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]

5.

Leaving Desele’s, I make for Suran’s Outlaw’s Refuge. A stinking, labyrinthine den beneath the city’s legitimate commerce, where even the rats carry switchblades. The entrance is hidden through a judiciously unguarded sewer grate behind the town’s southern granary, and the wet slap of my boots echoes in the gloom as I descend. It’s not until I reach the warm, fetid air of the main concourse that I breathe easy: no one here cares what you’ve done, as long as you pay in coin and don’t bleed on the merchandise.

I weave past a moneylender. His thumbnail blackened at the edge, worn smooth from years of testing gold with mechanical precision. Behind him, a ledger lies open with columns of figures. Pretty much every Outlaw’s Refuge has a couple of moneylenders, a couple of fences, and a few other services that can be of use to a discerning clientele. A few steps further, an alchemist hawking “untraceable” poisons, his tiny glass vials catching the torchlight in greens and ambers. Conversation here is all murmurs and half-finished sentences, creating a constant low hum broken only by the occasional cough or clink of payment changing hands. In a city where the crime guilds keep to their own shadows, the Refuge is where their borders overlap. A neutral ground. Its only allegiance is to profit and the perpetuation of plausible deniability.

The fence I’m seeking is called Old Carethil, an Altmer, and a legend among black marketeers. He’s rumoured to have smuggled an entire ballista, disassembled, disguised as a set of musical instruments, and reassembled in under four minutes by a pair of Altmeri contortionists into a high society gathering in Vulkhel Guard many years back. If anybody can source a weapon that won’t raise suspicion, it’s Carethil. He’s hunched behind a warped pine desk, his golden skin lined with wrinkles and his face a mesh of burn scars.

I lean in close and keep my voice low.

“I need something that slips past a parlour inspection. Something concealable. But sharp enough to put a hole through chitin, if it comes to that. Also, if you’ve got anything that doubles as a conversation piece, all the better.”

He looks up thoughtfully, then stands and goes to a chest behind him.

“Concealable and a conversation piece, hm? This might do the trick.”

He comes back with a slender, lacquered cane and puts it on the table. The craftsmanship is exquisite; a dark ebony shaft capped with an ivory grip, the sort of thing a nobleman might ostentatiously lean on while evaluating the worth of your entire family. Carethil knocks the base of the cane against his desk and, with a twist, a stiletto ebony blade glides out, paper-thin and wickedly sharp.

“Too poetic for your line of work?” He asks.

“Not at all, but I’ll need some sort of disguise to age me. The effect only works if they don’t see a potential threat.”

“Talk to Ethrandora,” he says, pointing further down the room, to a small female Bosmer. “She’s an absolute wizard with make-up and prosthetics.”

“Thanks.” I say. “How much for the cane?”

Carethil smiles, taps a finger on the table and names a sum that would finance a modest kidnapping ring for a month. My lips purse as I do the silent arithmetic of what I have, but time is tight, and he holds all the cards.

“I’ll have to speak to one of the money lenders.” I say. “Put it to one side for me and I’ll be back shortly.”

“Of course.”

*

With Carethil’s price still echoing in my mind, I realise I’d better check how much money I’m going to need first. Looks like good deeds are expensive. Ethrandora’s stall is less a shop and more a fortification assembled from empty crates, lengths of mirror, and racks hung with wigs in every natural and unnatural shade. Ethrandora herself is a Bosmer of indeterminate age. She could be a prematurely haggard twenty or a well-preserved seventy, depending on the angle and the lighting. I clear my throat, and she snaps her gaze to me, eyes narrowing with the predatory focus of someone who could, given thirty seconds, convincingly turn me into a member of a different sex or species. She grins, baring surprisingly neat teeth, and gestures me into the makeshift booth. The close air is heavy with the scent of tallow, resin, and a trace of something chemical with notes of week-old corpse.

“Help you?”

“I need to look older. Wealthy and distinguished, but not so distinguished that I’ll stick in people’s minds. Unremarkable, maybe even frail.”

