#Kragenmoor House

[bam-monsterhospital]

really wish eso didn't make it so that in order to complete all the zone story quests (to count for cadwell's almanac), you have to help the slavery house, with its still-actively-practicing-slavery setup, get back power so it can continue to practice and benefit from slavery.

you can't depose the head of house dres, you can't harm house dres, you can only be lapdog to the slavery house of slavery.

[sleepymarmot]

So far Kragenmoor and the Sathram Plantation provided the Morrowind experience most authentic to TESIII: running errands for the people who embody everything you stand against, because you need their assistance for the greater good.

This also gave me a pretty good opportunity to get a clearer picture of Giren Lloran's background.

I have planned for a while for her to be a quietly discontent house Dunmer from Stonefalls who used the chaos of the Akaviri invasion as an opportunity to go rogue. She helped some number of slaves escape, left with them, and engaged in guerrilla warfare against the Akaviri with a bunch of other renegade Dunmer and runaway Argonians (as opposed to Mondryn Sarethi, who was in the main army).

Now, in the light of various Stonefalls quests, it has become clear that back then her goals should have been not just to fight the invaders but specifically to protect enslaved people from them. So I suppose her group was helping some of them escape Stonefalls, while others stayed to join the fight.

This backstory made it very ironic that the leader of House Dres praised her and called her a good ally, completely unaware that she's one of his enemies that go years back. Her polite smile was partially genuine, because she was glad that her cover was not only preserved but reinforced. She was getting a good grade in stealth! I specifically took the stealth route for the main quest, because it was probably similar to what she used to do.

[freya-theirondragon]

Kragenhome

[khizumet-e]

.

“You’re not much like him,” his paramour observes one night, early enough into their… whatever it was that the novelty had not quite faded, nor the man now lying beside him learned any manners. Khizumet’e responds with a hum, noncommittal, wondering if he’d been a fool.

“How did you end up as his heir anyway?”

The soft touch is sweet on Khizumet’e’s chest, and his resolve breaks not to discuss, not to think of his family while being so intimately close with the enemy. “Funnily enough, it’s your ancestor’s fault,” he whispers back cryptically, “your grandmother, if I am not mistaken…”

--- In the years after the invasion, it had become Dres policy to scoff at the cowardice of Mournhold, their betrayal of all Chimer, but they had not been fools when the men first poured into Veloth. No more than anyone else. Kragenmoor, Ebonheart, those losses had cut, for a mer who had spent his youth in the far off Deshaan plains, but it had been the loss of the one more brother to him than the mistrusted blood sibling setting up in newly claimed Thorn, that had enticed Grandmaster Thalthil Dres to bridge the schism he had so recently wrought, and march to Mournhold’s aid. Only for the Queen to rebuff him. 

They each survived, a shell of themselves, and little more than icy silence transpired between them. The Nords never set foot in the treacherous marches of the Dres heartlands, and the Dres contented themselves with angrily scowling north. 

It was this invasion, the surrender of the great city, that saw Sarise Dres exiled from the small port town she had governed with her husband. And it was the cruel presence of the Nord Tongue in Deshaan, that led her to raise her son in her own childhood home, where her grieving brother would pick the child to continue his own legacy.

---

A century is not a long time by the reckoning of the Chimer, not even those young ones who had so cruelly inherited power right on the eve of foreign conquest. Still, they waited patiently, the rulers of Tear, years racing by as the edge of their world lie just beyond the Falls. Though it did not take quite a century for Khizumet’e to be born. Three quarters of a century, less than nothing by merish perspective, the oldest of his generation. Some saw the irony in it; Sarise, the youngest of the Dres siblings though the first to marry, and now the first to carry on their legacy, though the babe would be of her husband’s clan.

It only took three years for her brother to follow suit, Khem, the lord of Thorn, and there was something hopeful even in Thalthil and his wife, when they would smile and sit close together and hope for their own babe. Life went on, Sarise flitting between the cities and her brothers, keeping the peace, raising her son far away from the meager outpost he might have one day inherited. 

The smiles grew tired in Tear, more strained, the happy ruling couple still without heir of their own as the precocious toddlers turned into boisterous youth, turned into serious young mer, ready to join their elders in governing the House. 

When rumour filtered down that the cruel mistress of Deshaan had disappeared, Sarise had just given birth to her second child, her daughter. They would stay, the family decided, Sarise and her children, while her husband would return home, after more than a century of exile, and wait for them to join him.

They stayed cautious, but eventually they packed, saying their goodbyes through the uncertainty. They were ready to leave– and then Thalthil’s wife died. 

It had gone fast, the bout of swamp fever so sudden it left no time to react. Mourning, devastated, the Grandmaster had to face the reality that not only had he lost the woman he loved, they had also had no children, no heir for him to lean on.

Instead, he chose his nephew. 

---

It was highly immoral, of course, but Thalthil Dres was known for his temper at the best of times, and now, besides himself with grief and left adrift without the cautioning hand of his wife, no one wanted to challenge him. Khizumet’e was a fine young mer at that point, a popular choice, but it was no secret that the Dres brothers had waged a silent succession conflict since long before their father, nay their grandmother, drew their final breaths. But Khem, ever patient, held his tongue and arms, and tentatively the House let out a collective breath of relief. 

Khizumet’e fast learned to meddle, then to run affairs as his uncle withdrew further and further,  to manage moods and twist ideas until his own plans would be gruffly demanded of him. He towed the line of duty, and wrote letters home to his parents, his sister, the brother he would not meet until a peculiar invitation made him walk the long road to Mournhold, and his uncle allowed the indulgence of a day of family visits.

But Khizumet’e had his title, and his work, and the men flitting in and out of the corners of his life. He had accepted his future– until his uncle presented him with a babe, born the bastard son of a commoner but still…

---

Thalthil would die before the boy had learned to read, and Khizumet’e take life into his own hands and upend all the carefully crafted plans, and Khem would stare out across the thick jungles with grim satisfaction; but on that night none of them know the future, and it is only the past that Khizumet’e’s lover coaxes from him. And before all else, he would regret it. 

[valen-dreth]

Aril is given 599 gold and told to spend it all on her dad. What does she buy?

