#tradehouse

[igorlevchenko-blog]

It would indeed make sense - I mused, my incredulity abated - for a vampire to have a nix hound for a hunting companion. I imagine their sensory faculties are very much alike - if the account of Galur Rethari is to be believed. I'd normally not speak that name aloud, but the hour was late and the few guests of Varo Tradehouse had already retired for the night, leaving bar room all but empty. Didn't you say this undead ashlander has been around for centuries i.e. would this pet of his not have died by now? Ah - rejoined my interlocutor - surely you've heard of death hounds, flying bats and like familiars of western vampires? Perhaps this nix hound is immortal too. I imagine there are vampiric rituals to do that to mortal creatures. Especially those naturally drinking blood. On the cusp of being overwhelmed by images of mixed packs of nix hounds and vampires gaining on their prey with inexorable certainty, I prompted our conversation back on topic: Grazelands is a land of giant creatures, how come his is but a size of a dog? Yes, funny that. Dwarfism, I suppose, or somesuch. It's an advantage really - helps with hiding in the thick of wickweat fields, grazelandic nix hounds being tan of colour, as you know. It wouldn't help, I recon, any against cliffracers that flock the eastern slopes of Red Mountain, so tis well he has the mer to protect him.

Grazelands is vast and harbours ever stranger things, than a vampire coming to a rescue of a stranger, so by the time we parted ways I came around to half-believing in the story of this Fela-dryn.

P.S: Fela-dryn and nix hound Scuttler are @jenarion 's OCs.

[uesp]

Pictured: The End of the World, a tradehouse in Dagon Fel.

[vosh-rakh]

two rings in seyda neen

The eastern sun drew out aching morning shadows from the world’s weary bones as Ku-vastei stepped out again into the bright briny air of Seyda Neen – her first steps as a free woman in Morrowind since the Arnesian War.

It was a quaint seaside town. The main street was lined with Imperial-style houses wrought from stone and plaster, with one stuccoed two-story building near the bridge standing out on the edge of a hill. Down that hill were a spattering of thatched huts – barely a step up from the slave-shacks she had grown up in – in the low swamp of the coast. In the distance towered the lighthouse which had no doubt guided her ship to port as she slept and dreamed fitfully. The great beast she’d seen, like an armored netch with spindly shelled legs in the stream which cut the town from the rest of the island of Vvardenfell, was hidden behind the houses to her right. 

There must be little to do in Seyda Neen, she observed, because several of its citizens stood idly in the street, chatting with one another and with the Imperial guards keeping the peace. Few Dunmer, she noted also, with no small relief. The nearest to her was a Bosmer, in fact – a race the slavers were known to sometimes keep, despite being elves also.

He seemed to notice her noticing him, in fact. He approached with a smile. Ku-vastei frowned at having already drawn a local’s attention.

“Greetings, stranger!” exclaimed the Bosmer, his shrill voice a little louder than Ku-vastei’s dream-rattled head would have liked. “You come in on the ship? Welcome to Seyda Neen, then!” He extended an ecstatic hand, and Ku-vastei nearly recoiled completely from it. “My name’s Fargoth. What’s yours?”

Ku-vastei did not take his hand. “Ku-vastei,” she said, replying automatically, as the paperwork-filing of the Census Office had accustomed her.

“Ah,” said Fargoth awkwardly, dropping his hand to his side. “I suppose that’s a good name where you come from!” He glanced over Ku-vastei’s body, her ragged prison garb and heavily scarred scales. “Say, they didn’t rough you up too much in there, did they?”

Compared to when she’d been captured after the war, a few shoves off the ship had been nothing. She glanced at the docks behind her, but the vessel had already sailed off, barely a speck on the horizon now. “No,” she said, still looking south.

“Good, good,” Fargoth said with a sigh of relief. “Those Census and Excise blokes can be real bastards. Why, last week, in their weekly ‘Let’s shake down Fargoth’ ritual, I’m pretty sure they stole my ring!”

“Ring?” asked Ku-vastei, remembering. In the small courtyard between the Census office and the office of Sellus Gravius, there had been a ring sitting on a barrel by the door. A strange silver band, engraved with Daedric letters she couldn’t read, but she could sense power in it. She rubbed the sigils, trying to activate their enchantment, and after a moment the soreness in her bones – from sleeping on barrels and crates in the cargo hold of a ship over a long journey – lightened up a bit. She had glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then pocketed the ring.

“Yes!” said Fargoth. “It’s an engraved silver ring, enchanted with a healing spell. Precious family heirloom. One of my ancestors had it enchanted for his ailing mother. You haven’t seen it by chance, have you?”

Ku-vastei fished in the pocket of her tunic and produced the ring she’d snagged. “Is this it?”

Fargoth snatched the ring from Ku-vastei’s claw and held it up to his eyes to inspect it. Then he whooped, clutching the ring close to his chest, and spun around, dancing like a fool in the street. No one seemed to pay him any mind, though – maybe this was normal for him. “Thank you, thank you! You are now my favorite friend!” He squeezed a sausage of a finger into the ring. “Come with me, Ku-vastei! My friend Arrille at the tradehouse will be pleased to hear you helped me! I can have him give you a discount, help you get on your feet here in Morrowind!” Fargoth turned to start leading Ku-vastei to the two-story stucco building she’d noticed earlier.

Ku-vastei rolled her eyes as soon as his face was turned away. Bosmer were so pointlessly excitable, and this one was one of the worst she’d met. But she couldn’t turn down his offer; Gravius hadn’t given her much gold, just eighty-seven septims to get by with. She followed after Fargoth.

On their way to the tradehouse, they passed by two civilians. An Imperial with a grim face scrunched up in deep thought, his hand over his mouth, glanced up at Fargoth and Ku-vastei as they passed, but then resumed his strained concentration. The other, a fair-haired Altmer with a proud, rigid posture, received a “Hail, Eldafire!” from Fargoth. Eldafire said nothing, but glared at them – and Ku-vastei felt that baleful gaze stronger on her scales. 

Fargoth led them up a handful of wooden steps past Eldafire, wrapping around a raised wooden platform to what seemed like the “back” of the tradehouse to Ku-vastei. Fargoth opened the door and held it open for her, but she couldn’t help but stare at the swamps past the creek north of town. Low branches of trees hung shade over shallow pools, darkening the marsh in a beautifully nostalgic way. She caught a glimpse of a dully glowing mottled-green mushroom cap huddled against the roots of a thick-trunked tree, and wondered what species it was. A mudcrab squatted by the creek, snapping at fish swimming up from the sea.

“Hideous things, aren’t they?” said Fargoth, tapping his foot on the wooden boards. “Come on in. Arrille pays a lot for the mage upstairs to keep the tradehouse cool, and we’re letting all that air out.”

Ku-vastei shook the reverie from her head and entered the tradehouse, Fargoth following and shutting the door tight behind him. “Arrille!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Please be extra generous with my new friend here, Ku-vastei!” He wrenched the heirloom ring from his finger and held it up to Arrille, an olive-skinned Altmer with crossed arms, to see. “She found my family ring for me!”

Arrille chortled. “Does that mean you’ll stop complaining?”

“No guarantees,” said Fargoth swiftly, matter-of-factly.

“Well,” Arrille said, ignoring Fargoth with a roll of his eyes. He looked towards Ku-vastei. “A friend of Fargoth’s is a friend of mine. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. But you may not want to stay long, Fargoth.” He pointed a long finger up to the ceiling. “Hrisskar’s upstairs.”

Fargoth’s eyes widened and he bolted out the door, not bothering to close it all the way. A Dunmer woman to the left that Ku-vastei hadn’t noticed before approached and snapped the door shut with a sigh. Her presence set Ku-vastei immediately on edge, her natural rhythm of tail-swishing tightening.

Arrille rubbed his high, bony forehead. “Now that he’s gone,” he said, “how can I help you, Argonian?”

Ku-vastei’s tail resumed swishing slightly, but its quizzical tone was lost on a non-Saxhleel. “I thought you two were friends.”

Arrille sighed, leaning back against the wall behind his counter. “He’s sort of the village idiot,” he remarked with an abstract wave of his hand. “I’m basically the only one who tolerates him. So, about as close to a ‘friend’ as he gets.”

“Soulsick?” asked Ku-vastei.

“Maybe,” Arrille shrugged. “I can never tell. He’s just…different.”

Ku-vastei nodded. She, too, was different in many ways, so she felt some pity for the Bosmer.

“Anyways,” Arrille said, leaning forward and planting his palms on the counter. “How may I help you?”

Ku-vastei stood there idly for a moment, thinking. “I need a weapon. A spear. And some armor. Chainmail, if you have it.” She thought a moment more, then added, “A pack of some kind, as well.”

“And what is your budget, Ku-vastei?”

Ku-vastei sighed. She reached into her pocket and pulled from it the small sack of coin from Gravius. She set it down on the counter.

Arrille spilled the bag and counted. “Eighty-seven drakes,” he said. He ducked under the counter to consider his inventory. He retrieved an iron-tipped spear and a cuirass of Imperial ringmail and set them on the counter. “Weapon and armor. I’ll skew the prices a bit, since you helped Fargoth.” He went down again and grabbed a small knapsack and a bottle Ku-vastei didn’t recognize and offered them as well. “I’ll throw in the bag and some sujamma for free for all your coin.”

Ku-vastei was in no position to haggle, so she accepted the deal. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Arrille. “Adventure some with that weapon and armor, and bring me back some real money next time. I won’t go so easy on you.”

Ku-vastei slipped on the cuirass – it was a bit loose, but it would have to do for now – and gave the spear a few jabs into the air. Out of practice, but she’d get the hang of it again. Drills would help, but nothing trains like real combat. “Any work for an adventurer around here?” she asked. 

