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 15: Licence To Kill

I woke up in the inn with a stinking hangover and a strong conviction that I must have dreamed the last night’s events. Unfortunately, the first thing I saw when I forced my eyes open was the translated letter from the Emperor, which was still clutched in my hands. I must have fallen asleep while reading through it, trying to find something – anything – to give me a clue of what this was really all about.

For the moment I couldn’t see any choice but to go along with this crazy scheme, however little I wanted to. After all, I thought, the Ashlanders would soon send me packing when they realised I wasn’t the Nerevarine – and Caius would be forced to admit defeat and let me go back to Cyrodiil. If I survived that long, that was.

I had to take a ‘Cure Poison’ potion to get rid of the hangover before setting off on my latest Redoran mission. I won’t bother to describe my second visit to Drulene Falen’s farm, because it would be far too boring. Suffice it to say that I found and killed the bandits who were molesting Drulene’s guar, and received more Hackle-Lo as a reward. The only vaguely interesting thing that happened to me was on the way back, when I ran into a well-dressed Argonian carrying a pile of clothing.

“Greetings, traveller,” he called, speaking with a heavy accent. “Rasha wishes you well, and thinks you maybe can help him with some pressing business.”

“What sort of business?”

“I have, you see, a shipment of clothing,” he said, patting the shirts he carried. “Fine clothing, it is... to get to Ald-ruhn. But, I fear other business draws me away. Perhaps you and I might come to an arrangement, yes? If you will deliver Rasha’s shirts… these fine, fine shirts... to Ald-ruhn, you will be paid for your services.”

I couldn’t help wondering why he wasn’t able to deliver them himself, but I couldn’t see any problem with accepting the offer. I was going back to Ald’ruhn anyway, and the worst thing that could happen was that they’d refuse to pay me. After taking a quick look at the shirts to check that they weren’t cursed or anything (well, you never know), I nodded and told him I’d do it.

“Most excellent!” he cried. “I would ask that you swear an oath to Zenithar to seal our arrangement, though. Yes?”

“Um, okay,” I said. “I swear to Zenithar that I will deliver your shipment.”

“Wonderful!” He practically flung the shirts at me – and then, to my amazement, removed his own shirt and added it to the pile. “Take these to Bivale Teneran the clothier in Ald-ruhn – she will pay you. And a generous woman she is.”

Bivale Teneran, the clothier who acted as a Hlaalu spy? My heart sank. She was the last person I wanted to speak to again, especially since I’d ratted her out to Neminda. Still, once I reached Ald’ruhn, maybe I could hand over the shirts to someone else and get them to complete the delivery.

“Take care, my friend,” Rasha warned me as I made to leave. “One should not take an oath sworn to Zenithar lightly. No, never lightly.”

I’d never sworn an oath to Zenithar before – or any of the other Divines, for that matter – but while I had no intention of breaking it, I wasn’t exactly quaking in my boots at the thought of pissing off the god of commerce. What exactly was he going to do, get all the local merchants to charge me really inflated prices?

By the time I arrived back it was so late that all the traders had shut up shop, so I couldn’t do anything else that evening. On my way back to the Fighters’ Guild I ran into some other Guild members on their way to the tavern, who invited me to come and have a drink with them. I accepted, and spent several hours in the Rat in the Pot, happily regaling them with stories of my adventures in the Legion.

The next morning I went back to Neminda to report the success of my latest mission. She couldn’t offer me any more duties for the moment, so I returned to Tuls Valen at the Temple to see if he had any tasks for me. I was less than thrilled when he suggested I undertake yet another pilgrimage – this time to Maar Gan, a Redoran town in the north. Still, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do right now (no, visiting the Urshilaku camp definitely did not count as ‘anything better’).

Before setting off I went to visit the local alchemist to stock up on potions, but when I tried to purchase some, she shook her head. “Sorry. I’ll do no business with one who bears the mark of Zenithar.”

“The mark of Zenithar?” What, did suddenly I have a big ‘Z’ carved into my forehead?