"A very specific amount..... depending on how much everything costs: warm clothes, he never listens when the weather begins cooling; parchment and ink, he scarcely writes me anymore; something he can do for a hobby. I wish he would take up something to pass the time, he constantly tells me how quiet the house is when I'm away.

Oh, and his favorite Kragenmoor flin."

[defectivegembrain]

what if I just didn't restore kragenmoor to house dres rule though what if I used the unrest to help the khajiit start a rebellion why won't you let me do that game

[talldarkandroguesome]

13th of Midyear, Sundas

I decided to change my location to Kragenmoor for making my offerings to my Prince.

It was not too difficult. I traveled to my mark in Riften and then asked the same merchant who I had used to return to Mournhold, to send me on to Kragenmoor.

Once there, I found a spot behind some of the middle class homes to place my mark.

Then I made the startling realization that I had no easy way back. I had no real connections to the city.

That said, it is not too far from where both the Velothi of the region make camp, and where the Tribunal Temple lay.

Of the two options, I knew I had a better rapport with the Velothi. They had helped me more than once before and I knew that with my recent offerings on Sildras’ behalf, I could likely count upon then for a favor. Their Farseer is a kind as she is wise and I knew that it was likely that, should I share what I was doing, she would either help me herself, or allow one of the wise women to do so.

Then I thought, why not make an offering while I was there? It was going to be so much work that I might as well send a few souls out to my Prince.

So I listened around for people talking. I spent a while listening on various conversations until I heard of two slavers in dispute. Such luck! I quickly penned a couple of documents while keeping to myself.

Then I slipped from my hair, one of my poisoned needles and waited for the one slaver to exit the tavern. I followed them down the road until they ducked between houses to relieve themselves right there in the road.

That is when I took the opportunity to both pull his purse off his belt, and to gently slide the needle, very carefully, behind the ear. I teleported away as the mer slapped the side of his head drunkenly, cursing the mosquitoes this time of year. I knew it would take a bit of time, for the poison to sink in and the mer was already stumbling off, presumably towards his home.

Then I asked at the tavern for the other slaver, saying that I had an order for him from my employer.

A very muscular mer stood up and proudly announced himself to be the very same and asked me to a back room.

It was an attempt to steal my purse and I handed over the purse I had taken from the soon to be former slaver. I had just planned on killing him somewhere private, but ensuring that I had a scapegoat for the crime, even better. As soon as he had taken the purse, I drew the shadows around me and fled invisibly from the room, leaving the documents, and plunging a dagger into his side, telling him, Andros sends his regard.

Of course, this meant that, as I fled, the mer screamed that this was the work of Andros, sent to kill him. No doubt when the guards observe the documents they will see a contract for the illegal sale of Argonians and a contract from Illeros to poison his rival Andros. Since there will be evidence of Andros’ purse on this mer’s body, it is likely to lend evidence to his being behind the poisoning.

Illeros will be rounded up contracting the attempt on Andros’ life, and the brut who will be seen as poisoner, should he survive, will have the assassination and illegal slavery charges to deal with. And even should Andros be saved, he will no doubt be convicted of trying to kill the brut.

After I fled, I stole one of the slaver’s guar and rode it a couple or so hours until I made out the sight of the Velothi yurts.

I dismounted and walked my approach, showing myself as clanfriend and asking permission to approach.

It was given and I stated my need to speak with the Farseer. It was acknowledged and the warriors on the tribe greeted me warmly as I waited.

The Farseer did not seem in a particularly good mood, said there had been tensions with the House mer lately and asked if that was my purpose in arrival.

I had to beg her forgiveness for not having come on that particular account and that should the disagreement be with House Dres, apologized that House feuding would prevent my ability to make things any less of a problem.

She nodded, used to hearing of what she called petty, barbaric differences. I have to agree with her on that.

We stepped into her yurt and I explained the situation. She nodded and then asked why I would bring a stolen House guar to them that might be tracked when I was to flee. I explained that I was making offerings to my Prince and that House Dres’ crimes could not be allowed to stand, so I was cutting out the worst parts of their House and would be glad to help her people at the same time if it would be of use.

She thought for a while and said she thought that bloodshed should be a last resort when it came to their tribe dealing with House mer, but she would consider it as a future option.

As I expected, she agreed to send me as far as the outskirts of Davon’s Watch. I said that was more than appreciated and said they might have the guar for a meal or for breeding stock.

She said she would see if they could use the guar without risking the wrath of House Dres and then she immediately sent me on my way. I entered Davon’s Watch and went to the Mage’s Guild, taking their teleporter back to Mournhold.

By that point it was well into morning and I was feeling rather unwell from all the teleport spells. My stomach felt full of nixads.

Nabine hissed curses at me for risking the time so, saying she had made all manner of excuse for me and that I had better get my arse out there and deal with the fallout.

I asked if she would not send for one of the servants to bring me something easy on the body, broth and wine perhaps.

She rolled her eyes and said she would see to something.

Later a bowl of eel and saltrice congee was brought in, complete with guar bone broth. It was delicious and I was instantly feeling more myself. I dropped off to sleep almost immediately and did not awaken until the late afternoon, at which point I had to face that I could not stay in dispose forever and allowed Cheerz to come in and brief me on everything.

She told me she would handle everything, but asked that if I was going to make myself quite so sick with drinking, to inform her as soon as I was made aware so that she would not have to send away people more than one time.

I apologized, thanked her, and then enjoyed the rest of an easy day in bed.

Honestly, I do not see how things could have gone any better!

[the-brown-coat]

The Elder Scrolls Online through the Eyes of the Brown Coat (Part 3)

An inspirational enemy

After logging back in and finding Brown as uncomfortable as I left him, it's time to grab my things and head back out into the world.  No need to make the bed and no need for breakfast.  I've got an inventory full of food that's piling up.  I'll see if any re-animated bodies I create today want a bite to eat - Least I can do.

Leaving the house I'm greeted with stormy dark weather thick with Ash. Nobody seems to be concerned with the turn in weather, just another player going about their business electrocuting Guar on behalf of the owner.  If any of them Perish I'll re-animate the little cutie, wouldn't mind a small companion following me around, albeit being terrified of lightening.  

Todays goal is to further the Main quest line within Stonefalls.  Making my way over I get roped into defending a Dolmen with other high level players.  Their majestic agility and my blundering spells we manage to repel the invaders and I get a nice new hat out of it.

