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 17: I Am The Nerevarine

The next morning, when Skar was crowded enough for me to approach Venim Manor without being noticed, I cast the Chameleon enchantment on my Amulet of Shadows and slipped into the house as a servant entered. I caught my breath as I entered the main hall, which was impressive even by the standards of the other noble manors I’d seen. It was two stories high, sumptuously decorated, and dominated by a huge flower arrangement in the centre, which included several of those giant mushrooms I’d seen in the Ascadian Isles.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to stop and look around. I headed through a doorway into the right wing of the manor, down a corridor, then through another door and down a flight of stairs. The hallway here was guarded only by a lone female Dunmer wearing Dwarven armour, but I couldn’t see any doors to rooms where Varvur might be imprisoned.

I knew I didn’t have much time – I could re-cast the amulet’s enchantment a few times, but eventually the magical charge would run out. I noticed a scrap of paper and a key lying on a nearby bench, and tiptoed over to see what was written on the paper.

Malsa,

Keep our special guest in the room behind the tapestry. Make sure the door is locked and that he is under guard at all times. If he escapes, I will blame you.

V

Glancing round, I spotted a tapestry hanging at the end of a long passage and realised that this must be the one mentioned in the note. Poor Malsa… still, it was her fault for being stupid enough to leave a note like that lying in plain sight. With no time to lose, I snuck up behind her and used my Star of the West power to silently knock her out. I caught her in my arms as she slid to the ground – ye gods, she was heavy in all that armour – and managed to drag her out of sight behind the staircase, before grabbing the key and hurrying down the passageway to open the hidden door.

The miserable little room behind the tapestry reminded me of my own cell in the Imperial City’s prison. It was small, windowless and bare, furnished only with a bedroll, a bucket, and a small table in one corner. On the table was a candle and a bowl containing a single kwama egg.

Sitting on the bedroll was the young man I’d seen in the Rat in the Pot tavern a week or so earlier. He wore only pants, and looked tired and depressed, but apart from a few scrapes and bruises – presumably acquired during a struggle with his captors – he appeared unhurt. As the door creaked shut behind me, he leapt to his feet in alarm. “Who’s there?”

“Sssshh,” I hissed, pulling off the Amulet of Shadows.

His eyes widened. “You’re an Imperial!”

“Congratulations,” I said, and then took pity on him. “Varvur Sarethi, I take it?”

“Yes, I am Varvur. Did my father send you?” he went on anxiously. “Are you here to rescue me?”

I nodded. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Well… mostly.”

“What happened?”

“I am not sure,” he said slowly. “The last thing I remember before waking up here is drinking in a tavern with some of Venim’s guards nearby. I think they must have drugged my glass with a sleeping potion.” He bit his lip in anger and humiliation. “They even took all my clothes while I was unconscious. When I woke I tried to fight my way past them, but…”

I nodded sympathetically. “Do you have any idea why Venim would do this?”

“He and my father are political enemies. I think he planned to use me against my father.” Varvur glanced down, noting that I was armed. “Can you take me back to Sarethi Manor?”

“Well, I’ll do my best.” At this point, far too late, it occurred to me that I really should have brought some Divine or Almsivi Intervention scrolls. After a moment’s thought, I handed the Amulet of Shadows to Varvur. “This still has some charge left on it. Cast it when we leave the room, and hopefully it’ll last until we get out of the manor.”

“And if the enchantment wears off?”

“I’ll hold off the guards. You run.”

He looked doubtful, but finally nodded. “Very well.”

We set off together, going a little more slowly this time so as not to attract attention. Unfortunately I hadn’t quite memorised the layout of the manor correctly, and ended up taking a longer and more circuitous route than I had come by. Even so, we were almost at the door to Skar when I heard a loud yell behind me and realised we’d been spotted.

I rushed to the door, flung it open, and shoved Varvur through it. “RUN!” I shouted, then turned around and hurled a fireball spell at the advancing guards. It wasn’t enough to seriously harm any of them, but the ensuing chaos gave me time to escape through the door after Varvur, slamming it shut behind me.

We tore across the bridges spanning Skar’s central chamber, barrelling past unsuspecting Redoran guards and passers-by, without bothering to check whether anyone was following us. What the astonished onlookers must have thought to see me racing across Skar with a half-naked young Redoran noble in tow, I have no idea. We didn’t stop until we reached the safety of Sarethi manor, where Varvur shoved past the guards at the door and headed straight for the main hall. “Father!”

