Trey In Mournhold, Chapter 1 Options

[treydog]

Trey in Mournhold


Foreword (a portion)
By Quintinius Axibiades, Senior Librarian


The following narrative is copied from a manuscript discovered in the Vvardenfell province of Morrowind. The verifiable events noted in the original indicate that it was written sometime after 3E 427. Of the purported author, little is known. As the manuscript was discovered at Bal Isra, near the outpost town of Ald’ruhn, some credence may be given to the writer’s claim that he was a member of the so-called “Great House” known as Redoran. On the other hand, a great many books and papers were discovered at the same locality, so this piece may simply have been part of a collection. The narrator’s reference to himself as integral to a particular barbarian prophecy is an example of a plot device designed to increase interest in the story. Given the sensational and fantastic nature of some the events described, the writer most probably hoped to turn a profit by writing a popular fiction woven around known personalities and events. As far as can be determined, that hope was not realized, as no other versions of this manuscript are known to be extant.

The writing itself, while literate (barely), is not that of an educated or scholarly individual. It is plain, even crude at times; perhaps the early work of a young scribe with too much imagination and inadequate supervision. As noted previously, the first person perspective and the author’s penchant for claiming to have been present or even directly involved in events of great significance point to an attempt to capitalize on the common masses’ taste for the sensational and the scandalous, particularly when it involves royalty and the gods. The anti-Imperial tone of the piece suggests yet another possibility- that the writer was some type of Dunmeri agitator and that this tale is an attempt at allegory. Ultimately, the identity of the author or authors is of little moment; history has rightly placed this “Trey of High Rock” on the midden heap and gone on to more important matters.

Regarding the events described in the manuscript, it is left to the careful scholar to draw his own conclusions. Our purpose is to preserve all examples of the written word, no matter how doubtful the veracity or merit of a given piece. Those with a serious interest in Imperial history are directed to the official “Histories” for accurate information.

As to the physical properties of the paper, ink, &c ………



Chapter 1

For reasons which will become clear, I hesitated for many years to write the full story of my time in Mournhold. However, I feel that the right of my family to know everything outweighs the risk of premature discovery. Much time has passed since the events I am about to relate, but an enemy can have a long memory and an even longer reach. It is as much to protect my family as to tell the true story that I turn once more to my journals. The tattered, stained pages carry me back to a time when the idea of a family was as distant as the stars, when the idea that I would have any future at all was questionable. You see, someone wanted very much to kill me….

I had been unceremoniously carried off to Vvardenfell; told that, willing or not, I was a member of the Blades; and advised to “get some seasoning before I got myself killed.” With great reluctance and even greater complaining, I proceeded with the business of learning to stay alive on that frontier island. Numerous bandits and native creatures tried to cut short what I intended to be a long and profitable existence. Worse yet, I had managed to annoy the local criminal organization, as well as to draw the unfavorable attention of servants of the mad demigod, Dagoth Ur. To add that last bit of spice to my already overfull plate, someone had set the Dark Brotherhood upon me. Because that last seemed to me to be the province of the Imperial Legion, I went to them to seek assistance, just as any righteous citizen should do. The Empire’s response, in the words of Apelles Matius, Military Governor, could be summarized as,

“The Dark Brotherhood, eh? That’s too bad. You should probably do something to solve that problem. And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Although that was no more than I had expected from the Legion, it nevertheless enraged me to the point that I decided to do just the opposite. Rather than investigate the Dark Brotherhood, I decided to ignore them, to go on about my business as if nothing had happened. That might have worked if my business had not involved annoying all those various groups I mentioned earlier. In fact, I did more than just annoy the Camonna Tong; I destroyed their outpost in Balmora. The carnage there did not satisfy me, though, and I vowed to dedicate my remaining days to hunting down every member I could find of the criminal enterprise. Before I could put that plan into effect, fate intervened in the form of a Khajiit slave named Rabinna. That unfortunate creature was being used to smuggle the illegal drug, moon-sugar, by the expedient of having her swallow the packets. When she reached the buyer, he would murder her to retrieve the drugs. Her “owner” mistook me for the escort who was to take the slave to her bloody fate. Desiring to hurt the Camonna Tong in any way possible, I did nothing to correct that misperception. However, as soon as I had discovered the truth, I took Rabinna to the Argonian Mission in Ebonheart, a place where she assured me she would be safe. When I left the mission, I wandered the Imperial port, wondering what I should do next. The smell of the sea air and damp stone awoke in me a deep melancholy, perhaps accentuated by the release of the rage that had possessed me for several days. If I was not going to engage in a suicidal vendetta against the Camonna Tong, it might be wise to absent myself from Vvardenfell for a time. No one had any hold on me for the moment, but where could I go? My wandering steps had brought me to the doors of the Grand Council Chamber and I remembered a name- Asciene Rane. She was the mage who could get me to the mainland, to Morrowind’s capital. Due to the Blight, all ships from Vvardenfell were under quarantine; no one from the island was allowed onto the mainland. But if Asciene could get me to Mournhold, I might be able to find my way out…and go anywhere that my feet could carry me.

