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.

*
*

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.

*
*

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]

3.

Suran

I get to Suran on a Silt Strider run, hopping off at the main platform as late afternoon turns into early evening. The town squats on the edge of Lake Masobi, the whole place smelling faintly of unidentified cooked meats, tobacco, and the sour reek of money. Behind me, the caravaner is already hustling the next batch of travellers toward the ramp.

Suran is a Hlaalu place, which means it’s full of the sort of people who can smile while they’re picking your pockets or foreclosing on your family home. Most of the action clusters around the square, where traders, moneylenders, and hawkers have set up stalls under awnings of dubious cleanliness. In the back alleys lies the other business of Suran. Slave trading, contract work, the buying and selling of small, deniable deaths.

The square is busy this evening. Pilgrims and priests, mercenaries and revellers all cluster in groups, pretending not to be sizing up each other’s purses. Above the din, a pair of local brats are hurling insults at a guard walking his rounds, who ignores them with the sullen professionalism of a man paid too little and hated too much. I can’t think of a better place to celebrate the New Life festival. Even the air itself feels tight with anticipation. Like a room waiting for someone to start a fight, the one everyone secretly came to see.

My stomach growls and reminds me to focus. There are vendors everywhere, of course, each stall proffering some culinary abomination that passes for street food in Suran. One old Dunmer woman ladles out a stew that practically glows in the dark. Another, younger, sells skewers of roasted Marshmerrow with a secret glaze made from a “family recipe” that any Khajiit would recognise immediately. The aroma is equal parts floral and feet. Then again, you don’t come to Suran for the gastronomy. You come for Desele’s. The House, as everyone calls it, is the worst-kept secret in the Ascadian Isles. If you’re looking for liquor, or company, or the possibility of leaving with only some of your teeth and none of your dignity, this is the place. If you get there before it gets too busy, you can even get food.

I cut across the busy square, narrowly avoiding a pickpocket whose hands dart toward my coin purse with the stealth and subtlety of a Slaughterfish. Doesn’t do him any good. I keep my coin in a hidden breast pocket, sewn into the lining of my tunic, a trick I learned from a Skooma dealer in Vivec’s Lower Waistworks who’d lost three fingers and all his savings to competitors’ enthusiasm. The would-be thief senses the futility and shrugs, grinning with the easy fatalism of the poor. A bell somewhere chimes the hour, and in the square, a Temple priest clambers atop a crate and begins exhorting the crowd to embrace the New Life and reject sin. His words dissolve into the general hum of commerce and vice. Nobody listens, but everyone is a little happier for having seen the show. Approaching Desele’s, I spot two bouncers at the door: burly Nords with matching scars on their foreheads. They’re scanning the crowd for trouble, or maybe just for sport. I’m not what they’re looking for. Too small, too obviously not drunk enough to cause problems. I square my shoulders and make for the entrance, already feeling the warmth and noise of the tavern spill around me.

Inside, feeling the bouncers’ increasingly interested gaze on the back of my neck, I hand in my crossbow and cosh at the weapons-check station. It’s a small alcove immediately inside the vestibule, manned by a Dunmer with the professional cheer reserved for morticians and moneylenders. He has a tattoo of a sprig of Bittergreen curling up his wrist, and he takes my crossbow with a little whistle of appreciation, then my cosh (silvered, weighted, and ugly) with a nod that says he’s seen worse but not by much.

“Name?” he asks, already locking my property in a lacquered case behind him.

“Eno,” I reply. No point in using an alias; the House runs on mutual understanding and a bit of leverage.

He slides me a token, palm to palm, and leans in close. “You break it, you bought it,” he whispers, and I can’t tell if he’s talking about the drinks, the dancers, or the unwritten rules that keep this whole place from turning into a bloodbath.

