[X] My Assistant

[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.

[OverrideB1]

As always a beautifully written update ~ I especially enjoyed the being savaged by a duck comment. Trey's adventures in Mournhold look set to equal, or even surpass, your previous opus

[treydog]

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

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

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

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

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

[Neck' Thall]

DUHN DUHN DUHNNNNNN...Trey really stepped in it this time, Literaly.

[minque]

Ah now Trey volunteer to help that poor Nord..hmm very nice of him, but then again who is he not to help someone that reads BOOKS .....mmmm wonderful installment as always.

I´ll quote a humorous line here that made me laugh:

I doubted that the goblins were in the mood for a round of twenty questions.

Having played that part and met the wretched goblins, this was really amusing.

Thanks for posting your wonderful story treydog!!

[Red]

Why hadn't I read this earlier? Okay, I'm all caught up with Trey and all I can say is, amazing. I've invented a new word to describe good RPs, and that word is Trey-esque.

[Soulseeker3.0]

goodjob trey. please keep up the good work.

[Lucidarius]

I like how Trey decides to turn back when he discovers the pack of goblins. His decision and fear of them add to his believable character who isn't superhuman. Of course, the pebble rats on him and he will prevail but his intention to turn back is a nice touch.

[Kiln]

Yes Trey, you do a wonderful job of making him feel human while keeping the reader interested in whats going on, very descriptive and great read as always.

[Wolfie]

Hehe i finished Tribunal last night, and those bloody Goblins were the most annoying thing i've fought so far. I used up sooooooooo many healing potions trying to stay alive

Anywho, great update Trey

[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

[Soulseeker3.0]

Good job Trey and with the thoughts about the Goblins please keep it up

[Kiln]

Nice update Trey, I like how your character deals with things going on around him. You make us understand what he feels, your story is a definite must read for anyone who likes fan fiction. Update when you can

[Neck' Thall]

Nice man. I have a feeling that soon there will be alot less gobbos in the world very soon.

[Lucidarius]

The fight with the goblin, Thrud's help, and Trey's subsequent deduction from the goblins' attire were all perfect.

Just a suggestion: Maybe the first paragraph could be broken down to more for an easier reading? The new ones might begin with "My fears were confirmed...", "It was not courage that...", "Just as I reached the trapdoor...".

[treydog]

Just a suggestion: Maybe the first paragraph could be broken down to more for an easier reading? The new ones might begin with "My fears were confirmed...", "It was not courage that...", "Just as I reached the trapdoor...".

Good point. Fixed.

[Kiln]

Much easier to read with the new spacing. The only thing I would like to see from this story is more freelance. Make up a personal quest for your character even if it's as simple as getting new armor or something. Of course, you don't have to but I'd like to see a few more goals set by the character, rather than strictly in game quests.

That's all I gotta say, your story is great, update when possible.

[treydog]

Should be a new installment later today or tomorrow. Until then, here a a couple of screen-shots to give hint of what is to come:

Trey and Goblin

Trey and Durzog

[treydog]

Body healed and mind clearer, I thanked Thrud for saving my life and promised him that I would do all I could to find his friend. In truth, I feared that Dilborn had long since become goblin fodder, but I had no wish to tell the simple Nord of my doubts. The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed with moisture, and puddles stood in places. No one had yet closed the trapdoor leading to the sewers, which was a blessing. There would be no sudden splash of light or telltale creak to warn the goblins of my entrance. Before going once more into the gloom, I considered what I was about to do. Going up against four or five goblins at once was a dangerous proposition, even with the aid of magic. That being the case, I made sure that my amulet of Almsivi Intervention was ready to hand. If things got too difficult, a quick trip to the Temple might save my life. Of course, getting close to Almalexia’s base of power might present its own problems, but that was a worry for another day.

As quietly as I could, I slipped down the ladder. Splashes of blood on the walls and floor told of the struggle that had occurred and I felt a bit queasy when I realized how much of that blood was mine. Movement in the shadows near an arch warned me and I quickly swallowed a potion of levitation and floated upward to the ceiling. Comfortably out of reach of any goblins, I conjured a longbow and changed from hunted to hunter. Tough as they were, the earthbound goblins were no match for a vengeful, flying Breton with a Daedric bow. The fact that I finished the hunt with four dead goblins and no new scars pleased me beyond measure. Just to be thorough, I also dispatched a couple of rats that were unfortunate enough to cross my path. Casting Beggars Nose to make sure that no more enemies lurked in the shadows, I proceeded further into the tunnels. The spell soon set up a tingle that indicated enchanted items in a side passage not far ahead. When I peered through the metal grate, I found a surprise.

