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 14: Never Say Nerevar

When I finally emerged from the Fighters’ Guild the next morning, I was surprised to find that it was almost noon. Up till now it hadn’t really hit me how utterly exhausted I was after the last few days’ events. I decided to spend the day resting and relaxing in Ald’ruhn, jewel of the Ashlands.

I wandered around the city for most of the afternoon. I didn’t hate Ald’ruhn quite as much as I had when I’d first arrived – at least in good weather – but everything about it reminded me of the things I missed from home. Grass, trees, flowers… anything green.

In fact, there were dozens of little things I was starting to miss about Cyrodiil by this time – food being a major one. Morrowind food wasn’t bad exactly, but it was a bit too exotic for my tastes. I found myself longing for good old Cyrodiil fare – not just expensive luxuries such as venison, but ordinary, everyday stuff like apples and potatoes. Kwama eggs and ash yams just weren’t the same.

By late evening I was feeling so depressed that I realised I needed something to distract myself. I went to Neminda to ask if she had any more Redoran duties for me. “Indeed I do,” she said, sighing. “The Andrano ancestral tomb has been robbed.”

Andrano ancestral tomb? My mouth suddenly felt very dry. “That’s… terrible,” I croaked, visions of Llevule Andrano’s skull floating before my eyes. “Who would do a thing like that?”

“As a matter of fact, we know who did it.”

I gulped. “We… do?”

“Yes. A Hlaalu guard named Alvis Teri stole a Founder’s Helm from the tomb.”

Huh? I hadn’t seen anything like when I took the skull for Sharn. Either this Alvis Teri had come along before me, or she was talking about a different Andrano tomb. Relief washed over me.

“Would you be willing to recover this Founder’s Helm from the godless Hlaalu?” Neminda continued.

“Sure,” I said hastily. “Er… how do I know a Founder’s Helm when I see one?”

“It looks like a normal closed bonemold helm,” she told me. “He is boasting of the theft at the Eight Plates inn and wears the helm openly. Confront him and demand it back – but do not shame House Redoran by murdering him.”

I hadn’t been thinking of killing the guy, for crying out loud. Why did people keep assuming that I’d be ready to commit murder at the drop of a hat? Did I really look like a ‘stab first, ask questions later?’ kind of person?

The next day I arrived back in Balmora via the Mages Guild and my new friend Masalinie Merian. “Ada!” she exclaimed. “How very nice to see you again.” For a brief moment I was quite touched, until she went on, “You don’t seem to have visited your ‘friend’ Caius in a while. Trouble in paradise?”

I gave her a look which ought to have frozen her to the spot, but only made her snort with suppressed laughter. I marched out of the building in haughty silence, trying to salvage at least some of my dignity. Clearly this rumour wasn’t going to die down easily, no matter how long I spent away from Balmora, but what could I do? I could hardly tell people the truth – and even if I did, they weren’t exactly going to believe me.

“No, I’m totally not sleeping with Caius. You see, I’m actually a top agent for the Imperial secret service and he’s the Grand Spymaster.”

“Yeah, right. Hahaha.”

Alvis Teri was easy enough to find at the Eight Plates. He was wearing a full set of Hlaalu guard armour, and as Neminda said, he was wearing the Founder’s Helm openly. I thought it made him look like a bit of a pillock, to be honest.

As I approached, he looked at me with narrowed eyes from beneath his visor. “If Alvena Lleram's father sent you, tell him it’s not mine. I never touched her.”

“I’m not here on behalf of the Legion,” I said, keeping my voice low as I sat down beside him. “Or Alvena’s father, for that matter. I’m a member of House Redoran.”

“Oh, great,” he said, scowling. “Just what I need. Another stupid Redoran.”

I ignored the insult. “I think you have something that belongs to us.”

“This helm, you mean?” I could only see his eyes, but I could tell he was grinning. “I stole it fair and square.”