Ethrandora leans in, her nose brushing dangerously close to mine, and sniffs. “You want them to see a harmless old man. Not even worth frisking. That about right?”

I nod. “And it has to last until dawn.”

“You going to be facing water?”

“Not unless everything goes wrong, doesn’t matter if it comes off at that point.”

She cocks her head, then rummages behind her for a wooden box filled with prosthetics. Full of hooked noses, liver-spotted cheek patches, even a set of false ears slightly too large for any natural race. “Show me your face,” she commands, and I comply. Her fingers, cold and callused, prod my skin with the dispassion of a butcher testing meat for ripeness.

“Won’t be cheap,” she says.

“Nothing ever is. My next visit is to one of the money lenders. Just working out how much I need first.”

Leaving her stall, I sidestep a cluster of Khajiit hard at work haggling over a shipment of moon sugar, then duck around a boy no older than ten, already missing an ear and trying to sell me a “never-before-seen” writ of pardon. The moneylender, Varel, is a fixture in various Outlaw Refuges, and his is the only stall that has its own security, with two burly Nord guards. Varel himself is also a Nord, though the girth of his belly and the limpness of his moustache suggest an upbringing far removed from the tundras of Skyrim. His face is the colour and texture of raw liver, and his left eye weeps continually, forcing him to dab at it with a rag between every sentence. There’s a chain, and a spike nailed into the desk, presumably for emphasis. I approach, and he looks at me and grins, exposing a mouthful of teeth the colour of old cheese.

“Been a while.” He says. “Last time you came to me was in Sadrith Mora. How can I be helping you today, lad?”

“Short term loan, until the bank re-opens day after tomorrow. Enough for me to get a specialty item and, let’s say, a full evening’s worth of personal transformation. Plus maybe a few extras.”

“You know the rates. Interest is ten per cent, daily. Non-negotiable.”

I nod. “Done.”

“Fair enough. How much do you need exactly?”

The exchange takes seconds: the dull thump of gold, the scratch of a ledger. All legitimate, if you ignore the fact that every coin here is most likely stolen or bloodstained. The moment the money changes hands, his smile vanishes, replaced by the dead-eyed look of a man who has already factored your failure into his quarterly projections.

I pocket the advance and nod. “Pleasure as always, Varel.”

He gives me a lazy salute with his rag, already tallying up his next victim.

*

With the funds secured, I head back to Ethrandora, who is sizing up prosthetic noses and wigs like a sommelier choosing wines. I wedge myself onto the rickety stool, careful not to jostle a tray already loaded with blobs of spirit gum, strips of fine mesh, and glass ampoules. She starts by dusting my face with a pale powder, her hands so fast and practiced I barely see the motion before I’m coughing on the cloud of it. She mutters to herself as she works, fingers pinching and smoothing, painting on lines where none exist, drawing out the subtle hollows already lurking in my cheeks. Within minutes she’s layered me with a network of crepe wrinkles, crow’s feet so convincing I squint in sympathy. She glues a prosthetic swelling to one eyelid, then adds liver spots and a faint cobweb of broken veins. The smell of resin is so thick it coats the top of my mouth in bitterness. She slides a wig cap down over my ears, then fits an ashen-white hairpiece over the top, styling it into a dignified yet fragile comb-over. I stare into the cracked mirror she offers and almost don’t recognise the old, pinched stranger looking back, more likely to expire at a banquet than assassinate anyone in it.

“Needs an affectation,” she decides, after a critical once-over. “A limp, maybe. Or a cough.”

“Limp,” I say. “It will explain the cane I’m using from Carethil.”

“You’ll also need more suitable clothes.” She says as if the current state of my wardrobe is an abomination to all that is holy, or at the very least, to the Bosmeri sense of fashion. “No self-respecting noble would wear, well, that.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Go to Verara Rendo’s, and tell her I sent you. She’ll get you sorted out without too many questions or judgments. Word of advice: don’t try to haggle, and pay cash without arguing. Attempting either will get you charged double.”