At the far end of the passage, a strange tableau presented itself. A nearly naked Breton was surrounded by a group of Dunmer, whose every mannerism shouted “criminal syndicate.” The Breton was restrained by a pair of slave-bracers, whose magic-damping properties made them useful for controlling magic-users as well as slaves. With a sinking feeling, I realized that this must be Dilborn and that I had walked into a very bad situation. A joyful shout of “Dilborn!” from behind me confirmed my guess, and also indicated that Thrud had decided he didn’t want to wait for me. All of which meant that the bad situation had gotten worse. There was no way now for me to simply say, “Oops, wrong sewer,” and duck out. Beyond the fact that something stirred deep inside of me at the sight of a ragged Breton wearing slave bracers, I owed Thrud my life. Rogue and thief I might be, but I paid my debts. I would not turn my back on a friend, no matter what the cost to myself. The arrogant Dunmer wearing a partial set of glass armor that I could only envy spoke at last,

“Welcome to MY world, where we do things MY way. My name is Drathas. I run a little game down here. That's right, Breton. We indulge in a bit of gambling from time to time, away from the prying eyes of the guards, you know? Dilborn is one of our best customers. He currently owes... if my memory serves me right... yes, Dilborn owes me the sum total of 3,000 septims. And he's not leaving here until he pays his debts.”

Looking back and forth between Thrud, Dilborn, and Drathas, I tried to think what to do. I didn’t have 3000 drakes, or any idea of how to raise that sum quickly. The daggers held in the hands of Drathas’ henchmen made clear what would happen to Dilborn if I started something. But if Drathas was a gambler, maybe he was a sporting man, as well. Calling on every bit of persuasion I had, I pleaded,

“Look, I have 1000 drakes right here. You know Dilborn doesn’t have the cash, and Thrud won’t be able to come up with it. Take the thousand and we’ll get out of here. You won’t be likely to get a better offer.”

Drathas’ sneer turned to a thoughtful frown,

“Well... I hesitate to set a precedent... but only because I can't abide his constant whining, I'll reduce his ransom to the inconsequential sum of 1,000 septims. Now, are you going to pay for little Dilborn or not?”

With a sigh, I passed over every bit of money I had, much to Thrud’s elation. Drathas ordered one of his cohorts to remove the bracers, and we trooped out. When we reached the surface, Thrud danced a happy jig and then presented me with a worn volume that he proclaimed was his “favorite book.” It seemed an appropriate gift since the title was “Trap,” and it purported to be about the misadventures of a thief in Vvardenfell. Realizing how much meaning such a gift had for Thrud, I acknowledged it in a way that I hoped would please him. Pulling out a quill and ink, I opened the book to expose an endpaper and wrote out a few lines. Then I presented the quill to Thrud and said,

“It is traditional when giving a book to write a dedication and sign it. I took the liberty of writing the dedication for you. Now all I need is your signature.”

Shyly, the Nord ducked his head and mumbled, “Thrud can’t write. Not even his name.”

I had anticipated this and was ready for it.

“Well, that’s all right. A lot of folks can’t write, so they just make their mark. All you have to do is make an ‘X’ where I show you.”

Thrud happily complied and then the unlikely pair took their leave, with Thrud exacting a promise from Dilborn that he would never go down into the sewers again. As for the book, I still have it. It has a prominent place on my shelf and I often read the inscription,

“To my friend, Trey. Read all the words. Thrud. X “

[Kiln]

I really like this update, wonderfully well written and I love the symbolic signing of the book and the mention that Trey still has it(For some reason that was important to me.) I get the picture of someone that is old and alone recounting long gone adventures as I read the last part, very nice, update soon.

This post has been edited by Kiln: Aug 28 2005, 12:03 AM

[Soulseeker3.0]

wow that one was nice, really good addition Trey, now go back down and extract revenge on the “criminal syndicate”