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]

The money I had earned for my temporary services made a pleasant weight in my pack as I stepped out into the light rain. As I considered how to approach the problem of the Dark Brotherhood, a Nord loomed up out of the rain. I braced myself for another confrontation, wincing at the thought of adding still more examples to my collection of bruises. However, one look at this fellow’s eyes quickly convinced me that he was innocent of any ill-intent, was in fact, innocent of even the ability to plan violence. What he sought was not a fight, but a friend. He smiled shyly at me and said,

“You look like a nice man. Maybe you can help me find Dilborn. My friend Dilborn. He is gone for three days. I am sad.”

As his vacant eyes had signaled, this was one of those who are said to have been “touched by the gods.” With that realization, I relaxed and asked him to tell me his story. Perhaps I should have just moved on, but the sight of this poor fellow standing in the rain waiting for his friend was something I could not bear. He reminded me of a man from back in High Rock who had helped with the horses from time to time. Kennet had loved horses, even though one had kicked him in the head, rendering him forever child-like. He had also been one of my few friends. This man’s story was quickly told: Thrud, as he named himself, was friends with Dilborn, “a great wizard.” In addition to being a wizard, Dilborn read books to Thrud and took occasional trips down into the sewers- alone. He had gone into the sewers three days ago and not returned. Thrud wanted me to go and find him, which would make Thrud very happy. Though I did not really want to explore the sewers, I simply couldn’t ignore the appeal in the big man’s eyes. A friend who had read books to him…. If Dilborn really was a wizard, he could have easily lost track of time; scholars are often like that. It would probably just be a simple matter to nip down to the sewers, remind him of his obligations, and return. The sewers were accessed by means of a trapdoor set in the cobbles in the northwest section of the Godsreach district. I had, with some difficulty, convinced Thrud to let me go on alone. Although I hoped for a safe, simple trip, I did not wish to wager someone else’s life on my hope. If I would not take responsibility for a mercenary, a man who knew what he was doing, how much less I desired to have the well-being of this simple giant on my hands. Eventually, I used a piece of string to demonstrate the game of “Cat’s Cradle” to him. Leaving him deeply absorbed in the loops of string, I raised the trap and descended the ladder.

I cannot convey to you with words what the sewers of Mournhold were like. First, they were much larger than I had expected, stone-lined and cavernous. But the smell… To simply say that the sewers “smelled bad” is less than useless. I had lived in a stable for most of my life. I had dealt with the inevitable organic by-products of horses every day of that time. That material “smelled bad.” The miasma in the sewers of Mournhold was a physical, all-but-visible assault with a blunt object. I could only be thankful for the current rain, which served to wash away some of the worst material. Breathing as shallowly as I could, I surveyed the vaulted ceilings that disappeared into the gloom. Most of the light filtered in through the overhead grates; there were a few guttering torches spaced in such a way as to throw much of the area into deep shadow. Still worse were the constant echoing whispers and shuffling that came to my ears. Shaking off the effects of the assault on my senses, I tried to think logically. If Dilborn really was a wizard, he would almost certainly be carrying some sort of magical item or device. My innate ability to cast Beggar’s Nose would allow me to sense the direction and distance of any such enchantments. At least that was the plan. What the spell detected was at instead half-a-dozen possibly hostile creatures in close proximity. I really hoped they were rats, but the grunts and coughs that sounded from the archway ahead showed that to be a vain dream. Conjuring a bound longbow, I crept up to a turning in the underground labyrinth and tried to become one with the shadows as I peered around the corner. What I saw bid fair to turn my already blonde hair white…for it was a squad of goblins.

By the Nine! Goblins in Mournhold? How could this be? I realize that some who have led sheltered lives may not understand my shock, so let me explain. The goblins of Tamriel are not the mythic bogies of children’s stories, dispelled by shining a light into the dark places. They are relatives to the Orcs, fierce fighters who traveled in packs and used their inhuman strength to wield weapons that could do terrible damage. Moreover, they were supposed to be largely confined to the wild places of the land, such as the Dragontail Mountains. They most definitely had no business in the middle of the capital city of Morrowind. Thus the questions came- what were they doing here? And how had they gotten here with no one the wiser? Somehow I doubted that the goblins were in the mood for a round of twenty questions. And, whatever the answers might be, my course was clear- I had to get out of here…NOW! One goblin would give me a serious fight- six would soon be using my broken body in a tug-of-war. I turned to slip away…and kicked a pebble which went rattling merrily across the stone floor of the sewers.