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]

Acadian: I've always been fascinated with Suran. In both TES 3 and ESO it's very much the crime hub of the island. One of my favourite ESO moments so far has been The Scarlet Judge questline. Yet despite hinting at the underbelly of the town, it's always seemed too clean and neat. I couldn't resist the chance to try to flesh that out a little. Thanks Acadian!

treydog: As you've picked up, I'm very much channelling my inner Lew Archer. Unlike the Dark Brotherhood, I always found the Morag Tong more interesting. Legal writs, but they survive at the good will of the Great Houses. So unlike scary, emotionless black clad messengers of death, I always envisaged them as more of an agent. A mix of a detective, with a hint of Ethan Hunt, and the world weary cynicism of a traditional anti-hero. It's been great fun, in writing this, to really get to play with character voice more than usual. Thanks treydog!


4.

With the name Seviel Dralas, and his location gained from Galyn, it’s time to come up with a plan. Get the invitation. Talk to the twins to learn the layout. Get suitable clothing for a swanky party. Figure out how I’m going to get weapons in with me. Everything in steps. The trick is breaking the night into manageable increments, not letting the scale of the task make my mind run itself in anxious circles. First, I need the invitation. The other pieces of the plan mean nothing if I can’t get my foot in the door.

Galyn said that Seviel Dralas had been seen near the trade house, by the balconies and arcades that ring the main market square, so that’s where I’m headed. Galyn described him as a pampered scribe for one of Suran’s minor magistrates, who wears his tunic too tight, trying to give himself some shoulders. Twice around before I spot him on the upper level of the trade house, leaning against a pillar, gesticulating at a bored-looking Dunmer woman who is being paid by the hour to pretend to be delighted. From the look on her face, she’s not being paid enough, her smile so brittle it could snap at any moment. Seviel, meanwhile, is oblivious to her suffering, lost in his own cleverness. I head inside and up the stairs and emerge on the landing, which smells of smoke and spilled Mazte. Seviel holds court at the far end, one hand up in mock-serious declamation, the other anchored firmly to the woman’s wrist. His tunic is indeed painted on, and his hair shines with so much oil that a single candle could torch the whole balcony.

I take a position nearby, back to the railing. Seviel is arguing the merits of some legal precedent, his voice so nasal it could etch glass. The scribe flourishes his free hand, nearly upending a clay cup, and punctuates his argument by laughing at his own wit. His companion’s eyes glaze over.

I let them go a few more rounds, each more tedious than the last, before making my move. The trick to interrupting a conversation isn’t just timing; it’s the art of predicting when the two participants are at their mutual nadir. I wait until Seviel’s cup is empty and his wit, such as it is, begins its last gasps. His companion is now openly scanning the balcony for alternative company or the sweet release of death. As his punchline dissolves into the evening air, I sidle next to their table, radiating the polite but insistent presence of someone with urgent, official business.

When Seviel glances up, there’s a flicker of irritation that someone has encroached on his theatre. I bow my head slightly, feigning self-effacement. “Pardon, sera, but your reputation precedes you, and I find myself in need of your expertise.”

Seviel, never one to pass up a new audience, straightens and releases his death grip on the woman’s wrist. She vanishes so quickly I suspect she’d been holding her breath in anticipation. I’m momentarily impressed by her economy of movement; and I make a note to tip generously if I ever need her services. He gestures to an empty seat with mock-courtly flair. I take it, keeping my posture deferential but my eyes locked on his. The best way to disarm a narcissist is to convince them you’re a harmless admirer, then feed their ego until they choke on it. I lean in and lower my voice.

“There’s a matter of some delicacy I hoped to discuss, preferably out of earshot of the more, how shall I put this, excitable elements downstairs.”

That gets his attention. His pupils narrow, and he leans in, too. “You have my undivided attention, sera. Speak freely.”

I glance around theatrically, then duck my head. “I hear you’re to attend the New Year gathering at Sern Uvalas’s mansion. The guest list is, what’s the phrase, tightly controlled.”

He smiles, showing off teeth that have never known a day of honest toil. “That’s true. Security is quite stringent, I’m told.”

“See, the issue,” I continue, lowering my voice until it’s a conspiratorial hiss, “is that while I’d dearly love to bask in the same rarified air as our mutual associates, I find myself rather decisively off the guest list. Which brings me to an awkward juncture, and I do hate awkwardness.” I pause, let my smile show teeth, and then, quick as a lizard’s tongue, produce a slim dagger from my sleeve and set its tip to the soft meat just beneath Seviel’s ribs, obscured from the view of any onlookers by the convenient drape of the tablecloth.

To his credit, Seviel doesn’t scream. Instead, he freezes, lips puckered mid-smirk, eyes darting to the blade and then to my face, trying to locate any flicker of bluff. I give him none. The dagger is short, sharp, and very real. In the span of three seconds, his bravado evaporates, replaced by a clammy, wild-eyed panic. I keep my smile precisely calibrated. A shade under open menace, but enough to suggest I am eager to redecorate the square below with his innards.