“Not much goes on in Seyda Neen,” interjected the Dunmer on the other side of the room. “But the Tax Collector, Processus Vitellius, has gone missing. There might be a reward for you if you can figure out where he went.”

“Probably ran off with everyone’s taxes!” groaned Arrille.

“Or got lost after too much shein, again,” offered the Dunmer.

“Any idea where he might have gone?” Ku-vastei asked Arrille, ignoring the Dunmer.

“Well, nowhere’s really safe for a tax-thief,” the Altmer replied. “Nowhere civilized, at least. There’s a village up north, Hla Oad, well known for its smugglers. Maybe he fled there.”

“Hm.” Ku-vastei wiped some dust from the tip of her new spear. “I’ll head north then, and see what I can find.”

“Take the road, if you can,” said the Dunmer. “The Bitter Coast is dangerous. There’s beasts, sure. But also smugglers, and even cultists, if you heed the rumors. Be safe, sera.”

Ku-vastei doubted the woman actually cared at all for her well-being, but she nodded vaguely in her direction anyway. She waved awkwardly at Arrille, who did not return the gesture, and then turned to walk out the door.

The humid heat of the coast hit her immediately as she stepped outside. She glanced up at the sky to ascertain her bearings from the early morning position of Magnus, then faced north, across the creek into the marsh beyond. The mudcrab had stopped fishing, and huddled inside its shell along the bank. 

Ku-vastei didn’t bother to take the stairs to the main street. She hopped down from the platform into the soft earth below and used her spear to vault across the creek a small distance from the mudcrab. It shifted slightly, but didn’t seem to take much notice of her. She quietly approached and gave it a mighty guar-kick – at least, as mighty as she could manage – and knocked it on its side. It shrieked, its legs and arms clawing at the air. She skewered it between its under-plates, her spear nearly cracking through the shell on the other side. It writhed in the air for a moment more before falling still.

Awkwardly with the sharp end of her spear, she pried the bottom of the mudcrab from its shell, revealing its juicy yellow meat. Carefully she carved out a few portions, wrapped them in wide leaves from a shrub nearby, and stowed them in her bag to cook later. Then she carried on northwards, loosely following the coast on her left.

Slowly, like a creaky cart-wheel struggling to roll apace, she felt her war-skills return. Here and there were patches of trampled grass, footfalls loosely printed in the soft bog-mud. She could smell, amidst the motley odors of the marsh, the faint fragrance of fermented comberry.

From around a boulder to the right traipsed a scrib. Instinctively Ku-vastei raised her spear, but gradually lowered it as she watched the scrib stumble once, then again, before crashing down to the ground and deciding it best just to lay there than try to walk anymore. Ku-vastei stepped over the fallen scrib and followed the scent of shein before finding its source around the corner: a smashed earthenware bottle of the comberry wine, its dark contents staining the earth. 

But the tracks ended here. She turned around to see if she had mistraced them, slowly scanning her surroundings. Just as she noticed the footsteps heading off behind another boulder towards the coast, she heard a sound: a sickening, crunching sound, followed by a satisfied squeal. She readied her spear again and slowly approached.

A kwama forager was feasting on something. Evidently it heard her, and wriggled around, its wide, toothy mouth filled with gore. As it launched itself through the air, she caught a glimpse of its meal: a bloodied corpse. 

She had no more time to inspect it. She quickly darted to the side, barely avoiding the lunge of the large larva. Her arm swung out defensively, and the upper haft of her spear slammed into the forager, forcing a scream from its long throat. She spun around on one foot, the other slamming down close to the battered worm. She upturned her spear, and thrust downwards.

Her aim was true. The forager was pierced – straight through its bile-spit sac. A long stream of the bile-spit arced upwards, coating the rings of Ku-vastei’s new cuirass, soaking through to her tunic, and then spraying down her pants as it emptied out. She gagged violently at the smell and the sticky-wet feeling clinging her clothes to her scales.

It was dead, but the burst bile-spit sac meant she couldn’t harvest any of the meat. Shame. She wiped her hands on the nearby boulder, and neared the corpse.

A Cyrod, by the looks of what was left of his relatively untouched face – only the nose and ears had been bitten off by passing critters. His clothes, torn and gnawed-through, were coated with his dried blood. His chest had been opened up, ribs revealed, organs half-missing. 

She decided that was enough inspection of the body. She was already nauseous from the bile-spit smell, and the putrid stench of a body half-decayed in a hot, humid climate was not helping. She breathed only through her mouth as she reached down and investigated his belongings. There was a coin-purse tied to his belt, which by her brief count held a remarkable two-hundred septims. She patted down his pockets, and pulled from one a small roll of paper. Opening it, she found some kind of list of names. At the top was a name she’d just heard: “Processus Vitellius.”

She glanced at the other names, each of which was associated with a tax amount, and whether or not that tax had been collected. Some names she’d heard already. Arrille, Eldafire, Fargoth. But nothing really stood out to her.

She forced herself to look over the body again. It was difficult to tell the cause of death. There were no obvious wounds beyond the obvious post-mortem scavenging. His face was seemingly bruised in some places, but it could be the discoloration of decay. She did notice, upon peeking into his collar, that his entire neck was ringed with a dark blue-purple. Strangulated?

Ku-vastei stored the coin-purse and tax record in her somehow clean bag. She walked to the coast just a few meters beyond the nearby boulder, set the sack in the sand, and went about trying to wash the bile-spit stink from her clothes and body.

- - -

Almost immediately after Ku-vastei closed the tradehouse door behind her, she heard a groaning gasp. She turned to see Arrille covering his face with his sleeve and his Dunmer companion pinching her nose. “By the gods, you smell like guar-shit,” said Arrille. “Er. Pardon my Bretic.”

“Here,” said the Dunmer woman. She picked a small glass vial from the wares-laden table behind her and offered it to Ku-vastei. 

Ku-vastei hesitated. “What is it?”

“Telvanni bug musk,” she replied. “Strong, potent stuff. But better than whatever you rolled in.”

“That stuff’s not cheap, Tolvise,” snipped Arrille. “Don’t get used to giving away my merchandise.”

Tolvise ignored him. “Dab some on your wrists, then rub it on your neck. Don’t be afraid to be…extra generous. And, I suppose, mind the gills. Burns enough if you get it in your eyes, I imagine breathing it would be worse.”

Ku-vastei delicately took the vial between fore-claw and thumb, and popped out the corkbulb stopper. She dripped a few drops onto her wrist. Tolvise shook her head. Ku-vastei added a few more drops. Tolvise held the vial as Ku-vastei rubbed her wrists together, then spread the powerful perfume carefully around her gills. The sharp smell of the bug musk seemed to completely envelop her.

Tolvise smiled and let go of her nose. “There. You’re more charming already.”

“Thank you,” said Ku-vastei, bowing her head slightly.

Tolvise leaned in conspiratorially, which Ku-vastei allowed. “A little secret, friend: people in Vvardenfell care a great deal about appearances. They’ll like you more if, for example, you smell nice. Or,” she stopped to give Ku-vastei’s outfit a once-over, “if you’re wearing fine clothes. A little advice, too: there’s a decent clothier a town over, in Pelagiad.” Ku-vastei, unsure whether to feel insulted or not, simply nodded.

“Now that you’re less…distracting,” chimed in Arrille, “what have you found out about Processus? I know you haven’t been all the way to Hla Oad yet, it’s barely midday.”

“Didn’t have to,” said Ku-vastei. “I found him just north of here. Murdered.”

Tolvise gasped, a shrill sound that embarrassed Ku-vastei for some reason. “Unlikely,” said Arrille, waving a quieting hand towards Tolvise. “Doesn’t happen here. He probably just ran afoul of a pack of wild nix, or something.”

“Do the nix hounds in Vvardenfell strangle their prey by the throat, leaving no bite-marks?”

Arrille fell silent. Tolvise turned away, her hand over her mouth.

“Gods,” whispered Arrille, finally breaking the silence.

“This doesn’t happen here,” muttered Tolvise indignantly, her fist balled at her side. “This isn’t a big city, like Vivec or Balmora. We’re a good, Imperial town. Where were the guards?”

“The guards!” cried Arrille, but lowered his voice after a quick glance upstairs. “You should report this to them. They will deal with it.”

Ku-vastei scratched her pale-scaled chin, her tail swinging pensively behind her. “No.”

Arrille and Tolvise’s heads jerked towards Ku-vastei. “What do you mean, ‘no?’” asked Tolvise.

“Guards are too slow and noisy,” began Ku-vastei. “If the murderer is still in town – I trust no one else has been missing lately?”

“No, just Processus.”

“Then we assume they’re still in Seyda Neen. If we tell the guards, word will get out. The killer will have a chance to flee.”

“Hm,” hummed Arrille. “That is likely, yes.”

“So I will investigate on my own, quietly. I’m a newcomer, an outlander. No one here knows me.” Ku-vastei shifted her weight to lean on her spear. “But I have no leads.”

“Nothing at all?” asked Tolvise.

“Well,” said Ku-vastei, remembering. She pulled her pack from her back and fished the crumpled roll of parchment from it. “I found this on him.” She extended her hand over the counter.

Arrille snatched the paper from her claw with one hand, and with the other he slipped a pair of cracked spectacles from his shirt-pocket. He rested them on the bridge of his aquiline nose and tilted his head, squinting through an unfractured pane of lens at the list on the paper. “Ah,” he said. “The tax record. Hm…”

After a moment of quiet reading, he glanced up at Tolvise over the rim of his glasses. “You’re not on the list, Tolvise. Do you not pay taxes?”

Tolvise pulled a strand of hair behind her sharp ear and looked away. “Well, you see…Look, that doesn’t really matter, does it? Are there any clues in there, or not?”

Arrille grumbled something unintelligible, then looked back at the list. “I don’t know. Maybe she could investigate anyone with unpaid taxes? That’s about half the town, though.”

“Was there anyone close to him?” asked Ku-vastei.