“My son!” Athyn Sarethi practically ran up the hall to greet Varvur, folding him into a tight hug. A well-dressed noblewoman, presumably Varvur’s mother, emerged from a back room to see what was causing all the commotion; when she saw Varvur, she let out a squeak of joy and rushed over to embrace her husband and son. I watched the touching scene with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, and was about to slink away quietly when Athyn detached himself from the group and came over to me.

“Muthsera. Words cannot express my gratitude.” He grasped my hands tightly. Tears were running down his face, and it was only now that I realised what kind of nightmare the past couple of weeks must have been for him.

“For this I will sponsor you in House Redoran,” he continued. “You may come to me now for duties and advancement… Kinsman. Only give me a little time, and I will have more tasks for you.”

I thanked him and made a hasty exit, my cheeks burning. It’s always nice to be appreciated – sheesh, it happens rarely enough – but I never really know what to do or say when people start getting emotional. (Maybe I should have taken a tip from those knights in the fairy-tale books, and asked him for half his fortune and Varvur’s hand in marriage.)

The only downside to all this, of course, was that Archmaster Venim was not going to be happy when he discovered what had happened. If he didn’t know yet who was responsible for freeing Varvur, no doubt he soon would. Certainly I’d made a friend for life in Athyn Sarethi, but I’d also managed to seriously piss off the head of my House – a man already known for his hatred of outlanders. That didn’t bode well for the future.

I figured Athyn could do with some time alone with his family, so after buying a few new spells – Water Walking from the Mages’ Guild and a magicka resistance spell at the Temple – I took a trip back to Balmora to see Caius. “Have you spoken with Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa?” he asked as soon as I entered.

“Yep.”

“And what did they say?”

“That I’m not the Nerevarine,” I said, after only a slight pause.

Caius wasn’t so easily fooled, unfortunately. “What else did they say?”

I sighed. “Okay… so Nibani said I was someone who might become the Nerevarine. But I don’t believe her,” I said quickly. “I mean, either I am this guy’s reincarnation or I’m not, right? Anyway, I couldn’t go back to her even if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

I explained how I’d quarrelled with Nibani Maesa, uncomfortably aware by this time that Caius was not likely to be impressed. When I’d finished, he shook his head. “Oh, Ada. When will you learn to control that temper of yours?”

“Well, she started it!” I said indignantly. “Would you believe she called me ‘hard-headed’ and ‘ignorant’?”

A smile hovered around his lips. “Well, ah…”

“Don’t you dare,” I warned him.

Caius snorted with amusement, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Threatening me now, are you? You’re developing a nasty habit of playing with fire, my girl.”

“Caius, I told you right from the start that I wasn’t suited to this job. Is it my fault if you didn’t listen? Look, I’m sorry,” I said wearily, as his frown deepened. “I really am, but I’m not going to magically change into a different person just because the Emperor wants it.” I threw up my hands. “Couldn’t we just ditch this idea of me becoming the Nerevarine? Tell His Majesty I wasn’t up to the task. There has to be someone out there who’d do a better job of it than I would.”

For several seconds he just stared at me without answering. From the look on his face, I got the impression he was getting as tired of this endless battle as I was. “Tell me what else the Ashlanders said to you,” he said at last.

Reluctantly I took him through the notes I’d made in my journal, including the prophecy of the Seven Visions. “Look at this,” I begged him. “How does any of this even remotely relate to me? And what’s Azura got to do with anything?” I added, noticing the reference for the first time. Azura was one of the Daedric Princes – the goddess of dusk and dawn, if I remembered correctly. How and why she should be mixed up with this Nerevarine business was beyond me.

“I don’t know,” he said. “As to what you’ve said… well, I’ll think about it. But in the meantime, I have one more assignment for you – a very tough one, this time.”

I let out a sigh of pure exasperation. “All right, Caius: one more. But after that I’m going back home, with or without your permission. Understood?”

“I recommend you take time to improve your skills,” he continued, pretending not to have heard me as usual. “You know the drill – do a few jobs for the guilds, cash in some loot, and upgrade your equipment. Here’re 400 drakes that might come in handy. And when you’re ready, come back to me, and I’ll give you your next mission.”

