From the files of Eno Hlaalu - A Morrowind New Life Tale, Celebrating Chorrol's 20th Anniversary Options

[Burnt Sierra]

Old Life - 30th Evening Star (30th December)

On the last day of the year, the Empire celebrates the holiday called Old Life. Many go to the temples to reflect on their past. Some go for more than this, for it is rumoured that priests will, as the last act of the year, perform resurrections on beloved friends and family members free of the usual charge. Worshippers know better than to expect this philanthropy, but they arrive in a macabre procession with the recently deceased, nevertheless.

New Life Festival - 1st Morning Star (1st January)

Today, the people of Tamriel are having the New Life Festival in celebration of a new year. The Emperor has ordered yet another tax increase in his New Life Address, and there is much grumbling about this. Still, despite financial difficulties, the New Life tradition of free ale at all the taverns of Tamriel continues.

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Morrowind. The name itself brings to mind a land of contradictions, a country of exotic beauty and savage violence, from the civilised cities to the lawless frontiers. It’s a land where ancient tradition and religious beliefs uneasily mix with progressive Imperial Rule. A country populated with ancient wizards, power-hungry politicians, assassins, thieves and soldiers. A land where life is cheap and corruption rife, and racial tensions are always simmering just beneath the surface.
For all this diverse selection of people though, the end of the year is a time of celebration. The transition from Old Life into New Life, the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next, is full of the promise of change and hope. Men and Mer (and Orc) dance, drink, and tell tales of the year ending and talk of their dreams of the future. Sometimes these tales are actually true. There are the grand tales that talk of great heroism and honour, redemption and sacrifice, and trickery and deceit. Then there are the small tales, frozen moments of everyday life – sometimes comic, sometimes tragic and sometimes mundane.
This is just one of those tales.

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1.

Vivec City: Arena Canton – 30th of Evening Star, 3rd Era Year 426

“…and out of nowhere, this Nord just appears. Two seconds before, nothing, then this giant was just… there, swinging this massive, and I mean massive, damn battle axe aimed straight at my head. I’m pretty sure I squeaked, and I ain’t really the squeaking kind.”

The voice belongs to Rogdul gro-Bularz, one of the senior assassins active in the Morag Tong, and sitting around him in rapt attention are his brethren. The most dangerous assassins in all of Vvardenfell, peering up as though it’s story time at school, albeit with considerably more weapons. And Cyrodilic Brandy. The table in front of me is littered with half-empty bottles and a mess of candle stubs pooling wax onto the scarred wood. The room is dim, hidden deep in the canton’s underworks, the stone walls stained from the humidity from the nearby canals.

“Can an Orc squeak?” asks Ulmesi, using a nearby dagger as an impromptu toothpick. She is slight for a Dunmer, even boyish, with an unruly tangle of white hair tied back with a red bandana.

“Kinda like a musclebound Scrib, maybe? Eek!”

The table vibrates faintly with every belly laugh, each thud sending a tremor through mugs and elbows pressed tight together. My brethren are a motley mix, with all races of Tamriel represented. I am the oldest. Their Grandmaster. I watch them with pride: Rogdul’s brute strength, Ulmesi’s speed, Hickim’s confidence, Dunsalipal’s guile.

“Shut up,” says Rogdul, “this Orc squeaked anyway. You’d seen the size of that damn axe coming at you, you’d have squeaked too.”

“Elves always squeak.” Says Hickim, a Redguard visiting from the Balmora Guildhall. He looks like he’s never missed a day of training, lean muscles coiled beneath dark skin.

“So, I duck and roll out of the way.”

“Whilst squeaking.”

“Yeah, so I’m ducking, rolling and squeaking, that massive damn axe whistles just above my head, I roll, this damn axe crashes into the nightstand next to me, just disintegrates, shards of wood flying everywhere, then I’m back on my feet and finally there’s a little distance between us. I’m thinking, ok, a chance for me to catch my breath, but oh no, this Nord,” he spits, “swivels and throws this damn battle axe at me, like he’s just throwing a bottle or something that weighed nothing. Everything freezes. I’m stood there, frozen.”

“Still squeaking?”

“I’m frozen, you idiot. You can’t squeak when you’re frozen. This massive damn axe coming at me, me frozen,” he pauses and takes a slug from his tankard. His hands are rough as calloused pumice, his knuckles scarred and fingers thick.

“And? You can’t just stop there; there’s an axe coming at you!” says Ulmesi, leaning forward, elbows on the table. Her eyes are wide, the red of her irises almost glowing.