“Taxmen don’t easily make friends.”

“Well,” said Tolvise, “there is the lighthouse keeper, Thavere. He’d been spending a lot of time with her the past few months. I even saw them kiss once, so I suppose they were lovers.”

“A lover’s quarrel gone wrong?” asked Arrille with a slight smirk.

“No, Arrille,” said Tolvise with a roll of her crimson eyes. “Be serious. Ku-vastei, you should start by talking to Thavere. Be gentle when you tell her the news, though.”

Ku-vastei nodded, took the tax record back from Arrille, and left without another word.

- - -

Ku-vastei hiked through the marsh of the lower town, passing run-down shacks and shallow quagmires as she made her way towards the lighthouse, the most identifiable landmark of Seyda Neen. Naturally, it was a tall building, stone-built with rot-chewed wooden beams poking through on a few levels. It had a catawampus angle to it, its light-bearing top platform shifted to the side a bit to account for the outer staircase to reach it. 

At the top, leaning against a stone post, was a figure, staring out at the town. It seemed to take notice of Ku-vastei approaching, and disappeared into the lighthouse.

The ground-level door faced the sea to the south, so Ku-vastei had to wrap around and climb a few steps onto a wooden platform to reach it. Ku-vastei knocked and waited a moment, the idle swinging of her tail shifting her weight and creaking the boards under her feet. Finally the door cracked open, a pair of red eyes peering through. Then it swung wide open, straining squeaky hinges. There stood a Dunmer woman, pale and with graying brown hair pulled back tight in a ponytail, but with many unkempt stragglers flying loose about her head like a halo in the sunlight streaming in. 

She smiled wide, her lips parted as she panted from descending the stairs, her yellowed teeth on full display. “Hello, and welcome!” she said, her voice strained with excitement and exertion. “I saw you get off the boat this morning! From upstairs, of course.” She leaned on the door frame as she fired off each word erratically. “You know, not many ships come through here anymore. They either go to Ebonheart or further north. No love for little Seyda Neen. Some people like it to stay quiet here, but I miss the excitement of Imperial dignitaries passing through, you know?”

Ku-vastei did not know. Seeing the blank stare, the lighthouse keeper Thavere said, “Oh, sorry. I’m rambling. Don’t talk to people much these days. Here, come in. Let’s visit.” She stepped back, holding the door open for Ku-vastei to enter. Tentatively Ku-vastei took a step forward past the threshold. 

The first floor room of the lighthouse was cramped. There was a small candlestick on a table to the left dimly illuminating the space. Next to the table was a storage chest, and across from it was a stove by a narrow bed, neatly made. A teapot whistled away on the stovetop, flooding the room with wisps of steam. Under the stairwell across the chamber was a cluster of barrels and crates. 

“Tea?” asked Thavere, reaching for the teapot. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a loose redware cup from the table and filled it with some pale yellow brew. She offered it to Ku-vastei, who accepted it slowly. 

“What kind?” asked Ku-vastei, staring into the cup. It had a faint herbal scent.

“Mint chai, from Elsweyr,” said Thavere as she poured herself a cup. “Sorry, you probably expected something local. I’m a bit of a collector. Not a lot to do when cooped up in a lighthouse all day. So I order exotic teas and drink them. Helps me to keep awake at night, too. This chai is one of my favorites. Try it! Mind the heat, though.”

Ku-vastei blinked once, then twice. She gave the tea another sniff – so this was “mint?” She took a careful sip, fighting not to burn her mouth. It was good; the mint felt cool and tingly on her tongue, despite the heat of the tea. “Thank you,” she said before trying another sip.

“Don’t mention it!” said Thavere, her hands jittering as she held her own cup. “A lot of Dunmer here are quite rude to outlanders, but I find you all fascinating! Plus, I subscribe to the friendlier rules of Nordic hospitality.” She gasped and covered her mouth. “There I go again, forgetting my manners! I don’t even have your name! You can go ahead and sit down in that chair as well. What shall I call you?”

“Ku-vastei,” she answered as she tucked her tail to the side to sit down. “You’re Thavere, right?”

“Sure am!” the lighthouse keeper said as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Pleased to meet you, Ku-vastei! May I just call you Ku?”

“Sure,” Ku-vastei sighed. “Look, I came here to ask you some questions.”

“Oh?” Thavere said, tilting her head. “Go ahead, I’d love to help if you need any guidance or advice.”

Ku-vastei sighed again and looked away. “Actually, it’s about Processus.”

Some of Thavere’s bubbliness simmered down at the mention of his name. “Oh. Do you…well. He’s probably off to Ebonheart, if you’re looking for him. Maybe to see the Duke! Processus is a very important man.” She paused a moment, looking down at her cup. “Usually he tells me when he’s leaving. But he didn’t, this time.”

“You two were close?” Ku-vastei asked.

“Yes, I would say so! He’s too shy to admit it himself, but I think he’s the love of my life. I…what do you mean, ‘were’?”

“Thavere,” Ku-vastei said, “put your cup down.”

Slowly, with a hand shaky from both drink and anxiety, Thavere set her cup down on a nearby crate.

“I found Processus this morning, north of town. He’s been murdered.”

The only sound was the tea still whistling on the stove, and the faint creaking of the lighthouse above them.

“Are…are you sure? That it was him?”

“He had his tax records with him, with his name on it.”

Thavere’s eyes were fixed on the floor, unblinking. “Can you…” The words came out as half-sob, startling her from her trance. “Can you give me a moment, please.”

Ku-vastei nodded, stood, and walked outside, closing the door quietly behind her.

She sat down on the wooden boards and closed her eyes, pretending not to hear the muffled sobbing inside. Ku-vastei tried to push away old memories that were attempting to resurface upon hearing those sounds. She had locked them away deep in her soul when she herself was locked away in the Imperial Prison. In a new unfamiliar place like this was certainly not the best time for them to reemerge, so she stifled them again as best she could. 

After listening to the waves of pain behind her subside, she stood and went back inside. Thavere was half laid out on the bed, dark pools of tears staining the sheets. She looked up glumly at Ku-vastei.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I need to ask you some questions.”

“Did…” Thavere began, before clearing her throat with a small cough, “did you find his ring?”

“No, I didn’t see any ring on his fingers,” Ku-vastei said.

“Oh…” Thavere said just before her face began to scrunch back up into the shape of weeping. She rubbed her eyes with her palms, seeming to press too hard into them. “I don’t…know what I’ll do without him. He was the…gentlest man I ever met. Never got angry at anyone, but once or twice, I guess. Never raised a hand to anyone, certainly not me.”

“Who did he get angry with?” Ku-vastei asked, sitting back down so as to be on her level. 

Thavere straightened her posture a bit and swept a tear from her face. “Oh, I don’t know…well. I did see him arguing with Foryn, Foryn Gilnith, a couple weeks ago. About his taxes. Foryn claimed he was cheating everyone. Levying too much, and skimming off the top for himself. Nonsense, of course, Processus is…was…an honest man.”

“Where could I find this Foryn?”

“Oh, he lives down the way.” Thavere pointed backwards through the walls. “The side of the lowtown closest to the coast. Last one down that way, on the left if you head out from here.”

“Okay,” said Ku-vastei. “I’ll go talk to him, and leave you alone. Take care of yourself.” 

Just as Ku-vastei was opening the door, Thavere said, “Wait. If you find Processus’ ring…please bring it to me. It’s silver, with a long shard of sard in it. It would…ease my heart, somewhat.”

Ku-vastei nodded and left the lighthouse and its grief behind. 

- - -

Ku-vastei knocked on the door to the last shack on the left, her spear held tightly in hand. The door slammed open, revealing a clearly half-drunk Dunmer man, disheveled of hair and dress, his red eyes narrowed in the light. “Whaddaya want, outlander?”

“To talk,” said Ku-vastei.

“Bah!” huffed the Dunmer, and he slammed the door shut –

– but it caught on the haft of Ku-vastei’s spear. “Didn’t ask,” she said, pushing the door open with a mighty fist.

The inside of the shack was small and filthy. Loose bottles – some empty, some half so – and piles of discarded bones – some picked clean, others half so – littered the floor. “Hey,” said Foryn, “you can’t do that. I’ll call the guards–”

“Tell me about Processus,” Ku-vastei said, closing the door behind her.

The Dunmer’s mouth snapped shut. After a tantalizing pause, he grabbed a bottle of mazte from the table behind him and took a swig, never turning away from Ku-vastei. “Yeah? What about the fetcher?”

“Did you know he’s dead?” Ku-vastei asked, her grip on her spear tightening.

“Yeah, I did. I’m the one what did the fetcher in,” Foryn said, slurring his words through the alcohol. “Good thing, too. Bastard was skimming off the top. Overcharging the taxes and keeping the extra for hisself. Always showing off, too. Flaunting his fancy clothes and jewels.” He flashed a ring on his finger at Ku-vastei, as if to prove his point. Long jewel, reddish-brown. Like sard. “So yeah, I killed him. Left his body – and his stolen money – to rot in the swamp.”

Ku-vastei tilted her head to the side. She hadn’t expected a straight-forward confession. This man really believed he was in the right to murder. Or he was just spectacularly drunk. Or both. But, a confession’s a confession. “That’s no excuse,” she said. “You killed a man in cold blood. You’re coming with me.”

“Like hell I am, n’wah! You’re another one of them, huh? Well, I got no problem spilling the blood of another Imperial lackey!”

Before Ku-vastei could ready her spear, a half-full jug of mazte was crashing into her face, burning her eyes with alcohol and snout with blunt trauma. She swiped blindly with her weapon, but only managed to thud against the wall of the shack. She was given no time to recover; evidently Foryn had ducked the spear swing and went straight for her waist, tackling her to the dirt floor. Her grip on her spear failed, and, mazte-fueled, he began striking her on the face and chest, punching the air from her lungs and the sense from her head. She tried to wriggle free, to retaliate, but her arms were pinned. Blow after blow she suffered, and she could feel blackness encroaching upon her mind.