I nod as if we’ve shared a secret and let the current of noise sweep me further inside. The main room of Desele’s is a riot of colour and flesh, stuffed wall-to-wall with every stripe of local fauna and visiting degenerate. The air is thick with grease, perfume, and a harmony of competing shouts, laughter, and off-key singing. At the centre, a raised stage glows in lamplight, where a pair of Argonian twins in little more than body paint are doing things with their tails that defy natural law. A squad of sallow-faced punters crowd the foot of the stage, raining coins and slurred encouragement up at the performers while ignoring the servers weaving expertly between spilled drinks and grasping hands. More than one patron is already sleeping it off in a booth, having surrendered to the unique hospitality of Suran’s finest.

No one even glances up as I make my way to the bar, except a man in the far corner who flashes the briefest of smiles. An assassin’s hello, if I ever saw one. Galyn of the Tong. I nod back and point to my stomach. On the top floor, there’s another stage that opens later in the evening, but for now, that’s where I can get food. I lean over the bar and inquire about being seated upstairs. Above the din, the Argonian twins finish their act to a hailstorm of coins and stomps and whoops from the crowd. At the next seat over, a well-dressed but slightly unsteady on his feet Dunmer is attempting to impress a cluster of local girls by drinking an entire flagon of Sujamma without pausing for breath. One bartender steps out from behind the bar and gestures for me to follow her upstairs.

*

I’m focusing on my bowl of stew. It’s hot, tastes pretty good. Some sort of meat. Definitely plenty of salt. Not glowing, which I find comforting. Warm bread on the side. It’s doing the job, and the two tankards of Mazte are going down smoothly. I’m just dipping a chunk of the bread into the bowl when a woman practically tumbles into the room, clutching a battered satchel to her chest. Her hair is the colour of ancient brick dust, and her clothing is a patchwork of careful repairs. For a moment she stands blinking, scanning the layout. Her gaze lands on the bar, where the upstairs barkeep is polishing glasses with the slow, unhurried boredom of a man who has seen every variety of drama twice before and has learned to file it all away under “not my problem.”

She strides up to him. “Tovas, please, I—” she starts, but the barkeep cuts her off with a practiced flick of the wrist, setting the glass down as if to punctuate his point.

“Dorisa, you know the rules. You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”

“But I need the work. I have nowhere else to —”

He leans in, voice going low. “Look, I told you before. We had to let you go. There was a lot of pressure from outside. And they’re not the type of people you want to get on the wrong side of.”

“I’ve already been on the wrong side of them! You know that.”

The barkeep’s face softens a fraction, just enough to see that once, long ago, maybe he’d believed in something. “I’m sorry. I really am. But you know how it is.”

She sags then, all the fight gone out of her in an instant, her lips trembling with the effort of not breaking down in front of strangers. She manages a strangled thanks, then turns and blunders back toward the stairs, nearly colliding with a server on the way down. Just like that, she’s gone, leaving behind a room full of diners, trying to pretend that nothing has just happened.

Except me. I recognise that kind of desperation, and I know from first-hand experience that it doesn’t just go away if you ignore it. That flavour of helplessness that comes from the universe reminding you of your own irrelevance every damned day.

I push my bowl away, no longer hungry, and decide to follow her. Not because it’s my business, but because sometimes you just need to see what happens next. Or maybe because I never learned how to mind my own business, not really, no matter how much the Tong tries to drill it into you.

I catch up with her outside, in the alley, to the side of the tavern. She’s hunched over, shoulders shaking, making those small, wounded animal noises you can only make when you think no one is listening. I clear my throat gently, so as not to startle her into flight.

She flinches anyway, but pulls herself together, scrubbing at her face with the back of her hand. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just making sure you’re all right. You looked like you could use a drink, or a friend, or both.”

She gives a sardonic little laugh. “You think a drink will fix it? Maybe for a moment. But I can’t afford moments.”

“Want to talk about it?” I ask.

She sniffs, considering, then shrugs. “My daughter. She was taken. By a man with money and friends in the right places. He says she’s his now. Well, technically she is his. Not by choice, though. Not that I had a choice. But I never thought he’d take her too.”

I’m not much for comforting words, so I just stand there and let her keep going.

