Outlanders (Morrowind Crossover) Options

[WellTemperedClavier]

@Acadian - It's Red Year, and things are going to get bad in Morrowind. A lot of this is the Tribunal's fault. But people like Jake and Helen will get caught in the way, sadly.

Treads knows how to manage things. Times are tough, which means folks need a place to relax, and he does his best to keep it relaxing.

@Renee - Vanu's just a character I made for this scene. She's an outlander, which means she doesn't get much of a welcome from the Redoran. Fortunately for her, Dimartani views character as more important than birthplace, and is happy to share his wisdom.

Yes, Jolda's dad was the one working with the IAS. As for the Three Js, Jeval will get his own section later on. Not only that, he's actually the star of the 15-chapter side story I'll post after this is done. But Jonus and Julien don't show up again, I'm afraid. I'm sure they're off doing something ridiculous.

Yes, Red Year did just happen. I made sure Helen and Jake at least had good lives to look back on, but not everyone can escape the disasters unfolding across Tamriel.

I'm pretty sure it does rain more often in Leyawiin in Oblivion. And because I'm using Project Tamriel lord, this version of Leyawiin is downright tropical.

@SubRosa - Indeed, the chaos is only beginning. But as you say, the elder Morgendorffers can take some comfort in the fact that their daughters are safe and that they had pretty good lives by Tamrielic standards.

Yeah, I figured it was best to just be matter-of-fact about that. Treads is Treads, regardless of gender.

The side story I mentioned above (and which I'll post later) goes into more detail as to why Jeval and Tiphannia (and Treads, for that matter) left Balmora. The story takes place between Episodes 31 and 32 (during the time of the game, actually).

I believe that word is "Backpfeifengesicht". Treads's attitude toward Red Year is very complicated. He hates the Dunmer great houses for practicing slavery, and the Empire for allowing it. But he also knows that it won't just hurt the people who caused the system. The damage is indiscriminate throughout Morrowind, and goes well beyond its borders.

I wasn't able to get a ton of information on the An-Xileel. They do sound pretty nationalistic though, so I thought I should portray that element.

Episode 32: A c0da to Live By

Chapters 7 & 8

28th of Second Seed, 4E 16 – the Sloan Estate (north of Cheydinhal), Cyrodiil Province, the Thules Regime

Over two-thousand lives hinged on Serjo Tomal Sloan’s next decision.

It wasn’t the kind of decision he’d ever expected to make as a youth. But he supposed adulthood had surprised nearly everyone in his generation. Maybe adulthood always came as a surprise, regardless of generation.

He stood on the balcony of his adobe manse, built in the traditional Hlaalu style, and observed his domain. Miles of rice paddies and fruit orchards gleamed beneath the tropical sun, life positively bursting from the damp black earth fed by the waters of Lake Arrius. At the edges huddled the adobe huts and tents that housed the Sloan family’s workers. His father had purchased this land decades ago from a wastrel Nibenese noble, and had used it to earn wealth for himself and for the Hlaalu Council Company.

Tomal used it for sanctuary.

Exactly 2,117 people, mostly Dunmer with some outlanders, now called the Sloan Estate home. They came fleeing Morrowind, fleeing the Red Year and the Argonian Invasion and the collapse of Great House Hlaalu. Tomal built homes for them when he could, and kept doing that until he could shelter no more.

Those loyal to the Sloans got first priority. Second to them, longtime followers of Great House Hlaalu. Beyond that, mostly a matter of first come, first serve. The Sloan name no longer carried as much weight, or as much wealth, as it once did. He took on some families at a loss. Good thing his dad had put more investments in Cyrodiil than in Morrowind.

Keeping them safe in an increasingly hostile land posed an altogether thornier problem.

Tomal looked down at his drink, a silver cup half-full of fiery brandy. He was still a bit light-headed from his drinking the previous night.

“Mentally impairing beverages and high-stakes negotiations,” Andrava said. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Andrava Nesryn, the eldest (and only surviving) child of a noble family from Andothren, had fled with Tomal and assumed the duties of a seneschal within the Sloan Estate. She did it well.

Tomal shrugged. “Hey, there’s a reason we have the phrase ‘drunk as lords’.”

“And a reason that a lot of lords don’t live to finish their careers.”

“Point taken,” Tomal said, putting down the cup. He turned to Andrava. “How do I look?”

He’d tried to dress as Colovian as he could for this meeting, complete with a stiff jacket of blue wool that was slowly cooking him alive in the jungle heat.

She eyed him doubtfully. “Like a provincial Colovian noble from twenty years ago.”

“Well, retro’s always in. We’re sure that Titus is the only rebel leader with any chance of beating Thules?”

“Yes. He’s defeated or rallied all of the other notable warlords. The Jarl of Eastmarch was the only serious rival, and he's dead. His son’s still insisting he was murdered, but he’s not standing in Titus’s way. The odds favor Titus, but this doesn’t mean that Emperor Thules is out of the picture,” Andrava said.

Plenty of Thules’s rust-splotched troops had ridden by the Sloan Estate, demanding to know why so many Dunmer lived on human lands, and so close to the moldering ruins of the Summer Palace, at that. Tenants had been harassed, a few killed, before Tomal could smooth things over. Citizenship didn’t mean as much as it used to, and as times got harder, Tomal suspected it’d mean even less.

Likewise, plenty of nobles loyal to Thules took advantage of the man’s erratic mental state to nab lands from less popular rivals. A fiefdom owned and run by Dunmer, without any real support from Morrowind, made a tempting target.

“He certainly is not,” Tomal agreed. “Have the other Dunmer in eastern Cyrodiil said anything?”

“No. They’re probably waiting on you. You’re the highest-ranking Hlaalu here.”

“Don’t remind me. We know Thules will eventually give my land to one of his cronies, which means the people here will be killed or sent back into Morrowind. If we help Titus take over, then there’s a chance we’ll have a place in the new regime.”

“But if we help Titus, and Titus loses…”

“Then we start looking for relatively painless suicide methods,” Tomal said.

“As astute as always, Serjo Sloan.”

By ALMSIVI, he wanted another drink. But no, he needed a clear head for this negotiation.

“Okay, let’s go downstairs and meet the emissary. We’ll pledge our support, and I’ll don the old bonemold and sally forth if I have to.”

Andrava’s eyelids fluttered, and she looked down. “If you’ll pardon my saying, I hope you don’t have to.”

“Is that concern I hear in my flinty seneschal’s voice?” he asked, trying to make light of it.

She didn’t say anything. Some things shouldn’t be joked about, he supposed.

“It probably won’t come to that,” Tomal said. “No one thinks of me as soldier material anyway. But Great House Hlaalu of Cyrodiil will stand with Titus Mede. Because we can’t stand anywhere else.”

“I know, serjo. I know.”


21st of Hearthfire, 4E 18 – the Imperial City, Cyrodiil Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)

Okay, Quinn told herself as she walked down another gloomy, damp hallway that went on forever. It’s been a tough couple of decades, so yeah, some of that’s going to show in the Imperial Palace. They’re fixing it. Slowly.

The disappointment still hit her though. This place was supposed to be the place, the one where you found the best the Empire had to offer. All she saw were unshaven soldiers and bureaucrats with bags under their eyes shuffling down galleries that no one had cleaned in forever.

The palace was exactly what Daria had warned her it would be.

But maybe, someday, things would be better.

Quinn found the office right where the directions had said, two doors past the broken statue of Emperor What’s-his-name but before the big stairway. She knocked on the door and smoothed her pink moth-silk gown and touched her still mostly red hair. Hair dye cost a lot, these days.

Everything cost a lot because of so many trade routes collapsing. Not that it mattered so much, but the little things made the big tragedies easier to bear.

“Come in,” ordered the voice.

Quinn opened the door and stepped into the office of General Antabius Corello. He didn’t look like a general to her, paunchy and soft, and with an oily black mustache that she wanted to shave off for his own good. But she’d listened to palace chatter, and knew he handled a lot of Emperor Titus's spies and propaganda.

“Your lordship,” she said, bowing.

He acknowledged her with a curt nod. “You’ve come highly recommended, citizen.”

She smiled, like she felt lucky to get that kind of praise. Actually, she hated how much cringing everyone had to do these days. Used to be you could brag about stuff a little as long as you didn’t go overboard, but now humility was in.

“I am honored that you have heard, your lordship.”

“Your sartorial and cosmetic guidance has made stars out of obscure families like the Secunias and the Ajenois, and in very meager circumstances, too.”

“I only brought out the beauty they already had within, your lordship.”

He tented his fingers, which looked like little sausages, and leaned back in his chair. “I, however, want to test your mettle in a different way.”

“I live to serve the emperor, your lordship.”

“His imperial majesty is creating a new diplomatic corps. He wants a uniform that is both visually impressive and tied with Cyrodiilic culture. That is our core, after all. Is that something you can do?”

“Of course!” she said, already getting all kinds of ideas. “Your lordship,” she added.

“The false emperor Thules was Nibenese, and we want to advertise the true emperor’s soldierly Colovian credentials, so favor Colovian styles. We’ve let the Nibenese bureaucrats run things for too long, anyway. You will have access to as many assistants as you might need. They’ll supply you with fabrics, dyes, and can test out your designs. You’ll have a budget of five-thousand septims.”

“I promise that the Empire will be known as much for style, as for justice.”

“Hm, yes. Your office is waiting in the east wing. My servant,” he paused to ring a bell, “will show you the way.”

Quinn bowed again. A page who couldn’t have been older than fifteen showed up at the door, and the general told her to follow. Back out to the dreary halls.