There was, she remembered, a trick she’d half-learned in a book she read in prison, once. She’d never cast the spell before, nor even attempted it. She struggled to find the mental fortitude to reach across Oblivion to conjure…

Do you need my help, mortal? Very well. But you owe me, now.

No time to worry about the voice. The blade was now in her hand, and she jerked it sideways, cutting into Foryn’s leg. He howled like a mating kagouti, and fell off of her. She followed the momentum and rolled over, and the bound dagger was in his throat before either of them knew it. He gasped and choked, unsure whether to grasp his wounded hamstring or his spurting neck. Neither availed him, and he fell still.

Ku-vastei rolled over onto her back and gasped for air for several moments. She barely reacted to the banging on the door until it burst halfway open, blocked by Foryn’s corpse.

“What in…Truccius, help me with this, will you? There’s something in the…Nine, that’s blood. A lot of blood.”

As the guards tried to push open the door, Ku-vastei tried to pull Foryn’s body away from it to make room. Finally it was cleared wide enough to let in the late afternoon light, and the metal boots of the first guard. He pointed a sword at Ku-vastei’s black throat, who was now sitting up against a crate by Foryn’s hammock. “Argonian, what in Oblivion happened here?” 

“Attacked me,” Ku-vastei muttered, still trying to catch her breath, clutching her ribs. 

“Speak up,” said the second guard, Truccius, from behind the first. “Loud enough both of us can hear you, dammit.”

Ku-vastei inhaled deeply again, the air burning inside her lungs. “A moment, please.” She held up her bloody claws in a sign her naheesh had taught her long ago when she was not much older than a hatchling. 

“What are you doing? Stop!” commanded the first guard, pushing his sword closer to Ku-vastei’s neck. 

“Wait, I know that one,” said Truccius, placing a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. “Leave her be. She’s healing.”

Ku-vastei felt the warmth of the Hearth suffuse her, clearing up the already-bruising blows to her face and chest, and each breath thereafter became easier. When the aching in her throat was mostly gone, and her breathing relaxed, she spoke. “He attacked me after he confessed to murdering the taxman.”

“You can tell it to Socucius,” said the guard with the sword. “Truccius, guard the body. Keep onlookers away. I’m taking her in. Come with me, Argonian. No, leave the body alone! And leave the spear. This is a crime scene, now. If Socucius believes your story, you can have the spear back. Come along.”

- - - 

“So,” said Socucius Ergalla, “you found Processus’ corpse, and were able to track down his murderer, who you’ve just killed?”

“Yes,” Ku-vastei nodded. “Arrille and Tolvise, as well as the lighthouse keeper, helped me with the investigation.” Slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the guard who brought her in, she reached into her pack and pulled out the tax record. “This shows that Foryn has the highest unpaid tax in Seyda Neen, and Thavere told me that she had seen him and Processus arguing over his taxes several days ago.”

Socucius examined the tax record without taking it from Ku-vastei. “I see. So this, you believe, was Foryn’s motive?”

“Yes,” Ku-vastei said. “From what I could tell from Processus’ body, he was strangled to death. I have discovered in my experience with him that Foryn is a skilled martial artist. There was also a bottle of shein near the corpse; I believe Foryn got Processus drunk, led him into the wilderness, and killed him there.”

“Hm…” droned Socucius. “I have no reason to suspect you are lying to me, Ku-vastei. I will request that you stay in town, under watch, until we can verify your story with other witnesses and examine the scene of Processus’ death. Otherwise you are free to go. And,” he said, reaching into a nearby chest, “take this for your efforts. You’ve done the Empire a great service by delivering justice for the loss of one of its servants.”

He handed Ku-vastei a heavy burlap sack. She peeked inside to see the glimmer of hundreds of gold coins. “Five-hundred septims,” Socucius explains. “We keep rewards for those who serve the Empire. I hope you use them well. Ganerus, take her to Arrille’s tradehouse and begin your interviews.”

- - -

After speaking with Arrille and Tolvise in the tradehouse, as the sun was half-set, Ku-vastei convinced Ganerus to stay outside as she spoke to the lighthouse keeper on personal matters. There was no tea boiling on the stove. Thavere was laying on her back in the disheveled bed, but she sat up awkwardly as Ku-vastei entered. “Hello, Thavere,” said Ku-vastei.

“Ku,” Thavere groaned, rubbing her redder-than-usual eyes. “I’m glad to see you. What news?”

“Foryn confessed to the murder,” said Ku-vastei, sitting down in the chair. “He’s dead now.”

“Good,” Thavere said, crossing her arms and rubbing her shoulders. “Does…does it make me a bad person, to be glad to hear it?”

“No,” Ku-vastei says. “It makes you a grieving woman. Processus has his justice.”

“May he rest easy, now,” Thavere said, looking down. 

“There’s more,” Ku-vastei said. She slipped from her pocket something small and shining. She reached over to hand it to Thavere.

Thavere took the ring and gasped. “You found it! And not a scratch! Thank you, muthsera, thank you!” She slipped it on her middle finger and gazed lovingly at it. “It’s good to have something to remember him by, though I’ll never see him again. Oh!” She stood and reached into the chest by Ku-vastei. “Take these, Ku. Potions of healing. Processus always took a couple with him on his trips. If only he had this time…” She nearly fell to weeping again, but some spark of resolve steadied her. “Thank you, Ku, for everything. Will you stay in Seyda Neen?”

“No,” said Ku-vastei. “I have business in Balmora.”

“Oh…well. I hope the potions are of use to you in your travels, then. Be well, Ku-vastei.”

“And you, Thavere.” Ku-vastei considered saying more, but thought it unwise. So she stood, waved, and returned to Imperial custody.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wip whenever or whatever

I'm tired, had a hell of a (two) weeks and then I worded like...7000 words in a day then I drew the descriptions.... And throwing in some other art stuff I'm bouncing around XD That's it really XD tagged by @mareenavee and @saltymaplesyrup

~Art and Writing~

And that writing I was doing under the cut!

Jiub's POV

Your brow furrowed, the faded, violet tattoos that framed your face creasing with the movement. I had worried about covering this part in my memoirs. Talking about the last six years often upset you but I wanted your opinion on it. I wanted your thoughts on everything, really. It was you who had inspired me to take on the winged menace after all. On that one fateful day in the Ashlands. A raging ashstorm and a flock of the things had taken you down by the old Redoran estate at Bal Isra. I had heard your cries as I made my crossing on my silt strider, my destination, Ald’ruhn, where you had been travelling from. I had shot every last one of the things, though the fight was a difficult one. Then I offered you my hand…and a ride back to Maar Gan.

 It was out of my way, in the opposite direction to my destination but there was that look in your eye that I recognised from our first meeting on that prison ship. Fear. Fear made you combative, made you lash out. Though that time, you let me console you. You let me help. You even took that leftover lunch I had offered you. You had been so concerned over the loss of the gift you’d carefully prepared to give to that Velothi. The one your superior had charged with guiding you to that Ashland camp. I couldn’t just let you walk into that potential snake pit with nothing to show. I had grown fond of you during our brief interactions, though that was often a habit of mine. I always form attachments too quickly.

Though the truth was there was little to worry about. That Velothi would become more than a hired guide to you after all. He was your champion, your right hand through the ordeals to come. I supposed I had always been a little envious of your late husband. How you had taken to him, the stories I’d overhear in Vvadenfell’s corner clubs and tradehouses of the Nerevarine and his champion. The rumours of your exploits, as the two of you gathered armies and favours and… I wished I could have been a part of it, but fate would not have our paths cross again until four years later and my dear, you always knew how to make an entrance.

It was an evening, not unlike this. A storm crashing through Kvatch, winds raging and the loud, rambunctious jeering from a mer who had way too much to drink in the alley below. When the crashing came from the alley and not from the storm, I resolved to go check. It was not an uncommon occurrence, my apartment sat behind the local tavern after all. Drunks were a common sight but there was a certain, potent distress to the cries that had been coming from the alley that night. Odd, considering that night was meant to be one of celebration… well, amongst the Dunmeri diaspora anyway. The fourth anniversary of the defeat of Dagoth Ur and his minions. An end to the Blight that had decimated our homeland for centuries and counting. A festival to honour Morrowind’s great protector. I had chosen to stay in that night, to work on my memoirs, as I often did but the commotion from outside, the yelling the- I had come outside to tell you to piss off somewhere else. That you were disrupting my concentration! How could I tell the world of my own brilliant exploits when there was some drunken fetcher screaming profanities about the Nerevarine at the top of his lungs?

I always said you knew how to make an entrance, Sero and an entrance you made. I found you passed out alone in that alley. A large gash to your head where you had struck a barrel of gods know what and a curious, expensive dagger laying by your side. There was blood everywhere, I couldn’t make sense of it all. You were lying alone, crumpled and small, shivering half naked in soiled clothing. A bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy smashed into a thousand pieces against my wall.

It was sad, to see how far you had fallen in such a short time. I had seen the paintings of you throughout Morrowind and later, the reproductions in Cheydinhal. You always looked so regal in them. So strong, like the hero everyone expected you to be. The legend from the stories. The mer with a fire in his eyes. He who had stared death in the face and sent it screaming into the jaws of Oblivion.

It was a stark contrast to the mer who lay passed out cold from drink and grief in the alley beside my apartment in Kvatch. Small, shivering and horribly scared from all that had happened in these last few years. I felt a sense of compassion I supposed, you always showed up in the strangest of circumstances. I gathered you into my arms as you whispered a name that wasn’t mine and I chose not to correct you. I took you inside and placed you on the daybed in my study. It would be easiest to watch over you from there. I had cleaned you up, changed you out of those filthy trousers and left you to sleep off your bender in the warm quiet of my study. It was as I was cleaning you up that I found the source of the bleeding, a series of deep lacerations around a ring too small for your finger. The one that told everyone who had heard the tales exactly who you were.