“Misses me by I don’t even know, not much and crashes through the wall behind me.”

“Through the wall?”

“Cheap wooden walls, you know what these pay by the hour inn rooms are like.”

“So, what happened?”

“This almighty crash, wood splintering, then this absolute blood-curdling scream of horror from the next room. Me and the Nord,” he spits again, “our eyes meet, and then we both turn to this hole in the wall. We see this woman screaming, and this man, maybe her husband, lover, I don’t know, just impaled on the far wall, this massive damn axe stuck right in him.”

The low ceiling makes it feel even darker. A heavy and conspiratorial gloom. Our hideout is a place where secrets are kept, hidden deep underneath Vivec City.

“That’s rough.”

“Yeah, you never think about the people in the next room.” Says Hickim, shaking his head.

For a moment, it looks like everyone is thinking about the nameless people in the next room, the ones who didn’t expect to be part of the story. I take a swig of brandy, enjoying the burn down my throat, hitting with an aftertaste of spicy resin and distant cinnamon. Their faces glow in the candlelight, shadows flickering with every subtle movement.

“So, what happened next?”

“The woman is screaming, frantically pulling at this massive axe, as if pulling it out would somehow bring him back to life. Axe that size, there ain’t nothing bringing him back, you know what I mean? Anyway, she’s screaming and pulling, and the Nord,” he spits, “he moves to the hole in the wall, looking like he’s in shock you know, like he can’t believe it’s his axe that’s done it, so I come up behind the big bastard, slip my dagger into his throat, I mean I really ram it in there, shoulda seen the size of him, and just saw it back and forth like I’m cutting through, I don’t know, wood or something.”

“There’s a lot of wood and squeaking in this story.” I point out.

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, he stops moving, I check he’s dead, and I get the hell out of there.”

“What happened to the woman?”

“I don’t know, probably still there screaming. The job was done; I just wanted to be anywhere else. Makes you think though, you book a room, you know, for whatever, a little love night, next thing you know, massive damn axe through the wall.”

“You got away clean?” I ask.

“Yeah, I mean everyone was running to her room, not the one I was in, and she never even looked round, just had her eyes on that Nord’s,” he spits, “massive damn axe.”

Rogdul’s mouth twists like he’s chewing the words, savouring each one in the telling. He leans back, tankard in hand, takes a large gulp and liquid splashes onto his scarred leather armour. Ulmesi picks wax from the table with the tip of her dagger, rolling it absently between her thumb and forefinger, while Hickim takes a drink as if the bottle owes him something.

“Life is a fragile thing.”

“Yeah, you never know when your time is up.”

“You know what I’m taking from this story?” says Hickim.

“What’s that?”

“Always check the inn and pay for the one with the thicker walls.” There are a couple of groans at that, a chunk of bread arcs across the table and thunks against Hickim’s forehead before dropping into his lap. He reaches down, grinning, crumbs dotting his chin and the table in front of him, picks it up and takes a bite. “Thanks!”

“So, come on, Grandmaster, you must have some good New Life tales to tell,” says Dunsalipal, Master from the Sadrith Mora guildhall, his gaze fixed and expectant.

“Well, let me think.” I say, and the other guild members lean in slightly, elbows nudging aside jugs and battered cutlery. The low hum of conversation fades as everyone waits for me to speak. Whilst I run through a list of tales, the rough grain of the table rasps beneath my fingertips.

“Oh, come on, you have your own Chronicler writing a book about your life sitting right there! Are you really claiming none come to mind?” says Ulmesi.

“Yeah, we want a classic Morag Tong New Life story.”

“It’s not that I don’t have any; it’s that I’m not sure sharing them with you lot is a good idea.” I say. Immediate sounds of protest come from every angle. “Fine, fine. I’ll tell you about one that started my own New Life’s tradition. Now, let’s see, this took place about three years after the events of A Beautiful Duel, so I was about twenty-five.”

“What was the job?” asks Rogdul. To my right, I see the Chronicler’s quill hovering above parchment, prepared to strike, while every eye around the table fixes on me.

“This story isn’t about the job itself. The target, however, was a House Cousin in House Hlaalu. I’d done my research. Politician. Obsessed with image. Very particular about his hair. Every week, without fail, he’d go to the same barber in Balmora.”

“Foolish. Should always alter your routine, just asking for it if you don’t,” says Rogdul.

“Indeed. Although he had no reason to suspect he was in any danger, otherwise he might have done.” I lean back, reaching through the years. “Anyway, early afternoon, 30th of Evening Star, and I was ready.”