She nodded. “It’s obvious you’ve sworn an oath to Zenithar you’ve yet to fulfill.”

“I was going to fulfill it,” I said, aggrieved. “Are you seriously saying no one will trade with me until I deliver those stupid shirts?”

“If that’s what you’ve sworn to do, yes.”

Bloody Zenithar! Well, so much for my idea of getting someone else to deliver the shirts. If His Holy Commercialness couldn’t even wait a few hours for me to make the delivery, no doubt he’d consider that cheating.

With a heavy heart I set out for Bivale Teneran’s store, only to realise half-way there that I didn’t actually have the shirts any more. I thought I’d put them in my pack, but now that I thought back to yesterday, I remembered that I’d carried them under my arm to stop them getting creased. I must have left them at the Guild, I thought, and set off to get them.

But when I got there, the shirts weren’t there. I looked absolutely everywhere – in my equipment chest, under the bed, in the bed – but I just couldn’t find them. By now I was starting to feel mildly panicked. What was I going to do if I’d lost the shirts and couldn’t fulfill my oath to Zenithar?

Suddenly, with a sinking heart, I realised where I must have left them. When I’d gone to the Rat in the Pot with the others the night before, I’d put them down on the back of one of the chairs while we drank – and I didn’t remember picking them up again. And that place was the Thieves’ Guild headquarters, I realised, groaning inwardly. I’d never see the damn things again.

What was I going to do now? All I could think of was to try and replace the shirts, but how could I do that when no one would sell me anything? Aaarrgh. This was definitely the last time I’d agree to swear an oath to one of the Divines.

Finally, out of sheer desperation, I went back to the Rat in the Pot to speak with the owner Lirielle Stoine. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to have seen some expensive-looking shirts round here?” I asked, without much hope.

To my amazement, she reached under the counter and pulled out Rasha’s shirts. “Would these be what you’re looking for?”

“Yes,” I said joyfully, clutching them to my chest. “Oh, thank you so much.” Perhaps there was ‘honour among thieves’ after all – some of them, at least.

“Yak gro-Skandar handed them in after you left them behind last night,” she said with a wink. “He said something about ‘making it too easy’.”

Blushing, I mumbled my thanks and apologies and left for Bivale’s clothing store as quickly as possible. At this point I had to grudgingly admit that Zenithar might have a reason for considering me unreliable.

I had no idea how Bivale would react to seeing me again, since she must have heard by now about me leaving House Hlaalu for Redoran. But in the event she greeted me exactly as she had before, with the same friendly smile I remembered from our last meeting. She even gave me a very nice enchanted belt as payment for delivering the shirts. Had the Redorans actually taken any action against her? I couldn’t tell.

I had to take the silt strider to Maar Gan, as there was no Mages Guild guide there. When I entered the town’s Temple I found that the entrance hall was dominated by a large rock, with a plaque attached to it and a collection plate nearby. I was startled to see another Dremora, like the one in the Puzzle Canal in Vivec, standing there beside an armed guard.

When I approached the Daedra, wondering what he was doing there, he scowled at me. “I am Anhaedra. If you are a pilgrim, read the inscription on the stupid rock.”

I went over to the ‘stupid rock’ and read the inscription: “Here Mehrunes Dagon held this rock high above the Dunmer. Vivec taunted Mehrunes Dagon so that Dagon threw the rock at Vivec instead of the people.” Well, okay. What now?

I turned to the priest standing nearby for help. He smiled at me. “If you are on the pilgrimage here, I may assist you. Do you want the blessings of the Temple?”

“Um, I suppose so,” I said uncertainly, and he cast what sounded like a Sanctuary blessing on me. Nice of him, I thought, but I still wasn’t sure exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

I glanced back and forth from him, to the rock, to the Daedra, and then suddenly burst out laughing as I realised what was going on here. “Is that what you’re here for?” I said, striding up to Anhaedra. “Helping pilgrims to re-enact the rock-throwing scene?”

He looked impassively at me. “Your words are weak, mortal, as is your flesh.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I mean, no offence, but that is truly pathetic. You seriously just stand around here all day letting people make fun of you?”