Arriving outside of Fork Virak, I catch up with the military Folk in charge of the attack.  A fellow Dunmer expresses concern that the enemy are up to something unsavory. Don't worry Bro, I'll get to the bottom of this.  About 15 seconds in I identify the problem.  It's a Zombie problem, don't need to identify any bodies to work this out but I carry out the motions anyway.

After heading back I explain that I'm somewhat of a Zombie expert myself and get told to help assault the Fort from underneath via the old catacombs.  Catacombs or a Necromancers Starbucks as I like to refer to them as, I get to work opening the door for my companions.  After the following battle and casually burning a fellow soldier alive we're ready to take the fight to General Serien.  I haven't told anyone this but I admire the general greatly.  Re-animating his army day after day? Sneakily returning the bodies of his fallen for burial and jump starting them? Top notch necromancy. Before I manage to get an Autograph from the general we're knee deep in battle.  

After I clumsily hit him in the face with a skull, he's down. That's not before he kills my companion Tanval's Son. Tanval's rage is something to behold, running off with the coral heart and exclaiming that's he's going to wipe out the Daggerfall Covenant. Looks like we're not through this yet.  Best head back home to check on the bookcase, then back out to Kragenmoor to see how this all ends.

[dandelyle]

Stonefalls

Situated along the Inner Sea south of Vvardenfell, Stonefalls is the central region of Morrowind, and it is home to the dunmer. The region's landscape varies from fungal forests to volcanic crags and fertile fields. Houses Indoril and Dres control vast portions of Stonefalls, but the influences of House Redoran and House Hlaalu can be felt in the Ebonheart and Davon’s Watch, respectively. Important industries in the region include trade, farming, and mining kwama eggs and ebony. 

Ashlanders also make themselves known in the sparsely populated central areas of the region. The Kagesh tribe moves through the southwestern part of the region, while the Ulath tribe frequents the central and northwestern areas. With the rise of the Tribunal Temple, tensions between the Houses and the Tribes are rife. Examples of this can be seen in the frequent raides of the Cave of Memories, the Ulath tribe’s burial grounds, and outside Ebonheart where Ashlanders camp because they are not allowed inside the city.

Stonefalls creates a large U-shaped swath north of Deshaan and south of the Inner Sea, with Cyrodiil and the Rift to the west and the ocean to the east. The region is mostly rural; however, there are three cities: Davon's Watch, Ebonheart, and Kragenmoor. Other notable places include the bizarre forest of biolumescent coral called Vivec’s Antlers and two great volcanoes. 

Volcanoes are a big part of life in Stonefalls, as they are everywhere in Morrowind. The greatest volcanoes in this region are part of the Velothi mountains: Ash Mountain and the Tormented Spire. Villages near the foyadas—rivers of lava—that flow from these volcanoes perpetually smell of sulfure and ash. Despite the ever-present lava and ash, or perhaps because of it, flora grows abundantly in Stonefalls. As with the rest of Morrowind, large mushrooms bloom all over the landscape, and native flora seems to have adapted to life in the ash, just as the people and fauna have. Some of the most common animals in Stonefalls are alits, guar, kwama, netches, nix-hounds, and scribs.  

[deerydeerth-art]

for some reason I forgot to upload this here

here’s my nerd from ESO, Nelaren Llethi, who’s originally from Clockwork City but moved into a remote place in Stonefalls for numerous reasons. he’s interested in tonal architecture. he never actually succeeds in replicating those powerful artifacts, of course, but manages to invent electronic music. dunmer DJs ftw

the screenshot behind him is his home in Kragenmoor, the room furnished by yours truly. I really had a love-hate relationship with ESO due to both bad and good memories, but furnishing shit was only a positive experience for me. the housing system in that game is really stellar and the only valid part of the game hahaha

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

He stared at the Nord, and the Nord stared back, without wavering. Unfortunately for the both of them Nerevar was stubborn and there was less chance of him wavering than there was that this stern guard would pack up and go back to his own damn Nation. So they stood there, the both of them, in front of the entrance to Mournhold's audience hall, on a cool autumn afternoon, and glared.

"You are so embarrassing," muttered Alandro Sul.

Nerevar didn’t reply. His Nordic opponent inclined his head slightly.

"If you get in a fight..." Sul began.

Nerevar shifted his weight to his other foot. The Nord mirrored the gesture.

"Fetcher." From the corner of his eye he saw Alandro Sul turn away. "I'm going--"

"Alandro Sul?" someone called from the doorway. "The Queen will see you now."

Nerevar smirked in triumph and inclined his head towards his Nordic opponent, who, to the outlander's credit, returned the nod respectfully. "You can be a real ass sometimes," Alandro Sul complained, as the two of them were lead through the halls of Mournhold Castle by a human armoured in wool and steel, "You act like a bull kagouti of two years with no mate."

"I have been single for a long time," Nerevar replied with a shrug, tugging at the edges of the gloves he wore.

"Don't need to know. Don't want to know." Sul stepped close to him, whispering now, "Don't touch your hands."

"Humans, Sul. It doesn't matter."

"The Queen isn't human."

"Hmm."

"The Queen of Mournhold!" their Nord escort declared, pushing open a wide door before them. "Indoril Amun-Shae, by the grace of His Eminence Jarl Chemua Roaring-Heart. Show respect, little elf."

And with that, Nerevar and Sul were ushered into the audience-hall. It was a wide, square room, with a high ceiling and raised platforms to either side; a Nord-style throne had been erected in the centre, facing a broad table covered in elaborate carvings.

In the Throne sat a woman slender and small. She was not old but she looked aged and diminished, her lined face betraying some great trial she'd undergone, her long auburn hair falling straight and limp down her narrow shoulders. She was dressed in fine Chimeri robes of silk, however, and a clearly Velothi crown sat upon her head. When Nerevar and Sul entered she sat up and narrowed her eyes, looking at them closely.

So this was what the mighty city of Mournhold had been reduced to. Nerevar walked to the head of the table and knelt, bowing his head. "Hai Mournia, my Queen. I am Nerevar Mora, lex canvasari."

This seemed to catch her interest. "So a Mora comes to me," said Amun-Shae, her voice soft and noble-accented. "And yet I was told to expect an Alandro."