Having made things too hot for myself in Vvardenfell, a trip to the city of Mournhold suddenly seemed to be just the thing. Somehow, the idea of poking my nose into the Dark Brotherhood’s business conjured visions of frying pans and fires, but one risky venture seemed as good as another. Before I went to Asciene, I reviewed what little I knew of the Dark Brotherhood. It wasn’t terribly comforting, but did give me some ideas. Unlike the Morag Tong, the Brotherhood worked strictly for money. Since they accepted some portion of their fee up front and the rest upon completion, they would keep trying until they succeeded- or until they were …discouraged. I also reminded myself that they were hired killers, which meant someone had done the hiring. And that individual was someone I very much wanted to meet. Thus it was that two of my primary motivations- vengeance and escape- came together.

Asciene was more than a little curious about my reasons for desiring transport to Mournhold; in fact, she was rather suspicious. Rather than attempt to weave a convincing lie, I told the truth- I had been targeted by assassins. At the mention of the Dark Brotherhood, her impassive expression slipped and genuine concern showed in her eyes. Warning me that the Dark Brotherhood was not to be taken lightly, she agreed to transport me to Mournhold whenever I was ready. In addition, she gave me a note for Effe-Tei, the mage who could return me to Ebonheart. Thus it was, that I arrived in Mournhold, armed with nothing more than a sword and a thirst for answers.

[treydog]

Disengaging myself from the laughing High-Pockets as graciously as I could, I continued to check on the patrons. Everything seemed to be going smoothly- a couple of taciturn Redguards were drinking quietly and not causing any problems. As I started up the stairs to tell Hession that all was well, a brown-robed Bosmer blundered into me and exhaled his alcohol-laden breath up into my face. As I made to step around him, he clutched my sleeve and slurred,

“Where’d you think yer going, Breton? Just like you to push people aroun’ and then try to run when they stand up for themselves. Ought to ship the whole lot of you back to… back to… that place, got a name, sounds like ‘dye socks’… back to that place where you came from.”

Aware of Hession glaring at the confrontation, I kept my hand away from my sword and tried to reason with the obnoxious little elf.

“Sera, I think perhaps you have had enough to drink. You should probably go home now.”

By way of an answer, he belched still more matze-tinged breath into my face and sneered,

“Yeah? And who’s going to make me, Blondie? Nobody tells Denegor when he’s had enough. ‘s a nice bar and I’m staying. Why don’ YOU leave?”

With that last, he shoved me in the chest and stood back with an expectant smirk. I firmly stepped on my anger at being pushed, again reminding myself that this was a quality establishment, not a bucket of blood like the Razor Hole back in Balmora. Besides that, it wouldn’t do for me to get involved in a very public killing on my first day in Mournhold. Not only would such an event annoy my employer, it would also mean answering questions from the authorities. With more restraint than I was accustomed to, I said,

“Sera, if you won’t leave quietly, I will have to use force.”

Apparently, that was just what Denegor had been waiting to hear; suddenly appearing much more sober, the elf unleashed a rain of punches at my head and midsection. I was momentarily stunned- despite their irritating personalities, Bosmer are not generally violent, at least not in a face-to-face way. It was rather like being savaged by a duck. However, a punch that connected with my sensitive nose woke me from my amazement and I began to fight back. Unfortunately, my ability with a blade was not matched by any skill at brawling. Perhaps it was due to the contempt I had felt for my “foster father,” a man who was always quick with his fists, perhaps because of my still-naïve notions of “chivalry,” but I had always seen hand-to-hand combat as decidedly lower-class. Such snobbery from a stable hand may be comical, but one will find superiority, including imaginary superiority, where he can, even if it isn’t logical.