“I really don’t think it works like that.” I leaned towards him slightly. “Come on, Alvis, let’s be sensible about this. I’m sure neither of us wants things to turn nasty.”

“Twist my arm, will you?”

I grabbed his right arm and gave it a sharp twist. Alvis let out a yelp. “You s’wit!”

Ah, now that word I recognised. My old Fighter’s Guild boss Modryn Oreyn used to use it whenever he was in a bad mood (which was most of the time). “Just a small warning,” I told him, with a mirthless smile. “Come on now, just hand it over. Or would you like me to have a word with my friend Larrius Varro at Fort Moonmoth?”

I could see him hesitating, trying to work out whether or not I was bluffing. Finally, with great reluctance, he pulled off the helm and handed it to me. “Fine,” he muttered. “Take the stupid helm. Just like the Redorans to send a girl to do a man’s job.”

I couldn’t help it, I fell about laughing. “Don’t worry, Alvis,” I chortled, as he continued to glare at me. “You stay away from our tombs in future, and I won’t tell anyone you got beaten up by a giiiiiirl. Okay?”

He seemed more interested in grinding his teeth than saying anything else, so I left the inn to consider my next move. Unfortunately, while it was the last thing I wanted to do right now, I felt I really should go and see Caius. He’d probably have another mission for me by now – and to tell the truth, I was rather looking forward to crowing over my Legion exploits.

However, it seemed that Caius had already heard the news. The first thing he said once I was safely inside was, “Well, my friend. I hear you managed to foil a plot against the Emperor’s life.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I hope his Majesty is grateful.”

“I’m sure he will be.”

“Tell him I don’t want a big reward or anything,” I said. “Just a small castle perhaps, maybe a title of some kind… oh, I take it he won’t object to me going back to Cyrodiil now?”

Once again, Caius avoided the question. “We need an Ashlander informant,” he said briskly. “To tell us about the Ashlanders and the Nerevarine cult.”

“Ah. Hang on a minute.” I fumbled for my journal. “This Ashlander guy in I met in Pelagiad mentioned a tribe up in the north. Something like Ur… Urkil…”

“Urshilaku?”

“Oh,” I said, slightly deflated. “You already know?”

He nodded. “I’ve heard of them, but first I want you to find out more about Ashlander customs. I’ve heard of a fellow in Ald’ruhn named Hassour Zainsubani, an Ashlander who left the Wastes to become a wealthy trader.”

I wrote down the name in my journal, struggling to work out how to spell it (‘Zaynsubahni’? ‘Zeensubanni’?) Well, at least I wouldn’t have to trek out into the sticks to find the guy.

“They say the Ashlanders like to give and receive presents,” Caius continued. “Take these 100 drakes, find out what Zainsubani likes, and get him a gift. Then see what he has to tell you about Ashlanders and the cult.”

“Okay. Er, Caius,” I said. “I take it all this is actually going to lead somewhere, eventually? Sometime soon maybe?”

“All will be revealed in time,” he said, with his usual infuriating smile. I just sighed.

I could have gone straight back to Ald’ruhn after leaving Caius, but first I wanted to get my Temple pilgrimage finished once and for all. The only site left was Ghostgate, near the crater of Red Mountain. I was told that the best way to reach it was to head up the Foyada Mamaea (‘foyada’ being the Ashlander word for ‘fire-river’, or lava channel). Much to my relief, when I reached the foyada east of Balmora, I found that it had dried out long ago (do you have any idea how bloody hot and heavy a full Imperial uniform is?)

Unfortunately I soon found myself facing a far worse threat than lava: cliff racers. As I made my way up the ashy chasm, listening to the whistle of the wind, they began to circle silently. I didn’t even realise they were there until I heard that dreadful shriek and looked up to see two of the damn things, only a few feet above my head and bearing down fast.

I ran. There was nowhere to take cover in the narrow, deserted mountain pass: no caves, no trees… Eventually I realised that I couldn’t outrun them, and that if I kept going I would only run into even more of the things. I ducked behind a tall rock, raised my shield above my head, and resorted to my tried-and-tested ‘wave sword around wildly and hope it connects’ technique.