"Sul is my shield-bearer. The name 'Mora' can attract undue attention, so I gave his instead of mine."

"What would you ask of me, Nerevar Mora?"

"You speak with the Nords on behalf of all Chimer. Your voice holds sway in Mournhold, this even I, a simple caravaner, know. So I would ask you to intercede on my behalf, and attain for me a writ of passage with the Jarl’s seal, and his blessing for I and my caravan to pass through Ustenpass into Riften.”

Amun-Shae was Mournim, of that ancient bloodline that claims Mournhold’s throne, but behind her lined and demure face Nerevar could see a spark of cleverness that would befit any Telvanni. “A strange request, Nerevar Mora. You seek merely a writ of passage? This could be given to you by the Dres, who keep Kragenmoor.”

“House Dres attaches slave-trains to caravans, and I won’t abide slavery,” Nerevar said with a shrug.

“A conscientious mercenary. What says your captain?”

“My story is long, my Queen, and I don’t want to bore you.”

“I like stories.” Amun-Shae sat back in her throne, clasping her hands in her lap.

So Nerevar spoke obediently: “Sul and I had a caravan fall into our laps. Mostly saltrice--”

“By the mechanations and grace of Azura, who loves us,” proclaimed Sul.

“... And by a gambling-debt owed to me. I bring swords to corner-clubs and merchants are by-and-large cowards.”

The faintest ghost of a smile crossed Amun-Shae’s face.

“The caravan came with delicacies from Black Marsh,” continued Nerevar. “Coffee and chocolate-beans, bananas and mangoes preserved in ice. My misfortunate friend thought to sell them here, but Sul and I are thinking that we will take them to Riften. Boats sail out of Riften, and we can sell to merchants who go to High Rock, whose prices will be better and ambitions higher.”

“I am--” began Sul, but with a jab to his side from Nerevar’s elbow, he corrected himself-- “We happen to know a seer. We have peered into the tides of prophecy and know our journey will be lucrative.”

“Interesting,” murmured Amun-Shae. “You know, of course, that Skyrim is enmeshed in civil war.”

“And Veloth is occupied,” Nerevar replied. “Yet the money flows like a river.”

“But the Crest of Mournhold, which you seek, may bring you trouble, should you meet the wrong person.”

“But this Jarl is new to his throne, and hasn’t yet declared for anyone.”

Amun-Shae nodded. “Very well. This can be arranged. It is customary for merchants to offer a cut of their proceeds to the Crest’s master, and this will be expected of you. The last Jarl levied forty percent.”

“May I approach, my Queen?”

Amun-Shae extended her hand, so Nerevar walked up to the throne and took it in both of his gloved ones. He knelt, then, and kissed the back of her hand, and held her fingers close to his mouth. “I seek the Jarl’s seal, yes,” he said, very softly, “But I love the Chimer in my heart and am loyal to them. So it pains me to think of the money I earn going to the Jarl’s pockets. It will, won’t it? Go to his personal coffers, instead of the city’s treasury?”

Amun-Shae’s fingers, long and bony-skeletal, curled into his. “You wear gloves,” she observed. “That is the mark of a man who is guilty of something.”

“I was thinking that you could give me the Jarl’s seal without his knowledge.”

“Show me your palms, Nerevar Mora.”

He could practically feel Alandro Sul’s stare burning into his back, but that gaze was pale compared to the cool glare of Amun-Shae above him. Nerevar pulled off one glove and, with a sigh, showed his palm to the Queen’s face.

He heard Amun-Shae laugh. “I see why you won’t speak to the Dres. Slave-fodder”

Nerevar felt a thumb rub over the brand seared into his palm. The brand of exile was old, by now, he’d sustained it when he was barely more than a boy, but at her touch a tingle of pain rose up through his wrist. “I am guilty of nothing,” he said, his voice taut with anger, and he pulled his hand away from her.

“It is bold of you to walk free in my city, exile.”

“Your city, my Queen? This is the Nord’s city! While their vile yoke rests on our shoulders I walk where I want.”

“Stand, Mora. Back to your place.”

Nerevar exhaled through his teeth, and stood, and returned to Alandro Sul’s side. Amun-Shae watched him with her bony hands clasped before her chest.

“If I understand what you’re asking of me…” Amun-Shae continued, speaking softly once more. “... I will refuse.”

“But, my Queen--”

“When you were a child, did you hear of ‘the brave little scrib?’ No? How old are you?”

Nerevar averted his gaze. “I was twenty when the Nords came. Does it matter?”

“The moral of the story,” said Amun-Shae, “Is that one ought not go looking for danger. And so I--”

At that moment there was a heavy slam as a side-door was swung open. To Amun-Shae’s side rushed what looked to Nerevar like one of the Shouts that guarded Mournhold; a surprisingly-slight figure clad in guard’s-armour and a wool tunic, an iron sword at his hip and his face concealed by an iron helm, though his long red hair spilled out from under it. But rather than march, as the Shouts did, this figure ran to Amun-Shae’s side. It caught Amun-Shae’s gaze immediately, and she sat up, beginning, “I have told you--”

The ‘Shout’ ripped off its helm, revealing the golden face of a Chimer girl-- a face she thrust close to the Queen’s ear, behind cupped hand. Nerevar heard the indistinct murmur of frantic whispering. Amun-Shae’s face creased into a deep frown.

“What do you mean?” the Queen asked. “Have you told him to stop?”

“Of course not,” said the girl aloud, stepping back.

“Why not?”

“He won’t listen to me! What am I meant to say?” The girl looked around, then leaned in again, whispering something else furtive.

Amun-Shae’s brow creased. “Well, then, you must not let him do that.”

“I can’t. He won’t listen.”

“Yes, he will. Be clever about it. You’re a charming girl, you have your wits as weapons.”

The girl, exasperated, glanced to the side-- her gaze landed on Nerevar only briefly, but her mouth creased into a deep frown, and Nerevar frowned back. He knew the gaze immediately: here was a true noble girl, like the House-daughters of his childhood village, the spoiled bitter girls who liked nothing and nobody. Her sour gaze didn’t remain on him, and passed him over as if he were dirt on the ground, returning to the Queen in its ire.