“Now, here’s the proposal,” I say, crisp and businesslike. “You hand over your invitation. In exchange, you get to walk out of here with all your internal organs in their original positions. No one need be the wiser.”

He gulps, swallowing the stone in his throat. “You, you wouldn’t dare,” he stammers, but the quaver in his tone is all the permission I need. I flex the dagger ever so slightly, letting him feel the pressure, and watch his mind run through the consequences: making a scene, calling for help, and getting carved open like a holiday roast. Dunmer are nothing if not practical.

“It’s in my room,” he whispers, voice gone papery thin.

“Then lets go there, shall we? And do try to look like we’re old friends, I’d so hate to have to carve you up in front of witnesses.”

We head up the stairs; I keep him five paces ahead, just in case his courage is secretly growing back, until we reach a wooden door. Seviel fumbles the key, cursing under his breath, then finally opens it. Inside, his quarters are almost offensively neat. He hurries to the desk, flinging open the top drawer and producing the invitation, a lacquered card with a sigil pressed in red wax. He holds it up, reluctant to let go, then hands it over.

“Thank you, sera.” I say. “Now, you appreciate that I can’t exactly just leave you to scream bloody murder the instant I leave the room. However, I told you I wanted your expertise,” I muse, twirling the dagger between my fingers, “and I do value your cooperation. So, in the spirit of professional courtesy, I’m going to offer you a choice.” I pause for effect, then lean in, pitching my voice to a low, almost affectionate murmur. “Option one: I bash you over the head, old-fashioned but reliable. You’ll wake up with a blinding headache, a tasteful knot just behind the ear, and no memory of the next few hours. Messy, but effective.” I watch him blanch at the prospect, and before he can speak, I raise a finger. “Option two: I give you a potion. Perfectly safe, just enough to send you off to dreamland for a little while. You swallow, you drift, and when you wake up, you’ll be right as rain, save for a bit of stiffness where the restraints held you. In both cases,” I add, “I’ll of course gag and tie you up. For your own safety, and mine.”

He stares at me, mouth working, eyes flicking again to the door. I see the question forming behind his teeth, and I help it along. “You’re wondering if I’ll kill you either way. I won’t.” I let the assurance hang, then follow up with a flicker of genuine sincerity. “You have my word.”

He shudders, then sucks air through his teeth. “What potion?”

“Ah, a connoisseur?” I chuckle. “Alchemists call it ‘Vivec’s Mercy’. Smells like dreugh piss, but it’s painless. I’ve used it on myself, even.”

He considers. “I’ll take the potion. Please.”

“An excellent choice.” I reach into my cloak for the small glass phial and pop the cork. The aroma is of sulphur and rotten fish, which immediately fills the room. Seviel clamps his nose, but he’s committed now; he drains the vial in one trembling gulp, grimacing at the taste.

“Lay back, please. It’s faster if you don’t fight it,” I advise, already untying a length of cord from my belt. He collapses onto the floor, eyelids fluttering. I secure his wrists and ankles with practiced efficiency, then wedge a linen rag between his teeth, just in case his dreams turn noisy. By the time I’m done, he’s snoring softly, head lolling to one side. I pick up the key to the door, then turn back and check his pockets until I find his coin purse. This next step might require more funds than I’m carrying, and he won’t need them tonight. I lock the door behind me and head down the stairs.

*

Step one complete, invitation gained. Now, for step two. Talk to the Argonian twins. I can think of worse people to speak to. They certainly could dance. Their tails too. How I’m going to get to talk to them though, that I’m not sure. There is going to be security to stop punters from going backstage. Sure enough, back in Desele’s, I can see a Dunmer in an ill-fitting black tunic, arms crossed, staring holes through anyone who so much as glances toward the velvet rope separating the commoners from the staff area, and no doubt there’ll be others nearby. If I want to get backstage without a brawl, I’ll need either a good distraction or a very convincing reason to be allowed through. The bouncer doesn’t look like the sort to be talked down by clever flattery, but money talks, and sometimes it sings. That, or I can create enough commotion out here in the crowd to draw one or more away from their posts.

But that’s risky. I need both twins in a private setting, not the back room with half a dozen irate guards. Maybe I can pose as a VIP: noble curiosity, socialite with an appetite for the exotic, one of the perverts from the upper floor who gets comped in exchange for not burning the place down during their drunken fits. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than nothing. I just hope the twins aren’t carrying knives in their garters. I break from the crowd and angle toward the velvet rope, the bouncer’s gaze snapping to me. A few steps out, I walk slower, deliberately, the way you approach a startled Netch. No sudden moves, polite, but not afraid. My mind tumbles through a pile of greetings. I could go witty, suave, or obsequiously respectful, but none of them seems quite right for this wall of scowling muscle.

I paste on my most affable smile and treat him to a little bow. “Good evening,” I offer, letting my voice slip into something rich and unthreatening, as if I’m here to compliment his outfit and ask after his children.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. His face is a study in apathy, but his hands flex on his biceps like he’s preparing to crack things. Head size things. I can see the creative repairs made to his ensemble. Old blood perhaps, faintly blotted, or just the residue of a hundred manhandled patrons. Someone invested in keeping this particular specimen angry and upright.

