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]

Any hope that the noise had gone unnoticed was dashed by the hooting grunts of a goblin pack on the scent of prey. Forsaking stealth for speed, I took to my heels, desperately seeking the ladder that would take me to the surface and safety. Surely these creatures wouldn’t risk appearing in the manor district in daylight. The distance to the ladder seemed much longer than I remembered. What if I had passed it in the gloom? Although I knew better, I couldn’t help looking back. My fears were confirmed- a misshapen figure was hopping after me, covering great distances with each bound. It brandished a huge club, apparently fashioned from the femur of some beast out of a nightmare. The goblin’s wickedly curved fangs and sharp claws glistened in the torchlight, and its eyes stared at me hungrily. What madness possessed me in that moment, I cannot say, but I stopped running and faced my pursuer. For the moment, this goblin was alone- the others still gibbered and snarled around the bend of the corridor. It was not courage that caused me to stare down the foul beast; it was anger. I had no wish to be in Mournhold, or in these sewers, fleeing for my life. I had not asked to be set upon by the Dark Brotherhood or by goblins; all I wanted was to be left alone, to make my way in peace. But, if that was not to be, I refused to make it easy. Anyone who attacked me would know that they had been in a fight.

Calmly, I nocked an arrow to the ethereal string of my conjured bow and sighted on the point where the ungainly creature’s ugly head met its hunched shoulders. I drew a deep breath and released it, loosing the arrow at the same time. Hard behind the first arrow, I drew, nocked, and fired a second. Both flew true and the goblin collapsed in a boneless heap some 3 paces away from me. Still possessed by that unnatural calm, I turned to the ladder as several more goblins finally came into view. Dispelling the bow to free my hands, I began to climb. Just as I reached the trapdoor and pushed it open, I heard an explosive grunt from below and felt a clawed hand grab my left leg. One of the goblins had jumped for me and now sought to pull me back. Clinging to the top of the ladder with both hands, I could not draw a weapon or fight back in any way. My leg seemed to be on fire as the claws dug deeper and the goblin pulled still harder. As I struggled to hold on, I wondered which would be worse, losing my leg or simply being pulled down into the darkness. As my arms began to weaken, I sensed a shadow looming over me and seemed to hear a voice shouting, “No!” There followed a series of solid thumps, interspersed with snarls and yelps, then the grip on my leg loosened. I felt my body rising upward, even as my mind seemed to fall into a dark well and disappear without a splash.

When I woke, it was to find myself sheltered on the porch of a manor house, back propped against the wall, and my enthusiastically if inexpertly bandaged leg stretched in front of me. When the pain in that injured limb caused me to hiss involuntarily, a friendly voice spoke from behind,

“Hello, friend. You feel better now? Thrud made the bad green man go away. Thrud fixed your leg. Did you find Dilborn? Dilborn reads books to me. All the words.”

I turned my head to see Thrud, still engaged with the string I had given him, leaning comfortably against the wall. Beside him was a large oak stave with a splintered end- clearly the weapon he had used to fight off the goblin. Before trying to answer any of his questions or my own, I downed a restorative potion and felt the healing warmth immediately spread through my mangled leg. As the waves of pain receded, I was able to think more clearly, to remember what I had seen in those hectic moments beneath the streets. My wounded leg certainly proved that the goblins were real, but what else? The ones I had seen were largely dressed in scraps of rough cloth, but they also wore leather harnesses… and on those harnesses…. Yes. They had worn rank and clan badges, as well. That pointed to an organized band, rather than a small group of rogues or outcasts. And that meant that they were in Mournhold for some specific purpose, at someone’s bidding. Each answer I deduced presented more questions, the most significant of which was- what did I intend to do about this problem?

While I tried to come up with a coherent plan, I rummaged through my gear, giving my nervous hands something to do. Potions I had in plenty- mostly for healing, and a considerable number that provided levitation. Useless in Mournhold, at least according to the gossip I had heard- levitation did not work in the city. Some said that the restriction was a manifestation of Almalexia’s vanity- the goddess did not want anyone to ‘stand higher’ than she. But wait- that only applied to the city proper, not to the ruins of Old Mournhold…or the sewers. The sewers, with their high, vaulted ceilings…. The outline of a plan began to take shape in my mind.

This post has been edited by treydog: Aug 25 2005, 05:46 PM