“Rok fent krii zu’u, monah!” she said coarsely. “Chimarvir fent ag, ahrk daar pruzah.”

“Fent nid. Stubborn girl! I’ll deal with him myself. Just go distract him, I’ll be there.”

The child bowed, donned her helm, and turned to leave, but the Queen grabbed her arm and pulled her back, and whispered something else in her ear. She frowned, jerked her arm away from the Queen, and without a word ran from the room.

Here Amun-Shae returned her attention to Nerevar, and he saw that a change had come over her, as if the weight of many years had settled suddenly in her face, which had lost whatever confidence was there before. “Approach me once more, Mora.”

Nerevar came before her again, and knelt at her feet, but stared curiously at her face. “Who was that?”

“I will give you the writ as you’ve requested it,” said Amun-Shae slowly.

“Thank you, my Queen--”

“You will travel to Windhelm, not Riften.” Amun-Shae’s voice was very soft, so that none but he could hear it. “You will go through Vvardenfell. You will stop by Kogoruhn. You will find there the Grandmaster of House Dagoth, whose name is Voryn Dagoth, and you will give him this.”

She reached beneath her robe, then, and extracted a small wooden box, sealed with wax, with a letter affixed to the top, and Nerevar noticed she’d moved closer to him so that the Shout at the door could not see what she handed over. The box was pressed into Nerevar’s hands, and he clasped it, bringing it to his chest and slipping it into his tunic, concealed between the thick fabric of his winter-clothes and his bare flesh. When she drew back it was safely hidden from view.

Nerevar glanced at the Shout, who watched them with interest, and then turned his gaze back to Amun-Shae. “A kiss for Grandmaster Dagoth, my Queen?”

He saw the Queen’s gaze follow his and a small smile curl upon her lips. “A kiss, Mora. Stand.”

Nerevar stood and, bowing, returned to Alandro Sul’s side. His back would have concealed the box from Sul’s gaze too, he realised, and currently his shield-bearer was gawking at him as if he really had just snogged the Queen of Mournhold. But Amun-Shae’s expression was inscrutable and the Shout on guard remained unaware.

A few moments of silence lapsed, with only the Queen’s gaze to fill it. Then the door swung open and the slight armoured figure ran to Amun-Shae’s side, thrust a sheet of paper into her chest, spat something in draconic, and turned heel to depart. Amun-Shae, to her credit, endured the rude audience without flinching or showing a hint of anger; she simply took the paper, smoothed it out on her lap, and looked it over.

“Your daughter,” Nerevar realised aloud. “Right?”

“Your writ,” Amun-Shae offered out the paper and Nerevar took it.

It was smooth parchment in two scripts: the top half was dragon-scratch, and the bottom Aldmeris in small, spiky handwriting, announcing the bearer of the paper as one who travelled with the patronage of the Court of Mournhold, and Jarl Chemua. In the centre of the page a coat-of-arms, in red ink, showing a disembodied heart with a sword run through it, dripping blood. Roaring-Heart, Nerevar mused, before shoving the ghastly paper into the pocket of his trousers. He bowed low. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“Savour that kiss,” said Amun-Shae. “Guard it with life and blood. A kiss, when placed where it needs to go, may change the world.”

“I will savour it,” Nerevar promised her, “And perhaps the world will change.”

“You are dismissed, Mora.”

Alandro Sul held his tongue until they were back outside in the courtyard, warmed by the thin autumn sunlight of Deshaan. Then and only then did he turn to Nerevar with horror, take a deep breath, and exclaim: “You kissed her?”

“She invited me to her chambers, in fact, but for the love of Azura I declined.” Nerevar gave Sul a firm pat on the shoulder, then leaned in and added, “When we’re out of Mournhold.” If the Shouts at the door found this suspicious, they give no indication of it.

***

Later, that afternoon, after they’d had their argument about going to Windhelm via Kogoruhn, after they’d debated to exhaustion the merits of keeping their word, after they’d purchased more ice for their goods and made the appropriate beseechments to Azura that the precious fruit would survive the extended journey, after they hitched their guars and readied their caravan and trundled through one of the eleven gates to make their slow way north; only then did Nerevar explain the details of his exchange with the Queen, and show Alandro Sul the box. They spent their few hours on the road speculating as to the meaning of it, making their judgements and conjectures about the state of Mournhold’s politics, and eventually delving into petty gossip, until the sun was low behind the jagged smoking mountains of Stonefalls in the distance..

They stopped to make camp by the side of the road, at a spring concealed behind some low trama. “I just don’t understand,” Alandro Sul said as Nerevar sparked a fire. “What the Nord-puppet would have delivered to a Dagoth.”

“Dagoth is the House of Healers,” pointed out Nerevar. “Perhaps it’s some remedy they’ve asked for.”

“From the Nords?”

“You never know.”

“I wish I knew,” complained Sul. The fire had been set, and while Sul put their dinner over it Nerevar sat by its side, lets outstretched to warm them against the flames. “It’s suspicious. She may be setting us up.”

Nerevar considered this, holding the box in both hands. It was a little bigger than his palm, made of rough wood, not expensive. When he raised it to his face he caught a faint whiff of an unpleasant odour.

“Ask Azura what’s in it, then.” Nerevar said.

Alandro Sul stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“No I’m not. You should ask Azura.”

Alandro Sul burst into laughter, and turned away, resuming the task of cooking dinner.

“What?” Nerevar sat forwards, frowning.

“You’re joking. Ask Azura what’s in the box? Good joke.”

“What’s so funny about it?”

“You know, that story? Azura and the Box?”

“I don’t know it.” Nerevar sat back with a huff, raising the box to his eyes. “Why does everyone expect me to have read tales as a child? I had better things to do.”

“Sure, you’re funny.”

“Give me that knife, Sul.”

Sul tossed a dagger at him, which he caught easily. “Wait,” said Alandro Sul as Nerevar sat up, “What are you doing?”

“I want to see what’s in the box,” Nerevar replied, carefully sliding the knife’s tip under the seal.

“What-- he’ll know you’ve opened it!”

“I’ll tell the Dagoths that the seal melted off while it was hidden in my shirt.”

“Nerevar! You stupid s’wit, you’re going to--”

But then Nerevar managed to pry off the seal without damaging it, and he gently prised open the lid off the box--

“Yech!”