[Burnt Sierra]

2.

Balmora - 30th of Evening Star, 3rd Era Year 388

There's nothing like the smell of boiled Kwama eggs and spilled Sujamma in the morning. Problem is, it's now early afternoon, so the stink's had time to get comfortable in the gutters. I stand between two buildings opposite Llethan's barber shop, imaginatively named Llethan's, where the eaves weep icy water down the back of my collar. I watch the foot traffic, or what passes for it on the final day of the year in Balmora: a couple of sullen Dunmer hauling a crate apiece, and another who seems to take a slow pass around the entire town, hawking black-market Scrib jerky. Of the few people whose attention he gets, they ignore him. I guess everyone has already stocked up on dubious-quality jerky for New Life. Or they don't want to spend the rest of the night heaving their guts up. I keep my head down and my face wrapped. The wrap is for disguise, sure, and because the wind knifes my face through the gaps in the buildings and I'd like to keep my nose.

The barber's sign creaks overhead. Two crossed combs carved into a flat of driftwood, the handles painted a flaking red. Although the door to the shop is shut fast, a powerful gust of icy wind causes the frosted glass of the front window to rattle each time it blows past. Very fancy-looking is frosted glass, looks almost elegant. Also stops people seeing inside, which suits me fine. I watch the street, counting each pedestrian, cataloguing every face, every gait, every quirk in their step. Balmora is slow today. People are too busy nursing hangovers from the pre-New Life festivities, or they're inside their homes preparing the meals for the night's celebration. Only the desperate or the ridiculously vain are out and about. Lucky for me. I keep track of the rhythm of the street. The sullen Dunmer have got their crates inside a building, and the voice of the Scrib jerky seller is fading in the distance. It's time.

I open the door, and step inside the Barbers, eyes flicking around for priority number one. Finding Vedaren, the bodyguard. Nobody knows if that's his first or last name; he's just Vedaren. And I have a weighted cosh with Vedaren's name on it. I spot him to the right, sitting in a chair reading a pamphlet about forthcoming Arena fights in Vivec, and am across the distance before he rises from his chair. The cosh makes a swooshing sound and then a very satisfactory thump as it crashes into the side of his skull, sending reverberations up my arm, and he collapses to the floor motionless. I give the body a sharp kick to make sure he's not faking, then drop the cosh and pull a crossbow from its harness on my back, and aim it into the room. In front of me, staring in shock, are the two people I'm looking for. Almse Llethan, hairstylist and barber for Balmora nobility, stood over a chair with scissors in her perfectly manicured hands. Sitting in the chair, towel around his neck to protect his fine silk shirt, is Meril Dorvayn, a relatively low-ranking politician in House Hlaalu. The chair's wooden footrest grates against the floor as Meril tries to stand, then thinks better of it.

"Don't move." I say, "I'm only here for the money. Nobody does anything stupid, nobody gets hurt."

The best robber I ever knew was a Nord by the name of Ulren. He claimed his name was Ulren the Unseen, though I always thought he just liked the sound of the alliteration. He had a few simple rules for doing a holdup. One, you always want to start by making a splash. He compared it to an illusionist he'd seen. Make their minds so overwhelmed with one thing that consciously they just shut down and become much more willing to go along with whatever they're told. Actually, he used to say, "Shock the hell outta them so they get brain freeze." I'm hoping the cosh has made an impressive enough splash. If it didn't, the crossbow pointing at them should help. Two, always be polite. Call them sir or madam. Polite feels like firm ground for those newly pliable minds, makes it seem regular, and regular keeps people calm. Dorvayn and Llethan are both Dunmer, so I guess I'm going with sera and muthsera. Three, if anything goes wrong, don't talk, just act. Of course, it didn't do Ulren much good in the end. We found his body floating in the waterworks, missing some parts of him I'm sure he'd rather have kept. Quite a memorable sight for the fifteen-year-old me. But while he was alive, damn, he was good.

Clippings of dark hair scatter the floorboards around Meril's chair, and a framed certificate from some Hairdressing Guild I've never heard of hangs framed near the door. A powerful scent of citrus, some sort of oil I suspect, floats across the room from the scissors that clatter to the floor as Llethan's grip loosens, her wide red eyes looking blank.

"You're robbing me?"

"Yes, muthsera. Just kindly put all your gold into a bag, pass it over here, and then you get to go about your day with a marvellous story to delight your friends at whatever party you people will go to tonight."

Meril Dorvayn makes a disgusted snort and begins raising himself from his chair.