It wasn’t the Fashion Guild, but it was the closest she’d get. The whole guild system was history anyway. Nobles and government offices handled most of that stuff now, and people like Quinn had to go along.

She’d had an argument with Daria about this. Not one of those arguments that turned into a fight and left everyone with hurt feelings that they never got over, but it had still been pretty intense. Daria didn’t think the new dynasty would make things better.

But what was the alternative? Quinn wanted her daughters to grow up in a world like the one she’d grown up in. Where there was always food on the table, the soldiers were usually good guys who protected you, and you could worry about things like fabrics and hairstyles because all the important stuff was taken care of already.

She sniffed, thinking of her daughters: Helena and Vesta. Mom and dad would’ve been crazy about them, too, and not a day went by that she didn’t wish she could bring her girls to them. But all Quinn could do was light the candles in the temple and tell her daughters how much grandma and grandpa would’ve loved them, and…

Quinn stifled her sob.

Maybe the Medes could fix the world. Maybe they couldn’t. Daria didn’t have kids and, at this point, probably never would. It was easy for her to talk about things not working out because she didn’t have any real skin in the game. All Quinn could do was try. Try and make an empire that lived up to the Septims, and maybe turned out a little better.

She loved Daria and she always would. But there were some things her sister would never understand.

This post has been edited by WellTemperedClavier: Sep 10 2023, 04:50 PM

[Acadian]

Tomal. Tough times all over and Tomal is not exempt. His mantle of responsibility weighs heavily, but he has a good heart and a good seneschal. I expect he’s making the best choice from a short, unsavory list of options.


Quinn. Unsurprisingly, Quinn’s fashion sense has earned her a place in this crumbling empire. She’s still very much Quinn but has indeed sobered and sombered up. The world falling apart, her parents’ death and a pair of daughters will do that.

[SubRosa]

So the Sloans escaped Red Year. Not too surprising, given how entrenched they were in Cyrodiil to begin with.

Tom is certainly navigating treacherous waters. Turning his estate into a refugee sanctuary is difficult enough. Surviving the civil war at the end of this interregnum will be far from challenging. Of course we know from hindsight that Titus will be the last one standing. But Tom does not.

Given Thules' behavior, it seems that picking Titus is about the only real option anyhow. As Tom puts it so succinctly, he cannot stand anywhere else.

I see from the heading of section 2 that Tom backed the right horse, given that it is now the Median Empire.

Looks like Daria is preparing her sister with lowered expectations, as one would expect.

Quinn in this setting kind of reminds me of Effie Trinket from the Hunger Games books/movies. It is the little things like looking good that make the nightmare going on around her bearable.

Quinn is talking to the army guy in charge of spies and propaganda? Is he going to hire her to be the Cyrodiilic equivalent of Hugo Boss, to design their new SS Imperial uniforms? Or is he going to make her a spy? Honestly, I think she definitely would do well as either.

Hugo Boss it is! It sounds like Quinn is definitely living her best life, even as the Empire itself is not.

Wow, Quinn has kids now. That more than anything else brings home that over two decades have passed.

[WellTemperedClavier]

@Acadian - Tomal was raised to navigate the treacherous politics of Great House Hlaalu. Surviving in post-Red Year Cyrodiil isn't easier, but it is probably simpler.

Quinn's definitely grown up a great deal. She's smart enough to know that things weren't great in the old days, but she'll tolerate a lot of that bad if she thinks that means a more stable world for her daughters.

@SubRosa - It's hard to know who to choose (and the first part of today's update deals with someone who didn't make the right choice). But Thules being awful made the choice a little easier for Tomal.

It is often the little things that make the big things tolerable. There's a line I liked from the movie Pitch Black, something to the effect of: "Amazing how you can do without the essentials of life, so long as you have the little luxuries."

Propaganda is probably a natural route for Quinn, so that's where she's headed. I don't think it's exactly what she wanted, but her main focus is now her family. If she thinks a spiffy uniform will help create a safer Tamriel, she'll make it happen.

Episode 32: A c0da to Live By

Chapters 9 & 10

7th of First Seed, 4E 22 – Andothren, Morrowind, Great House Sadras

“Relax your stance a little bit. Hang loose.”

A sheen of sweat shone on Vedas’s face as the young Dunmer noble nodded, his muscles unclenching. Maiko walked around his student, observing from all angles and happy with the result. Vedas was a good kid. He didn’t object to Maiko not being Dunmer, and was willing to listen (though not always eager).

“That’s good. Hold that for a bit. Remember: you need to move fast in a sword fight. Be like water.”

“Yes, sera.”

The first thing a rookie needed to learn was how to stand. Then how to move. Fighting came later. That’s how Maiko learned it in the legion, and that’s what he taught his students, whether they were Serjo Dravaal’s security or Serjo Dravaal’s kids.

They finished up for the day, Vedas giving Maiko a respectful nod before he left to the main hall, where Maiko already smelled a dinner of comberry-braised ornada and spiced saltrice being prepped. Which made him realize he was getting pretty hungry, and that it was time to head home.

It was a clear early evening, a band of stars shining faintly in the east as the sun sank low in the west. The roar of the big cliffside waterfalls, Andothren’s claim to fame, filled the air. The place reminded Maiko of Balmora in a lot of ways: same blocky adobe buildings, same marketplace buzz.

He’d heard that Red Year had fried Andothren, even though it was on the mainland. Great House Sadras had fixed it up. Sadras wasn't much different from Hlaalu; knew how to throw money around for a show. And a show was all it was. There was nothing but miles of ashen devastation once you got past the city and the farms surrounding it. Air was still bad too, and Maiko didn’t like to think what it might be doing to his lungs, or to his family’s.

One big difference from Balmora: a lot of times, Maiko was the only outlander in sight. Dunmer stared at him as he passed, and only the Great House Sadras badge on his shirt kept them from saying what they actually thought about him.

But home and dinner awaited. No point in sulking.

“I’m home!” he said, once he arrived.

Marcus, eight years old, four feet tall, and full of energy, bounded up and hugged him. Maiko grabbed him under the arms and lifted him up, gave him a little spin (not as much as he used to, Marcus was too big), and then put him down.

“Good timing, dinner’s almost ready!”

The voice of Caelia, his wife, came from the kitchen along with all the right smells: steamed saltrice and grilled fish. Better than he’d ever eaten in the legion.

At dinner, in a cramped little adobe room barely big enough for the three of them, Maiko could forget all his troubles.

The troubles came back later, though, as he lay in bed with Caelia.

“Marcus wants to go to Cyrodiil someday,” she said.

Maiko nodded in the darkness and stretched his arms back against the wall. “Maybe he can. I don’t think anyone there still cares about me.”

“What if they do still care?” her voice was completely level, like it always was when she was scared of something.

He didn’t say anything for a bit. “Serjo Dravaal’s a good man. He can find a place for Marcus here in Morrowind.”

“I know. It’s lonely for him here.”

“It’s lonely for all of us.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I chose wrong, Caelia, I—”

“No, don’t say sorry. You couldn’t have known. I thought the same thing too, so I’m just as much at fault.”

When Emperor Thules had called the legions to defend the Imperial City against the rebel Titus Mede, Maiko had readied his unit and marched.

But the rebels won.

Maiko knew Thules wasn’t any good as an emperor, but an officer didn’t disobey orders. Besides, Cyrodiil already had too many crackpot warlords running around and causing trouble. No reason to think Titus was any better.

When it was over, Maiko had fled to Morrowind with Caelia and Marcus. They were safe enough with the Dunmer. Emperor Titus Mede had purged everyone too close to Thules. Had Maiko been close? Not really, he’d only been a captain. But he didn’t want to take that chance, not when his family needed him.

“I’ve heard there are some other veterans in Kragenmoor,” he said. “Guys like me who served under Thules. Maybe they can give me the lay of the land back in Cyrodiil.”

“I guess. We can always stay in Morrowind.”

“Absolutely,” Maiko said. “Absolutely.”

He hoped his son would feel the same way in ten years.


27th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 33 – Haimtir Village, Skyrim Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)

Andra, sometimes called Golden-handed, used to hate rainy days. Rain meant rats fleeing drains, and the trash of Labor Town stinking worse than it usually did.

Out here on the Druadach Highlands, tucked away in southwestern Skyrim, it was a different story. Rain meant life. As the clouds emptied their contents onto the gray-green grass, she could smell the seeds breaking open in the thin soil and sending out little green shoots that’d help ensure another year for Haimtir.

It was hard to tell the ground from the sky on days like this where cloud and water, gray and green all tumbled together. She looked out at it a little while longer before going back into the conical, straw-roofed common hut. Warmth flowed through her aged bones the moment she did, and she walked across the dirt floor to take a seat by the fire where her ledger for the year so far—a scroll of wormmouth hide weighed down by a few rocks—awaited her. Other villagers, usually on the older side, labored at their own crafts: woodworking, mending, and others.

Andra had never been much of a thief, really. But she knew numbers and organization, and so the Thieves Guild had found her useful. So too did Haimtir. Most folk were Reachmen like her, but they’d survived by being open, counting Redguards, Nords, Bretons, and others among their number. Anyone who worked was welcome.

Andra worked. She kept close track of the tribe’s resources—food and hides and ever-meager coin—and made the most of what little they had. And so it was that as jarls raged and the Empire trembled, little Haimtir survived. Not easily, and not without sacrifice. But survival was never easy.

She squinted her eyes as she compared this month’s earnings to the last. Glasses, like the ones Daria had worn (she idly wondered if Daria had escaped Red Year), would be useful. But such things did not exist on the lonely mesas of Druadach.