“What is it?” asked Sul.

“It’s a hand.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a hand! A severed hand.”

Nerevar held up the box to show Sul. It did indeed contain a severed hand, now purple and decaying, weeping foul fluid into its packing hay.

Alandro Sul turned pale and averted his eyes, pressing a hand to his mouth. “That’s revolting!”

“Isn’t it? No wonder it was sealed.”

“Why send a hand to House Dagoth?”

“I don’t know,” Nerevar laughed, then, and pressed the box closed, wincing at the stench of it which now filled the air. “I don’t know. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Fetching mainlanders! They’re all soul-sick.”

“I wonder whose hand it is?”

“Who cares, Nerevar! We’re in trouble enough that you opened it. Put it away, you’ve already ruined dinner.” Sul was frowning, unhappy, and not just from the morbid discovery, Nerevar presumed; they’d seen corpses in worse states than this, even if not before dinner.

“I’ll have to ask whose it is,” said Nerevar. “Perhaps--”

“No!” Sul said quickly, “Do not ask. Do not get involved, Nerevar!”

“We’re already involved. We’re delivering it.”

“We shouldn’t. By the rose, Nerevar, this is bad news. We should throw it away, bury it, burn it…” Sul trailed off, chewing on his fingers, staring miserably into the fire.

Nerevar slipped the box back into his tunic, safe against his chest. “We promised the Queen we’d deliver it. I stick to my word, Sul.”

“No you don’t! That’s a lie. You just want to know what’s going on, politically speaking.”

“Hmm.”

Alandro Sul turned his back to Nerevar, slouching.

“Sul,” Nerevar said gently.

“Don’t get involved in Mournhold!” There was real misery in Sul’s voice. “I look into the future and I see blight. I see poisons. Poison promises, poison people. Mournhold is a quagmire, Nerevar, mark my words! Those drawn into its walls are poisoned and buried. This I see in prophecy. That city will be your doom!”

Nerevar, thoughtfully, pressed his hand to his chest, rubbing at the corner of the box. He was silent for several long moments, until Alandro Sul glanced back at him curiously.

“I am your seer,” said Alandro Sul, “You ought to--”

“Poison!” Nerevar sat up straight. “This is the hand of the Late Jarl, and the Queen wants it checked for poison.”

“Unbelievable!” Alandro Sul turned away again, grabbing his own hair. “You’re absolutely unbelievable.”

“I wonder who she thinks poisoned him? Maybe I ought to offer my services.”

“I hate you.”

“I meant my investigative services. Though, she is pretty.”

“I hate you.”

Laughing to himself, Nerevar lay on his back, looking up at the stars, a hand resting over the box in his tunic. “You ought to pay attention to politics, Sul. They could be useful one day.”

“I pay attention to poisons, but I don’t drink them. Don’t drink Mournhold’s poison.”

“Sul! Don’t be upset, this is just fantasy. You don’t need to worry about me. We’ll run this errand and be done with it all. We have no poisoned politics to fear, not even from the Nord-hand at my breast.”

Alandro Sul was oddly quiet at that, in the tense sort of way he was when he was reflecting on prophecies and Azura sang in his ear, but Nerevar closed his eyes and ignored it. He was, after all, only a canvasari, an exile and a rogue hauling goods to Windhelm, and though he played at the hem of politics his thoughts were mainly of the attractive Queen and the gold he might find in Windhelm, and nothing more. 

--

“Hai Mournia... Lex Canvasari” = Glory of Mournhold.. Guard of a Caravan

“Rok fent krii zu’u, monah! Chimarvir fent ag, ahrk daar pruzah.” = “He will kill me, mother! Chimarvir shall burn, and that is good.”

“Fent nid.” = “Shall not.”

[boethiah]

How do inter-house marriages work in morrowind? I know some houses hate each other more than others, if individuals from two houses that absolutely loathe each other were to get married, what would happen? Would they be exiled? Would one be adopted into the others house? Is it even acceptable at all?

generally in inter-house marriages, one person just joins the house of their spouse, and once that induction happens they’re as much a member of the house as anyone born into it. 

for houses that hate each other, inter-house marriage is… iffy and not at all looked upon favourably. if, say, someone from house redoran marries into house hlaalu, house redoran would probably see them as a slimy traitor and never speak to them again. depending on how politically important the redoran was and what info they previously had access to, they might even have to dodge a few assassinations. and if house hlaalu refused to take them (eg if the marriage was an elopement) both members of the couple would be exiled. 

as with all things in morrowind it’s very dependent on circumstances, because dunmer love to wriggle the rules around to work in their favour. it also depends on who you are– a young indoril woman who gets pregnant is going to get in way more trouble than the wealthy older redoran man who impregnated her (he’d probably face no consequences at all tbh). a dres baker who marries a hlaalu blacksmith in bumfuck nowhere south of kragenmoor probably won’t get any flack from his house, but the indoril councilor in mournhold would be exiled for the same marriage. its all about circumstance. 

[skymagpie]

1,7, and 13 for ms worldwide

1. It’s a little unreasonable for everyone in a Middle Ages-esque fantasy to be perfectly literate, and writing with quills was considered legitimate labor! How well can your oc read and/or write? How detailed is their quest log/journal, if they keep one at all?

She knew how to read since she was a child, her parents taught her. She was raised pretty well off so it was one of the things she had to learn - besides it made mischief easier once you can read the labels on everything in the house. And she wasn’t much of a reader until she went to Skyrim for 100 years where she studied most of the books she could get her hands on given how during the long winters in the Tundra there really wasn’t much one person could do for a century.

Before becoming pregnant with her son she wanted to write a book on Alchemical Cures and Poisons, a manual of sorts with her personal discovery but she abandoned the project when she had her son. During his youth she did write a small handbook on poisonous and healing plants in Morrowind and how to save yourself while out in the fields, but besides the Stonefalls the book sadly didn’t go far though it probably saved more than few lives. However after returning from her self made exile, she will find her old notes and finish her book on Alchemy and copies of that book will survive all the way to the TES: III Morrowind timeline, hundreds of years later. Thalis has that impact. 