“I was hoping I could introduce myself to some of the talent.” I say. “The twins.”

His face is unimpressed. “You’re not on the list,” his hands shifting to reinforce the blockade.

“How do you know, you haven’t taken my name?”

“Because there isn’t a list.” The bouncer says it with the bored, unblinking certainty that stops most people cold. He doesn’t say it particularly loud, but the implication is obvious: the only thing getting past him tonight is the heat from the hearth, and maybe a stray rat if it scurries fast enough. For a second, I entertain the image of inventing a list on the spot, pulling a parchment from my sleeve with a flourish, but it would only amuse me. His expression is so flat it might actually be a surface.

“Didn’t see that one coming.” I say, grinning. “Good one. How about this then? You ask the twins if they’d be interested in a private performance. A dance only, nothing more. If they are, you tell me what that would cost.” I keep my tone light, just the right mix of teasing and conspiratorial. The bouncer, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. He simply glowers, as if I’d proposed we do a three-legged race in a Shalk nest, and then, without taking his eyes off mine, he says, “House minimum is two hundred. Per. If they agree.” I whistle low, and then make a show of considering the number.

“Done,” I say. “But I want both twins, at the same time. No substitutions, no switching halfway through for lookalikes. I’ve been to places that try that.” I let my words trail off and flick an eyebrow, suggesting the implication is more scandalous than it really is. The bouncer’s mouth twitches, either a sign of approval or a minor seizure.

“Wait here,” he says, and then disappears through a side door. I wait. I pretend to be just another gawker, hands folded behind my back, but my mind is mapping every exit, every staff-only corridor, and every potential threat.

The bouncer returns with a second man in tow, this one older, in a smart outfit that actually fits. “You can afford the private room?” He asks, voice smooth as new parchment. I nod, and hand over Seviel’s pouch, letting its weight speak for itself.

He briefly looks inside it, smoothly pockets it and smiles. “Give us a moment to prep the girls. You’ll be called when ready. If there’s more in the pouch than the cost, you’ll get the rest back after the show.”

I thank him, and he wanders off with a bureaucrat’s efficiency. I drift back to the bar, order a Mazte, nurse it, and count the minutes until I’m summoned. When the bouncer returns, he doesn’t speak, just crooks a finger and guides me along a narrow hall behind the main floor. The air back here is thick with incense and something sharper, a combination of Skooma and the tang of body oils. He leads me to a curtained alcove with a small table, two glasses, and a plush seat facing a mirrored wall. “Wait here,” he says. “They’ll join in a moment.” He closes the curtain, leaving me alone with my reflection. I smooth my shirt, check the line of my jaw for sweat, and mentally rehearse the opening to my pitch. Getting these two on my side is vital. From outside, I hear footsteps, and then the curtain parts. The twins enter as one, moving with a dancer’s unnatural grace, eyes as bright as bioluminescent moss.

The bouncer, looming in the doorway, says, “No funny business. Keep it civil, and no touching unless they say so. You two, any problems, shout, and I’ll be right with you.” He then closes the curtain and walks away.

“You wanted a dance?” asks one twin.

“Actually, all I want is to talk, if you’re prepared to listen?” I push a stack of coins across the table, and motion for them to have a seat. “For your time and discretion, not for the house itself, they’ve already been paid.” They glance at each other, then slide onto the plush bench with artful synchronicity.

“Just talk?” the first twin says, her harsh syllables softened by a low, musical lilt. “No performance?”

“Not unless you count answering questions as a performance,” I reply, careful to keep my posture open and unintimidating. “I’m not here for pleasure. Sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“We’re prepared to listen,” says the second twin, the coins disappearing.

“It’s a bit of a sad story. A woman has her child stolen from her, and then her husband is killed. By someone not very nice. Now, this not very nice person lives in a big house on a plantation north of town.”

The effect is immediate: an angry hiss and the twins recoil, not physically, but in the tightening of their pupils, the sudden rigidity in their tails. Their posture, so fluid a moment before, hardens around a single word: plantation. I hold my palms up.

“I have no desire to upset you. But, lets say that someone was going to recover that child, and possibly find a way to deal with that not very nice man. they’d need to know the layout of that house. Where hidden things might be kept, so that guests wouldn’t stumble on them. Security. Ways of getting in and out. If there’s anyone in the house who might be a potential ally.” I look at them. “Is that something you could help me with?”

For a long moment, they say nothing, only exchange glances weighed down with history. I imagine a clockwork conversation flowing in silence, all nuance and blink and shifting tail. It’s the one on the left that speaks. “Maybe we know something,” she says, her voice pitched low, barely higher than the flicker of the sconce burning on the wall. “As long as it wouldn’t ever come back to us.”

“That I can promise.” I say, and pull out paper and pencil. “Lets start with the layout.”