It was mid-afternoon, still gray and pleasantly dreary, when new voices entered the smoky room. Some light and lively, those of children. The other heavier and with an unmistakable Dunmer rasp, but somehow still child-like.

Andra glanced up to see Kavon step inside, his daughter Dragheda (whose fine features and slightly grayish skin showed her mixed heritage), and a few of her friends following close behind, all soaked but with bright smiles on their grubby faces.

“Hey, Andra! So, uh, Dragheda’s done all her chores and she wanted to hear that story about how we escaped from the jail that one time.”

Andra smiled. Balmora had always been too complicated a place for someone like Kavon. Haimtir suited him better. In fact, he suited Haimtir. Kavon was a formidable fighter so long as he had good leadership, a fact he’d proven more than a few times in the bloody decades after Red Year.

Haimtir was peaceful. But it couldn’t afford to be weak.

“Come on, Dragheda,” Andra said. “Don’t you want to let your dad tell the story for once? He’s the warrior.”

Dragheda shrugged. “But you’re the storyteller.”

The rest of the kids murmured their assent.

“Yeah, I always get the details mixed up. You’re way better at this kind of thing,” Kavon said, sitting down cross-legged before her, his eyes wide and smile guileless.

Sometimes Andra felt a bit guilty. She’d tricked Kavon during a heist, years and years ago, costing him his job. They’d ended up in the same cell not long after and, upon breaking free, made the long journey west across a dying Empire together. It hadn’t been an easy experience for either of them.

But he’d have likely died in Red Year if he’d stayed. Best case scenario, he’d live long enough for one great house or another to use him up and cast him aside. In Haimtir, he had friends. He’d started a family. His kids would be Reachmen, not Dunmer, but nobody—Kavon least of all—was bothered by that fact.

“Okay. Andra leaned in close so that her pale, wrinkled face would fill their vision. “There we were: me, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, and Kavon, the only guard in all Balmora with a hero’s heart. And what did they do with us? They put us in a dank dirty cell, one so foul that not even a rat would go inside!”

“Wait,” Kavon said. I’m pretty sure I saw a few rats in there—”

“Hush!” Andra ordered.


((For those curious, Haimtir is a Reachman village you can visit in Project Tamriel's Skyrim. Just be prepared for a hike; much like the Ashlander camps in the base game, it's quite far off the beaten track.))

[SubRosa]

I remember that line from Pitch Black. I loved that movie. Too bad the sequels never really captured the same feeling.

So today it's Kevvy and Mac-Daddy!

Water can flow, and it can crash, be like water Vedas.

Given the date, I am imagining that Maiko is in his forties now? So he's a grizzled veteran. It looks like he is no longer a member of the Legion however, but rather working for one of the Great Houses? Ah, House Sadras I see.

Ok, I get it now. Maiko was in the legion, but he backed the wrong horse in the civil war that put Mede in charge.

Still, Maiko is doing pretty good, especially for someone who picked the losing side. It means he survived the war, and survived to escape the aftermath. All in all, it looks like he's actually got a pretty good life for himself in Morrowind.

So Andra has gone from the Thieves Guild to being a Witch Woman of the Western Reach? Well, at least a Woman of the Reach.

Kavon seems to have found a good place for himself too. As Andra noted, Balmora was too complicated for him. But for someone good at knocking skulls, he he seems to have found the right niche for himself.

[Acadian]

Maiko. I see the now older Legionnaire paid a price for his profession by being on the losing side. It does seem he was able to carve out a place in Morrowind for his small family and is gainfully employed still as a man at arms. Sad but could be much worse I suppose.


Andra and Kavon. Gotta love Kavon – too simple for Balmora but a fierce and loyal warrior as long as he was well-led. It seems he and Andra have also carved out a fortuitous Reach village existence – friends, family, food – can’t complain.
’It was mid-afternoon, still gray and pleasantly dreary,’
- - although gray + pleasant sounds odd together, the sentiment strikes true for me as desert dweller. Overcast, gray, rain and what some would call dreary are always welcome here and contain an element of delight in their rarity.

[WellTemperedClavier]

First, apologies to SubRosa and Renee for falling a bit behind this week on my reading. I'll catch up this coming week!

@SubRosa - Same! Chronicles of Riddick felt kind of bloated to me, but Pitch Black was a fun movie. Intense, direct, with some cool monster work and interesting character moments (which you usually don't get in creature features).

You know, I think I screwed up the math here and he'd actually be nearly 60(!). I might adjust the date for that entry since yeah, I figured forties as well.

Maiko's doing okay. I imagine Titus as pretty rational, so I doubt he'd actually punish someone at Maiko's level; only the close associates and enablers of Thules would be in trouble. Of course, Maiko doesn't know that. Still, I don't think he'd be persecuted if he goes back.

Haimtir's definitely a better environment for Kavon than Balmora. He got something pretty close to his Golden Ending.

@Acadian - Maiko's situation isn't great, but it's far from the worst. And I do think he could safely go back to Cyrodiil. It's mostly a matter of convincing himself and his family.

Good point. The show version of Andra (Andrea) was a goth, so maybe that's why I was thinking of the gloomy weather being appealing to her. Plus, the Project Tamriel version of the Reach is a bit drier than the TES version (since it's right by Hammerfell). Not even close to a desert, mind you, but you might have some dry periods.

Episode 32: A c0da to Live By

Chapters 11 & 12

11th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 50 – Camlorn, High Rock Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)

Synda used to hate snow.

She still didn’t love it. The stuff turned black and dirty soon after falling between the dagger-roofed shops and houses of old Camlorn. But there was always that moment when it first fell from the gray skies, the white flakes dancing on the Eltheric Ocean’s icy winds, that made this bleak and alien land feel like a place of enchantment.

Wrapped up in purple cloak and a high-necked blue dress of coarse wool, Synda walked along the city’s icy streets with her hands in her sleeves, her steps swift and sure. With her walked her son, Revyn, nine years of age and the most perfect Mer she’d ever seen, clearly Dunmer but his gray skin possessing the everlasting glow of Aelcaro, his Cyrodiil-raised Altmer father.

The father to whom they were paying their respects that day, three years after he’d drowned trying to save a neighbor from the same fate. He’d left them enough to support themselves. Synda’s general goods store did a tidy business even if it did not exactly thrive.

They reached the graveyard soon enough, the markers like grim sentinels on the frozen ground. She wanted to grab Revyn’s hand, but she let him walk on his own as a boy his age ought.

A simple stone stood above her husband’s grave. It fit his style, simple and direct, like the humans with whom he’d spent so much time. She’d never found the grave worthy of him, but it was too late to criticize.

Bending down, she placed the lilies she’d purchased from Oudrienne, the flower-seller, upon the cold earth. Lilies were not suitable flowers for him. They were garish and overdone, like so much in High Rock. He’d be better honored by coda flowers and black roses, but those were out of her reach.

She did not allow herself to cry as she imagined taking Aelcaro by his golden hand to see the beauty of her homeland in its prime, that vast garden grown from ash and salt by the bloodied hands of her ancestors. There they’d raise Revyn up high on their shoulders so he could see his heritage and know the strength within him, and honor the three gods whom she knew still reigned, no matter what the New Temple said.

So much of that now buried under the same ash from which it had grown.

Synda had confessed her shame to Aelcaro. He forgave her since he did not understand the gravity of her sins, and she loved him for that. With him gone, and her parents likely dead, she was truly free.

“I miss dad,” Revyn said.

“As do I.”

Revyn sniffled, and Synda glanced down at her son. “He would want you to be strong,” she said.

In truth, Aelcaro had always indulged Revyn with his ready smile and silver laugh. He left it to Synda to be stern, for that came naturally. But Revyn needed to be strong, and it’d be easier for him if he believed that’s what his father had wanted.

Revyn cried often. Such a trait promised a grim future for a Dunmer boy in a city of humans.

“Control yourself,” she warned, and hating herself for being so harsh.

“Why did he have to—”

“I don’t know,” she said. “The world is a cruel place.”

And it was. She’d seen it over and over again, in Morrowind, in Skyrim, in Cyrodiil, and in High Rock. Aelcaro had been the exception, not the rule.

“I wish it wasn’t,” he said.

She refused to let her tears flow.

“As do I.” She knelt down next to him, wanting to hold him close but fearing that’d ruin her lesson. “I promise I’ll never be cruel to you, no matter what. But please be strong, for my sake and yours.”

“I’ll do my best,” he vowed in a trembling voice.

She knew he’d fail. Because no one was ready for the world’s cruelty.

But she’d be there for Revyn when he stumbled.


22nd of Second Seed, 4E 103 – Balmora, Morrowind, Great House Sadras

Loose ash swirled around Tedannupal, Ashkhan of the Odaishannabab, as he and his entourage rode their beetles down to Balmora. At his right, Shunaibal, who wrestled nix hounds to the ground. At his left, Bannuzashinar, whose spears plucked musk flies out of the air.

The new town did not look much like the old. Or, more properly, it did look like the much older town from the days of Tedannupal’s father and grandfather and great-grandfather: a rude collection of adobe huts and a ramshackle temple atop a hill and surrounded by a low adobe wall.

The vivid and alien metropolis of Tedannupal’s youth, with its faces and voices and goods from all over the world, was buried under the ash. Part of him regretted not spending more time there, but doing so would have probably made him soft.

He’d heard that Daria had left before Red Year, and that put him at ease.

A few townsfolk greeted them as they rode in, tones respectful but not fearful. Balmora and the Odaishannabab had common cause so long as beasts, and Mer with the hearts of beasts, still threatened. Tedannupal’s men protected the farms, and in return, they received weapons, tools, and extra food.