I could see that he was starting to get annoyed, but he contained his anger with an effort. “Continue with your insults, mortal. I long to feast on your marrow.”

“Oooh, I’m scaaared,” I jeered. “Oooh, look at the big Dremora who wants to feast on my marrow. Are you going to throw rocks at me, Dremora?”

That did it. With a vicious snarl, Anhaedra drew a silver longsword from the sheath by his side. “After I kill you, I will rape your corpse,” he growled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

Charming, I thought. Still, I couldn’t entirely blame him. If I were a Daedra magically bound to the mortal plane for eternity, forced to endure endless taunts and jeers for the amusement of smug pilgrims, I’d probably be threatening to rape people’s corpses as well.

Fighting a Dremora would normally be a terrifying experience, but the Sanctuary spell the priest had cast on me made it all but impossible for Anhaedra to hit me. I struck him a couple of times with my own blade and he instantly vanished, leaving nothing behind but his sword and a Daedra heart. I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for the guy, to be honest. Okay, so the Daedra are basically pitiless monsters who look on mortals roughly the same way we view insects, but surely even they didn’t deserve a fate like this.

“You have done well, outlander,” said the priest, as I turned back to him. “Wisdom and praise be unto you. Culminate your pilgrimage by reading the inscription on the rock.”

Sighing, I read the inscription out loud once more and waited while the shrine cast another blessing on me. On leaving the temple I realised I’d have to stay the night here, as there was no silt strider service back to Ald’ruhn until the next day. I wondered what else there was to do in Maar Gan.

The answer to this turned out to be ‘not a lot’, so I paid for a room at the only tradehouse in the town and spent the rest of the evening there. I didn’t know anyone, so I wasn’t able to join in any of the conversation, but I did overhear an interesting rumour – apparently some rogue Ashlanders in a camp near the town were bragging about having captured a famous noble. Hmm, I thought. If he was a Redoran, wouldn’t Neminda have told me about this?

The next morning I got up very early, just before dawn, and followed the innkeeper’s directions to the Ashlander camp nearby. I found it a mile or so down the dirt road that led from Maar Gan to Ald’ruhn. Some Ashlanders were already sitting outside their yurt, cooking breakfast around a small campfire.

I really didn’t want to have to attack anyone this time, so I approached the Ashlanders cautiously and asked if I could enter the yurt. They didn’t seem to understand very well, so I repeated the question more slowly and carefully, pointing towards the tent. If they’d recognised me as a Legion soldier they might well have refused, but I’d left off my cuirass, remembering what my Ashlander informant Hassour Zainsubani had told me. One of them finally shrugged and nodded, before turning his back to me and continuing with his breakfast.

Inside the yurt I found an Ashlander man in netch leather armour and another male Dunmer, presumably the ‘famous noble’. For a famous noble he was certainly dressed pretty shabbily, and I noticed that he was barefoot – perhaps to make it harder for him to escape. “Sera. Bless and be blessed,” I said to the Ashlander, remembering how Hassour Zainsubani had greeted me. “I hear that you’re holding a nobleman prisoner?”

“Yes, you heard right. I have the famous noble Beden Giladren.” He gestured towards the other Dunmer. “I demand five thousand drakes in ransom. Will you pay?”

I didn’t have five thousand drakes, and even if I had, there was no way I was paying him that kind of money. “May I speak to Beden?” I asked, stalling for time. “I don’t have the money, but his family might.”

The man looked me up and down briefly, noting the armour I wore and the scabbard hanging from my belt. At last he nodded and moved aside, allowing me to approach the prisoner. “Are you Beden Giladren?” I asked him, in a voice too low for the Ashlander to hear.

He nodded. “Can you get me out of here, outlander? These Ashlanders are holding me for ransom.”

“I’ll do my best, but I’m not going to pay them five thousand septims.” I paused. “Are you a Redoran, then? I don’t recognise the name.”