7. What social class was your oc born into? Did they change classes at all? How?

I would say she was born in upper-middle class or maybe just middle class. Her family had a shop and her father was a fairly successful merchant. She might’ve not been nobility but she lived a comfortable life and was pretty well off, and honestly could pull out the whole noble girl act, both in look and behavior. 

Later on she rejects the invitation to House Telvanni and even when she gets together with her Telvanni lover and has a child, she still rejects his offer to be a high ranking member of the house along with him and settles for living in a small house in Kragenmoor with her son - with his father of course being allowed to live there if he too gives up house Telvanni. She just couldn’t be part of their House because she cannot agree with their moral standing. 

And after her son’s death she basically lives in a cottage in the mountains of Skyrim like a hermit and rarely interacts with people, having basically no income aside from charity or payment for helping the local townsfolk and making everything she had herself. It wasn’t an easy life but she found solace in it and felt peace over her son’s death through leaving in harsh conditions.

Upon her return from the exile however, she will profit from her book and still live modestly however comfortably.

13. Does your oc have any particular rivalry or mutual dislike with any NPC?

I wouldn’t really say anyone in particular. She hates most of the Telvanni, especially the men and I can’t really name drop all of them here, but she doesn’t really get along with the “important” Telvanni. At all. Never will probably. It’s more of a rivalry thing really, except for those who own slaves where it’s more of a “if I find a way to kill you I will” relationship. 

She also doesn’t really like the Tribunal all that much, not as Gods anyway and she doesn’t hate or dislike them, but doesn’t worship them either given how she routinely names her bears after them. 

And I don’t think she likes High King Jorunn like at all, but that’s very much later in her life when she actually meets him. She is otherwise pretty agreeable and will get along with most of the good or at least Not Evil characters. 

[njadastonearm]

a Dark Brotherhood contract just sent me to Kragenmoor to assassinate a member of House Dres. 

my time has come.

[mazurah]

Welcome to Baan Malur, the City of Blacklight

Screenshots taken with Tamriel Rebuilt. (More mods?)

Lore dump from the Elder Scrolls Wiki Article on Blacklight:

Blacklight is one of the eight major cities in the province of Morrowind and is the capital of the northwestern region of the province. Blacklight is also the capital of the Great House Redoran, a political house known for their war-like ideals and their focus on strength and endurance.

The city of Blacklight is located on the northwestern edge of the province near the Velothi Mountains border to the province of Skyrim and the region of Eastmarch. Between both regions is a road called the Dunmeth Pass, which connects Blacklight to Windhelm. Blacklight is also the capital of House Redoran as well as the Redoran District of Morrowind, which consists of Western Vvardenfell and Northwestern Stonefalls. The center of political commerce in Blacklight is the Rootspire, a large tower where the members of the Redoran Council meet to talk about their house. Blacklight is located on a very strategic point of the water where the Inner Sea complies with the Sea of Ghosts on the West. The closest settlements to Blacklight are the towns of Cormar View to the west and the city of Gnisis on the other side of the Inner Sea.

Second Era The Island of Vvardenfell was mostly uninhabited with only several settlements such as Vivec City and Sadrith Mora established. The center of the sub-continent was inhabited by Ashlander tribes and was filled with untapped resources beneficial for the Dunmer of Blacklight. The Redoran Dunmer sent miners and such to Western Vvardenfell where they would uncover all sorts of minerals and build strong settlements such as Balmora and Gnisis in their rush for resources. They soon had control over the Western portion of Vvardenfell.

The Great Houses of Redoran, Indoril, Hlaalu, and Dres banded together to join the Ebonheart Pact, an alliance consisting of the houses mentioned before, the Nords of the Old Holds in Skyrim, and the Argonians of Black Marsh. The city of Blacklight was among the many settlements to be a part of the Ebonheart Pact, along with Kragenmoor and Ebonheart in the southeast. The Redoran Dunmer have a large part in the Pact's military prowess since they value strength and endurance.

During the waning years of the Second Era, Tiber Septim launched a campaign to conquer the provinces of Tamriel, to unite them under a single banner. Tiber Septim used the borders of Skyrim and Cyrodiil to stage an invasion on Morrowind to the east. His army invaded the area throughout the Velothi and Valus Mountains which included the cities of Blacklight and Kragenmoor, as well as the townships of Silgrad Tower and Cormaris View. The defense against his army consisted of warriors from the Great Houses of Redoran, Indoril, and Dres while the Elves of Telvanni were indifferent with the situation and the Hlaalu folk were willing to accept the Empire. Eventually, the Imperial Province of Morrowind was created with the signing of the Treaty of the Armistice.

Third Era During the Imperial Simulacrum from 3E 389 to 3E 399, Emperor Uriel Septim VII was imprisoned along with Talin Warhaft in the Deadlands by Jagar Tharn. Tharn planned for months to capture the throne, and he was able to achieve so in ten years. Tharn had a powerful weapon called the Staff of Chaos, and he split it into nine pieces and scattered them across Tamriel, the staff was the only thing keeping Uriel Septim and Warhaft in Oblivion. A warrior escaped his clutches and traveled all corners of Tamriel to retrieve the missing pieces. The hero was known as the Eternal Champion, and he assembled the staff and defeated Jagar Tharn at the Imperial Palace. The Eternal Champion had at one point visited the city in their quest to recover the pieces. The city of Blacklight was under the rule of Queen Vermith.

Fourth Era The city of Blacklight was unaffected by the events of the Red Year as well as the Accession War, giving it a huge advantage in the political spectrum in Morrowind. The Red Year obliterated the Vvardenfell District, causing refugees to travel to Blacklight, one notable refugee was Neria Relethyl, the only survivor from the destruction of Gnisis. The lava burned a lot of Dunmer alive, causing them to perish. Relethyl was only able to live after reaching the Samsi River edge, the area where the lava was not able to reach. She was severely burned and was taken to the Temple of Azura in Blacklight; she stayed there several years after the Red Year.

Blacklight was made into the Capital of Morrowind after the city of Mournhold was sacked by the Argonians during the Accession War. Tension arose in the Grand Council after the Red Year, and the Oblivion Crisis, the Great House Hlaalu was no longer one of the Great Houses, being replaced by House Sadras. There was animosity with both Hlaalu and Redoran since the former believes the latter was responsible for their downfall. Redoran became the leading force in Morrowind with the other houses in their wake. The Blacklight Redorans took control of the Island of Solstheim and the town of Raven Rock, located on the southwestern shore.