Tedannupal had gotten the idea for the arrangement from an old outlander book he’d retrieved from the city’s ruins. It was called “mutualism”, and struck him as worth exploring. And it had been.

But he didn’t know for how much longer. Fresh green shoots now poked their way up out of the ash. The town grew a bit bigger every few years. Monsters no longer roamed as much, and Great House Sadras ran a small office near the temple.

Sooner or later, Sadras would send in more guards, which meant less work for the Odaishannabab. He knew that Ashlanders would never win against the House Dunmer, not in the long run.

Tedannupal revered his ancestors, but he also understood that they’d made errors. He’d honor them by learning from their mistakes.

He chatted a bit with the townsfolk, asked about the things they concerned themselves with, and he’d read enough to at least sort of understand crop yields and the strange interpersonal interactions that arose when too many Dunmer were locked into too small a place for much too long. It was fascinating from a… either a psychological or sociological perspective. He wasn’t quite sure which term applied.

Finally, he reached the shabby little temple in the center of town. Someone had told him it used to be called the Hlaalu Council Manor, but no one had spoken of the Hlaalu in many decades.

His daughter, Yansurnabba, waited at the front. With her was Menezcherib, Shunaibal’s son and fellow student. He’d been sent to protect little Yan, since the House Dunmer did not always welcome Ashlanders. But Yansurnabba never reported any trouble.

“Daughter of Odaishannabab!” he greeted in the formal way (like he always did in front of townsfolk, since that’s what they expected), though he smiled to let her know how happy he was to see her. He rode closer, so his weakening eyes could get a better look. By the ancestors, how she’d grown over the past three months!

“Honored father,” she said, knowing the script.

“Have you learned much from the temple school?”

“I have honored my elders and heeded their words. And I asked a lot of questions, as you told me to.” She then reached into her bag and took out a book’s worth of notes, and Tedannupal’s heart soared. He’d learn so much from her!

“Good! I’m sure you’ll have much to teach us back at camp.”

He wanted to run out and hug her, lift her up and put her on the back of his mount. But not with the townsfolk watching. So he rode closer to her and let her mount up on her own. Nearby, Shunaibal did the same with his son.

“See you in the fall, Yansurnabba!” called out a voice from the temple doorway.

It was Briltasi, one of his daughter’s teachers, standing there and waving. The second of the two teachers at the school was stern like he’d expected, but Briltasi almost seemed like a girl herself and he worried she’d be too easy on his daughter. Because Yansurnabba and Menezcherib needed to learn, because the towns would grow bigger, and herding would get harder.

The Odaishannabab could either prepare and adapt, or again be left behind to dwindle. Both were types of death. But as a wise Redguard (or Imperial?) had once written, death was not an ending, it was only a change.

They waved to Briltasi before riding off, Yansurnabba promising to come back. Tedannupal would make sure of it.

[Renee]

Yes, so I imagine the former TEACHER gets placed with Vanu because she's an outlander, and so he gets "stuck" with this "lesser" person so the Redoran won't have to give him an actual member of their tribe. If so, I'd rather be with Vanu.

I really got bummed by the way the story ended in Balmora, Clav. Seriously, if there weren't constant other things to do in our lives: shopping, writing, going to the coffee shop, preparing for my new job, etc. I could just dwell on that one moment when mom & dad hold hands. Like... say I was in an accident, and bedridden for weeks or something. And the only thing to look forward to was these stories, ya see?

And It's pretty profound that the children live on.

Oh wow, looks like Tomal became a pretty major benefactor for a while. See, I knew he's a good guy.

Quinn, and it's now some 15 to 20 odd-years later. So with Quinn, I'd expect she's moved on from being the mall princess. She's gonna be more mature. Yup, sounds about right! She's still got that basic seems-careless attitude underneath it all, but she's not quite as Clueless.

Nice, she's working for some royals. See, I knew her ambitious younger devotions would pay off, somehow.

And with Synda, I'm REALLY curious how things turned out with her. Good thing is, we're about to find out.

I love snow. ❄ But now with stupid global warming, we barely see any of it in Maryland. Anyway, she's got a kid as well. I imagine this might help focus her aggression, since she now has to not be as self-centered. Well, Maybe.

Whoa, she's got a store. Did not see that coming. I thought she'd wind up an assassin. Or a thief or something.

How did Ted stay safe from the events of the Red Year?

This post has been edited by Renee: Sep 17 2023, 06:33 PM

[SubRosa]

No worries m8, when you get to reading the other stories, you get to it. We all know what a neg real life can be.

I think the problem with Pitch Black and its successors is that the original was a sci-fi horror movie, with a little bit of action thrown in. It also had 3 protagonists, and one of the real things that brought the movie to life was that no one was what they appeared to be. As the movie went on we found that each one was not what we expected.

The sequels all just ditched that, and went the standard space opera action movie route. And they all focused pretty much purely upon Riddick. They were Riddick movies, not Pitch Black movies. But it was not Riddick alone that made Pitch Black magic. It was the mix of him and the other characters, in that particular situation. And he also was not a superhero in that movie, as he was in the others, so there was a real sense of danger at all times.

We switch to Sydna. I am almost disappointed to see that she survived. Well, we knew she would, given that she left Morrowind before the Red Year.

Dagger-shaped roofs you say? Does that means she is in Daggerfall? I mean High Rock that is. I see on the map that Camlorn is north of Daggerfall. She literally went as far from Morrowind as she could without completely leaving the continent.

Wow, so a husband come and gone, and a perfect Mer child. And a shop. Things certainly have changed dramatically for Sydna.

I see that even though her life has certainly improved, she cannot help but nitpick and find fault and coldly distance herself from everything around her, including her son whom she refuses to hold hands with.

Wow, Ted survived Red Year. And he's the ashcan now? He's moved up in the world. Well, he's inherited more responsibilities at least.

It looks like he's set up sort of an Anarchist mutual aid group with the denizens of New Balmora. Newmora perhaps? That would do Blood Raven and January both proud. People are always more successful when acting as a collective, whether in bargaining or fighting.

Oh goddess save me from the Ashlander names! They are worse than the Dwemer ones.

Britney made it out alive! And she is a teacher! Oh my.

[Acadian]

Synda. Looks like she has found a snowy niche far from Morrowind. Casting herself out of her homeland probably saved her life. A widow now with a shop and a son. I don’t believe she is or will make a great mother but I am encouraged by the fact that it seems rather following in her parents’ footsteps, she is strongly rebelling against exactly that. She realizes her faults but seems determined not to cast out, disown or abandon her son – even when he displays ‘imperfections’.


Tedannupal. Ted has survived the red year stuff and his clan (tribe?) is almost flourishing. Wife, kids, and wise arrangements with the struggling town of New Balmora. Clever to have his kids schooled so they can share what they learn. The future of his group is uncertain. . . but then it always has been for the ashlanders.

[WellTemperedClavier]

(So I think the original post was too big for the forum to handle. Thus I'm splitting my initial comments with the story proper.)

@Renee - Yup, that's how it went down. And despite the best efforts of Redoran xenophobia, Vanu still got the better deal in a lot of ways. Character matters.

It hurt to write that section. Originally, I'd figured that since this was an AU anyway, I'd just ignore most of the stuff that came after Morrowind. Given that this is a crossover AU between two older franchises, it's obviously an exercise in nostalgia to some extent. But that started to bother me.

A big issue in both Daria and Morrowind is that things weren't that great. Yes, the 1990s were better for some people in some ways--but they also had a lot of problems that the prosperity (which not everyone enjoyed) could only do so much to gloss over. As for Morrowind, the problems there were pretty self-evident.

A lot of the problems in the 2020s (especially the environmental ones) are really the same ones we had back then. Turning back the clock won't fix anything unless there are also changes made. Both Daria and Morrowind were about confronting some of the social ills we take for granted: bigotry, inequity, and corruption (broadly speaking). Presenting an alternative where everything turned out okay, where the massive issues in Morrowind and Tamriel didn't come back to bite them, felt like ignoring what the two source franchises stood for.

On a personal note, I'm sorry to hear that things are going so rough for you. Hope they start to get better soon!

Tomal stepped up to the plate. I think his experience with Daria taught him just how much power and responsibility he has, and he lived up to that better than either of his parents did.

Quinn never got the Fashion Guild she wanted, but this is probably the next best thing: a respectable position in the Empire that lets her exercise her talents.

Heh, Synda's schemes tended to backfire, so it's probably best that she didn't take the thief/assassin route (though given how many decades she wandered northern Tamriel, she might've had some pretty intense experiences).

Tedannupal had a lot of survival skills and he knew the land. He got lucky to some extent, but his skills helped see him through both the initial disaster as well as the aftermath.

@SubRosa - I agree completely. Chronicles of Riddick just felt bloated. And in making Riddick the main character they actually made him less interesting. Like you said, it worked well by being an ensemble film.

(I did kind of like that they used baroque art/architecture as an inspiration for the bad guys, but they didn't go far enough with that IMO).

Hm, maybe "dagger-shaped roofs" was a little too on the nose. I was just trying to think of how the architecture might look to someone who wasn't familiar with it, and was also primed to be suspicious of anything unfamiliar.

Synda's damage goes pretty deep. There's a limit to how much she can change; she's internalized too much of her parents' values, even though she realizes they aren't great. She had some pretty rough experiences on the way to Camlorn as well, which hardened her even further. All that can be said is that she'll be kinder than her mother.

Like you said, Tedannupal realized that they needed to work together to survive. The relation between Balmora and the Odaishannabab probably made it safer than most other parts of Vvardenfell.

And yes, I couldn't think of a good standalone for Briltasi, but I put her here so everyone knows things turned out okay for her.