"Not so fast, sera, stay seated, please." I say, levelling the crossbow at him. "This can go one of two ways. Everybody stays calm, everybody stays smart, and everybody walks out of here alive, with the only injury belonging to that goon over there having a sore head tonight. That's the route I'd prefer. The other option is I kill all of you, and then take the gold. Your choice, sera, but if I see you try to move again, I'm going to assume you've chosen option two."

He slowly sinks back into his chair, eyes glaring at me. "You have no idea what a mistake you're making. Don't you know who I am?"

"Don't have the slightest clue," I say. "Who are you?"

"I'm a high-ranking member of the Great House Hlaalu! And you are trying to rob one of the businesses under the protection of the House. I suggest you run out of here, leave Balmora and never come back, and maybe, just maybe, I won't send a squad of assassins to hunt you down and bring me your head!"

"An entire squad of assassins?"

"That's right, fool. Now get out of here before I lose my patience." He has a nasty look on his face; a look I've seen my whole life. The look of a bully certain he's found someone he can intimidate.

"Well, let me ask you something then, sera. If you're going to send a squad of assassins after me, why would I possibly let you live?" I ask, the crossbow pointing at his chest. "Looks like you've chosen option two, yes?"

"Stop it!" Llethan says. "Both of you, just stop it."

I say nothing, just keep the crossbow pointed at Dorvayn.

"Fine," he says. "Take the money. Almse, do as the thief asks." He leans back in the chair, as if he's no longer interested in this conversation, but the gleam of sweat on his forehead is rather ruining the effect.

"At once, sera."

"A wise decision." I say. "Although if you are as powerful as you claim to be, I think I might leave town fairly quickly, anyway."

An uncomfortable pause, for him anyway, then the shuffling of footsteps, and Llethan returns, bag in hand.

"This is all the gold I had in the safe, I promise. Just take it, and please, just leave us."

"Thank you, muthsera. If everyone just remains calm for another moment, this will all be over. Now, if you'd be so kind as to tie the top of the bag." I pause, and wait for her to do so. "Thank you, muthsera. Now place the bag on the floor, and use your foot to slide it towards me." Another pause. "Excellent. Now, just take a few steps backwards, I'll grab the bag, and we're all done."

I wait for her to do so, and look over at Dorvayn. Now that he thinks he's safe, he's not even looking at me anymore. Good. I step forward, kneel to pick up the bag, and then shoot him in the face with the crossbow from about three feet away. I freely admit I'm not the best with crossbows, but even I can't miss from that range.

Llethan screams, falling backwards in horror. "What are you doing? I gave you the money!"

"One moment, muthsera, if you please," I say, and walk over to Dorvayn's body. The bolt had entered at an angle, turning his face into something lopsided. A dark wetness spreads across the floorboards beneath his feet, and the room now carries the smell of opened bowels and something copper-sharp. Better safe than sorry though. I load another bolt, which clicks into the groove with a pleasingly smooth resistance, place the crossbow right against his temple, and fire again, then turn to face Llethan. "My apologies, muthsera. You were saying something?"

"I gave you the money!" she says, a slightly hysterical note in her voice.

"So you did." I say and use my foot to slide the bag of coins back towards her. "Afraid I lied about that. This was never a robbery. This was a Writ of Execution."

"What? Why pretend to rob me then?"

"Simple psychology. People who know they're about to die will frantically fight for their lives. But when they think it's just about money? Especially not even their money? Less fight. Less messy." I look at the remains of Meril Dorvayn, the blood sprayed on the mirror and pooling on the floor, the coppery smell which seems to get stronger. "Well, less messy for me. Sorry about that. At least you didn't get robbed though, right?"

She stares at me, but no words seem to be forthcoming. After a few seconds, I turn, walk through the shop, open the door and step outside. Wait, I think. Not so fast. I turn back around, re-open the door and step back inside.

"Don't mind me," I say. "Forgot my cosh."

With the cosh safely tucked away, I'm back on the street. Balmora is still nice and quiet, just deserted enough that nobody can say for certain what they did or didn't see, and walk at a comfortable pace. If you run, people remember you, but moving with the bored shuffle of a labourer on a break, people's eyes just glaze right past you. Bored shuffle or not though, I don't waste time. I have a Silt Strider to catch, leaving shortly, and I know it won't be long before Llethan recovers from the shock and goes to seek help. Plus, I'm looking forward to this next stop. New Life celebrations, and I'm planning on having the best seat in Morrowind. Desele's House of Earthly Delights in Suran. Maybe I can get away with shuffling along a little quicker, I think to myself.