I finally emerged alive, but badly scratched and bleeding. From now on I realised I would have to be a lot more careful about watching out for cliff racers. They had a bird’s-eye view (literally) and I had nowhere to hide.

From then on I crept forward a lot more slowly and cautiously, constantly looking around me and listening for the cliff racers’ shrieks. When I spotted one in the distance, I would wait until it noticed me and then fire off an arrow as it swept in to attack. I didn’t hit every time, but I did manage to keep most of them from getting close enough to do any real damage.

About half-way up the foyada, I spotted what looked like a building looming out of the fog in the distance. My heart leapt with relief, only to plunge again as I suddenly realised what kind of structure it was. The twisted, misshapen architecture of carved obsidian could only signify one thing: a Daedric shrine. No one had mentioned anything about this!

I swore under my breath and paused to think what to do next. Daedra were immune to normal weapons, and while I did still have my enchanted shortsword from Sharn gra-Muzgob, I’d no idea if it would be enough to hold them off. I’d just have to stay as far away from the shrine as possible and hope none of them spotted me.

I inched my way along the opposite side of the pass, pressed up against the cliff face, now keeping a desperate watch for Daedra as well as cliff racers. I could probably handle the odd scamp or clannfear, but if I ran across an Atronach I was finished. First thing to on my to-do list once I got back to Ald’ruhn: find a better sword.

At long, long last I was far enough away from the shrine to consider myself safe. I sank to the ground to rest, sighing with relief – and that was when the Blight storm hit.

Once again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that one of the Gods must have been watching over me that day. (Probably wetting themselves laughing, but still.) If I hadn’t happened to be carrying the Founder’s Helm, I’d probably have choked to death in that storm. As it was, the helm offered good protection against the wind and ash but made it far harder to see where I was going – and, more importantly, to see the cliff racers and other wild creatures bent on attacking me.

I struggled on through the raging storm as it began to get dark, exhausted, but not daring to stop and rest in case I was attacked. I couldn’t even see more than a few feet in front of my face – all I could do was pray that I was going the right way. By the time I finally arrived at Ghostgate – now well into the night – I was drenched in sweat, caked with dirt, aching all over and very close to tears.

Even so, my first sight of the ‘Ghostfence’ – the massive cage-like structure that surrounded Red Mountain, in order to keep blighted monsters from getting out – was almost enough to make me forget my aches and pains. It was a truly incredible sight: a massive, shimmering wall, fifty feet high and stretching as far as the eye could see. I wondered how long it had been there, and what kind of enchantment was used to maintain it.

I wasn’t in any state to continue my pilgrimage that night, so I stumbled into the northernmost tower where the Redorans had a hostel and collapsed into bed. The next morning, as I ate breakfast, the publican – who seemed to act as a kind of tour guide for pilgrims – told me a little about Ghostgate and the Ghostfence.

“Since the Armistice, most Dunmer clans bind their ancestors’ bones into the Ghostfence,” she told me. “The fence is sustained by the power of the Tribunal, but their spirits help to strengthen it.”

“You mean… it’s made of ghosts? Actual ghosts?” Now that was just creepy. Up until then I’d assumed the name was metaphorical.

I asked her whether it was true that Dagoth Ur lived inside the Ghostfence, and she nodded. “He dwells in fiery caverns beneath Red Mountain, served by his kin – called ‘ash vampires’ – and legions of deformed monsters. For centuries Ordinators and Buoyant Armigers led by the Tribunal would pass through the gate on raids, but these were suspended because of heavy losses to the Temple forces.”

“Buoyant Armigers?” I tried not to giggle as I imagined a bunch of soldiers, inflated like balloons, bobbing up and down on the surface of a lake.

“They are a small military order of the Temple, dedicated to serving Lord Vivec.” She lowered her voice, smiling a little. “In more ways than one, so I am told.”