You told me when you had awoken that you had tried to remove the ring. That you had resorted to trying to amputate the entire digit when the band wouldn’t budge. As it tightened around your finger. As His taunts swirled like a sickness in your head. You wanted to be rid of it all, to forget that the last few years had ever happened. That you always broke like this whenever this day came around.

[spoonmagister]

Alternate Facts

“A sign? I don’t recall such a thing. I was born in a world hidden behind a steel door. I have vague memories of a monster, some kind of a frozen bird? I wasn’t feeling like myself. Then I woke up on a boat. No, perhaps I was in a prison? I had a guest, he told me to make it so. He didn’t make it. Or was I taking a nap in a wagon? Just a relaxing trip through the countryside? Whichever it was, there was an Empire involved. There might be more than one. This Empire doesn’t have any gears or steam. Have you seen any thieves? I think I was with some kind of a thief. Do you know how valuable limeware is?”

I abruptly ran out of thoughts, and then words. The bearded man in front of me squinted in thought, or perhaps confusion.

“…Interesting. Now before I stamp these papers, make sure this information is correct.” He placed a document onto the table beside me with a series of supposedly defining details of myself. A quill beside the document seemed to claim the power to confirm reality, but I was not so sure.

Terra — the last name seems to be omitted. Altmer. Mage. Atronach — is this the monster? …No personality? No memory — possible magical tampering.

I glanced up at the man. “How should I know?”

He did not seem to notice my question, and stamped the document in a fluid motion. “Well, maybe a new start is just what you need. Show your papers to the Captain when you get your release fee.”

Release? Captive? Again? Have I been here before? Where even AM I? Why does it all feel incorrect?

The Captain proceeded to instruct me to deliver a package in the name of the Emperor. I was no longer listening. I exited the Census and Excise Office and deposited the package into an open barrel in the grassy courtyard area. I barely even noticed myself picking up the stray ring that lay at the bottom of the barrel. It felt natural to do so, but I could offer no explanation as to why.

I would eventually decide to travel to the nearby town of Balmora. Having heard talk of a Mage’s Guild while perusing the local Tradehouse, it seemed as good a place as any to search for answers.

Why is this mer getting so close to me?

“Are you the one that boat dropped off? Odd to see a boat arrive at that time of the day. Don’t bother trying to rob me. The Imperials have taken everything away.”

At the time, neither I nor the diminutive mer in front of me knew just how odd my arrival was, or how much had actually been taken away.

[darkelfguy]

Suran, one of the biggest Hlaalu settlements in vanilla Morrowind, has always been something of a paradox. A city built on trade and commerce, Suran is home to a dozen shops, taverns, and tradehouses, yet for all those commercial services and despite the close proximity of the sea, the city doesn't even have a dock. This was a major oversight that was notably rectified by the 2017 release of Docks of Suran by Vallylilly, a beautiful and atmospheric expansion to Suran that not only expanded the city with a new set of docks, but also added in lots of immersive clutter, new details for the city's lower market, and travel connections to other nearby cities by boat. Of course, some aspects have become a little dated with time, and with the advent of OAAB Data, some assets were in need of replacement. And that's where today's Mod of the Day comes in, for today we're showcasing Docks of Suran OAAB-ified by Lucevar, a 2023 update on this old mod that removes the more dated aspects, like the statues, replaces assets with new OAAB Data counterparts, and adds in new OAAB Data clutter, to help this mod better fit in with a more modern Morrowind install. It also significantly improves FPS performance over the original, and all in all, this is an excellent update on an already superb mod, and well worth checking out for yourself!

[shadows-of-almsivi]

For the writing prompt list: 18 & 15

18: Autumnal

The old ostler put out a notice for a horse trainer, when the Rorikstead crops were coming into their height. A small room for my boarding built into the stable, a meal and ten septims a day were, apparently, enough to buy me, to my own surprise. Still, it is only until the ostler’s son returns from some wedding or other, and I’d grown tired of sleeping on stony ground.

It’s been rather a delight for me here, truth be told, though the pay is poor and the work leaves my body numb with exhaustion. Horses are a fondness of mine, and even the meanest and foulest-tempered of the beasts passing through the ostler’s yards can kindle a little tenderness from me. I’m tasked to breathe a little spirit back into these worn-out old carriage drafts, to take wild-eyed Reach ponies and make them fit for the smallest child’s first saddle, and by and large I do succeed by some measure. Having no friends here to speak to nor inclination to find any, I spend all of my time with the horses, and the training goes all the swifter for the closer attention. The ostler seems pleased with my progress, as am I.

Is this what it would have been like, to have held more conventional employment?

The mare I’m working today is a lively young Chorrol Red, near leaping out of her skin with excitement to be out of her stall. I can feel, in the shiver of her flank against my calves, how badly she wants to canter headlong into the open field, kicking free the stiffness of those long and boring days in the stable. Her previous master ought to be ashamed, to have let such a high-natured beast molder away indoors before trading her to us.

Her hooves churn the dirt as she dances anxiously in place. The brass bells about her bridle and breastplate, the training-tack for horses prone to flight or nerves, chime at every restless step. I hold her reins just firm enough to let her feel me; I prefer the more subtle touch of directing from the knee, but she’s liable to bolt without the extra guidance. Her breed is known more for racing and courier work than for level-headedness, more spirit than sense perhaps. She sees open grass before her and nothing else, and I’d best not let her have her head or else she’s likely to throw me at once, or snap a slender leg on some hidden stone outcrop.

But still, how beautiful she is, how uncommonly fine for this place. That rich chestnut coat shines so lovely in the pale sun, bright as a new-minted copper flashing between a street-magician’s knuckles. Her restlessness is infectious; I find myself, too, looking over those rolling plains with sudden, aching longing. There’s a crispness to the morning air that would feel wonderful raking through my hair, a sluggishness to my blood from my days here that I can’t wait to shake loose. Honest labor has its sweetness, but precious little thrill has stirred me since taking up the old ostler’s offer.

Perhaps a sprint down the road to the bridge would let us both focus a little better…

15: Soup.

I’d had such hope for a good fish soup for tonight. I should know better than to think of cooking before the catch, it’s bad luck to fish with a certain recipe in mind. My nets came up in empty tatters, gnawed through and picked clean. I’d thought slaughterfish, of course, until I heard those bellowing, ugly barks from a ways past the shoreline. I was surprised to see one in a lake; Skyrim’s fauna continues to astound me the longer I stay here.

But, regardless, curiosity does not fill the stewpot. No fish soup tonight, but my recipes adapt.

Tonight, then, it is seal.

I have heard horker is best treated like pork, and a seal shouldn’t be much different, I imagine. With this in mind, I selected a shoulder, diced middling-sized, and one fin to enrich the broth. The skin I set aside; its fur carries lovely marbled markings, and should be a fair trade for a new net at the tradehouse.

The raw meat was a deep red, less like an apple and more like wine, almost the same as the wine I poured into the hissing iron pot to steam and spit. Some cabbage I added next, some garlic, a little mora tapinella from the morning’s walk. Finally, a couple of bees, finely ground, just for alchemical safety-- I don’t believe the mushrooms’ poison to survive a long cooking, but you can never be too careful.

Now, the house smells quite delightful, and I can put my feet up for a while. The soup will want a few hours over a gentle fire, and I have some reading to catch up on.

[safrona-shadowsun]

DWC August Writing Challenge

Day 4: Relationship/Somber

Daily Writing Challenge

Nearly two weeks had passed since Safrona had resituated herself in the office, managing trade manifests and acquisitions on top of advising and structuring her own courier team. And after two years of officially relinquishing the office role to her sister, Safrona found a distaste in having to again solely manage Empyrean Imports and Trades and become The Courier and all it entailed once more. She’d been spoiled with the freedom of selective business,  no longer having to carry the entire courier trade on her own back for so many years, work ethic be damned. But Wennefer Shadowsun was now avoiding not only the responsibility of the Tradehouse but specifically Safrona herself.

All of two weeks, and Safrona was finally relieved to find the younger Shadowsun behind the counter of Empyrean Star Trades, awaiting her upon opening. The relief was short-lived when Wenne seemed entirely willing to vacate as soon as she entered. Wennefer payed more mind to the tome that housed another soul in her hands, cradling it like a precious relic. The mage always liked her books more than she liked people; now she found something that functioned as both.

“Ah,” Safrona took her place behind the counter as Wennefer swept past her without meeting her eyes. “So I see you’re going to run away again like a child again instead of having a conversation like an adult? That is fine. Have fun, Wenne. I suppose I’ll manage as I always have without you.” She made sure the passive aggression in her monotone voice stung with its chilliness.

The bite stopped Wennefer from reaching the door, just as she intended; the mage’s temper rushed up in a sudden backdraft of incredulous laughter and words. “I can’t believe you. You won’t even talk to your own daughter, but you expect me to talk to you? That is rich, “Saf”.”

Safrona stood unmoving, listening to her sister rant, giving her this moment. Wenne took it, inching back to the counter with exasperated steps, until she faced her sister head on with all the words that had been boiling beneath her skin. “What is wrong with you? You are breaking that girl’s heart, you know. Your daughter wants to see you. Does that mean nothing? And those kids were your entire life, you know. Do you really not remember them, or are you just afraid to face them? Or do you just not, what, care?”

Safrona’s nebulous eyes met the sister’s brilliant blues in a sharp turn, yet she remained silent. The incredulous anger in the Mage’s face was held back for a teary eyed somberness. “I am trying, here, Saf. To keep what’s left of our family together. I really am. But you don’t really care, do you? Or, more, things are just not…right. Because things are not adding up. You remember so much that I am not a part of, like it’s just, written right into your palms. You’re closer to your demons than you are me. Dalaran doesn’t even have a record of what happened to you.”