Beden reddened slightly. “Well… no, I’m not. I’m just a poor pilgrim. I thought the Ashlanders would kill me, so I told them that I was a famous noble.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You bloody idiot!”

“Well, what was I supposed to tell them?” he hissed. “I was afraid. I knew it was wrong, but what else could I do?”

“If you’d just told them the truth, they’d probably have let you go.” Heaving an exasperated sigh, I turned back to the Ashlander. “Excuse me, sera. About your hostage here.”

“Yes?” he asked impatiently. “Have you not heard of this famous Redoran noble, Beden Giladren?”

“He’s not a famous noble,” I said through gritted teeth, ignoring the frantic gestures Beden was making. “He’s not even a Redoran. He just told you those things because he was afraid you would kill him.”

I watched the man’s face gradually flush with anger as he realised how he’d been fooled. “So this ‘famous noble’ is a liar and a coward,” he said scornfully. I could understand his disgust, to be honest, though I couldn’t feel much sympathy for him. “Very well, you can have him for five drakes.”

As I said before, I don’t usually like paying ransoms, but this barely counted as a ‘ransom’ – it was a face-saving gesture, a sop to his wounded pride. I handed over five drakes – which was probably far less than he’d already spent on feeding his hostage – and he agreed that Beden was free to go. I hoped that perhaps this would teach these Ashlanders a lesson about attacking innocent travellers and holding them prisoner.

I offered to accompany Beden back to Maar Gan, but he told me he could make his own way there. Frankly I wouldn’t have trusted this guy to walk from one end of the street to the other without getting into trouble, but it was his choice. I left the Ashlander camp and headed back to the town, arriving just in time to catch the silt strider to Ald’ruhn.

Beden had told me I should speak to someone at the temple in Ald’ruhn to explain what had happened to him. When I went back to Tuls Valen to tell him I’d completed the Maar Gan pilgrimage, I mentioned Beden’s name and was directed to Lloros Sarano, a Redoran priest.

“So you rescued Beden Giladren from the Ashlander camp,” he said at last, when I explained who I was and what had happened to Beden. “I was wondering what had happened to him. Thank you, Sera Ventura – I will make sure House Redoran hears of your deeds.”

I still didn’t feel like setting off on Caius’s latest errand, so I went back to Skar in the hope that Neminda might have something for me to do. I found her looking anxious and harassed. “Ah, Ada!” she exclaimed. “I’m glad you’re back. I have an urgent assignment for you.”

“What sort of assignment?”

“Serjo Athyn Sarethi, a councillor of House Redoran, believes his life is in danger.” She cast a nervous glance towards Skar’s main chamber, where the entrances to the noble manors could be found. “He’s in Sarethi Manor under Skar. I need someone to guard him.”

“Okay, fine.” I paused, trying to remember where I’d heard the name Sarethi just recently. Ah, yes – the author of The True Noble’s Code, and… “Does he have a son called Varvur, by any chance?”

“Yes,” she said, looking mildly surprised. “Have you met him?”

“Er… not exactly.”

She bit her lip. “Oh, I hope Athyn is okay. He and my father were close friends, and the Sarethi family has had enough trouble recently.”

I assumed she was referring to Varvur and the murder accusations, but there was no time to ask. Following her directions I headed straight for the Sarethi manor, hoping that I would get there in time. Somehow I had a very bad feeling about this.

As I entered the manor, my heart skipped a beat. A fight had clearly just taken place, and the floor was strewn with dead bodies – some in bonemold armour, others wearing masks and outfits made of dark leather. In the midst of them all stood a middle-aged Dunmer in a red robe, clutching what looked like a Dwarven shortsword, whom I desperately hoped was Athyn Sarethi. Otherwise it would seem I’d got here a little late.

When the man saw me, his eyes widened and he shifted into a defensive stance. “It’s OK!” I called to him, sheathing my own sword quickly and raising my hands. “Are you Serjo Athyn Sarethi? Neminda sent me to guard you.”