Was she serious? Good grief. Every day I seemed to be learning something new and fascinating about the gods of the Dunmer. At the very least, I had to admit that they sounded a lot more interesting than ours.

The Shrine of Pride was just inside the Ghostfence, where heavy blight storms raged all day long. To get through the Ghostgate I had to pass two heavy iron gates which were controlled by levers. I don’t know why Dagoth Ur’s monsters couldn’t operate them; either they just weren’t intelligent enough, or the levers were protected by some kind of enchantment.

I was nervous about running into some of these monsters while walking to the shrine, but as it turned out, the only threat I faced was cliff racers. After dealing with them I donated a soulgem to the shrine, and was delighted when it cast a fairly powerful Shield spell on me – though admittedly this would have been a lot more helpful on the way to Ghostgate.

There was no way in hell I was going to travel back down the foyada to Balmora, so I went to the Ghostgate temple and asked if anyone could teach me an Almsivi Intervention spell. It was quite expensive, but ultimately I hoped it would save me money on scrolls. Once I was reasonably sure I knew the spell, I had a go at casting it, and after a few failed attempts I finally ended up in the Ald’ruhn Temple courtyard.

Inside the temple I spoke to a priest, Tuls Valen, to explain that I’d finished the pilgrimages. I had no way of proving this, but Valen didn’t seem to care – it seemed that if I’d had the nerve I could have just waited a few weeks, then told a Temple priest that I was done, and they’d be none the wiser. Sigh.

After taking the Founder’s Helm back to Neminda, my next task was to find Hassour Zainsubani and convince him to tell me all about Ashlanders. Before that, though, I needed a new sword – one that could handle Daedra. I went to the enchanter’s store under Skar, and bartered my old sword and a few other items for a longsword with a Frost damage enchantment. After that I went to the Ald Skar Inn, which was where I’d been told Hassour could be found.

Zainsubani wasn’t in the inn when I first arrived, but the innkeeper assured me that he was staying there. “He has his own room here,” she told me. “He was born an Ashlander, and knows their speech and custom, and has grown rich by trading with them for the things prized by Westerners. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“I was wandering what sort of thing he might like as a gift?”

“A gift?” She thought for a moment. “Well, he seems very fond of books.”

Books, eh? I left the inn and walked over to the Ald’ruhn bookseller, where I faced the daunting task of choosing a gift for someone I’d never even met. ABCs for Barbarians was probably not the best choice, ditto A Less Rude Song and Homilies of Blessed Almalexia, but what would suit an Ashlander who’d left his tribe to become a wealthy trader?

In despair, I finally went to the bookseller himself – an Imperial named Codus Callonus – and asked whether he knew Hassour. “The Ashlander trader?” He nodded. “A bibliophile. Likes poetry. I have a few such volumes here, I believe – Words of the Wind, Ashland Hymns, The Five Far Stars.”

After some dithering I picked The Five Far Stars and returned to the Ald Skar inn. Zainsubani was back too, and was drinking in the backroom below the bar. I approached him nervously, clutching the book in my hands.

“I am Hassour Zainsubani, Ada,” he said, when I introduced myself. “May you bless and be blessed. I do not wish to be rude, but if you have business, speak it, for I am at leisure, and would prefer to be alone with my thoughts.”

“Ah.” This wasn’t the best start. “Actually, I was hoping you might have time to speak to me. I’ve… brought you a gift.”

I held out the book, and Hassour’s face lit up. “This is a gift for me? A copy of The Five Far Stars. Noble words of noble warriors.” He hesitated. “Please take no offence, but I already own a copy of this book.”

“Oh.” I cringed. It’s always the way, isn’t it? You spend ages trying to pick the perfect gift for someone, only to discover they already have it.

“No, no!” he exclaimed, seeing my embarrassment. “You could not know this, and it in no way diminishes the pleasure of your gift. Now, what would you wish me to tell you?”

