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 16: A Harrowing Experience

After only a couple of weeks in the Ashlands, I was convinced that the cliff racers had it in for me personally.

It always happened the same way. I would be walking through the countryside, minding my own business, when I’d hear the cry of a racer somewhere in the distance and instantly freeze. My hand would fly to my sword and I’d scan the horizon desperately, hoping to spot the thing before it spotted me. Occasionally I’d manage to catch one unawares and pick it off with an arrow, but most of them would spot me as soon as I got close and come swooping down with a shriek, determined to tear apart the upstart human that dared approach within 200 feet of its nest.

I didn’t know what the people of Vvardenfell had done to turn the local wildlife so rabid and vicious, but it must have been something pretty nasty. With all the trouble those birds caused, I wondered why people didn’t just band together and hunt the things to extinction. Anyone who could manage it would probably be declared a living saint.

The Urshilaku camp was turning out to be more difficult to reach than I had expected. The village of Khuul to the west was the closest settlement, but in between them was an impassable mountain range. I could have tried to approach from the east, but there were no towns or even villages for miles around. In the end I decided to return to Maar Gan, the town I’d just visited, and head north from there up the Foyada Bani-Dad, another of those dried-up lava channels.

The journey took the best part of two days. I rested overnight in a small cave close to some Dwemer ruins, but first I had to drive out the bandits who had taken refuge there. I soon found out what they were guarding: Khajiit and Argonian slaves, six of them in total.

“Have you seen the Twin Lamps?” one of them asked me, as I removed her slave bracers.

Hang on, I’d heard that before somewhere. “Er… yes?”

“They light the way to freedom,” she whispered, then hurried off after the others before I could ask any more questions. Clearly the poor sods were desperate to get out of that place. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me to wonder how, with no armour or weapons, they were going to make it back to safety.

It was around midday when I finally reached the Urshilaku camp, which seemed to be nothing more than a collection of yurts in a small clearing. In the end I’d chosen to wear my Legion cuirass after all, deciding that I’d rather face the wrath of the Ashlanders than the talons of the cliff racers. I don’t know whether it was this, or just the fact that I was a human and an outlander, but I could sense the hostility and suspicion in the air as soon as I came within sight of the inhabitants. Several of them instantly disappeared inside their tents, and a few children playing near the edge of the camp were hastily dragged away by their parents.

I noticed that most of the tribespeople were barefoot, and wondered if this was part of their culture, or if they were just too poor to afford shoes. Certainly I found it hard to imagine why else anyone would choose to live like this. Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty of admiration for anyone who could survive such harsh conditions; what I couldn’t understand was why the heck anyone would want to. Why struggle by on a hand-to-mouth existence when you could be living in a city, with warm, dry houses and hot baths and proper sanitation?

My first few attempts to talk to the Urshilaku didn’t go too well. The first person I approached was an elderly woman, who greeted me with a scowl and a shake of her head. “Leave this place, Imperial. You and your people are not welcome here.”

“What do you have against Imperials?” I very foolishly asked.

Her scowl deepened. “The Imperials came out of the West and tricked the gods of the settled people, the false gods called the Tribunal. Now the Imperials act like they own Morrowind, and they claim we are ruled by their chief, the one they call Emperor. We think nothing of this foolishness, but they have great armies of soldiers in armour who come and burn our yurts and slay our children.” She ground her teeth. “So we hate them. Do you understand, outlander?”

“Well, there’s no need to take it out on me,” I mumbled, as she stalked off. “I never killed anyone’s children.” I couldn’t imagine the Imperial soldiers I’d met doing anything like that, and I wondered if the things he described had happened before the Armistice. To a human, that was ancient history – but the Dark Elves had long lives, and long memories.

I tried several other people, male and female, but all of them either just waved me away or snapped at me in a language I didn’t recognise. Finally, in desperation, I introduced myself to one slightly younger man by offering to bring him a gift – any gift he wanted. He looked at me with a faintly mocking smile, obviously recognising me straight away for a soft, city-bred Western type.

“You want to offer me a gift?” he sneered. “Poor outlander. Even these small things are a puzzle to you.” His smile grew wider. “Then bring me some trama root for my larder. I am a hunter, and it is beneath my dignity to scrabble about in the dirt – but you? Perhaps this is a task you can handle.”