“We’ve been over this,” Safrona finally said with a breath of a sigh, calming the edge of alarm Wennefer’s suspicion was bringing her. “Many records went missing after Proudmoore ‘evicted’ us from Dalaran. Not everyone was accounted for.”

“Even still. No Tesrael Dawnsinger wasn't recovered by our people. You were known, Tes. You weren’t just a merchant, or a vendor - Sunreaver Dawnsinger was executed, by Proudmoore herself. FROZEN to death. Nobody recovered a body, and you clearly weren’t just. Shattered.”

“I don’t remember what happened, I told you–” Safrona swept her eyes away from the mage’s gleaming, wet eyes.

“You are lying. Why?”

“Wenne...”

The arcanist spoke now with a heartbreaking softness. “Are you even my sister at all? Is it true…?”

Safrona’s eyes narrowed as her skin prickled in awareness, a network of insidious insight screaming inside her head all at once, a cacophonous, singular, burning suspicion. “Who has been talking to you, Wenne? Is someone talking to you about me? Tell me.”

Wennefer doubled down. "Are you. My sister?"

It would have been too easy to end the farce now and tell the truth, and for a moment Safrona considered that avenue. It had become exhausting living on a lie, or thieving truths that Wennefer would give her about who her sister had been. In the core truth of who she was, the warlock longed to be known as she was, not as the skin she wore. Whether the dark truth chased Wennefer away away, became an invitation for the young mage to try to end her there and then, or infeasibly brought them somehow closer together, the revelation Safrona had curtained off to most would be a resolution in its exposure, in this twisted, harsh moment.

And yet, staring on the troubled face of the younger Dawnsinger, sister of a long gone Sunreaver, Safrona found she could not utter the words. The mere utterance of the dark truths felt wrong. Like stating a demonic ritual in all its detail for one who did not understand the practice themselves, let alone speak in the infernal tongue. Trade secrets lost on one who would never understand the significance. A waste of words, of breath.

 There was a safety here in the lie. And more, a desire to become the lie, after all these years.

Wennefer took the silence as an insult, the bond between sisters wedged farther apart. The mage chuckled and wiped at her face, backing away from the countertop slowly. “Tell you what: I’ll go talk to my book, you go talk to your demons. We both seem more comfortable that way, apparently.” Wennefer Shadowsun let the door to Empyrean Star Trades slam closed behind her.

{ @daily-writing-challenge }

[thana-topsy]

Edwinna Elbert / Baladas Demnevanni, in secrecy.

I am once again outsourcing the niche Morrowind suggestions to someone better suited to write Morrowind stuff: @yesjejunus It's not that I can't write Morrowind, but more so that Skyrim is my home and just comes a lot more easily for me. So please enjoy some more brilliant writing from YJJ. We are blessed for it, to be quite honest.

---

Edwinna Elbert x Baladas Demnevanni "A kiss in secrecy." By @yesjejunus

The door of the Andus Tradehouse clicked behind Baladas Demnevanni as he swept into the building in a cloud of red ash. He took a moment to brush the worst of it from his robes before he descended the staircase to his right. Like most nights, there were few people in the pub—most of the residents of Maar Gan were insufferably devout temple worshippers who retired to bed early and rose with the dawn to go about their daily labors.

Baladas had a singular goal in mind as he steered to the left, approaching a small door that led to a side room in the bowels of the public house. He pulled it open without knocking and then halted.

Inside the room was a small table with chairs on either side of it. His contact, a blackcap in the Thieves Guild named Drolvyne, was seated in one of the chairs. Her face was obscured by a hood and goggles, which still bore traces of ash. Baladas had been expecting her—what he did not expect was the Breton woman seated opposite her. She was dressed in velvety blue robes, and one finger was tapping the book that sat between them.

“You want two hundred drakes for this? Are you out of your mind?” the Breton said. “The beggar in the alley could have done it for twenty. This wasn’t a difficult job, even for an imbecile like you. I’m not giving you a single coin over fifty.”

The Breton woman’s argument fell on deaf ears; Drolvyne was staring at Baladas with her mouth open, and through the goggles he could see the panic in her eyes. The other woman finally turned to face the open door, her expression unchanged.

“Can’t you see that we’re busy in here?”

“Busy?” Baladas shot back. “That’s my book you’re haggling over.”

The Breton woman looked shocked before spinning thunderously back to Drolvyne.

“Edwinna, this really isn’t what it looks like—" Drolvyne began, trying to surreptitiously shove the book into her sack as she spoke. Edwinna brought her hand down on the tome, dragging it back across the table.

“You’re too stupid to even double deal efficiently. Get out, and count yourself lucky that I don’t go straight to the Redoran guard!”

Baladas stepped aside as Drolvyne dashed past him and disappeared up the stairs in a whirlwind of cloak and ashes. When she was gone, Baladas entered the room and pressed his own hand down on the book, which Edwinna was in the process of sweeping into her robes.

“Not so fast. That’s my book, remember? What would someone like you even want with this? It’s written in Dwemeris, you wouldn’t be able to read it.”

“I wasn’t about to pay fifty gold for a book I can’t even read,” Edwinna snapped. “Of course I can read it. What do you want with it? I’ve never seen you in any of the Guild halls. Not that any of my guildmates could appreciate this either.”

Mages Guild, Baladas snorted. Of course. He bent close to her to pick up the book and Edwinna clawed it back from him, leaving a small purple mark on his hand. He arched his eyebrows at it before looking back up at her with intrigue. She might be Mages Guild, but she was more interesting than any he’d met before. Even more interesting than most Telvanni.

He gave her a lopsided smile, doing his best—insofar as a shut-in like himself could muster—to appear rakish and charming.

“Perhaps I’d be nice enough to let you borrow it from me… in the morning,” he said. Edwinna looked surprised for a moment before she smiled at him. Baladas’s eyes flew open wide as she quickly leaned in and planted her mouth on his, her lips unexpectedly warm and soft for all the acid that seemed to flow through them. He was still standing frozen in shock when she swiped the book off the table.

“You’re even more of an idiot than that thief was,” she said as she exited the room before trotting up the stairs. Baladas stood dumbfounded for a moment before brushing a finger to his lips and looking back. He’d have to hire another thief, he thought dazedly. Because he certainly wouldn’t mind meeting Edwinna again.

[jo-jaska]

Jo'jaska's Diary: 19th of Last Seed

This one found something odd when he awoke: a note tucked into his pocket. It simply told him to head to a town called Seyda Neen and deliver a package. He asked the others in the room if they had any idea where it had come from, but they claimed to have no idea. This one would almost think it some kind of prank, though it would be a truly bizarre prank indeed. Still, this one's curiosity got the better of him, and he asked for directions to Seyda Neen.

He learned that the best way would be to go southwest, to a place called Molag Mar, and travel the rest of the way by boat. He also learned that the monastery is sealed shut at all times but twilight, and was only just in time to leave before he was trapped inside for another day. Unfortunately the weather was miserable once again, and Jo'jaska was now locked outside in the rain.

An ugly leather hat he had kept from the tomb kept the rain off of his head, but his fur was still soaked through. It is lucky his bag was waterproofed, or he would have needed a new journal. He traveled south and followed the coast, walking over the water to avoid the ferocious wildlife. He was relieved when the rain ended, only for a fierce dust-storm to begin, filling Jo'jaska's fur with ash. Through the cloud he could see a massive stone structure with a little dock attached, and was so eager to escape the ash that he walked directly over the water to the boat.

It was then that the rain began again, though it at least washed the ash from Jo'jaska's fur.

He paid for a trip to Vivec, and from there paid for an enormous flea-thing called a silt-strider to take him to Seyda Neen.

The package this one had been told about was very, very strange. The man who had it had somehow known of Jo'jaska's arrival on Vvardenfell, and said the package is part of a mission from the Emperor himself. This one does not understand how anyone knew that he would be here, as even Jo'jaska could not know that he would be here before he arrived.

This one is sitting at a table in the tradehouse with a bottle of some cheap local drink as he writes this, and tries to get his thoughts in order. He feels the same way as when he was a little ja'khajiit and first looked over the side of a cliff, as though he was on the edge of something much, much bigger than himself. He has heard rumors that the Emperor had gained some kind of prophetic power from when he had been sealed away in Oblivion, but it is one thing to hear stories and another to have proof, and another still to have that proof imply that forces far more powerful than this one have taken an interest in his life.

Still, Jo'jaska must know what this means. If it is destiny, then there is little use in running from it. And besides, there are no beds to rent in Seyda Neen.

He should be able to reach Balmora by Silt Strider before too late in the night, and find a place to sleep there.

[ervona]

In the game you hear about a great warrior named Miles Gloriosus. He can be found in Maar Gan at the Andus Tradehouse downstairs in his own room. For the Thieves Guild in Ald'ruhn, you have to steal a book from him. This character's name is borrowed from a play of the same name by the Roman comic writer Plautus, where the character Pyrgopolynices (which can be loosely translated as "Boasts about many victories") is the miles gloriosus (boastful soldier) of the title. This name has been used in many Roman comedies ever since, as well as the more recent play and film "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum".

now this one I also caught on my own and I think many people encountered him naturally unlike Peke Utchoo and Eltonbrand

[manolo223]

IM Acdemy Cost - How Much To Join Smartmonics, Abundance Tradehouse and IM

[vosh-rakh]

madstone: chapter 1

- previous part -

Yakin finished today’s shortened tutelage by handing Kassur a small book. “Here,” he said. “This will be the rest of your lesson. Study it at home, or on the way to Sadrith Mora.”

Kassur took the tome, squinting to read the Daedric script on the cover. “The…Four…”

“Suitors,” translated Yakin.

“...of…” Kassur squinted harder. “What’s this last word?”