I explained that I wanted to know more about Ashlanders, and about the Nerevarine cult. Hassour threw up his hands. “There is too much to tell! But I will write you some notes. And if you are visiting a camp, there are things you should know about courtesy and challenges among the Ashlanders, and their views on foreigners.”

“Tell me what they think of foreigners,” I said, wanting to know the worst.

“Most Ashlanders wish all foreigners and their false gods could be driven from Morrowind,” he said bluntly. “Or at the very least, they wish the ‘foreign devils’ would leave them in peace. They think it shameful to attack unarmed persons, but they will kill without hesitation an armed person who offends them or their clan laws.” He paused. “I do not wish to alarm you, but Imperials and the Empire are particularly disliked. If you plan to visit a camp, it may be best to remove your Legion cuirass.”

Oh, great. “Okay, what about courtesy and challenges?”

“Ashlanders may challenge a stranger who enters a yurt without invitation,” he said. “Customs differ with different tribes, but leave when requested, and you may be forgiven. Be particularly careful about ashkhans – tribal chiefs – and wise women, the tribal seers and counsellors. Be courteous, and leave if requested – if offended, they may attack.”

This was just getting better and better, I thought. Especially since knowing me, I was bound to do something to offend someone (such as ‘being Imperial’, by the sound of it) without even meaning to. “What about the Nerevarine cult?” I asked, changing the subject. “Do all Ashlanders follow it, or is it just the Urshilaku?”

Hassour nodded. “The cult is of small consequence in Ashlander worship, and only among the Urshilaku do its followers have any influence. It is a very small cult, with only a few wise women with the gift of prophecy, and a few holy warrior-heroes who guard and protect the seers. Sul-Matuul, Ashkhan of the Urshilaku, is the Warrior-Protector of the cult, and their wise woman Nibani Maesa is the Oracle-Seer of the cult.”

So the Nerevarine cultists were a minority even among the Ashlanders? The more I learned about this cult, the less I understood why Caius seemed to care about it so much. I waited patiently for Hassour to finish writing his notes, then thanked him and went to the Fighter’s Guild to have dinner.

To my extreme annoyance, that night I had yet another of those disturbing dreams. Golden Mask Guy was back, and this time I could actually hear and understand what he was saying. “Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hai Resdaynia!” he cried. “Long forgotten, forged anew! Three belied you, three betrayed you! One you betrayed was three times true! Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur, steadfast liegeman, faithful friend, bids you come and climb Red Mountain! Beneath Red Mountain, once again, break your bonds, shed cursed skin, and purge the n’wah from Morrowind!”

I’d had just about enough of this. “Listen, pal,” I snarled. “I’m not Lord Nerevar Indoril. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m an Imperial and a GIRL. And I’m quite happy with my skin, thank you very much, even if I do spend a fortune on potions to cure sunburn!” I was getting really angry now. “So will you kindly piss off and stop haunting my dreams?”

I woke up straight after that, so I didn’t get to see how Dagoth Ur – if that was who he was – reacted. Frankly, I wasn’t at all happy about him forcing his way into my dreams like this, let alone addressing me as a ‘friend’. If this was an attempt to recruit me to his nasty little ethnic-cleansing campaign, it wasn’t working. Didn’t he realise I was one of the ‘n’wah’ he wanted to kick out of Morrowind?

I spent the morning training in the Redoran practice rooms, trying to work off my frustration with Caius, bad dreams and the world in general. Before setting off for Balmora in the afternoon, I went to get duties from Neminda. “Drulene Falen needs help with her guar herds again,” she said, before I even had time to speak.

I stared. “What, again? Are the mudcrabs regrouping?”

Neminda shook her head. “Sounds like trouble with bandits – probably outcast Ashlanders. Would you be willing to help?”

Sheesh. This woman really couldn’t catch a break, could she? Resisting the urge to say “only if I get more Hackle-Lo”, I promised to go the next day, but first I had to report back to Caius.