From the smug expression on his face it was clear that he’d deliberately chosen the most demeaning task he could think of, and was expecting me to refuse outright - but this only made me more determined not to back down. I met his gaze with a defiant stare of my own. “All right,” I said coolly, as if grubbing around in the soil for roots was something I did every day. “Where can I find some trama root?”

He shrugged. “There are many patches near to the camp. Go out and find some.”

I waited until I was safely out of hearing before venting my feelings. I had plenty of opportunity, since the nearest patch of roots I could find was some way away. Trama root was a tough, spiny plant that was difficult to pull up even with steel gauntlets, and I didn’t want to waste water from my canteen to soften the soil. In the end I just hacked a few pieces off with my sword.

The Ashlander man raised his eyebrows when I returned to him clutching handfuls of trama root. “Well, outlander, you are not proud,” he said. “But you are courteous, and in an outlander, that is not a thing to be despised.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I had plenty of pride, that I’d only agreed to come here because I’d be executed if I didn’t, and that I couldn’t give a flying crap about him, his tribe, or his desire for trama root. But all that would have got me was a bollocking from Caius and quite possibly a fight, so I bit back my retort and forced myself to smile. “Very well, I accept your gift,” he continued. “And thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, doing my best to keep any trace of sarcasm out of my voice. “My name is Ada Ventura, by the way.”

“Under sun and sky, Ada. I am Shabinbael.”

“Good to meet you, Shabinbael.” I paused. “Er… now that I’ve brought you a gift, might you be able to help me? I need to speak to Sul-Matuul or Nibani Maesa.”

“And what do you wish to speak to them about?”

“Er… the Nerevarine prophecies.”

Shabinbael frowned; clearly this wasn’t an answer he’d been expecting. “You are an outlander,” he said. “And you wish to talk of the Nerevarine prophecies? You are polite and well-mannered, for an outlander, and I do not think you mean to give offence. But why should you care about these prophecies?”

Okay, here came the really difficult part. “Well, I know this is going to be very hard to believe, but…” I hesitated, steeling myself for the inevitable disbelieving response. “I’ve been told that I may fulfil the prophecies.”

I wasn’t sure whether I expected him to laugh, or hit me, or both. Looking back, I’m pretty sure all that stopped him doing one of those things was the fact that I’d just brought him trama root; if I was willing to humiliate myself by scrabbling around in the dirt for him, at least it showed I was serious. His eyes grew very wide, and he stared hard at me for several seconds.

“I do not believe what I am hearing,” he murmured. “You think you are the Nerevarine? You do not look like the Nerevarine, but… you do not speak like a fool, or a madman.”

Well, frankly, even this was a much better reception than I’d been expecting. “Go speak with Zabamund in his yurt,” Shabinbael said at last. “He is a gulakhan, Sul-Matuul’s champion, and he will decide what is right. If Zabamund gives you permission, then you may enter the Ashkhan’s Yurt and speak with Sul-Matuul.” He indicated one of a group of yurts under a canopy, presumably belonging to the leaders of the tribe.

So it was that I found myself facing yet another skeptical Ashlander, this one a warrior in chitin armour. This time I had the sense to introduce myself politely and offer him a gift before asking for anything else.

“I am not proud,” he said with a shrug. “I like gold. This is the custom you outlanders call a ‘bribe’, yes?

My mouth fell open. For a moment I thought he was joking, but there wasn’t a trace of amusement in his face. Wordlessly I took fifty drakes from my pouch and handed them over to him, hoping that would be enough.

Only then did Zabamund’s lips curve into a faint smile. “Good,” he said, as he pocketed the gold. “You come to talk? Then talk, outlander.”

I explained that I needed to speak to Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa, and he shook his head. “You have no standing among us, outlander. But you speak well, and with respect, so I will explain: It is against our customs that an outlander should speak to an ashkhan or wise woman. I’ll tell you also that Sul-Matuul has no love for outlanders.”

Time to turn on the charm, I thought. If only I’d thought to bring some of that Telvanni bug musk. “I understand this, sera,” I said, as humbly as possible. “But I have very important business to discuss with them. It concerns the Nerevarine prophecies.”

Zabamund frowned. “The Nerevarine Prophecies are not for outlanders. Why should we speak to you about these things? Who are you, that we should trust you?”

Well, why indeed? All I could think of was to tell him all I’d learned about the prophecies, and hope that he would believe my admittedly ridiculous story. So I told him what had happened so far – leaving out all the parts about the Blades, of course – and watched his expression grow increasingly thoughtful.