@Acadian - That's the arc of Synda's character. She can never completely cast off the toxic environment in which she grew up. But there's no doubt that she's a better person than either of her parents were. And maybe her son will be a better person than her.

Tedannupal knows that this current situation won't last forever. But he's confident in his own ability to survive and thrive, and will make sure the younger Odaishannabab are as well-placed as they can be.



(And here's the actual story update. Comments are above.)

Episode 32: A c0da to Live By

Chapters 13 & 14

17th of Sun’s Height, 4E 119 – the western Topal Sea, Pelletine, the Third Aldmeri Dominion

It was one of those summer days where it felt like the whole ocean had turned into steam. Drenched in sweat as he stood at the prow of The Fashion Club, Jeval looked out across the warm waters of the Topal Sea, not able to shake the sensation that something watched him.

He raised his spyglass to his eye and confirmed his suspicion. In the distance but getting nearer, propelled by magic that pushed it against the day’s paltry winds, came an Aldmeri interdiction vessel with its membranous sails spread wide like the wings of an insect.

“Crap,” he said. He looked over to his first mate, Treads-on-Ferns, who’d already heard his utterance.

“I had a feeling this would happen,” Treads said. “I’ll go prep.”

Treads ran down to the hold while Jeval gathered the crew. A good bunch, mostly Imperials and Orcs. Jeval had their backs, so they had his.

“The Aldmeri are on their way, and they’ll inspect us. Follow your orders, let Treads do his magic, and we’ll all be getting drinks in Leyawiin in a few days.”

He hoped. But they’d known the risks coming aboard. No point in second-guessing now.

The Aldmeri vessel soon ran alongside The Fashion Club, gleaming in red and gold, the hull gliding a little too smoothly over the water. Jeval got ready to play the part of the Simple Bosmer, too dumb to be any kind of danger and only wanting an Altmer to pat him on the head for being a good little tribesman. He hated it.

Black-clad Thalmor agents stood at the railing, their golden skins smooth and without so much as a bead of sweat. Had to be illusion magic. He’d known plenty of regular Altmer, and they sweat like anyone else.

“Trading vessel will submit to inspection!” one of the Thalmor declared, in a shrill voice that stabbed into Jeval’s ears.

“Please, honored ones,” Jeval said, bending to one knee. “My ship is yours.”

Shimmering strands extended from its hull and attached themselves like suckers to The Fashion Club’s deck. Agents ran single file down the strands and soon crowded the deck. The crew all fell to their knees as they’d been instructed to, hands behind their heads. Treads was there too, already done with his cover-up work.

“I wanted to say, you guys are amazing,” Jeval said, his eyes still reverently on the plain floor. “What you’ve done with the Aldmeri Dominion. It's truly our greatest hope.”

“You say that, yet your vessel is registered with the Empire.”

Jeval cringed, as if ashamed. “Forgive me, sir. But I must feed my family.”

The Thalmor snorted. “Hunger is a small price to pay for purity. We shall search the hold,” he said, gesturing to a trio of agents, who nodded and wrenched open the cargo door.

Jeval licked his lips. Showtime, he thought, and hoped Treads’s magic worked. It should, unless the Thalmor had one of those math wizards with them. Mirror logicians, Treads called them, but they were basically math wizards. Those guys were usually too important to inspect random ships.

Still kneeling, his neck blistering under the sun, Jeval waited. Minutes passed. What was taking so long? The Thalmor used magic to scan cargo holds, which shouldn’t take more than a few seconds.

Unless they found something.

If they did, he’d blow the whistle hanging from a twine cord around his neck, giving the signal for his men to take out their knives and go down fighting. Better to die on deck than fall into Thalmor hands alive. The Thalmor never killed their captives quickly.

“No contraband is present!” came a thin voice.

Jeval let himself look up at the agent, whose eyes seethed like liquid gold.

“I’m always honored to be of assistance, sir.”

“Continue on your way,” the agent ordered.

No one relaxed until the Aldmeri ship was well out of sight. Jeval clambered down below decks to check on his cargo as evening swept across the sea.

Treads had let them out of the hiding spaces beneath floorboards inscribed with enchantments of warding, and they stood or sat among the legitimate cargo. Two-dozen dissidents: mostly Khajiit and Bosmer, with a few Altmer among them, all seeking sanctuary in the Empire.

“You guys did good,” he said. “We'll be in Empire waters by tomorrow morning, so we don’t have to worry much longer.”

“Thank you,” said an Altmer woman, whose hair shone like silver in the candlelight. “We owe you—”

“You’ve already been paid for. You don’t owe me any further. Siit tight and stay below decks until I give you the all-clear.”

Back up on deck, he leaned over the starboard rail and looked out across the endless waters. The planks beneath his feet shifted slightly, and he sensed Treads’s presence.

“Looks like we did our good deed for the day,” Jeval said.

“Seems so," Treads said. "Don’t know how much longer we can get away with it. I have to tell you: these voyages aren’t as easy as they used to be.”

Argonians lived longer than humans but not as long as Mer. Treads was getting old. Sometimes he talked about spending more time helping his daughter run the little teashop he’d founded a century ago. Jeval didn’t want to get in the way of that. Treads had earned some peace.

“You don’t have to stay. You’ve already given more than most. And you taught me a ton,” Jeval said.

Treads had spent decades smuggling Argonians from dissident tribes out of Black Marsh by canoe, by worm, and by foot. He’d said it wasn’t too hard to apply some of the same principles to seagoing vessels.

Treads nodded. “You can still get people to help. I know a few who can do what I do. Not as well, of course, but better than nothing.”

“Great. But The Fashion Club just won’t be what it is without you,” Jeval said. “Both now, and back in Balmora.”

Treads chuckled. “Hey, remember when we first planned this? And you said we should name the ship after Quinn?”

Jeval blushed. “Dude, that was the rice wine talking.”

Treads gave that croaking laugh that always made Jeval feel like everything would work out. “I don't know, you sounded pretty serious. Maybe your wife should know about this.”

Jeval laughed. “Some bro you are!”

“My silence can always be bought,” Treads said with a shrug.

“Then I guess drinks are on me when we get back,” Jeval said.

They looked out onto the moonlit sea for a few moments.

“Quinn was pretty amazing, though,” Treads-on-Ferns said.

Jeval nodded. “She was.”

He sadly wondered how many people still remembered her.

20th of Last Seed, 4E 174 – outside the Imperial City, Cyrodiil Province, the Third Empire (under Aldmeri occupation)

It wasn’t the first time Satheri had fled.

She’d done it when the Argonians came, their spears sharp and their teeth bloody. She’d gotten lucky, she knew: ALMSIVI—or rather, the Divines—had helped her and her son find their way to Cyrodiil. Her husband hadn’t been lucky.

Now, she did it again in the opposite direction as smoke filled the sky and the greatest city in the world burned to ash.

“Uravan,” she said to her grandson, only seven years old, “we’ll be in Cephoriad soon, okay? Your mom and dad are there. And they’ll be so happy to see us!”

Uravan had been so brave. He’d barely made a fuss when Satheri took him by the hand, through back streets and catacombs and canals, to the far shores of Lake Rumare. He’d been silent when they hid beneath ferns and palm leaves, the shining Aldmeri warriors marching past, as cruel as the An-Xileel but for far less reason.

“I’m tired,” Uravan whimpered.

“I know, sweetie,” Satheri said, with a catch in her voice.

Satheri wanted to cry. She wanted to hide back in her room and hug the picture of her late husband like she usually did when things got scary. To think of happy things: baby guars and bright flowers and the day she’d gotten married to the most wonderful man who’d ever lived and the ten perfect years they’d spent together...

But Uravan needed her.

Satheri thought back to Muthsera Morgendorffer. She’d marched through the Balmora Tax Revolt as if it were nothing, like Tiber Septim but as a girl with (probably) better fashion sense. She’d made it seem almost fun, like they’d have a great time once they got somewhere safe, they only had to march a little farther. That made it seem less scary.

“You’ll get to see a bunch of legion soldiers in Cephoriad,” she said. “I heard that the emperor moved there to strike back. All those Aldmeri going into the Imperial City? They’re only trapping themselves.”

She didn’t know this. She’d heard some rumors, sure, but she didn’t know. Satheri only needed to keep Uravan believing for a little bit longer.

“Maybe I can join them,” Uravan said.

The words pierced her heart, and she started to tear up. No, no, no, she’d already given up too much to war, she couldn’t give up Uravan, too. But she smiled, and swallowed the tears.

“You’re too young right now. But I’ll bet they’ll be impressed when they found out you escaped the city and marched through the jungle. They might make you an officer when you, uh, get older!”

Don’t make him an officer, she prayed. Keep him safe. But she knew what he wanted to hear, and if that kept him walking and breathing a few more days…

Uravan’s expression turned serious, and he nodded. “Okay.”

Satheri drew herself up, trying to be as much like Muthsera Morgendorffer as she could. Like she was a queen, and the whole world was going to do her bidding, but just didn’t know it yet.

“Let’s pretend I’m your commanding officer. Trooper Uravan!”

He saluted with a wavering little hand, and the sight of that hurt Satheri in ways she’d never been hurt before, but she didn’t show it. She acted like an officer. Impressed, but not too impressed.

“We’re on a mission to, uh, reinforce our boys in Cephoriad. Once we do, we’ll prepare to retake the Imperial City!”

She barked out each word like some mean drill sergeant and hated how much he loved it.

“I can’t wait, sir!” Uravan bellowed.