“Benitah,” Yakin explained. “It’s a name.”

“What’s this book about?”

Yakin smiled. “What the title says. Keep an eye out for me. I’m in this book.”

Kassur scrunched up his face. “Are you seeking this Benitah’s hand?”

“No. Just read it.”

“Yes, kena,” said Kassur. Yakin seemed a bit too proud to feature in a work of fiction, Kassur thought. He stood to ready himself to leave.

“And Kassur?” Yakin called.

“Yes, kena?”

“Wear some shoes next time, please.”

Kassur suppressed a frown and nodded solemnly. If he insists.

After leaving, it was almost seven o’clock, the sun still struggling to rise. Kassur left the walled portion of Vos and headed for the docks. 

He was admittedly worried about this trip. Not just because of his purpose, either - he’d also never been on a boat before. The Ahemmusa usually fished from the shores, or from water-walking spells provided by the wise women. He was uncertain as to how his stomach would hold up.

He walked past Varo’s Tradehouse - where he’d bought his House mer clothes by bartering ashyams - and came upon the shipmaster. She was a simply dressed woman, but with an elaborate bun tying up her hair. She was busy picking at her fingernails.

“Hello,” Kassur said in Dunmeris. 

Without looking up, the shipmaster said, “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I would like to travel to…Saddith Mora,” Kassur said, trying to remember what Yakin had told him the name was.

The shipmaster finally looked up. “Sadrith Mora,” she said, then asked, “You’re that new ashlander, aren’t you?”

Kassur wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded. Was it that obvious? He’d worn the right clothes, and he didn’t think his accent was that bad. Maybe Yakin was right to insist he wore shoes; maybe that tipped her off. Not discouraged, however, he tried again. “Can you take me to Sadrith Mora?”

“Yes,” the woman said, expressionless. “For a price. Fifty drakes.”

Kassur frowned. That was much more than he’d expected the fare to be. He pulled out his makeshift coinpurse and started counting out septims. He only found eighty-two. How was he going to get back to Vos?

No matter. He needed to go to Sadrith Mora. He’d figure out a way back somehow. He handed over fifty coins to the shipmaster.

Finally she smiled. “Very good,” she said. “The name’s Sedyni Veran. I’ll be your captain for this voyage.” She chuckled at herself. “What’s your name, ashlander?”

“Kassur,” he said, blushing.

“Just Kassur?” Sedyni asked as she put the coins away in a nearby lockbox. 

“Just Kassur,” he affirmed. He’d once had a family name, but he didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.

“Very well. Climb aboard, ‘Just Kassur.’” She hopped onto the ship from the dock, and beckoned him to follow.

Nervously, Kassur took a tentative step onto the boat. Immediately he could feel the wobble of the water, and being half on land and half at sea made him feel ill at ease. He quickly put his other foot forward, planting them both firmly on the deck. He took another step forward toward the mast, but almost tripped as the boat lurched casually, doubling over to catch himself.

“No sea legs, eh?” Sedyni asked as she began to tend to the rigging. “You’ll get used to it. Just head below deck and have a seat. Try not to throw up on my ship.”

- - - - -

The voyage was miserable and exciting all at once. Kassur refused to head below deck, so that he could see the world around him as they passed it by. They sailed between the Grazelands and some islands, past Tel Mora first. He’d heard of the place - it was a place of only women. He liked the idea. 

Next they passed an evil looking place on the following island. It reminded him of the ruins of Kushtashpi, west of the old Ahemmusa camp. He asked Sedyni about it.

“They call it Esutanamus,” she answered. “They say Molag Bal is worshiped there, Vivec curse his name.”

After Esutanamus, on the west coast this time, they spotted a great fortress. Sedyni, expecting Kassur’s curiosity, explained. “That’s Indoranyon. Old Dunmeri stronghold from the days of Resdayn. You know, when Nerevar led your people and mine together against the Nords and Dwemer.” She sighed. “In better days, at least. Now it’s home to Daedra worshipers. Bad Daedra, that is,” she corrected quickly.

After Indoranyon, they headed southeast away from the mainland of Vvardenfell, passing through some small islands. “We’re almost there,” Sedyni said. 

Thank Boethiah, thought Kassur. He stood from where he had sat, head against the mast, and leaned against the railing. He could see the mushroom towers now, standing tall over the rocks.

Finally they arrived at the docks, which were made of fungal roots, rather than wood, like the one at Vos. Sedyni handed Kassur off to the local shipmaster, who she introduced as Gals Arethi.

“Go easy on him,” she whispered to Gals, but Kassur could still hear. “He’s some sort of exile, I think. Not used to the world.” Gals nodded, but his face frightened Kassur. He looked so stern and irascible.

“New to Sadrith Mora?” Gals asked, speaking the kind of quick Dunmeris Kassur hated. “What would you like to know?” He had to repeat himself several times before Kassur could make out what he was asking. 

“Wolf…a ring, hall, please,” Kassur murmured, unsure of the words. They were Cyrodiilic, and he knew no Cyrodiilic.

“Sorry?” Gals asked. “Speak up, boy.”

“Wolf-a-ring-hall,” Kassur said, speaking quickly to hide his lack of confidence.

“Wolverine Hall, you mean?” Gals pointed southeast. “Opposite side of town. Good luck.”

Kassur wondered what Gals meant by “good luck,” but didn’t ask. He walked on the spongy fungal floor until he reached real solid ground. Oh, he could just fall down and kiss it! But he decided it wouldn’t raise Gals’ already poor estimation of him, so didn’t. 

Kassur approached the giant round gate of Sadrith Mora, the coarse stone beneath him rough on his bare feet. He made to go through the gate, but two armored guards with squid-like helmets crossed their spears before it. 

“Papers?” one of them asked, his coarse Vvardenfell accent coarser than most’s. 

Kassur shook his head. Papers? What did he mean by that?

“No entry,” the other guard said. “Or go see the Prefect upstairs.”

“Okay,” said Kassur. He stepped back from the gate and looked up. There were two arms of spiraling stairs reaching a door at the top, directly above the gate. The entire structure was one enormous mushroom. Kassur ascended the left side and opened the door. 

Inside a mer sat at a desk to the right; to the left was another spiral staircase up. The Dunmer didn’t look up from whatever he was doing. “Yes?”

Kassur cleared his throat and asked, “Papers?”

The seated Dunmer looked up, a wicked smile on his face. “Ah, so you’ve come to the Prefect of Hospitality for your Hospitality Papers, eh?”

Kassur scratched the back of his neck. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” the Prefect said. He lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. “I just finished making this copy.” He extended an empty hand towards Kassur. Kassur just stared at it. “It’s not free, you know,” the Prefect said. “Twenty-five septims.”

Kassur frowned and rubbed his forehead. “Need to go back home, too,” he said. 

“Well, you should have planned ahead,” the Prefect tutted. “Have you the gold?”

Kassur reluctantly took out his coinpurse and counted out twenty-five coins. He only had seven left - not enough to make it back to Vos, for sure. 

He dropped the coins in the Prefect’s waiting hand, which quickly closed around them. The Prefect made a show of counting them out, then put them in the pocket of his robes. He handed Kassur the Hospitality Papers, which Kassur couldn’t really read. “There you go, young man. Enjoy your stay in Sadrith Mora.”

Kassur grunted and went back outside, descended the stairs, and approached the gate again. He held up his newly-acquired papers for the guards. One of them bent forward a bit to loosely examine it, but not for very long. 

“Looks good to me,” he grunted. The two guards uncrossed their spears and began to open the strange circular gate. It was hinged in the middle, spinning on a central axis. Kassur walked through it on the left side, squeezing past the guard who refused to budge from his post. 

Yakin had told Kassur about Sadrith Mora before, the capital of Telvanni power on the island. It was, as its name suggested, a forest of mushrooms. As far as Kassur could tell, there wasn’t a single normal building here; they were all made of giant mushrooms. 

It wasn’t midday yet; Kassur had about an hour to kill. He’d planned it out this way - he wanted to roam the circular streets of Sadrith Mora and take in the city before his lunchtime appointment. 

After he was free of the structure containing the gate, he was face to face with an enormous mushroom tower, climbing high above the city in its center. Its bulbs and horns and stalks were interwoven into a complex building - which seemed to lack stairs entirely. Were they inside? How did you get to the top?

After his awe at the massive building subsided, he hung a left and began to circumnavigate it. The first thing of note he found was a covered marketplace, with several merchant stalls serving a sizable crowd of people. Kassur had to avert his gaze from the items on display; he didn’t have any money to buy anything, so why get excited?

Adjoining the marketplace was a raised trio of fungal pod-cages. In his best Dunmeris Kassur asked a nearby guard about them. 

“Old slave market,” the gravelly voice behind the helmet said. “Closed down about a month ago by the new Archmagister.”

A slave market, Kassur thought. Ahemmusa hadn’t kept slaves for generations. The concept of it made him feel sick. He was glad for the Archmagister’s decision, whoever they were. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by some shouting in the market. He saw a Dunmer arguing with one of the merchants, who was short and brown-skinned. Kassur wasn’t sure what kind of mer he was. The argument was in Cyrodiilic, so Kassur couldn’t tell what it was over. 

Suddenly, the Dunmer reached up to hit the smaller mer. But someone from behind caught his arm. 

In elaborate robes and with a massive metal gauntlet on one hand was the first Argonian Kassur had ever seen. They were tall and lean, their nearly golden scales glistening in the morning sun, save for a black mark on their throat. In their offhand they leaned on a fully metal spear with more spikes than Kassur had ever seen. Something about them, perhaps just the alien nature of their race, struck Kassur, gluing his feet to the spot, and his eyes on them. 

Kassur couldn’t make out whatever the Argonian said to the Dunmer - it was in Cyrodiilic again, no doubt - but whatever was said, the situation was resolved. The Dunmer seemed to apologize to the Argonian and to the smaller mer before heading towards the giant central tower of the city. Kassur’s eyes followed the Argonian and their two Dunmer companions as they left the city. 