“Hmm,” he said, stroking his chin. “These are not simple matters. You know a great deal more than I would have thought – and some of what you say is news to me. I believe you should speak to Sul-Matuul. Go to the Ashkhan’s Yurt, and tell him I have sent you.”

The Urshilaku chief was a tall, middle-aged Dunmer, who carried himself proudly despite his humble surroundings. From the way he looked at me I could tell that he wasn’t impressed, and he looked even less impressed when I explained what I was there for. Even so, he found it in himself to speak to me politely – which made for a nice change, I must admit.

“So. My champion Zabamund has sent you to talk with me about the Nerevarine prophecies,” he said, with a manful attempt to feign interest. “Then go ahead, Ada. I am very curious.”

By the time I’d finished telling my story yet again I was just about ready to kill myself. Sul-Matuul still looked skeptical – not that I could blame him – but, rather to my amazement, he didn’t immediately dismiss what I had said. “You think you fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies. You wish to be tested to see if you are the Nerevarine.”

“Well, er – ”

“No outlander may join the Nerevarine cult,” he continued, before I could finish. “If you were a Clanfriend, an adopted member of the Ashlander tribes, then perhaps. I have an initiation rite in mind, and if you pass this rite, I will adopt you as a Clanfriend of the Ashlanders.”

The phrase ‘initiation rite’ brought back unpleasant memories of my induction into the Fighters’ Guild in Chorrol, courtesy of a bunch of loutish Colovians. They’d had great fun with the spoiled princess from the big city, oh yes. “What sort of initiation rite?” I asked, hoping at least that this one wouldn’t involve live chickens and a Colovian fur helm.

He looked grave. “To be adopted into the tribe, you must undergo a harrowing.”

“A harrowing?” Okay, this sounded bad. Really, really bad.

“In a harrowing, you will be judged by the spirits and ancestors to see if you are worthy,” he explained. “Go to the Urshilaku Burial Caverns and fetch me the Bonebiter Bow of my father Sul-Senipul. Return to me with this bow, and I will adopt you into the Ashlander tribes as a Clanfriend.”

I had to bite my tongue to suppress my exasperation. All I wanted was to be told I wasn’t the Nerevarine, and now I was expected to trudge through someone’s burial caverns on yet another sodding fetch quest? Couldn’t he just say “no” and be done with it?

“All right,” I said at last, with deep reluctance. “Where can I find these burial caverns, and how will I recognise the bow when I see it?”

“The burial caverns lie to the south-southeast of the camp, a north-facing door in a little hill halfway between us and the slopes of Red Mountain. Be cautious, for the spirits of our ancestors guard the caverns – they will attack and kill you if they can. As for the bow, you will recognise it by the markings.”

I wasn’t quite so confident of this, but I thought I’d better make a move before it got dark. There was a distinct lack of anything resembling hotels in this place, and even a dank, ancestor-infested cave would be better than sleeping outside in this dustbowl. So, after refreshing myself with a few stamina potions, I set out to look for the Urshilaku burial caverns. It was already growing dark when I finally stumbled across the entrance.

After creeping through several long, dimly-lit passages guarded by rats and skeletons, I found myself in a large chamber that was mostly submerged in water. Several large stepping stones provided the only means of crossing the underground lake. Unfortunately they were quite far apart, and jumping across them in my heavy armour was no easy task. I managed to clear the first few, but on the third stone I mistimed the jump and plunged into the water.

Swearing loudly enough to wake the dead (literally), I struggled to the side of the lake and hauled myself out, coughing and spluttering. A Water Walking spell was definitely going to be first on my list when I next visited a Mages’ Guild.

The next cavern I entered was another huge water-filled chamber, this one so tall that I could barely see the ceiling. I must have been further underground than I had realised. A waterfall tumbled down a huge central pillar, which was surrounded by a wet and slippery spiral ramp. Set into the outer walls, at varying heights, were doors to other burial chambers.

As I carefully made my way up the ramp, battered by spray from the waterfall, I noticed several mummified bodies on the central pillar. Each one was clutching what looked like a fantastic treasure – magically-preserved books, jewelled amulets, enchanted longswords of volcanic glass. Unfortunately they were all well out of reach, and in any case, I would have felt guilty about taking something so obviously valuable from a tomb.

I lost track of time completely while wandering through those caverns. Several times I paused to rest, eat and sleep, but I soon found it impossible to tell what time of day it was or how long I’d been in there. I’d hoped to find the bow fairly quickly and get out, but of course, that would have been too easy. On the plus side, I did manage to pick up some good loot in the form of scrolls and potions left behind by other adventurers – after all, I reasoned, they weren’t much use to someone who was already dead.