“Oh, thank the Tribunal!” he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “The assassins have already taken my guards, as you see. I fear there will be mo- ”

He broke off at the sound of a tremendous racket at the entrance to the mansion. Moments later two more leather-clad figures burst through the door, brandishing shortswords, and we seized our own weapons in preparation for a battle. I’m not sure I could have taken on both of them at once, but luckily Lord Sarethi seemed perfectly capable of defending himself. Having made short work of the second assassin, he stood back to mop his brow, and I saw through a tear in his robe that he was wearing chitin armour underneath it.

Looking down at the man I’d just killed, I saw a piece of folded-up paper tucked into his belt. I bent down to pick it up, and blinked in astonishment as I spotted the words at the top of the page. “ ‘Honourable Writ of Execution for Athyn Sarethi’? What the hell is this?”

He said nothing. “The afore-mentioned personage has been marked for honourable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild,” I read aloud. “The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned licence to kill – This is some kind of sick joke, right?”

Lord Sarethi shook his head, still breathing heavily. “They are Morag Tong.”

“Is that something like the Camonna Tong?”

“No, the word ‘Tong’ means ‘guild’. And ‘Morag’…” He hesitated. “The literal translation is ‘Foresters’.”

My mouth dropped open as I realised what he was saying. “Assassins? You have a bloody guild of bloody assassins?” You know, I’d always suspected that the Dunmer were completely insane, but here at last was cast-iron proof.

Sarethi nodded stiffly. I just couldn’t get my head round this. “So… something like the Dark Brotherhood? Only legal?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “Not like the Dark Brotherhood. The Morag Tong are not just cutthroats, they have honour…” I couldn’t believe he was defending the people who’d just tried to kill him!

“Well, they may have honour,” I said grimly, “but the person who hired them clearly doesn’t.” I glanced back at the ‘writ of execution’, sickened at the thought of someone actually sitting down and writing these things. “Do you know who it was? I could pay them a little ‘visit’ and put the fear of Talos into ’em if you like.”

But he was shaking his head. “No, thank you, outlander. You have done enough.” He took the writ from my hand. “I am in your debt, and will try to repay you. Please, go and tell Neminda that I am safe.”

By now I could hear voices further into the manor, and looking round I saw a few heads – presumably belonging to servants – peeking nervously out of doorways. Even so, I was a bit nervous about leaving Sarethi alone. “You don’t think there’ll be any more of them?” I asked him.

“No. Not today, at least.”

“Okay then. Sorry about your guards,” I said softly, glancing down at the bodies that littered the floor. He bowed his head, and said nothing.

“What happened?” Neminda asked urgently, as soon as I arrived back in the Council hall. “I heard there was an attack. Is Athyn Sarethi safe?”

When I explained what had happened, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much. Do you know that’s the fourth Morag Tong attack he’s fended off in the past few weeks?”

I let out a low whistle. “Wow. Someone really wants him dead, don’t they?”

“Yes, and I know wh-” She broke off abruptly. “But no matter. Guard duties pay in drakes, Ada,” she continued, handing me two hundred septims. “It’s not much, but perhaps you can put it to good use.”

She promoted me to Lawman rank, and reminded me that I’d need a Councillor to sponsor me if I wanted to rise further in the House. I wasn’t particularly surprised when she recommended Athyn Sarethi. “He’s a good man, and was a close friend of my father,” she told me. “You will find no better sponsor in all of House Redoran.”

Well, the guy whose life I’d just saved certainly sounded like a good choice, but I thought I’d give him a bit of time to recover and mop the blood off his floor before going to him and demanding sponsorship. Besides, I’d been putting off my visit to the Urshilaku long enough; it was time to get this Nerevarine nonsense over with once and for all. If I set out for their camp the next day, I could pay a visit to Athyn Sarethi when I got back – if I got back. Which wasn’t looking at all certain, I thought dourly.

As I left the hall, I wondered who could be ordering the assassination attempts against Sarethi. It sounded like Neminda knew, or suspected, but wasn’t willing to tell – why? And if he was really such a good man as she claimed, why would anyone want him dead? The plot thickened.