While I was anxious to get everything over with so that I could go home, I wasn’t going to argue with this. Frankly, anything that gave me an excuse not to see Caius for a week or two was a bonus as far as I was concerned. No doubt he had his fellow Blades keeping an eye on me, but I could work out how to deal with that later. I was determined not to let him bully me into staying in Morrowind a day longer than I had to.

Thinking I’d had enough excitement for one day, I went back to Ald’ruhn to rest. The next day I dropped by Sarethi Manor to see how Athyn and his family were doing, and he greeted me so warmly that I almost felt sorry I’d be leaving the country in a few weeks. It was such a refreshing change to come across someone who was actually pleased to see me.

Even so, as I spoke to him, I could sense that he was worried about something. “Is everything okay?” I asked, foolishly adding, “Can I do anything to help?”

Sarethi hesitated. “There is another favour I would ask of you, if you would. You may have heard that my son Varvur has been accused of foul murder.”

I nodded, remembering what I’d heard in the tavern the night Varvur was kidnapped. “Bralen Carvaren was one of Varvur’s friends,” Athyn went on. “I cannot believe that my son would do such a thing, but the evidence is... persuasive.”

“Er… what is the evidence?”

“I think you should start by speaking with my son,” Athyn said quietly. “He is in his room in the guard quarters.”

I couldn’t really see why he thought his son would confide in a virtual stranger, even if I had rescued him from Venim, but I followed his directions to the guard quarters and found Varvur’s room. The young man was lying on the bed, now richly dressed, but otherwise looking even worse than he had when I’d found him in Venim’s manor. His face was a sickly shade of pale grey, and there was a haunted look in his eyes which wrung my heart.

When he saw me, he raised himself up on his elbow and gave me a weak smile. “I am sorry, I am not feeling well. What can I do for you?”

“Your father asked me to speak to you about Bralen Carvaren.” He let out a groan and sank back onto the pillows, half-closing his eyes. “Could you tell me what happened?” I asked as gently as possible, sitting down beside him on the bed.

“I didn’t kill him. He was my closest friend.” He shook his head. “The guards found me near his body, but I don’t remember anything that happened that night.”

“What, nothing at all?” That sounded a little too convenient.

“No, nothing.”

I laid a hand on his arm. “Varvur?” I said softly. “If you won’t tell me the truth, I’m not going to be able to help you.”

“I tell you that I don’t remember anything!” He looked directly up at me for the first time, his eyes blazing with anger. “We had been drinking at the Rat in the Pot. All I know is that we left the tavern together, and then… the next thing I remember is being woken by the guards in the morning, with Bralen’s body nearby. I was covered in his blood…” He shut his eyes again, exhausted by the effort of speaking, and I thought I heard him murmur, “Just like in the dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“Sometimes I kill Bralen in my dreams,” he whispered. “It’s... horrible. But that doesn’t mean I killed him, does it? I was having bad dreams before he died.”

Poor kid, I thought. Clearly he was more ill than I had thought; he sounded almost delirious. What was more, I had a horrible feeling that I’d heard of this before: people going mad and attacking friends or relatives in a frenzied rage, then being unable to remember anything about it afterwards. If this was what had happened to Varvur, it was bad news: even if he was found innocent of murder, he’d probably have to be locked up for his own good.

I glanced around the room, searching for inspiration, and my eye fell on a small and incredibly ugly statue standing on a shelf near the bed. It was painted red and black, and looked as if it was made of ash. I don’t usually have strong reactions of any kind towards art, but this thing really was downright hideous – almost sinister, in fact. As I looked at it I could swear that its three crudely-carved ‘eyes’ were staring back at me, and for a moment I thought I could hear faint whispers in my head, like the ones I’d heard in the depths of Llevule Andrano’s tomb.

“Varvur,” I said carefully. “Do you remember where you got this statue?”

“Hmm?” He looked at it through bleary eyes. “Oh… no. I don’t remember.”

“Would it be alright if I took it for a while?”

He nodded. “Yes, take it. Maybe if you take it away, the dreams will stop…”

I picked up the statue gingerly – for some reason, I was incredibly reluctant to touch it – and carried it through to the main hall where Athyn was waiting. “Have you seen anything like this before?” I asked him. “I know it sounds strange, but… there’s something about it that really bothers me.”