[joruthar]

Taron Setethi: His Vampirism, In His Own Words

From the journal of Lliros Indoril, 29th of Evening Star, 2E 581

Those infernal Dres and their Khajiit! As if being in the blighted backwater of Kragenmoor over what could have been a decent enough celebration of my birthday wasn’t enough, one of the Khajiit slaves attacked me while I was down in the market. I didn’t get a good look at the creature before it was on me. All I remember is a blur of light gray fur, clumped and unhealthy though not dirty like some of the other slaves. The eyes were bright red, sunken in their sockets, and the creature had fangs like the sabre cats of Skyrim. I barely managed to avoid having my throat torn out by those fangs! It caught me on my right side, where my neck and my shoulder meet. While it was busy worrying at my flesh, I managed to burn it enough with spells to make it retreat Daedra-only-knows-where.

I have felt…distinctly odd since, which I sincerely hope isn’t the start of whatever brain rot afflicted that Khajiit slave. I have been using much of my time and energy since the attack to heal the wound.

From the journal of Lliros Indoril, 30th of Evening Star, 2E 581

Thrice damn the Dres! My host denies ever having owned a Khajiit matching the description of the one that attacked me. My questioning seems to have upset some among House Dres, and I find myself receiving a much colder welcome than I did only days ago from my hosts. Were it not for my own healing knowledge, I’d be without. According to my hosts, the local healer is away on business of some importance. Funny, I could have sworn I heard him when I was in the market earlier, restocking my supply of herbs.

The wound is mostly healed, at any rate, though it has sapped a great deal of my strength. I slept poorly last night, a symptom I can only assume is from the fever I know I must be suffering from, though my usual potion did nothing to relieve it. I remember little of the dreams, only that I was performing horrible acts. I disturbed my hosts, I suspect, as I woke screaming more than once throughout the night. The sleep did little to refresh me, and I find myself shrinking from the light outside. It hurts my eyes. The trip to the market earlier was a fresh bit of torture. Not looking forward to tonight, if I cannot get this fever under control. I have prepared a sleeping potion that might help me to sleep less fitfully, but in light of how the other potions I’ve taken have fared, I have little hope for this one.

From the journal of Lliros Indoril, 31st of Evening Star, 2E 581

I have most definitely offended my host. Breakfast this morning was…a cold affair, in more than just temperature. Though I feel worse than ever, I found it necessary to leave my host’s home, at least as far as the local inn, so as to avoid any unpleasantness. One thing I have never heard is that a guest of House Dres outstayed his welcome. In the inn, under the watchful eye of visiting Nords and Imperials, I can at least be halfway certain I will not be stabbed over supper. Poison is still a distinct possibility, but my stomach has become so touchy that I can barely stomach a bit of bread and broth. I have informed my family of developments with the Dres in hopes that the situation can be resolved by others.

I slept deeply last night, a change from the previous night, but I felt no less exhausted upon waking. I’ve begun to seriously consider whether I did, in fact, catch some form of brain rot from that Khajiit. The wound itself is mostly healed, except for a pair of scars that I can do no more to heal. My own spells exhaust me far too much now and they do nothing to help me anymore. Potions are useless. The local healer is still nowhere to be found.

The Nords will have nothing to do with me, but I have struck a precarious friendship with two of the Imperials, visiting soldiers. For some of my potions, they’ve agreed to help me get to Ebonheart. I count myself fortunate, because I am weak enough now that I doubt I’d make it on my own. With luck, I should be at the Tribunal Temple in a few days.

From the journal of Lliros Indoril, 10th of Morning Star, 2E 581

I came to myself in darkness. Not the pitch darkness of a cave but the darkness of a moonless night. A fire flickered and died nearby, embers from that fire licked at a tent had been torn apart. The entire campsite around me looked as if an animal had attacked it. Bodies were scattered around, obviously dead, bloodless, all possessing wounds in the neck. I examined myself and found I was covered in blood, none of it mine. It did, however, awaken a slight tickle of instinct….hunger. My questing tongue found sharp fangs, not as long as the Khajiit’s, thank the Three, but long enough.

Though I have no memory of the last several days, I have been able to piece together a bit from the Imperials’ records. I was very sick when they left Kragenmoor in the middle of the night. I barely even woke, and then only to mutter some threat to the Dres guards that left my Imperial escort with little choice but to make for the Rift instead of Ebonheart. I expired sometime during the trip, and my body was crated up with the expectation they would be able to hand me off to a House Indoril official, but it was taking longer than they planned. They had not expected me to wake, clearly, and like the Khajiit I was mindless in my hunger. Fortunately, once my hunger was sated, my senses returned.

I find myself an exile from Pact lands. A patrol found my handiwork soon after I secured the Imperials’ journals and personal effects, following the path the panicked horses took to the nearby town. I was spotted, and though I wasn’t recognized, there can be no doubt some, at least, have put the puzzle together. From the Imperials’ journals I see that House Dres sent mercenaries after the Imperials once we left Stonefalls, and with the Imperials now dead and found by Pact soldiers but my body missing, I will be the prime suspect.

I have found passage in a caravan through Cyrodiil and Reaper’s March, and I intend to make my own way from there to one of the coastal cities, and from there to the Gold Coast or to Stros M'Kai, where I can disappear among the pirates and lowlifes.

From my so far limited observations, I resemble the vampires of Skyrim more than those that still plague Morrowind. I can only assume the Khajiit that attacked me contracted the disease there or was captured in Nord lands. It explains why the Nords in Kragenmoor wanted nothing to do with me. No doubt they recognized the symptoms I suffered. I intend to raid one of the local Mage Guilds for books on the vampires of Skyrim before the caravan departs. Perhaps one will tell me more about what I am now.

Fortunately, with a great deal of effort, it is not impossible to go unnoticed. I am not harmed by the sun, just weakened considerably during daylight hours. I certainly wouldn’t want to have to fight off hunters during the day. I have been able to hide the changes to my features a bit, enough to pass among the Nords, feed, and do some business, and I look forward to getting away from here to the coast, where Dunmer are less common and any strangeness may go unremarked.