“Thanks for your report.” Caius said to me, when I showed him Hassour’s notes. “But keep the notes – you’ll need them. I’m promoting you, and sending you to the Urshilaku camp to speak with Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa.” He paused. “But before you go, I think it may be time to tell you what’s going on.”

I folded my arms. “Yes, I think it may be.”

Caius let out a long breath and brushed his hand against his forehead. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked unsure of himself. Finally he said, “The Emperor and his advisors think you have the appearance of meeting the conditions of the Nerevarine prophecies.”

“What?”

“That’s why you were pulled out of prison on his Majesty’s authority and sent to me. So you could satisfy the conditions of the Nerevarine prophecies and become the Nerevarine.”

“What?!”

“Here,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. “This is a decoded copy of the package you gave me when you arrived. It should explain everything.”

For a moment I just looked at him, convinced that he was joking, but there wasn’t even the ghost of a smile on his face. At last I set the letter down in front of me and began to read.

Spymaster Caius Cosades

Knight-Errant of the Imperial Order of Blades

Director of Imperial Intelligence in Vvardenfell District, Eastern Provinces

I have the honour to acquaint you with his Majesty’s wishes concerning Ada Ventura, an individual of no rank or consequence.

Ada Ventura has been released from prison by his Majesty’s authority and sent to you with this missive. She is to be entered as a Novice in the Imperial Order of the Blades, and is to serve under your absolute authority as you shall see fit, except insofar as his Majesty’s particular wishes are concerned.

His Majesty’s particular wishes are as follows.

A local superstition holds that an orphan and outcast, a youth born on a certain day to uncertain parents, shall unite all the tribes of the Dunmer, drive out the invaders of Morrowind, and shall reestablish the ancient laws and customs of the Dark Elven nations. This orphan and outcast is called in legend the ‘Nerevarine’, and is supposed to be a reincarnation of the long-dead Dunmer General and First Councillor, Lord Indoril Nerevar.

Ada Ventura has the appearance of meeting the conditions of this local superstition. Therefore it is his Majesty’s desire that she shall, insofar as is possible, satisfy the conditions of this ancient prophecy, and shall become the Nerevarine.

I stopped reading, and looked up at Caius. “What?!”

“It’s all there in the letter,” he said patiently. “The Emperor thinks you satisfy the conditions of the Nerevarine prophecies. Can I be any clearer?”

I simply couldn’t find words to express how ridiculous this was. “Caius… this is insane. There must be thousands of people born on the same day as me to uncertain parents! I mean, no offence to his Majesty, but what in Arkay’s name is he thinking? If he wants to create a puppet Nerevarine, surely it would make more sense to choose a male Dunmer?”

“Zainsubani says Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa at Urshilaku camp are the heads of the Nerevarine cult,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “So I’m sending you to speak with them. Tell them your story, and have them test you against the Nerevarine prophecies.”

I gaped at him. “You want me to go and tell a bunch of tent-dwelling savages, who want nothing more than to drive all foreigners out of Morrowind, that I’m the reincarnated Saviour they’ve been waiting for all these years? They’ll rip me to pieces!”

“Well, the package you gave me described the prophecy’s conditions, and you seem to match them – ”

“Caius! This. Is. Not. Going. To. Work.” I slammed my hand down on the table. “No one in their right mind is going to believe that a 23-year-old Imperial woman is the Nerevarine! I don’t believe it myself, so how the heck am I supposed to convince anyone else?”

“Don’t dismiss it out of hand, Ada,” he said softly. “You’ve seen for yourself that the Emperor and his counsellors think you have the ‘appearance’ of satisfying the prophecy. At first I thought we were just supposed to create a persuasive impostor, but…”

My jaw dropped. “You’re not telling me you actually believe this crap!”

Caius looked me directly in the eye. “I don’t know what to think. But I am sure of one thing: This is not just primitive superstition, and we will treat it seriously, just as his Majesty commands. Won’t we, Ada?”