Athyn took the statue from me and examined it carefully. “This ash statue troubles me,” he said at last. “I would have you speak with someone at the Temple about this. Perhaps Lloros Sarano would know more of it.”

I headed over to the Temple, where I asked the Redoran priest Lloros Sarano to take a look at the statue. He examined it closely for several minutes before setting it down.

“Thank you, Ada,” he said. “Yes, I can see there is some kind of conjuration enchantment on this statue. I believe it influenced Varvur Sarethi in some manner, causing him to kill his friend Bralen Carvaren.”

“You really think so?” I looked doubtfully at the statue. I’d never heard of an enchantment like that before… but then again, a sufficiently powerful and unscrupulous mage could probably do almost anything with magic.

“Tell Varvur to come and speak with me,” Lloros advised me. “When I am sure that he is no longer influenced by the statue, I will have him cleared of Bralen’s murder.”

I returned to Varvur to find that he was looking better already; he seemed much more alert, and his face had returned to its normal colour. I told him what Lloros Sarano had said, and he nodded. “Maybe he can do something about these bad dreams. I will see him as soon as I can.”

“Do you remember who gave you the statue now, by any chance?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I got it from Galtis Guvron at the Rat in the Pot. In fact… it was Bralen who persuaded me to buy the statue.” He bowed his head, and for a moment I thought I saw tears in his eyes. Poor guy, I could only imagine what he was feeling right now.

After Varvur had left the manor, Athyn Sarethi and I waited anxiously in the entrance hall for his return. About half an hour later he reappeared, looking incredibly relieved, and said something to his father in a low voice, glancing at me as he did so. Athyn patted him on the shoulder, murmured something in response, and waited until he had left the room before turning to me.

“It seems that my son’s name will be cleared soon,” he said. “Thank you, Ada. I knew he could not be a murderer, but I did not know of the influence of these ash statues.”

Something was still preying on my mind. “But why would anyone give your son something like that? Do you think it could be…” My voice trailed off. No, surely that was just too far-fetched.

Athyn shook his head. “I don’t know. I assume this Galtis Guvron is one of my son’s friends, but I have not heard of him or his family. Perhaps you should speak to Lloros Sarano about this?” I nodded and made to leave, but he held me back. “Before you go, I must thank you again for all you have done for my family. I am forever in your debt.”

“Don’t mention it. Glad I could help,” I said, telling the truth for once. I liked Athyn Sarethi. He wasn’t an arrogant snob like many of the nobles I’d met, who seemed to look down contemptuously on anyone who actually had to work for a living. I wondered if he might be willing to help me get out of Morrowind once I’d finished my latest Blades mission – not that I was one to keep score, but he certainly owed me a favour or two.

Back in the Temple, Lloros Sarano agreed that the ash statue business needed investigating, and suggested that I speak to Galtis Guvron at the Rat in the Pot. I decided to put on my Legion uniform first – I had a feeling that I might need it, and it turned out I was right.

I found Guvron, a pawnbroker, in a back room of the tavern. There was nothing obviously suspicious about him, and he was entirely polite until I brought up the subject of ash statues, when his eyes grew wide with shock.

“How could you...?!” He broke off. “No, never mind. I’ll just have to take care of this right now.”

Without a word of warning he pulled out a dagger he had concealed under his shirt. I’d been semi-prepared for some kind of confrontation, but I hadn’t expected him to attack me the moment I mentioned ash statues. Luckily the guy wasn’t much of a fighter, but though I yelled at him several times to surrender, I was eventually forced to deal him a fatal blow. I’d been hoping to get some information out of him; now I’d have to hope I could find something useful on his corpse or at his house.

Here, again, I was lucky. There a few more ash statues amongst the goods he was selling, and in one of his pockets I found a note from someone called ‘Hanarai’. It read as follows:

Here is another crate of statues. These are to be placed here in Ald’ruhn. Place the statues quickly and wisely. Destroy this note. Do not disappoint me again.

Hanarai

Hmm… there was definitely something strange going on here. I had no idea who Hanarai was, so I went back to Lloros Sarano and showed him the note. “Perhaps this ‘Hanarai’ is Hanarai Assutlanipal,” he said. “She claims to be an outcast Ashlander. Her house is the first one on the right down the stairs from the Temple… but she may be as unwilling to talk as Galtis, so take these potions in case you need them.” He handed me several Restore Health potions and some others which would cure common and blight diseases.