“Won’t she be closed for the festival?”

“That’s why you mention that I sent you.” She says. “And tell her I’ve a couple of nice bottles of Greef I’m looking forward to drinking with her tonight.”

I take the long way around the main corridor, letting Ethrandora’s handiwork settle on my skin. The prosthetics pinch a little, and the spirit gum tugs each time I move my jaw to test a new expression. It’s not just convincing; it’s transformative.

*

Carethil has already set the cane aside for me in a velvet-lined tray, as though expecting it to be inducted into a museum. He’s reading a ledger when I approach, but the moment his eyes flick up, they widen ever so slightly in recognition. “Ethrandora’s done you up proper,” he says. “You could walk into a Council chamber and no one would dare ask you to take your shoes off.”

I smile, letting my lips tremble the way old people do when they’re both tired and vain. “Let’s just hope no one asks me to dance.”

He slides the cane over with a little bow. “The blade will hold against bonemold, even light glass. Just don’t try it against daedric plate. Not that you see much of that around.”

The weight of the cane feels natural in my palm. Holding my weight on it, I practice a subtle limp, dragging my right foot just enough to make the affectation credible, and Carethil nods in approval. I hand over the gold without flinching too much; he checks it, one coin at a time, before pocketing it and wishing me luck with the solemnity of a priest at a funeral.

I double back, weaving slowly through the press of footpads and cutpurses, trying out my new limp for the benefit of the crowd, and aim towards the Alchemist’s stall I saw when I entered. The owner is a Dunmer with hands dyed purple up to the wrists, deep-set eyes flickering with equal parts boredom and contempt. I don’t know his name, only that Carethil swears by his discretion and the purity of his potions.

He doesn’t bother with a greeting. Just squints at me, then lets his gaze drop to the cane. “You’re from the upper town, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Only by necessity,” I reply. “Carethil recommended you.”

He bares his teeth and says, “What can I get you? I’ve some particularly effective poisons available.”

“I’m looking for distractions and anything effective at disabling, but strictly non-permanent. Not to kill.”

“Always a pleasure to work for someone with professional ethics.” Despite the sarcasm, I detect a flicker of respect. Or at least relief that he won’t have to clean blood off his stall. He gestures for me to go behind a curtain. The back is much better organised, with shelves lined with flasks and vials, all labelled in a cramped, spidery hand. “You want to evade or incapacitate?”

“Both, preferably.”

He pulls bottles from the shelves, lining them up like a chemist preparing for a very illegal exam. “This is Chokeleaf distillate.” He lifts a vial of faintly blue syrup. “Spray this in a room and every living creature will be doubled over coughing for about three minutes. No permanent damage, unless someone already has a bad lung.”

He sets the next vial, this one orange, next to it. “Ban-dar’s Blight. Smells like crap, because it is, but it will keep anyone from tracking your scent for half an hour, and can be thrown like a grenade if you want to clear a hallway.”

I inspect the vials, weighing them in my hand. “Anything more selective? I’ll be surrounded by at least a dozen well-armed, suspicious types. I need something precise.”

He grins, this time with genuine pleasure. “How about this?” He holds up a crystal ampoule filled with swirling pearly liquid. “Markynaz’s Suggestion. Mist it into a drink or over a glass, and it will make the target extremely agreeable to small suggestions for about five minutes. Not mind control, but close.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re sure it doesn’t cause memory loss? I can’t have them missing gaps.”

“I’m not running a side line in memory wipes,” he says, offended. “You want amnesia, that’s a different department. This just, well, lubricates the will. The mind’s still sharp, but the edges get rounded. They remember the conversation, just not why they agreed with you so damn much.” To emphasise the point, he holds the vial up to the light, swirling it so the contents catch on the glass like mother-of-pearl. “A little dab on the rim of their glass, or even just the air near their face. Think of it as a charm spell in a bottle.”

“You got a few of those bottles?”

“Plenty. But hang on,” he says, then slides a neatly folded slip of parchment across the counter to me. “Dosing instructions. Never say I’m not thorough.”