Finally, at the very end of the topmost cavern, I came across a powerful-looking ancestor ghost carrying an enchanted chitin bow. Maybe this was Sul-Matuul’s father, Sul-Senipul? I’d never know, because it attacked as soon as it spotted me, correctly recognising me for a greedy adventurer here to steal its precious bow.

This time my enchanted weapon made fairly quick work of the ghost, but just before giving up the – er, ghost, it cast a spell on me that made my muscles seize up painfully. What was more, the spell didn’t wear off once the spirit had vanished. With a sinking heart I realised that it had struck me with some kind of curse, one designed to permanently reduce my agility. It could only be cured by a spell or potion, and I didn’t have either.

So I slowly limped back to the Urshilaku camp, still somewhat damp, and half-crippled with the pain in my arms and legs. By the light level and the position of the moons and stars, I could tell that it was late evening – but as to what evening, I had no idea. I was so tired that it felt like I’d been wandering around those caves for weeks.

Sul-Matuul nearly jumped out of his skin when I entered his tent. For a moment he looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and I realised that he hadn’t actually been expecting to see me come back. “So, outlander,” he said, recovering his cool with impressive speed. “Have you completed the initiation rite?”

“Your bow, sera,” I said, handing it over. If he told me it was the wrong one after all I’d been through, I was going to hack him to death with his own battle axe.

Sul-Matuul briefly examined the bow. “This is my father’s Bonebiter Bow,” he said at last. “You have completed the initiation rite. I name you, Ada Ventura, Clanfriend of the Ashlanders. Keep my father’s bow, and bear it with honour.”

“Really?” I asked in astonishment. “I can keep it?” It was a nice bow, I had to admit, with a fairly powerful enchantment.

He nodded. “You are a friend of our tribe, and may rest in any Urshilaku bed, but do not harm other tribe members, or take their things. And now I will fulfill my other promise. Go to the wise woman’s yurt, and Nibani Maesa shall examine you and test you against the Nerevarine prophecies.”

All I really wanted to do was take a Restore Agility potion and go to bed, but I decided it was best to get the Nerevarine business over with first. Just as I was about to leave, I thought of something else to ask him. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to tell me what day it is by my calendar?”

“I cannot tell you, but it has been two days since you left for the burial caverns.”

Two days? That would make it the twenty-first of… hang on, the twenty-first of Heartfire? That was my birthday. I’d just spent the whole of my twenty-third birthday crawling through a filthy underground tomb, being stabbed and hacked at and gnawed by rats and shot full of arrows, for the sake of a mission I knew to be completely futile and pointless. I suddenly found myself uncomfortably close to tears.

Under the circumstances it would probably have been better to wait until the next morning before visiting Nibani Maesa. The way I was feeling now it was pretty much inevitable that we’d rub each other up the wrong way, and Nibani managed to irritate me from the moment I laid eyes on her. “So. They’ve told me of you, outlander – or shall I say, Clanfriend.” She nodded slowly. “You are hard-headed. And ignorant.”

I was already in a pretty bad mood, and at this point I came very close to losing my temper. Where did she get off calling me ‘hard-headed and ignorant’ when she’d only met me ten seconds ago? I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could speak she went on: “But perhaps it is not your fault.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said through gritted teeth. She wouldn’t be getting any ‘thoughtful gifts’ from me, that was for sure.

“My lord ashkhan says you will ask me about the Nerevarine prophecies,” she continued. “He also says I will test you against the Nerevarine prophecies. I must do as my lord ashkhan says… so ask your questions, and I will test you.”

“Okay, well…” I hesitated, realising that I really didn’t have a clue what to ask her about. “How will I know if I fulfill the prophecies?”

Nibani shrugged. “There are many Nerevarine prophecies, and they suggest many things. Aspect and uncertain parents. The moon-and-star. Sleepers. Seven curses. The curses’ bane. The prophecy of the Stranger. The prophecy of the Seven Visions. And the lost prophecies.”

My head was beginning to spin. Some of those things certainly sounded familiar –uncertain parents, Sleepers, and the prophecy of the Stranger – but ‘seven curses’? ‘Seven visions’? The ‘Lost Prophecies’? How many of these dratted prophecies were there, anyway?