Kassur stood there, lost in some kind of awe before a guard bumped into him, tearing him from it. He scurried along around the city. 

On his left he came across a tall building. It wasn’t tall like that central tower - this one was built on fungal stilts, with a long spiral staircase rising up to meet it. It gave Kassur a dark feeling, so he hurried past it. 

Kassur circled around the back of the great central tower. There weren’t any homes in this eastern half of the city - just a street between the tower’s ditch on the right and a large hill closing in on the left. He carried on southwards, a mostly straight-shot to Wolverine Hall.

The fort was enormous. It was made in the same style of hewn stone as the lower half of Tel Vos, but without all the fungal growths piercing through it. Kassur passed by a strange wooden building on his left and crossed the bridge into the fort proper.

This was about as far as he could manage on his own. He knew he was looking for the Mage’s Guild, and that was it. Inside the fort was all the same grey stone walls, large courtyards with no doors in sight. Kassur slowly started to feel his way through them.

Rounding a corner to the left he found another courtyard, with a stone staircase to his right, and a fire surrounded by a couple of Imperial guards to his left. One of the guards squatted near the fire, tending to a pot hanging over it, while the other worked a sword on an anvil, periodically checking its straightness. Kassur tentatively approached, and asked in Dunmeris, “Where is Mage’s Guild?”

The guard tending the pot looked up at Kassur, then glanced at his companion. “Dunmeris,” the squatting guard said. The anvil guard nodded and approached Kassur, sword in hand. Kassur took a step back, intimidated. But the guard smiled and said, in Dunmeris more broken than Kassur’s, “Up stairs. Through chapel. Up stairs. First door.”

Kassur nodded slowly, and said, “Thank you.” He backed away and then turned to hurry up the steps. At the top he finally found a door, and went inside.

Inside stood a man bent over a table laden with alchemical ingredients and apparatus. He turned, mortar and pestle in hand, and smiled at Kassur. “Greetings,” he said in suitable Dunmeris. “How may I help you?”

“Mage’s Guild?” Kassur asked, pulling the collar of his shirt from his neck anxiously.

“Ah,” said the man, frowning as he pointed at a nearby door. “Go into the stairwell there and head upstairs. Should be the first door you come across.”

“Thank you,” Kassur said. These directions made more sense to him. He waved farewell as he went through the indicated door. He went upstairs and into the next room.

It was a relatively small room, but full with people - Kassur guessed eight. There were men, tall golden-skinned mer, a couple of Dunmer, and even an Argonian, which excited him again for some reason. 

But it was the Dunmer woman behind the desk in the back that Kassur had come to see. He quietly asked a nearby woman in Dunmeris if he could speak with her. She didn’t seem to understand. Exasperated and embarrassed, Kassur simply called out, “Minabibi!”

The entire room, which had been abuzz with quiet conversation, fell silent, and everyone looked at Kassur.

The woman behind the desk looked up at the newcomer in horror. She tilted her head at first, then frowned, nearly knocking a candlestick off the desk as she swept around it. “Kassur!” she whispered in Velothi. “Please. No shouting in the Guild. This isn’t the Fighter’s Guild.”

Kassur apologized, and raised an eyebrow. “There’s a Fighter’s Guild too?”

“These Imperials and House mer have many Guilds,” Minabibi said, shaking her head. She grabbed Kassur by the arm and turned towards the Argonian, saying something to him in Cyrodiilic. He smiled and nodded, waving the two of them away. Then Minabibi led Kassur out of the room, back down the stairs and outside. 

“Who is he?” Kassur asked. He was relieved to be able to speak Velothi again.

“Skink?” Minabibi asked. “He’s the head of the chapter here. He’s the one who invited me to study at the Guild. Although sometimes I think he intends to study me more than the other way around.” She led Kassur out of the fort and to the strange wooden building Kassur had passed before. “Let’s grab lunch,” she said, taking Kassur inside.

The door opened onto a hallway, but Minabibi quickly turned left and took Kassur up the stairs. At the top was a massive woman, tall and well-built.

“Hello, Helende,” Minabibi said. The woman grunted but smiled. Kassur kept close to Minabibi as they passed by her.

To the right at the end of another hall was a bar. The bartender smiled widely and said, in Dunmeris, “Mina! The usual, today?” She glanced at Kassur. “For two, maybe?”

“No, Muriel,” Minabibi said, smiling back. “We’ll split a racer egg and a bottle of shein.”

“You’re lucky,” Muriel said as she reached under the counter and prepared to cook. “I was saving this last egg for somebody else. But I think I can make an exception for you two. He won’t be happy, though.” She made some kind of rude gesture. “But fetch ‘im! He can deal with it.”

“Thank you,” Minabibi said. She took a seat at a table in the corner, and Kassur followed suit. “What’s brought you here, Kassur?” she asked as she poured shein into Kassur’s cup. 

“I’m not with the tribe anymore,” said Kassur.

“Ah,” Minabibi said. “Well, I’m not really either. I haven’t spoken with anyone from home in months. You’re the first in that much time.”

“There’s a reason,” Kassur said.

“Oh?” She leaned forward after filling her own cup. 

“They’ve all gone mad.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Minabibi said before taking a long draught from her cup.

“No,” Kassur said. “You don’t understand. They’re lost to Sheogorath.”

“Lower your damn voice,” Minabibi said, looking around. “But explain. Quietly.”

“You know how the Nerevarine cleared out the old shrine?”

“Yes, I heard about that. That was after I left, though.”

“Well, a few weeks afterwards everybody moved there permanently.” Kassur slowly took a sip of his cup, but twisted his face at the taste. “Tastes like guarpiss,” he said - quietly, this time.

“Yeah,” Minabibi agreed. “But why would they fall to Sheogorath? They have the Madstone.”

“Some s’wit gave it to the Nerevarine as a ‘token,’ or something.”

Minabibi nearly spat out her drink. “They moved into the shrine without the Madstone?”

“I don’t know who made the decision. Sinnammu, maybe. Or maybe Urshamusa had a vision - sent by Sheogorath, no doubt.”

“Well,” Minabibi said. “There’s no saving them, then.”

“Of course there is!” Kassur said, raising his voice. “There must be!”

“Sheogorath is a tricky Prince. Hard to come back from madness.”

“But it must be possible!” Kassur nearly shouted. He lowered his voice, looking down. “It must be.” He looked back up and planted an angry, shaking finger on the table. “I left them behind. I cobbled together Imperial coin for this trip, to come see you, to get help. And all you can say is ‘There’s no saving them’?”

“You’d need a lot more help than I can give, Kassur.” She sighed. “Even the Guild likely couldn’t do it.” She shook her head. “Assuming they’d even want to.”

“Oh,” Kassur said. “So they get their wise woman and now they’re happy to let the rest kill each other?”

“It’s…it’s not all bad,” Minabibi said after a pause. “It’s better, living this way, I think. They couldn’t accept it. So maybe…”

“So you think it’s okay, too,” Kassur said. “They don’t deserve to live, because they live differently.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Minabibi said.

“Weren’t you, though?”

“One racer egg, coming up!” Muriel approached the table and placed a platter down with a massive yellowish hard-boiled egg on it, drizzled with some dark sauce. 

“She’ll eat it herself,” Kassur said. He stood and left the cornerclub.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

11, 24, 31! (Elder scrolls oc asks)

Hi there! I'm going to answer for Erra Ilaba'andul, this time around. 11. What does your OC's daily/nightly schedule look like? Do they have any routines? Erra, prior to joining forces with the Nerevarine would usually wake up in his rented room at the Andus Tradehouse (or his yurt if hes on the road) and immediately start getting dressed so that he can start with his day. He usually lightly bathes with a basin and cloth before he dresses in his armour. Once he's done he'll usually try getting himself breakfast, usually a saltrice porridge if its available or if he's on the road, something that he's hunted and prepared for the road. If he's got work that he can do, then he'll immediately start with that, if however he doesn't have work lined up, he'll usually tackle whatever chores need doing. This typically involves armour repairs, washing linens etc. He'll check Maar Gan's Temple noticeboard for word on Blight attacks but if theres nothing for him to pick up as the sun's setting then he'll head back to the Tradehouse and have his dinner at his usual table on the ground floor. He'll usually read any letter's he's been delivered, write back or reread old ones- particularly if they are from a certain mer who holds his heart. He'll usually do this with a pipe packed with kreshweed to relax him. He'll then head back to his room, bathe properly and sleep. 24. What moral boundaries does your OC have? Have they ever crossed them? What happened? A large component of Ashlander culture is raiding frontier towns and taking tribute. It is a practice that had initially involved taking goods, gold etc. but as the Blight became more widespread and things started getting desperate, the raids would turn far more violent, with women and children also being taken and sold to Telvanni slavers or simply slaughtered. Erra has only participated in one such massacre, and that was what made him leave the wastes and settle in Redoran Lands. He can't fit in with his people (for more than just that raiding reason) so he's gone to find greener pastures so to speak. Erra won't do anything that doesn't feel like his most authentic self. That includes the cultural expectations placed upon him by his tribe. He won't live a lie, choosing exile over marriage to a "nice well named girl" and settled life over the killing and selling of innocents. 31. Your OC is packing for a day-long trip on the road. What is in their travel bag?

Erra has an enchanted pack that helps with carry weight as well as a guar he keeps in the stables named, Kušû (crocodile). So he carries quite a bit with him. Usually he'll bring his single yurt, supplies for camp, alchemical supplies, food and his folder of pressed plants. He grew up in the northern ash wastes so any plant that is brightly coloured is something he takes interest in.

A Mostly Very Specific Elder Scrolls OC Ask Game

[thomascobob-blog]

Check this out...

[lcnola]

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