“I’ll also take a couple of vials of the Chokeleaf distillate,” I say, glancing over the array of illicit chemistry, “and do you have anything that makes a loud bang? Or covers a lot of ground in smoke?”

The alchemist’s purple-stained hands twitch in delight, and he cackles like he’s been waiting half his career for someone to ask this very question. “Noise and fog, now you’re speaking my language,” he says, and immediately ducks behind a stack of weathered crates. There’s a crash, the tinkle of glass, and a low muttering as he rummages through crates. A moment later, he pops back up with a fist-sized tin and an armful of small, wax-sealed orbs.

“Here.” He plops the tin on the counter and lets the orbs roll across the surface. “Thunderclap. Looks innocent, doesn’t it? But you break the seal and toss it, and nobody inside a hundred feet is going to hear straight for at least three minutes. Works through most walls, even. Don’t use it in a small room unless you’re not planning on hearing anything either.” He punctuates the warning by tapping the tin with a yellowed fingernail. “You’ll want to use it outside. Maybe on a guardhouse if you’re feeling particularly creative.”

I pick up one orb. It’s heavier than it looks, and there’s a faint smell of burnt sugar and sulphur. “And for the smoke?”

He grins, gaps in his teeth like broken tombstones. “These are called Shroud Globes. Pop a couple on the floor and the entire room’s a fogbank. Dissolves in fifteen minutes, but you get maybe three minutes of absolute chaos first. No fire, no stain, dissipates clean. Ideal for exits, entrances, or just making a mess of things.” He pushes the globes towards me, then adds two more for good measure. “They come in a set. Consider it a discount for professionals.”

I weigh the globes in my palm, considering the possibilities, and then nod. “I’ll take a full set, and the Thunderclap tin.”

He slides them into a velvet pouch, then counts out the vials of Chokeleaf with exaggerated care, each time making a brief show of checking the seal, the level, and the label. I pay him, careful not to shortchange him even by a single coin; the kind of people who make these concoctions also creatively use their own merchandise if crossed. “Pleasure doing business,” I say, tucking the pouch and vials into the hidden pockets of my cloak.

*

What’s left is a matter of wardrobe. I follow Ethrandora’s instructions and take the rear exit from the Outlaw’s Refuge, duck through a series of alleys, and emerge two streets over, right in front of Verara Rendo’s shop. She specialises in clothes that look expensive at a distance and even more expensive up close. The displays are mostly mannequins draped with imported velvets and brocades, but there’s also a selection of gloves, masks, and hats that would make a circus jealous.

Inside, it’s quiet enough to hear the soft tick of a clock behind the counter. Verara is perched on a stool, mending a sleeve with concentration. She doesn’t look up until I’m three feet away, at which point she arches a single eyebrow so high I worry it’s going to detach and make a break for the ceiling.

“Ethrandora sent me.” I say. “And I’m supposed to tell you she’s got a couple of very nice bottles of Greef for later.”

Verara’s needle stills for a heartbeat, then resumes its frantic little dance through silk as if nothing in the world could surprise her. Only her eyebrow, which rises another impossible increment, betrays any reaction. “Is that so?” she says. Her voice is all smoke and sandpaper. “Well, isn’t that just like dear Ethrandora. Always thinking ahead to the afterparty. And always sending me clients who look like they’ve been rolled down the Smugglers’ Steps and left to ferment.”

She sets aside her work, giving me the first real up-and-down. Her gaze lingers on my fake age spots, the way the prosthetics pull tight beneath my left cheekbone, the way my limp is exaggerated just so. “Let’s see what we’re working with,” she says. “Turn around. Slowly.”

I do as instructed. She studies the line of my shoulders, the hunch of my back.

“What look are we going for here?”

“I need to look like a frail noble with a taste for rare parties and poor decisions. Expensive, but not ostentatious. Impressive, but not memorable. Can you help?”

She sizes me up in a single long sweep, then nods. “I do so love a challenge.”