“Ask me of these things,” she went on, “if you are patient, and would be wise. Or if you are impatient to know, just ask: “Do I pass the test of the Nerevarine prophecies?”

I took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but… I’m cold. I’m wet. I’m incredibly tired.” I paused for effect. “I’ve just spent the best part of two days wandering around underground caverns fighting hordes of undead, and one of them cast a spell on me that makes every step I take hurt like hell. I really, really don’t want to waste any more of anyone’s time, so… if I don’t pass the test, then yes, I’d rather just be told. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Nibani regarded me silently for several seconds before answering, as if searching for something. Finally she said, “You are not the Nerevarine.”

Relief flooded over me. “Thank you,” I breathed, unable even to make a pretence of being disappointed. “Well, in that case – ”

“But you are one who may become the Nerevarine.”

“What?” My hopes, which had briefly soared, came crashing down again.

“It is a puzzle, and a hard one,” she said, nodding. “But you have found some of the pieces, and you may find more. Do you choose to be the Nerevarine?”

No! No, I bloody don’t! “I, er…”

“Then seek the lost prophecies among the Dissident priests of the Temple,” she told me. “Find the prophecies, bring them to me, and I will be your guide. But first, let me tell you the prophecy of the Seven Visions.”

Before I could object, she had begun to recite what sounded like another of those crappy poems. Reluctantly I dug out my journal, and did my best to write it down as she spoke – none of this rote-learning nonsense for me, thank you very much.

Seven trials
What he puts his hand to, that shall be done.
What is left undone, that shall be done.

First trial
On a certain day to uncertain parents
Incarnate moon and star reborn.

Second trial
Neither blight nor age can harm him.
The Curse-of-Flesh before him flies.

Third trial
In caverns dark Azura’s eye sees
And makes to shine the moon and star.

Fourth trial
A stranger’s voice unites the Houses.
Three Halls call him Hortator.

Fifth trial
A stranger’s hand unites the Velothi.
Four Tribes call him Nerevarine.

Sixth trial
He honours blood of the tribe unmourned.
He eats their sin, and is reborn.

Seventh trial
His mercy frees the cursed false gods,
Binds the broken, redeems the mad.

One destiny
He speaks the law for Veloth’s people.
He speaks for their land, and names them great.

Apart from the ‘certain day to uncertain parents’ part, I had no idea what any of this meant. “What’s all this about ‘moon-and-star’ and ‘curse-of-flesh’?”

“Legend says Indoril Nerevar’s family standard bore the moon and star, and Nerevar’s armour and weapons bore this sign. Some say he bore a moon-and-star birthmark, or has a magic ring marked with a moon-and-star, or was born under a moon-and-star.” Well, certainly none of those things were true of me. “I’m not sure what the Second Trial means – will the Nerevarine come as a spirit who is not harmed by blight or age? But I think Curse-of-Flesh means the blight disease Corprus, which causes terrible, distorted growths on its victims. Perhaps the Nerevarine will be able to heal this disease.”

So the Nerevarine was supposed to be ageless, immune to disease, and possess miraculous healing powers? I was starting to get the feeling that it would be a long time before this guy showed up. “All right… what are the Lost Prophecies?”

“There are Nerevarine prophecies that have been lost.” Well, duh. “Some are forgotten, some hidden, some deliberately lost. But we hear that the Dissident Priests of the Temple study our Nerevarine prophecies, and record them in books. You must go to them and ask for these books, and bring what you find to me.”

I heaved a long, exhausted sigh, too tired to argue. “Okay... I’ll think about it. But first I’m going to bed. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I could get a bath round here?” I added, without much hope.

She looked at me with undisguised scorn. “A bath? Do you think we have water to spare for such luxuries, outlander? If you stay here you may wash with a bucket and a cloth, as we always have done.”

This was the moment where I completely lost it. I’d done my level best to be polite to everyone I met here, having been led to believe that the Ashlanders valued courtesy, only to find that being an outlander made me fair game for sneers and carping and barely-concealed insults. It was far from the worst thing anyone here had said to me, but her tone of voice – combined with the ‘gods, what a stupid outlander’ expression on her face – tipped me right over the edge into outright fury.

“Fine, have it your way. I’ll just be getting back to civilisation, then,” I said, with heavy emphasis on the word ‘civilisation’. Just by the tent flap, I paused for a parting shot. “I hope you’re a damn sight more polite to the real Nerevarine when he turns up, because frankly I wouldn’t blame him if he decides you’re not bloody worth saving!”