“My husband tried to get her back. They slit his throat and threw him in the lake.” She wipes her eyes again, then finally looks at me, really looks at me. “You’re not from here, are you?”

I shake my head, and that seems to comfort her.

“Then maybe you don’t know. Or maybe you do. But in Suran, when someone like me loses everything, it stays lost.”

I nod, because I do know. Maybe not from Suran, but from every other place, just like it. I make a mental note of the name she’d been called: Dorisa. We stand in silence for a while. The noise from Desele’s wafts into the alley. Eventually, her face breaks into a bitter smile.

“New Life festival. What a joke. Worst year of my life. Lost the right to say no. Lost my daughter, lost my husband, my job, my home. Not sure what the God’s have in store for me next year.”

With that, she bows her head, and starts down the street, melting into the crowd around the square. I watch her go, feeling the familiar itch behind my eyes.

I head back inside, up the stairs. Time to talk to Tovas, I think she called him.

*

I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar, just out of range of the regulars’ conversation, and wait. Bartenders are like lamps. If you stand still long enough, they eventually shine some light your way. Sure enough, Tovas finishes pouring a Mazte for the man at the far end, wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen better centuries, and ambles over. He says nothing at first, just tilts his head in the universal language of “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever’s not watered down,” I say.

He gives me a look. “Nothing here is watered down. Not worth the risk.”

I nod, accepting the answer, and lean in a little closer. “You know, I just went to check on that lady who just left.”

Tovas’s gaze flickers to the stairs, then back to me. He doesn’t answer straight away.. “She’s not supposed to come in here anymore,” he says, and there’s an odd note in his voice. Not annoyance, but something like guilt.

“That’s a shame,” I say. “She’s got more grit than most of the patrons down there. She said she used to work here?”

“Worked the floor. Good at it, too. Always brought in the regulars. But sometimes, being good isn’t enough. Sometimes, people with deep pockets and shallower patience have their way.”

I let that settle, watching his hands as he lines up empty glasses like little soldiers. “So, whose deep pockets and shallow patience had their way exactly?” I ask, casual as a breeze.

Tovas’s fingers freeze on the fourth glass. He glances at me, measuring my interest. “You a friend of hers?”

“Just a stranger,” I say. “But a stranger bothered enough to ask the right questions.”

He studies me for a moment. The silence stretches long enough that I almost expect him to walk away, but he lowers his voice to a bare whisper. “You didn’t hear it from me, but if you want to make life better for her, you talk to Sern Uvalas. Big plantation just outside the north end of town. Just don’t make it worse for her.”

I file the name away. “Thanks, Tovas. You’re a good man.”

He snorts. “If I was a good man, I’d have done something myself. Now finish your drink and try not to make trouble for the rest of us.”

I raise the Mazte in salute and sip. Sern Uvalas. Not a name I know. I’ve spent little time in Hlaalu territory in the last few years. Ever since that job in Balmora, three years ago, the Grandmaster exiled me to the East Coast of the island, otherwise known as Guarcrap crazy Telvanni mushroom territory. This is the first time I’m back, and here I am sticking my nose in again. Galyn downstairs might know more, though. He’s been working these districts for years, picking up every scrap of gossip and weakness the way some people collect jewellery. I’m suddenly aware of how long it’s been since we last spoke. A couple of years, maybe. I wonder what he’s heard since then, and what it will cost to extract it.

Maybe it’s time to buy a fellow Tong member a drink or five, I think. I tip the Mazte back, finish the last mouthful, and remind myself that no matter what the Grandmaster says, it’s always the little favours that keep a guild running. I head down the stairs, one hand steady on the railing, and take in the floor again.

*

It’s even louder than before, if that’s possible: the Argonian twins have made way for a couple of Khajiit, doing some sort of complicated dance involving a pipe. It looks like a mix between dancing, martial arts and a Sheogarath painting of a Skooma den. Someone started a handclap rhythm along the main tables, though to what I’m not sure, as it sure isn’t in time with what’s happening on stage. In the far corner, Galyn is perched on a wooden stool, boots up on the next chair, surveying the chaos.