I approached Hanarai’s house with a deep sense of foreboding, and once again it turned out to be justified. Hanarai didn’t even blink when I entered her house without warning; she just stood there calmly, as if she had been expecting me. A chill ran through me as I realised that I’d seen her before: she was the crazed ‘Sleeper’ who’d accosted me in the streets of Ald’ruhn a few weeks back.

The moment she saw me, a terrible smile spread over her face. “It is the Hour of Wakening,” she hissed. “Dagoth Ur awakes, and comes forth in his glory, and his people shall rejoice, and his enemies shall scatter like dust.” And with that, she drew a dagger and attacked me.

Hanarai was a better fighter than Galtis Guvron, but with no armour and only a chitin dagger, she didn’t stand much of a chance. She still fought like a demon, refusing to yield even as her life ebbed away. All I found on her body was a few gold coins and another of those small ash statues.

I searched the house for any more evidence of what Hanarai and Guvron were mixed up in. Down the stairs in the lower part of the house, I found a door that was locked and enchanted with a magical trap. After a few tries I got my ‘Ondusi’s Unhinging’ spell to break the lock, and managed to disarm the trap with one of the probes I carried, allowing me to open the door safely. When I saw what lay in the cellar beyond it, I wished I hadn’t.

The underground room was lit only by candles and bathed in an eerie red light. It appeared to be some sort of shrine, dominated by a large red-and-black banner covered in strange symbols. In front of the banner was a bowl containing what looked like hunks of rotting meat. They looked absolutely foul, and smelled even worse.

In a corner of the room, a large ash statue stood on a packing crate. I searched the crate to find that it was full of the horrible things, tightly packed together. So this was what the Sixth House cultists had been smuggling.

Shuddering, I left the house and went back to tell Lloros Sarano what I had found. He listened in horror to my description of the Sixth House ‘shrine’, and promised me that the remaining ash statues would be dealt with. “At least the source of the statues in Ald’ruhn has been shut down,” he said. “I admire your achievement, but we must remain vigilant against anyone else who comes to Ald’ruhn with ash statues.”

I agreed. Clearly this Sixth House business was a lot more serious than just a few crazies ranting about their Lord Dagoth Ur and how he would drive out the n’wah. But what could they hope to gain by placing one of those statues in the hands of a Redoran noble?

I wondered if I should tell Athyn Sarethi what I had found, but decided he probably had enough to worry about right now without knowing that the Sixth House was after him as well. What I didn’t get was that everyone who knew Athyn seemed to speak of him with respect, or even affection. For someone so seemingly popular, he sure had a lot of people out to get him.

While taking a break to rest and eat at the Ald Skar Inn, I wondered what I should do next. It really was time I did some more work for the Fighters’ Guild and the Legion, especially if I wanted to practise my combat skills in preparation for Caius’ next mission. Also, I probably ought to carry out some duties for the Mages’ Guild as well – I was starting to feel a bit guilty about taking their free potions and equipment without actually doing any work for them. In the meantime, though, I went to ask the Temple priest Tuls Valen whether he had any tasks for me.

“Indeed I do,” he said seriously. “I have just received news of another False Incarnate in Vvardenfell.”

Cold fear gripped me. “A f-false Incarnate?” I squeaked, feeling the blood drain from my face. Surely they couldn’t already have heard about my dealings with the Ashlanders?

“Elvil Vidron in Suran claims to be the Nerevarine and makes prophecies of doom,” he said. Oh. Phew!

“What should I do?” I asked, trying to hide my relief.

“Clearly he is a heretic. Convince him that he is mistaken or, if all else fails, prove it by killing him. If he is the true Nerevarine, he is protected by prophecy and cannot die.”

I just hoped to goodness that this Vidron guy wasn’t the true Nerevarine. If that was the case then I was pretty screwed, wasn’t I?

There was no direct transportation link from Ald’ruhn to Suran, so I’d have to go via the Mages’ Guild in Vivec. Before leaving I asked Edwinna Elbert, the Breton woman who headed the Ald’ruhn Guild, if she had any duties for me. “Yes, Associate, there is something you could do for me,” she said. “I am looking for a copy of the rare Dwarven book Chronicles of Nchuleft, which is simply essential to my research. Would you be willing to find a copy for me?”