Please, please don’t let the Aldmeri hear our loud voices. “We need to be sneaky though,” Satheri said, in a whisper. “Tactical stealth. The enemy is everywhere, but we’re smarter than them.”

She imagined Muthsera Morgendorffer saying that, and for a moment, she believed it.

“Yes sir!” Uravan responded, still in a whisper.

“Follow my lead, trooper!”

They marched through the soft and leafy canopy tunnel of the Blue Road, the ruins of the Empire behind them and all the monsters and spirits of the Serican Jungle ahead. Satheri walked with fear in her heart but certainty on her face as she pretended like she knew what she was doing.

They marched together through darkness and rain and steam. Until at last they found soldiers of all races in battered legion armor, who took them in and brought them to safety.

Satheri hugged Uravan, and told him what a good soldier he’d been, and prayed to Mara and all the Divines that he’d never actually be one.




This post has been edited by WellTemperedClavier: Sep 21 2023, 06:59 PM

[SubRosa]

Wow, we have jumped over a century ahead now. I guess we will be only visiting with the elves at this point.

Though I was expecting Daria to be the last person we visit? Does this mean she has become an immortal Lich? Or did she time-travel to a different game, and become the Dragonborn in Skyrim?

Hey its Jevvie! and his ship is the Fashion Club, that is perfect!

Uh oh, here come the cops. Better hide the booze and other fun stuff below decks. It looks like our old pal Treads has got that part covered with some illusion magic at least.

I liked your unearthly depiction of the Aldmeri ship, with its dragonfly wing sail, and gossamer strands for boarding.

Ahh, they are smuggling people. Very based of you Jev and Treads.

For part two we meed up again with Satheri. I wonder if she found a husband and settled down, as was her plan, or at least, her family's plan for her.

Well I guess that answers that. But at least she escaped Morrowind with her son.

Now she has to escape the Imperial City as the Aldmeri Dominion invades. I guess that means the Battle of Red Ring Road is about to kick off too. It is a good time to get out, that is for sure.

I did appreciate how she uses Quinn as her example of how to act with bravery, or at least how to fake being brave in front of her son, so that he would not panic. Basically what Quinn herself was doing during the tax riots, though Satheri would never have known that.

Phew, they got away.

[Acadian]

Jeval. So we leap ahead to find Jeval and the aging Treads smuggling folks to freedom. Being a time traveler, Buffy has always been dismayed to see how the Aldmeri Dominion transitioned from Queen Ayrenn’s admirable vision in the 2nd Era into a bunch of zealous powerthugs by the 4th Era. Like SubRosa, I quite enjoyed their magical mystery ship. The Fashion Club is a good name for Jeval’s ship. He is so over Quinn. . . yeah, about as over her as January is over Hannah. I hope Treads is able to enjoy a comfortable retirement back with family in the tea shop.

Satheri. I’m glad that Satheri’s arranged marriage to a noble worked out well and was graced with ten years of love and a son. And now a grandson that she is escorting to safety. We again see the strong impact of Quinn as Satheri draws on that to appear brave, in charge and know what her grandson needs to hear to keep him steady. I’m so glad they did indeed make it to safety.

[Renee]

It's like that sometimes, right? Hard to write some sections, that is.

Okay, I see what you're saying about social issues and such. It gets tricky to deal with prosperity especially when so many corrupt folks are keen to exploit it! This gets captured again and again during Outlanders for sure. Mostly from the margins, all the politicians and folks like Magistrate Lli and the way House Hlaalu is portrayed, far beyond what's seen in the game itself. There you go.

Whoa, the Year 119, Era Four! Jeval named his boat Fashion Club? Even over a century later, he can't get the Mall Princess out of his mind!

... ugh, Thalmor. 🧝 And they're even more pushy and arrogant than they're portrayed in TES: V. Showtime? What could this mean? ... There's people down there. They've been "paid for?" Are they slaves?

Here is Satheri. Okay, she's moved to the city, interesting that you're doing a lot of this writing in the Fourth Era. I've had characters in Oblivion who lived in the Fourth Era (it's how I explained the presence of all the modded content in their game worlds, most of my console characters were Third Era, you see). I got up to the Year 22 in one of my games, and that world, of course, wound up being the most heavily-modded. The Elder Council and Kvatch Rising are a couple examples. They attempted to add more political / bureaucratic stuff, but nothing as extensive as we're seeing in Outlanders.

Yeesh, Satheri got married, yet her husband's not with them anymore.

Wait, Muthsera Morgendorffer?? You mean Daria? Gotta be Daria, if she's leading a tax revolt. Hmm, but fashion sense, that sounds like Quinn. Nah, gotta be Daria. Doesn' t say. Maybe this gets explained later!

The interplay between Satheri and Uravan's really cute. Even if the circumstances they're dealing with aren't so cute. Yeah, maybe the son won't become a soldier, but it's kind of hard not to imagine that option's gonna be tempting at some point!

Edit: Satheri, Sydna, Quinn, Jeval, the parents, Jorda, a few others.... Daria hasn't been mentioned yet! Saving her for last?

This post has been edited by Renee: Sep 23 2023, 07:16 PM

[WellTemperedClavier]

@SubRosa - Daria is the focus of the last chapter. But I'm just using a fairly simple narrative technique to justify that. You'll see soon enough.

I love some of the old lore around Summerset, and wanted to capture the feel of its weirdness. Hence I decided to go all out with the ship (and this update will have a little bit more of that).

Satheri may indeed owe some of her success here to her experiences with Quinn. Quinn herself might be long gone, but she still had an impact on the people who knew her.

@Acadian - I think Jeval is over Quinn in most respects. But Quinn played a pretty important role in Jeval's youth and that's not something he'll ever forget. The side story, "Breaking Balmora" goes into more detail about this, and I'll post it here after Outlanders is finished.

@Renee - One of the advantages of fiction is that it lets you explore this kind of thing in more detail than you could with a movie. A game could actually be good for this as well, but it really has to be the right kind of game (and while Morrowind does a great job, the primary focus is still on adventure).

The people in the cargo hold are dissidents trying to get out of the Dominion. They're paid for in the sense that they paid people to get them connected with Jeval, who can take them to safety. Jeval himself gets a little bit of money from the arrangement, enough to maintain the ship/crew and make it suitable for smuggling.

Interesting, I haven't heard of those mods. I'm assuming Kvatch Rising lets you visit Kvatch before it gets destroyed? I'd be curious to see that, since Kvatch is actually quite big judging by the ruins.

Muthsera Morgendorffer here refers to Quinn. Quinn was the one who led Satheri and Tiphannia through the chaos of the tax revolt, and Satheri greatly looked up to her.

Yeah, war and the likelihood of more does cast a dark shadow over the play-acting.

And yes, Daria gets the last chapter. Jane gets the second-to-last. We have a couple more chapters before we get to them, which you'll see below.

Episode 32: A c0da to Live By

Chapters 15 & 16

7th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 179 – [REDACTED], Summerset Isle, the Aldmeri Dominion

Amidst the endless halls of varicolored glass and crystal, in a place where the light never dimmed, Link labored alone.

Seated at his desk, surrounded by arcane charts and graphs, he put the finishing touches on his work. Ink swirled beneath the twisting movements of his thin fingers, coalescing on paper into equations of perfect simplicity.

“It is time, hulkynd,” the magistrate said.

Link didn’t know the magistrate’s name. He knew only that a black mask covered her face, so that she would not have to see a hulkynd—a deformed Altmer—like him. Her lowborn black-clad guards did not possess the same privilege. They had no choice but to see him, and their golden eyes roiled with fear and disgust.

He relished that sight.

“Of course, your grace,” he said, bending down on one knee as he handed his latest collection of weaponized mathematics to the guard.

“Remember, Link,” the magistrate said, “the Dominion has use for all. Our campaign has only now begun, and there is much work to be done.”

The guards guided her away, leaving Link alone in his rainbow-hued prison.

The Aldmeri Dominion was not that different from Great House Telvanni. Yes, they guised their machinations under the ideal of perfection, but they were as venal as the wizard lords Link had once served. Johanna had not survived the machinations of her peers, which grew somehow more vicious after Red Year, but he’d learned from her mistakes.

In the end, only power mattered.

As a hulkynd, as a slave, he had little. But as an expert, he had so very much. Even the finest mirror logicians acknowledged the perfection of his equations, the elegance with which he analyzed the world. Surely with formulae like these, the Dominion could soon end the Empire.

Except for one little detail. Link had learned a trick from Johanna, one unknown to his masters. How, with a few clever spells, the numbers he wrote would change: ones transformed into twos or zeroes, decimal points moved to the right or the left. But the alterations wouldn’t happen until later, well after his work had been approved.

They’d only change under the eyes of the soldiers and engineers who’d use the now-altered formulae. In so doing, the armies and fleets of the Dominion would cripple their own magicks and vessels.

The resistance against the Dominion knew of Link. Occasionally, they even communicated with him. But he only worked as a silent partner. He cared little for their campaign.

Sooner or later, the Dominion would catch him. When they did, he would smile as they shrieked their hatred, as they wept for the plans undone by a wretch like him.

Perhaps the resistance would save him. More likely, they would not. Either way, the Dominion would finally understand the foolishness of their pride.


9th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 180 – Skaal Village, Morrowind (Solstheim Special Region), Great House Redoran

Trent had been in a few mead halls and great halls before, but the one in Skaal Village had a different vibe. Not messy and booze-soaked, but bright and clean. Kind of folksy.

He thought it was pretty cool.

Sitting next to the big fireplace, its light dancing on her wrinkled face and making her white hair brighter, Lundra Winter’s Voice eyed Trent like she didn’t totally trust him. Trent didn’t blame her. Dunmer—outsiders in general—didn’t usually mean good news for the Skaal, who looked like Nords but were their own people. Their own people on a very small island.