Okay, I thought, this is it. He’s lost it. Gone completely and utterly off his rocker. I was starting to suspect that he wasn’t even a Blades agent at all, just some lunatic with delusions of grandeur.

“Would you like me to leave you something in my will, Caius?” I asked bitterly.

He ignored me. “As I said, go to Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa, and have them test you against the prophecies, then report back to me. Here’s 200 drakes for expenses, and you can pick up essential supplies at Fort Moonmoth.”

I let out a sigh of pure exasperation. “All right, Caius,” I said. “I will play along with this ridiculous charade, for now. But the minute anyone cottons on to what we’re doing, I’m out of here – and don’t go threatening me with arrest, because that’s nothing compared to what the Temple will do to me if they ever find out about this.”

Ten minutes later I staggered into the Eight Plates tavern and flopped down on one of the barstools. “Cyrodilic brandy,” I told the bartender. “A large one. In fact, better make it a double.”

I spent the rest of the evening trying to process what I had heard, but no matter how much I drank, it still didn’t make any sense. Somehow, the Emperor – and Dagoth Ur, it would appear – had got the idea that I was the reincarnation of this Nerevar guy, or at least that I’d make a handy substitute for the real thing. But if the Emperor wanted a convincing ‘fake’ Nerevarine, how did I even begin to fit the bill? And if he really thought the prophecy was genuine, why would he even want to make it come true? Didn’t all the prophecies claim that the Nerevarine would drive the Empire out of Morrowind?

No, that couldn’t be it – he had some kind of scheme, and I was just a pawn in whatever political game he was playing. For the first time since joining the Blades, I felt genuinely angry at what I’d been asked to do. He wants me to trick them, I thought. He wants me to go to these people, who have nothing left except dreams of their long-awaited messiah, and use those dreams against them.

Well, he had another think coming. If there was one thing I did remember from my history lessons, it was what happened to ‘pretenders’ who got found out, and it was never good. I wasn’t a fool, and I certainly wasn’t going to make the mistake of thinking I’d be any different.

[Captain Hammer]

Hilarious as always. I much enjoyed Ada's frustration with mis-characterization.

I hadn’t been thinking of killing the guy, for crying out loud. Why did people keep assuming that I’d be ready to commit murder at the drop of a hat? Did I really look like a ‘stab first, ask questions later?’ kind of person?

Case in point. Though I do think Morrowind is a bit heavy on "Killing is always an option" in the game. Even if it's a 'duel.'

The next day I arrived back in Balmora via the Mages Guild and my new friend Masalinie Merian. “Ada!” she exclaimed. “How very nice to see you again.” For a brief moment I was quite touched, until she went on, “You don’t seem to have visited your ‘friend’ Caius in a while. Trouble in paradise?”

I gave her a look which ought to have frozen her to the spot, but only made her snort with suppressed laughter.

Ah, the pitfalls of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Though it seems odd that James Bond never had this problem...

I marched out of the building in haughty silence, trying to salvage at least some of my dignity. Clearly this rumour wasn’t going to die down easily, no matter how long I spent away from Balmora, but what could I do? I could hardly tell people the truth – and even if I did, they weren’t exactly going to believe me.

“No, I’m totally not sleeping with Caius. You see, I’m actually a top agent for the Imperial secret service and he’s the Grand Spymaster.”

“Yeah, right. Hahaha.”

It could work. Bruce Wayne got selected for jury duty once, plead non-impartiality to try to get out of a criminal case. His reason for knowing about the case at hand? "I'm Batman." Shame, nobody believed him either...

Unfortunately I soon found myself facing a far worse threat than lava: cliff racers.

Indeed. The worst threat in Morrowind, and the developers actually apologized for how many were in the game. I actually don't play Morrowind without a mod that dilutes their presence in-game.

Once again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that one of the Gods must have been watching over me that day. (Probably wetting themselves laughing, but still.)

What's the old Chinese curse? "May you have an interesting life" or something like that? Ada clearly understands this first-hand...