And with that I stormed out of the yurt – wishing there was a door to slam behind me – and out of the camp. The effect was spoiled a little by the fact that I couldn’t take a step without wincing, and even more so when I realised that wandering around the Ashlands in pitch darkness was a recipe for certain death. I tried to cast an Almsivi Intervention spell, but I was so exhausted and pissed off that I could barely even remember the words. I had to drink three Restore Magicka potions before I finally got it right.

Back in Gnisis – which was apparently the closest place with a Temple – I paid for a room in the tradehouse and went straight to bed. I didn’t even have the energy to take a bath first, or buy a potion to cure the stiffness in my limbs. That had to wait for the next day, as did unloading the loot I’d collected on the local shopkeepers. After that I took the morning silt strider back to Ald’ruhn.

I was well aware that I couldn’t expect Nibani Maesa to help me any more now, but to be honest, I didn’t really care all that much. As far as I was concerned, I had my answer. If Caius honestly thought I was going to voluntarily set out to become the Nerevarine, when I’d already been told I wasn’t, he needed his head examined.

Back in Ald’ruhn I went to visit Councillor Athyn Sarethi to see if he’d be willing to sponsor me in House Redoran. A servant showed me into Lord Sarethi’s study, where he greeted me with a smile. “Ah yes, Ada. Neminda has been telling me of your service to the House.” He paused. “I hear that you come to us from House Hlaalu.”

I winced. “Look, we all do crazy things when we’re young and stupid, right? Like getting really drunk at a family wedding, or joining House Hlaalu. There’s no need to rub it in.”

His lips twitched. “Very well. Serve House Redoran faithfully, and we will speak no more of it. But I must warn you of one thing, Ada,” he continued. “If I agree to sponsor you, you will be a Kinsman in the House, and family. No other House will take you in if you are expelled from Redoran.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“I would consider sponsoring an outlander,” Sarethi went on. “I have done so before, when the circumstances warranted it. But first, there is one more task I must ask of you.”

What, wasn’t saving his life enough? I mean, I wasn’t expecting a medal or anything, but this did seem just the teensiest bit ungrateful. I nodded silently, trying to look as if I didn’t mind, but Sarethi didn’t appear to notice; he seemed too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

“Archmaster Bolvyn Venim holds my son hostage for a crime I know he did not commit,” he said at last. “If you want me as your sponsor, you must rescue my son Varvur and return him to me.”

I stared at him. “Your son? Archmaster Venim kidnapped your son?” A dreadful realisation began to dawn on me. “When… when did this happen, exactly?”

“I am not sure exactly how or when he was taken, but he has been missing for nearly two weeks.”

My heart sank. If I wasn’t mistaken, I did know exactly how and when Varvur had been kidnapped – that evening at the Rat in the Pot when I’d seen him for the first time. No wonder the guards had reacted so badly when I tried to intervene; they’d probably slipped a sleeping potion into his drink while no one was looking. But how could I possibly have known?

Suddenly I felt like the worst person in the world. No wonder Lord Sarethi had asked for another favour; right now he’d probably do anything to get his son back. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said instantly. This was my kind of job, after all: righting wrongs, fighting injustice and rescuing damsels in distress (or whatever the male equivalent of a damsel is).

“Why would Venim do something like this?” I asked, and then it hit me. “He’s the one who’s been sending assassins after you, isn’t he?”

Sarethi didn't directly answer the question, but I could tell from his expression that I’d guessed correctly. There was no anger in his face, only sadness.

“He is a strong leader, and has done great things for House Redoran. How can I explain the hold he has over the hearts of the Redoran people? He brought us back from certain defeat. He moved the council here to Vvardenfell and took our share of the frontier lands. He is a natural leader, born to rule.” He sighed. “One only wishes he was just and fair as well as strong.”

Clearly this was as close as he was willing to get to criticising the Archmaster. “How will I find Varvur?” I asked eventually.

“He is being held in Venim Manor, which is the first manor to your right when you enter Skar. I have heard Venim is keeping him in the right wing of his manor.” Sarethi hesitated. “Kill the guards if you must, but you must be careful not to kill Venim himself, or the other councillors will turn against you.”

I hoped to be able to rescue Varvur without killing anyone at all. There was no way I could fight an entire houseful of guards, and besides, presumably they were only following Venim’s orders. I left Sarethi Manor, deep in thought, and spent the rest of the evening trying to come up with a plan.