Province of Morrowind.” Bloody hell, that was a lot of titles. I hoped I wouldn’t have to run through them all every time I spoke to him.

It was still fairly early in the evening, so I decided to try out one of the local taverns. I’d already drunk several times at a place called the Ald Skar Inn, which was nice enough, but thought I’d try somewhere different for a change. After returning to the Fighters’ Guild to change out of my uniform, I set out to look for a tavern, and finally ended up in a place called The Rat In The Pot.

The moment I entered the tavern, I could tell that it wasn’t exactly the most upmarket place in the city. In fact, judging by the surprisingly high number of non-Dunmer in the place, I suspected it was probably the local Thieves’ Guild hangout. Still, the owner – a Breton named Lirielle Stoine – was friendly enough, and eager to pass on the latest Ald’ruhn gossip.

“Did you hear Bolvyn Venim killed another outlander in a duel?” she asked me. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

Hang on, I’d just seen that name in the Red Book. “Bolvyn Venim? The Redoran Archmaster?”

“That’s right,” said Narile Sadoro, one of the other patrons. “The man was an officer in the House Guard, but Venim insulted his ancestors at a meal, so of course he had to demand satisfaction.”

“He… did?”

Lirielle nodded sadly. “And of course he had no chance against Venim. So it was murder, really.”

“You’re an outlander, yes?” Narile asked me. “Then take warning – be very careful in your dealings with Venim. Or better yet, stay away from him.”

Oh, wonderful. I leave one House because their leader is a lecherous pervert, only to find that the head of my new House is a rabid xenophobe. Well, if he thought that little trick was going to work on me, he was going to be disappointed. I didn’t even know who my ancestors were, so he could insult them all he liked as far as I was concerned.

“Talking of Venim,” Lirielle said confidentially, “I heard that he’s been having an aff-”

She broke off suddenly, and I followed her gaze to the young Dunmer man who had just entered the tavern. By the look of him he was a few years younger than me, probably no more than twenty. He was simply dressed, and wore his hair in that weird spiked row that seemed to be the fashion among Dunmer youth, but I could spot a rich kid posing as a commoner at fifty paces. Probably a son of one of the Redoran nobles under Skar – that would explain why Lirielle had shut up so quickly.

But what really struck me about the man was how deeply, deeply unhappy he looked. I don’t think he even noticed me sitting there; he just went straight up to Lirielle and said something in a low voice. She handed him a tankard, and he gulped down the entire thing within seconds, then ordered another and sat down with his back to everyone else in the room.

I sipped my own drink and stared at the miserable figure hunched over the table, wondering what was up with the poor guy. A short while later, a couple of Redoran guards came in and took a seat at a nearby table. I struck up another conversation with Lirielle, and one of the guards came over to order a drink, so neither of us really noticed when the Dunmer man left the room for a few minutes. On his return he sat down, took a few sips of his drink, and then suddenly slumped forward across the table.

“My goodness,” said Lirielle. “He hasn’t had that much to drink.” Her face paled slightly. “I hope he hasn’t – ”

I hurried to the young man’s side and checked his pulse, which was strong, then tried to wake him by gently shaking his shoulder. He murmured something, but didn’t wake up. “I think he’s just asleep,” I announced. “Probably had a few drinks before coming in here – ”

One of the guards practically shoved me aside. “Do not concern yourself with this, outlander. We will take him home.” Well, sheesh, I thought. I was just trying to help.

The rest of us watched as the guards lifted the man from his seat and half-dragged, half-carried him out of the tavern. Once they were gone, Lirielle nudged me. “That’s young Varvur, Lord Sarethi’s son,” she told me. “People are saying he murdered Bralen Carvaren, but I don’t believe it. They were the best of friends.”

Goodness. No wonder he’d looked a bit upset.

Narile nodded. “They used to come in here often to drink and meet women, as young men do. We pretended not to know who they were, of course, but it was an open secret.” She shook her head. “But Varvur Sarethi is a nice boy. It’s all very sad.”

I wondered if the young man I’d just seen really was a murderer. He didn’t look like one, but… well, according to the law, I was a murderer. Combine a short temper with a weapon and an excess of alcohol, and it’s all too easy to make a life-destroying mistake.