I pay for two Mazte at the bar and weave through the crowd. Galyn tracks my approach with a slow raise of his eyebrow. He moves his foot but not the chair, so I haul it out and wedge myself in.

“Eno,” he says, drawing out the syllable like he’s tasting it. “Didn’t expect to see you this far west of the coast. You finally get tired of the Telvanni turning you into a test subject?”

I snort. “Brought back for a job in Balmora I finished earlier today,” I say, and slide a Mazte toward him. “This was just supposed to welcome the New Life festival.”

“And how did the job go?”

“Painlessly. For me, anyway.” I take a sip and aim for nonchalant. “You know anything about a Sern Uvalas?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on the table. “Big plantation man, yeah? What do you want with him?”

I consider lying, but Galyn smells a lie the way a nix-hound smells fear. “Someone’s kid got taken. It’s not sitting right with me.”

He weighs this, then shrugs. “Sounds about right. Not a nice guy. He’s throwing a party tonight, all the town’s bigwigs are invited. New Life and all that. Brought in plenty of muscle, so if you’re thinking of doing something stupid, and I’m sure you wouldn’t dream of that, bear it in mind.”

“Muscle from where?”

“Out-of-towners. Orcs, two of them, both look like they could throttle an Ogrim for sport, and a Redguard, real quiet, keeps his hood up even at the bar. Them and a bunch of Carmonna Tong thugs. They eat together, don’t talk to anyone, and Uvalas pays them in gold up front. You do the math.”

“Know how I can get an invitation?”

He drinks, then leans closer, lowering his voice. “You’re forgetting the First Rule,” he says. “No freelance. We don’t break contracts. You do, you’re out.”

“Not a contract,” I say. “A kindness.”

He actually laughs. “That’s what gets you killed, Eno. Kindness.”

I swallow a mouthful of Mazte. “You ever think about what we do?” I set my tankard down. “You don’t ever wonder if maybe we’re just a knife-for-hire? Just another tool for whoever’s got the deepest purse or the meanest grudge?” I wave my finger around the room, where half the people celebrating will still be in debt to the other half come morning. “We’re supposed to be there to keep the Great House’s in order, maintain some sort of balance. Instead, we’re bouncers in the world’s worst casino, making sure the House always wins.”

“You want to be a hero, Eno? Get a sword and join the Fighter’s Guild. We make good coin. We keep the peace, in our own way.”

I look at him. “You ever read any of the books in the library in the Grandmaster’s room?”

“What library?”

“He has a library in his room. I stumbled across it one day.”

“You stumbled across it? The Grandmaster’s room. That’s always locked. The one that no-one’s allowed in.”

“Yeah, that one. You know what books are in that library? All of them are by former Morag Tong agents. First Era, Second Era. Legends that we’ve all heard about. Ashur. Naryu Virian. The truth about what happened with Veya Releth.”

“Exactly how many times did you stumble into this library?”

“A few. Point is, the Morag Tong has always struggled with this aspect of what we do, and it’s usually been out of fear. Fear the Great House’s would turn against us. But, we’ve got to stand for more than just being blades for hire. Don’t you ever feel like the line between justice and cruelty is so thin, you could slit your own throat on it? This woman whose kid has been taken, she’s not guilty, not a mark, she’s just fallout.”

He scoffs, but not unkindly. “That’s the thing about lines, Eno. The only people who worry about crossing them are the ones with something left to lose.” His gaze flicks down to my hands, then back up. “You remember what it’s like to be hungry, don’t you?”

“We all remember. That’s why I’m sitting here and not floating face-down in a canal. But if we don’t stand for something…”

Galyn cuts me off with a sharp shake of the head. “We stand for ourselves, and for each other. That being said. I got no love for Sern Uvalas. You want into that party, I can get you a name on the list. But you’ll owe me.”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“You might also want to head backstage, talk to those Argonian twins. From what I heard, they came here from that plantation.”