A few of the other Skaal sat nearby, making candles and carving bones. They pretended like they weren’t watching him, but he knew they were. He was okay with that, though.

“You don’t have to sing it, Lundra,” Trent said.

Lundra frowned. “It is not merely a song. It’s a hymn to the All-Maker. The whole world is his temple, but it may only be sung here in Solstheim.”

Trent raised his hand. “I’m not here to steal your songs. Heh, you’ve heard me sing. I don’t have the pipes to pull off your guys’ songs anyway.”

“I still do not understand why you want to hear.”

Trent scratched his head. “I guess it is kind of weird. I’m working for some, uh, smart guys down in the Imperial City. What’s left of it, anyway. Sages, I guess you could call them. A lot of music is disappearing. Like all the kings and big chiefs want things sung their way. We want to keep a lot of the older music so it won’t be forgotten. If we write it down, at least people can get an idea of what you sound like, even if they can’t hear you.”

Lundra didn’t say anything, getting it all figured out. Finally, she shook her head.

“No. I’m sorry. This song is only for the All-Maker. If my people’s song is forgotten, then so be it.”

Trent nodded. “That’s okay. I respect that.”

And in a way, he was kind of glad she hadn’t sung it, though he wanted to hear it. Something kind of cool about sticking to your convictions like that.

“We have many other songs, though. Songs for hearth and hunt,” she said. “Those I will sing for you.”

“That sounds very cool.”

She opened her lips and pure music came out, clear and bright as a bell. Trent put his hands down on the big bearskin rug and closed his eyes, letting this old woman’s song take him. Didn’t sound like a Nord song at all, completely its own thing.

Trent’s life hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. But working for a bunch of university geeks wasn’t bad. The job didn’t pay great, but Janey still had a lot of money and she liked what he was doing, so she helped him out when he needed.

The world had so many songs. Each year, it felt like a few more of them disappeared. Sort of like how the world kept getting smaller and more controlled. Used to be you could just be you. Now, you had to be whatever an Empire or a Dominion or an An-Xileel told you to be.

But sitting here at the edge of the world, on a little island that was half ash and half snow, listening to a song that had been sung for thousands of years no matter what all the jarldoms, empires, companies, and great houses that ruled Solstheim had tried to do, Trent started to think things would be okay.

[SubRosa]

Ok, it took me a while to remember Link, from the Telvanni Isles. He's traveled a long way, clear across Tamriel from the looks of it. But he's gone from one cutthroat society of wizards to another.

Too bad about Johanna. But that is the most likely outcome of being a Telvanni wizard. There is always another Night of the Long Knives around the corner with them. Or maybe Valentines Day Massacre would be more appropriate.

And Link has made himself a beautiful virus at the heart of the Altmer war effort, one that will eat them from the inside out. I see he has no illusions of what his eventual fate will be. But he seems satisfied with the result.

And Trent! I expect he will still be a musician. After Red Year, I expect that he has once again taken up the traveling troubadour routine once more.

Wow, neat. Trent is doing something like FDR did as part of the New Deal, where the government paid anthropologists and writers to go around and interview former slaves, and record their stories before they could die of old age. Good on your Trent!

Trent's voice really comes across strongly here. I can literally hear the voice actor from the TV show speaking the lines in my head. You really nailed his mannerisms to well.

So Janey is rich? It sounds like she really hit it off with her art career. And we certainly end with a hopeful note out of Trent.

[Acadian]

Link. Like SubRosa, it took me a bit to place who he was. Too bad about Johanna. It’s hard to play Telvanni without getting some on you I figure. So Link is a self-appointed spy working to undermine the Aldmeri Dominion. Knowing what they’ve become by the 4th Era, I applaud is effort. I hope he has an impact. Sadly though, I suspect the unhappy assessment he makes for his own future is likely pretty accurate.

Trent. Well, it seems like Trent and Jane are still getting by okay. I quite liked Trent’s observations about jarldoms, empires, great houses etc. There is indeed magic in music and it is nice to see that the Skaal know how to practice that.

[WellTemperedClavier]

@SubRosa - Sadly, Link's move was mostly a lateral one. And you're correct about the Telvanni; it's not a group you join if you want to have a long life (grated, it can be very long if you survive--but surviving isn't easy).

Trent's job is pretty New Deal-esque, isn't it? And I'm glad his voice comes through.

Jane's doing quite well for herself, as you'll see here.

@Acadian - Yeah, maybe Link was a bit obscure. I actually added his section (and Andra's) later, partly just because I wanted to do something on Summerset.

While governments are temporary, music is forever. Trent realizes that.

Episode 32: A c0da to Live By

Chapter 17

7th of First Seed, 4E 200 – the Imperial City, Cyrodiil Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)

A voluminous hood around her head, Jane walked across the gray flagstones of Titus Square. She remembered how it used to be called Katariah Square. Funny how history kept changing. Being a Mer meant she lived long enough to get a front row seat to each little adjustment, and then watch humans forget it had ever been different.

It was like the old saying went: a Mer lifespan sounds like a great deal until you have to live it.

She passed a town crier shouting the news to the late morning crowd.

“… Lord Sloan of the Elder Council’s White Chorus has announced that he will be using his personal funds to continue restoration efforts in the southern islands…”

Jane smiled. She hadn’t been that impressed with Tomal when they first met, centuries ago in Balmora, but he’d turned out to be a pretty good guy who used his wealth to help as best he could. They sometimes ran into each other in the garden party circuit.

Part of her still didn’t like them calling Tomal a lord. Serjo seemed more natural for him.

Not like she could complain. She was a baroness herself thanks to her too-short marriage to Baron Terato Quastius, her first husband. The thought of him made her a little sad. Humans never lived long enough, and that fact hurt more the older she got.

The crier kept going. “…Lord Sloan has pledged this effort to the honor of our glorious emperor, Titus Mede II, long may he rule, and to show that the Empire’s many Elf citizens are loyal and steadfast!”

A few snorts from the crowd at that last bit, so she quickened her pace. Jane hated being called an Elf. What was so tough about saying Mer? Both were single-syllable words. But hardly anyone used Mer any longer, maybe because there weren’t as many of them in the Empire under the Medes. So Dunmer became Dark Elf, and the local Mer seemed okay with it if they’d been born in the past century.

Some of the other rich Mer in the city hired bodyguards for when they went out in public. She hadn’t, not yet. The idea of some armored goon hovering around her didn’t exactly make her feel safe, and people knew better than to mess with minor nobility. She could always hire one if things got worse.

She walked into a bookstore, breathing in the smell of dust and old papers. The merchant, a young Orc in a black silk shirt and a vivid blue sarong, looked up from his accounts as she entered, his eyes widening.

“My lady!” he said, hurrying to genuflect. “It’s not often that a member of the nobility graces my store!”

The poor guy was probably wondering why she hadn’t sent a servant to buy a book. The simple answer being she sometimes missed doing things on her own.

“What would you like? If you want a book that’s not among my wares, my lady, I will be happy to contact some of my associates. I’m sure we can dig it up.”

“Actually, I’d like to browse for a little bit.”

The Orc nodded. “The store is yours.”

Jane walked past the cramped store’s two little shelves. The place was smaller than the old bookstore in Balmora. Not as many books made any longer, at least not the kinds people read for fun. The seller probably earned most of his money getting rare tomes for clients.

A small green book on the edge of the shelf caught her attention somehow, maybe because of how bright it looked against the worn shelving. The binding was brand new, or close to it, and the paper still crisp. She opened the book up, and almost dropped it when she saw the title page.

Outlanders: A Mostly Fictional Novel, by Daria Morgendorffer

Jane rushed to the seller with the book in her hands. “Hey, when was this printed?” she asked.

The bookseller leaned in to get a look. “Oh, that’s pretty recent.”

“I haven’t seen anyone read this book in a while,” Jane said. Though she remembered a time, more than 150 years ago, when it seemed like every bookish and disaffected young person in the Empire had read Outlanders at least once.

“Outlanders is a classic,” he said with a chuckle. “Never the most popular, but always with enough fans to prompt scriveners to periodically make new copies. I must confess, I’ve never read it myself.”

“The writer was my best friend,” Jane said, putting the book under her arm and reaching for her purse.

“Impressive! You can have it for free, my lady.”

“Please,” Jane said, reaching in and fishing for some coins. “Believe it or not, I used to work for a living. How much?”

“Oh, well if you wish… 60 septims.”

“Sure thing,” she said, handing over that amount. Was that overpriced? Whatever, she had money to burn. “I’ll tell some of my peers to shop here. I know what a big difference a noble client or two can make.”

The seller gaped at her words and bowed again. “Thank you! I always feel so awkward asking for that.”

“Today, you don’t need to!”

Jane went out the door with the book in her purse. She felt strangely giddy as she walked home, already smelling the smoky air and sour kwama of the city she’d grown up in, imagining the little rooftop studio where she and Daria had relaxed and snarked about the ridiculous world around them, two girls who felt so smart and sure of everything.

She reached her home, a narrow three-story house made of white stone. It was another inheritance, this time from her second (and, at this point, probably final) husband, Sadresus Durvyn, a Cyrodiilic Dunmer who’d earned his wealth through the perfume trade.

Sadresus had died fighting the Aldmeri during the Sack of the Imperial City, which at least meant they never got the opportunity to torture him. It was a small mercy, but Jane had been around for enough terrible things to be grateful even for those.

Jane removed her hood once she stepped into the foyer. Rotellia, the middle-aged Imperial woman who worked as her servant, came up with a smile on her face and a rolled-up scroll in her hands.