As I began attempting to defend myself, it became clear that there was more at work here than my relative inexperience in unarmed combat. I noticed that Denegor bore the telltale scars around the eyebrows and puffiness of the ears that revealed a seasoned tavern brawler. More disconcerting was the power his punches carried, far more than might be expected from an elf of such small stature. At first, I tried to stay on the defense, absorbing his blows on my arms and keeping my head out of the way. I had some vague hope that he would tire quickly and that perhaps the alcohol he had drunk would also slow him down. The only things that plan gained me were bruised arms and a blacked eye when I wasn’t able to slip a punch fast enough. Clearly, I was going to have to hit back- even if he couldn’t knock me out, the longer I let the Bosmer pummel me, the worse it would look. After all, no one wants to admit that they were beaten up by a wood elf. Therefore, I began to respond in earnest. My longer reach helped as I kept a constant barrage of left jabs flicking at his face, forcing him to stay back. Too, I think my speed surprised him- he expected someone of my size to be more like a Nord- all muscle and no finesse. The problem was, he was still a better fighter, landing 2 or 3 punches for each one I got in. If it continued this way, there was a very good chance he would manage a lucky shot that would put me down. And if that happened, I might as well go back to Vvardenfell- no one would take me seriously if I lost a simple bar fight. Thinking about Nords put me in mind of my other advantage- weight. Many a Nord won fights not through superior skill at punching, but by grappling.

Again protecting my head, I began to force the Bosmer back toward a corner, using my body as a ram. Once I had him against the wall, I managed to get a couple of solid punches into his stomach. As he gasped for air, I threw my arms around him and drove us both to the floor, making sure I landed solidly on top of him. With his arms still pinned between us, I freed one of my hands and grasped his hair, slamming his head into the floor several times. Brutal it might have been, but it was a better alternative than killing him. When he at last fell unconscious, I stood up and gingerly felt my face. For a wonder, I still had all my teeth and my nose wasn’t broken. Hession, who had largely ignored the brawl while it was happening, rushed up and said,

“Wonderful. You handled things as well as Grub would have. Here is your payment.”

The 1000 drakes went a long way towards soothing my bruises, enough that I didn’t ask why she hadn’t whacked Denegor over the head from behind. Still, I had to wonder what I had really accomplished. I had stopped a gambling cheat, gotten one drunk to drink himself into a stupor, and pummeled another. And none of that got me any closer to my goal of finding the Dark Brotherhood or the person who had hired them.

As I nursed my bruises at the bar, holding a piece of chilled nix-hound meat against my tender eye, I happened to see a cheaply printed broadsheet emblazoned with the title “The Common Tongue.” Avid as always for the printed word, I picked up the paper and began to read. One article in particular was of interest- bearing the title “Mysteries of the West,” it discussed the deaths of three people. The reason these particular deaths were of interest was what they had in common- all three were ruled to be from “natural causes” and all three of the people had been “inconvenient” for one Prince Helseth, formerly of High Rock and now King of Morrowind. The clear implication was that the King had been instrumental in “removing” these obstacles to his quest for power. Curious, I asked Ra’Tesh about the broadsheet and its contents, upon which he shook his head violently.

“It is nothing Ra’Tesh knows about. Someone leaves it here on Ra’Tesh’s bar, but it does not belong to him.”

As for Helseth, all he would say was,

“Helseth is the new king. Long live the king,” in a mechanical voice.

I put away the broadsheet and replaced it with some gold. Sweeping the coins into his pocket, the Khajiit admitted that he had “heard things.” Among the things he had heard was that some people were curious about the death of the old king- Athyn Llethan. Although he was an old man, he was healthy- it just seemed odd that he had died so soon after Helseth arrived in Mournhold. Then there was the question of Talen Vandas, Llethan’s nephew and heir. Everyone had assumed that he would be the next king, until his fatal accident. All of this was very interesting- assuming one was interested in high-level gossip and court intrigue. Given the fact that I intended to stay as far away from such things as possible, it appeared to me to be no more than the usual rumblings of discontent. While I sent my best wishes to anyone who wanted to make life miserable for the Empire and its petty kings, I had no desire to get involved. The games of kings had nothing to do with me.