“I guess so. I take it the local bookseller doesn’t have a copy?”

She shook her head. “Here’s 250 septims to cover your expenses. Time is of the essence.”

On arriving in Vivec I went straight to Jobasha’s bookstore in the Foreign Quarter, remembering that he sold rare books. Sure enough, he had a copy of Chronicles of Nchuleft for exactly 250 septims, though I managed to haggle the price down slightly. After that I thought I would have to wait until evening and take the silt strider to Suran, but then a better idea occurred to me.

I took a gondola to the Temple canton and bought a cheap Rising Force potion from the priestess there, then donated it to Vivec’s Shrine to Stop the Moon. As before, it cast a powerful Levitation spell on me, allowing me to fly through the air almost like a bird. I floated up above the cantons and then set out in the direction of Suran, which I could just see as a faint blur in the distance. Nothing hindered me except a few cliff racers, and I arrived in the town before it got dark, far earlier than I would have done if I’d taken the silt strider.

I vaguely remembered seeing Elvil Vidron the last time I came to Suran – at least if the barefoot, shirtless guy rambling on about ‘the time of the Incarnate’ was Vidron, which I assumed was the case. He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see a young Imperial woman literally drop out of the sky above him (I guess if you’ve already convinced yourself that you’re the Nerevarine, not much else is likely to faze you either). “Excuse me, Ser Vidron?” I said. “Could I speak to you in private for a moment, please? I’m not going to arrest you or anything,” I assured him, as he looked at me suspiciously.

Elvil finally relented, and stopped his ramblings long enough for us to walk into a secluded alleyway. I just hoped I could think of something to say to convince him, because “Look, all this is a bit unlikely, don’t you think?” probably wasn’t going to do the trick.

“I’m told you claim to be the Nerevarine,” I said to him.

He smiled. “You disbelieve? I know my destiny… and you will have a hard time proving otherwise. I have seen the message in the dream. Have you not also experienced the waking dream?”

“Waking dream?” I thought back to the strange dreams I’d been having recently, and suddenly a clever idea struck me. “I have, as it happens. But you weren’t the person I saw.”

He frowned. “Who then, if not myself? The dreams are unyielding! Every day, every night! I must be the one... I must...”

“You can’t be the Nerevarine.” I leaned in towards him, lowering my voice almost to a whisper. “Because I am.”

“You?” He stared at me in disbelief. “But... how can that be?”

“Did Dagoth Ur appear to you in person?” I asked, flinging out my arms. “Did he address you as ‘Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hai Resdaynia’? ‘Long forgotten, forged anew’?” To my surprise, I found I could remember exactly what ‘Dagoth Ur’ had said to me in the dream. “Did he invite you to join him beneath Red Mountain and purge the n’wah from Morrowind? Well, that’s what he said to me!”

By now Elvil was gazing at me with eyes the size of dinner-plates. “You... The vision...” he stammered. “Then it was you, not I! Forgive me, Nerevar, forgive! I meant only to prepare the way.”

Sweet Mara, this guy was gullible. “That’s quite all right,” I told him. “Just stop telling people you’re the Nerevarine, and I’ll happily forgive you.”

“Yes, Nerevar!” he exclaimed. “I see clearly now. I shall repent at the Temple and preach in your name.”

“No, don’t do that! I mean… I need more time to prepare the people of Morrowind for my coming,” I added hastily. “The, ah… the minds of the ignorant masses are not yet ready to accept this news. When the time is right, I will reveal myself,” I continued, improvising wildly. “But in the meantime, you must tell no one about our meeting. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Nerevar,” he said meekly. “I will seek penance for my sins, and no longer claim to be the Incarnate.”

Whew, that was close. “I’m glad to hear it,” I told him, resisting the urge to mop my brow, and then a sudden thought occurred to me. “Do you happen to own an ash statue, by any chance?”

His eyes grew even wider. “How did you know?”

“Just a hunch. Er, I think you should get rid of that statue,” I said. “I… hear the paint they use to coat it is poisonous. If I were you, I’d take it along to the Temple and hand it in to one of the priests.”

He looked doubtful. “Well… if you think it is best, Nerevar.”

“Good! Well, it’s been wonderful meeting you, Elvil,” I said, forcing a smile. I could only hope he’d keep his word about not telling anyone my story; otherwise I was going to be in deep trouble.