“My lady,” Rotellia said, bowing.

Once upon a time, when Jane first moved into the home of her first husband, she’d told all the servants to call her Jane. “Lady” set her teeth on edge. But after a while, she’d realized that servants didn’t like calling her by her first name. It made them feel like they were doing something wrong. No matter how casually Jane acted, there was still a world’s difference between their stations. So Jane dropped her insistence and accepted that always being out of touch was simply the price of nobility.

She still didn’t like it, though.

“Hi, Rotellia,” she said. “Everything go okay today?”

“Yes! I dusted the tapestries on the third floor, as per the cleaning schedule, and replanted the violets on the balcony garden. The kwama meat arrived as ordered. Does my lady still wish to cook it herself?”

“Yup!”

“Excellent! A letter has arrived from your son, Lord Augustian Quastius,” she said, handing Jane the scroll, which she took. “Also, young Lady Tacita attended the First Planting festivities at the Temple of Kynareth, as directed. I fear she returned in a gloomy mood.”

Jane sighed. Not too surprising. She’d known Tacita hadn’t wanted to go to First Planting. Finding a reward for Tacita was why Jane had gone to the bookstore in the first place. Stumbling across Outlanders was an unexpected bit of luck.

“Got it. She’s in the library?”

Rotellia nodded.

Jane thanked her. She took a quick look at Augustian’s letter, which offered a routine update on the Quastius vineyard estate just south of Brina Cross on the Gold Coast. The Aldmeri had burned the vineyards during the invasion, but the soil stayed rich and Augustian had rebuilt the place in the years since. She still saw so much of his father in him: the same drive, love of order, and care for those under and around him.

Augustian was doing fine, in other words. Perennia, her daughter from her second marriage, was off having adventures way up north in Solitude, where she was probably safe. Jane still worried, what with how rarely she wrote back and the worsening political situation in Skyrim. Which only left Tacita.

Little wispy-blonde Tacita was one of Quinn’s descendants. Both of Tacita’s parents had died in a river crossing accident some years back. Jane, who’d been a presence for eight generations of the line, as a babysitter, confidant, friend, employer, protector, and occasionally stepmother, made a logical guardian for the girl.

It bothered Jane how much she struggled to recollect most of those descendants. Lives, even the ones near and dear to her, had a way of blurring together over the years. Daria and Quinn stayed clear in her mind, of course, likewise Quinn’s daughters, Helena and Vesta. It was kind of touch and go after them, except for Frumentus, whom she’d adopted and raised to adulthood over a century ago.

That’s how she knew she’d remember Tacita. Jane had been with the girl every step of the way, from infancy to the awkward early adolescence she currently inhabited. Twelve wasn’t a fun age, for either Mer or Men.

Tacita reminded Jane of Daria in some ways. She had the same knack for reading, of tearing through a book cover to cover and somehow remembering each little detail. The knowledge didn’t gather dust in her brain either; she thought about it, turned it over, sometimes asked questions. When she did, Jane saw her friend’s calm, analytical face in Tacita’s solemn expression.

There were differences, too. Daria had always loved the gritty and the macabre. The bloodier the better, whether that was for fiction or nonfiction. Almost like she was trying to inoculate herself against the real darkness just over the horizon, a darkness she’d sensed and predicted. But Tacita only wanted to escape. She read storybooks and romances to hide away from the world. Jane got it. Tacita was quiet and shy, lonely no matter what she did and without Daria’s strange confidence.

Truth to tell, she hadn’t seen much of Daria or Quinn in their descendants for a while. There was bound to be some drift over that many generations. Kind of put the whole concept of nobility into question, now that she thought about it.

Jane passed by a few of her paintings as she walked to the stairs. She only painted for herself and a few close friends (which included Tomal). Proper Cyrodiilic nobles didn't pursue careers. More to the point, Jane didn't want to take work away from commoner artists. Having been one herself, she knew how much she'd have hated aristocratic competition.

She came to the library they kept on the second floor. Wasn’t that big, but held a neat and eclectic collection. Tacita didn’t only read the flighty stuff—sometimes she hunkered down with some big book on the War of the Camoran Usurper or the reign of Uriel Septim VII.

That day, Tacita sat at the reading table. Light from the window fell on the open pages as her eyes went back and forth, back and forth, regular as clockwork. Jane bet she was reading The Princess of Shalawyn again. That was her go-to when she was feeling bad, a fun story about a Breton princess who befriended unicorns and palavered with dragons and defeated evil knights.

“Hey. The Princess of Shalawyn?” Jane asked, speaking quietly.

Tacita didn’t look up. Just like Daria, the book came first, and Jane sort of loved that. “The Adventure of the Far Shores, actually,” Tacita replied.

Part of Jane was pleased to have guessed wrong. Plus, she’d always thought Far Shores was a better novel, an adventure about Redguard explorers who were good and righteous and all that, but not boringly squeaky-clean like Shalawyn.

“Ooh, are you at the part where they find the Daedric temple?” She was a little more than halfway through, by the looks of it, so she probably was.

“Almost!” Tacita looked up and smiled, her hair like gold in the sunlight.

Jane knelt before the desk and looked fondly at the girl. “Good job on going to the First Planting festival. I know you didn’t want to.”

Her face turned solemn. “It was okay. I don’t like being around so many people.”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t either. But sometimes we have to.”

“Why did I have to, Aunt Jane?”

Jane thought about that a bit. “Because it’s expected. And if you don’t go, that’ll make it harder to make friends later.”

She cringed at her own words. Gods, she sounded worse than the old boosters in Balmora. But that was the way of things. You didn’t get far without allies.

Jane probably still had around fifty, seventy... maybe a hundred years of life left to her. Enough to shelter Tacita for a while. But who knew what might happen? Civil war brewing in Skyrim, the Aldmeri almost definitely planning another war, the risk of random accidents… Tacita needed to make connections of her own.

Though part of Jane wanted one of her human stepkids to outlive her. Watching Frumentus go from apple-cheeked boy to feeble old man over seventy-five short years... she didn't want to go through that, not again.

“I’m not sure I need friends, not really,” Tacita said. “Not when I have books. And you and Uncle Trent.”

“Yeah, I get that. But a good friend outside the family can do a lot for you, too. Which reminds me, I got something for you.”

Jane put Outlanders on the table. Tacita gave a little gasp that made Jane’s heart soar as she picked it up.

“It’s written by one of your ancestors. Your great-great-great-great-great-great grandaunt, Daria Morgendorffer.”

Jane was pretty sure she’d gotten the right number of greats in there.

“Oh, thank you so much! She was your best friend, right?”

“Best I ever had!” Which, more than two centuries later, was still true in a lot of ways.

Tacita’s look turned cautious. “Do I have to read it now?”

“Nah, wait until you finish rereading Far Shores. I wouldn’t want to interrupt you, not right when you’re about to get to the Daedric temple part.”

She smiled and relaxed. “What’s it about?”

“Well, when Daria was a little older than you, she moved from Cyrodiil to Morrowind. Back then, they were both the same country, sort of. Outlanders is about her years in the city of Balmora. She was a lot like you: liked books more than people, was smarter than most everyone around her.”

Jane teared up a little bit thinking of those long-ago days.

“That’s where she met you!” Tacita said.

“Exactly. And, in a way, how I got here.”

“So, it’s like a memoir?” Tacita asked.

“Kind of. It reads like a novel. Daria changed everyone’s name, embellished a few things, sometimes put them in a different order. But most everything in this book actually happened.”

“You must be in it, then.”

“Sure am! Though she changed my name to Livia Hlandren and made me a bit more social than I actually was. Livia's totally me, though.”

Tacita giggled.

“I have an autographed first edition back at the estate,” Jane continued. “You were too young for the book last time we were there. I think you’re the right age for it now, though.”

Tacita had already opened the book, her tiny fingers pressed against the flimsy white paper. “Wow, back in the Septim Dynasty. Were things actually better back then?”

“You know, it’s funny you said that. Reminds me of a conversation I had with Daria not long after she published Outlanders…”

This post has been edited by WellTemperedClavier: Sep 28 2023, 03:54 PM

[Acadian]

It is good to know that Jane has prospered, though not exactly in the manner she had hoped for. Still, she seems well off. And I see that her thoughtful, gentle spirit that considers the needs of others is still very intact.

Jane’s centuries’ worth of recollections and memories were poignant to hear. Especially her thoughts on living as a mer among those adorable but short-lived humans.

[SubRosa]

This looks like a loong one. Yay, its Jane! I wonder if that means this is the second to last episode then?

I am trying to remember where Katariah Square is. But I am just drawing a blank. Is that one you created for the story?

I see that not so young lad Tom is living up to his previously-established beneficence. Good on him.

Baroness Jane? Well good on her for marrying up, while it lasted at least. That is the problem with human-mer relationships.

How appropriate for Daria's book to be her signature color: green. I also love the title, and the implication that we have just read her book in this thread.

It sounds like Jane has not been the luckiest in love. But then, we are only getting the cliff notes of the endings of her relationships, rather than the full story of all the happiness leading up to those points.

It looks like just as Tom did, Jane has learned the hard way that her class has radically altered how others are allowed to treat her, for good and ill.

Wow, so Jane has a crop of kids of her own. I hope Perennia will navigate the troubles about to erupt in Skyland. That of course leaves Tacita. She does sound like Daria in many ways, and not in others. TBH, she sounds a little like she might be on the Autism spectrum. But I might just be reading things into that.

I can't wait to read about this conversation Jane had with Daria, so many years ago. I am guessing that will be the final episode?