Days 131 to 140
Day 131: Headed North
Timing has become a very delicate issue. Mehra Milo is free and on her way to join the Dissident Priests at Holamayan. She is safe, and I feel neither need to rush there to meet her, nor need for delay. Trebonius and his mission to solve the riddle of the dwarves though, that must be managed carefully. I must give the guild stewards enough time to act on the information I shared with them before I deliver the translations from Baladas, but I must not appear to be shirking my assignment. It is a thin rope over a deep chasm that I have chosen to trod, but today was an excellent first step on that rope. Ranis has suggested a renegade wizard whose staff of office I can claim. Said wizard is in hiding far to the north, on the shores of Sheogorad. I could have gone to the coast and taken ship for Dagon Fel, but I am also obliged to the temple; a very handy obligation.
I took an early start, demonstrating my eagerness to get on with my task, and had the guild guides teleport me to Ald-ruhn. Edwinna can safely report that she last saw me headed to the temple to garner the blessings of the Tribunal on my journey. I met with Tuls Valen, who was extremely pleased when I reported my successful completion of the seven graces pilgrimages. So pleased that he readily agreed to assign me a pilgrimage to the Maar Gan temple. As I am headed north anyway I could hardly refuse. The slight delay of traveling by foot seems a small price to pay for such a worthy objective. I'm sure Trebonius will see that. Well, perhaps not.
The trek to Maar Gan was surprisingly uneventful. The hoards of mercenaries and adventurers who have descended upon this sleepy little outpost have apparently succeeded in thinning the swarms of blighted beasts and monsters that were threatening to overwhelm the Redoran guards the last time I passed this way. I was surely glad of that, as much of my journey passed within sight of the ghostfence. Hacking through under a steady bombardment of blighted cliff racers was irritating enough without a blighted rat or kwama behind every rock.
The shrine here at the temple of Maar Gan commemorates another of Vivec's battles with the Daedra lord Mehunes Dagon. In the center of the main chamber lies a great boulder. Mehunes Dagon had raised this very boulder overhead, and was about to send it crashing among the temple forces when Vivec intervened. Vivec is the poet warrior of the tribunal. There are countless volumes of his verses. He is a master of words. When Mehunes Dagon held the great stone high Vivec turned that mastery to a different purpose and taunted the Daedra lord into casting the stone at himself rather than the vulnerable troops.
When I met the dremora Krazzt at the shrine of courtesy I was impressed. He is bound to the shrine for eternity, playing the role of Mehunes Dagon as countless pilgrims reenact the gift of the silver longsword. I thought it was a pretty harsh fate, but Krazzt was very accepting of it. At one point I remember him saying "it could be worse". Now I see how.
Another Dremora is similarly bound at the shrine of the rock, also playing the part of Mehunes Dagon. Anhaedra stood quietly while I read the plaque on the stone. As I turned to him I saw a flicker of malicious hope in the wispy eyes visible through the slits of the Daedric helm. The flicker was quickly extinguished as a priest appeared at my side and said "Would you like the blessing of the Tribunal before the reenactment?"
I accepted his offer and received the blessing; a powerful spell of sanctuary that improved my reflexes such that I would be very difficult to strike in combat. The dremora spat at my feet. "Blessing or no, I, Anhaedra, will slice you to pieces and feed you to the maggots." Where Krazzt was bound to the shrine of courtesy and received an endless stream of silver longswords from pilgrims, Anhaedra was doomed for eternity to be taunted; mostly by pilgrims heavily protected by the blessings of the temple. I could hardly blame him for his bitterness. After a few barbed comments, no doubt feeble among what he has heard through the ages, the dremora drew his sword. We exchanged some desultory thrusts and I dispatched him to the plane of the Daedra; temporarily. He will be returned to face yet another pilgrim, perhaps as early as tomorrow. I do not envy his fate.
I do not envy his fate, though it does offer a sense of certainty. My own fate is an open question, a question that haunts me as I take to bed here in the tradehouse.
Day 132: House of Missun Akin
I set out from Maar Gan this morning, once again headed northward. From Maar Gan there really did not appear to be any faster way so I left on foot. Had I anticipated being halted by a dust storm before the sun had reached its noon peak I would perhaps have traveled a different way. Probably not. The result has turned out very well.
The winds were just beginning to pick up, but the signs were clearly indicating that I should find shelter. I was still in the rugged foothills of Red Mountain, and hoped to find a cave or other suitable place, preferably unoccupied. I considered the various familiar caverns of the northern Ashlands, but I had previously approached them from the north and was not sure I could find them coming from the opposite direction even if I could reach them before the storm hit.
As I plodded onward down the hills I came upon the slithering tracks of kwama foragers, the wormlike scavengers that gather food for a kwama colony. Though they can travel far afield I had hope that there would be a kwama colony nearby; perhaps even an egg mine cultivated by the locals. Sight of a scrib scrabbling over the shale slopes improved my chances. The baby kwama forage freely, but do not travel as far as the foragers. I was considering whether or not to take a shot at the creature with my bow. They are a tempting target, with muscles that dry to an excellent and nourishing jerky and filled with a jelly that serves marvelously on toast or in a sandwich.
The range was great though, and even though they are over two feet long they are low to the ground and can be difficult to hit from a distance. Difficult for me, and I am getting very skilled with a bow. Or so I thought. As I moved quietly towards the scrib; not really creeping as they are not easily scared off, the morning was split by the singing of an arrow cutting the air. The scrib convulsed once, the thin neck with its scaly plating cleanly severed, the head rolling free.
A voice rang out from a nearby hilltop. "I did not want to steal your kill, but from that angle you could only have taken a body shot and wasted half the jelly anyway. This way there is plenty for both of us, unless you would rather fight for it?" I considered my exposed position, and the range from which my potential adversary had slain the scrib, and opted for discretion.
"No, there is no need to fight. In fact you are welcome to all of the jelly and meat. I am more in need of finding shelter. The wind from Red Mountain blows ill, and I'm sure the ash will follow."
The Dunmer archer was striding down the hill. He was tall and distinguished, with graying hair worn long. His armor, made from the chitinous plates of local insects, gave him a scaly appearance that could pass at a glance for one of the abandoned husks left behind when they molt; or die. "I am Missun Akin outlander, and unlike many in the Ashlands I bid you welcome," he called out, but I noted that his bow was still very much at the ready. Suspecting that an exchange from any distance would be no contest anyway I slung my own. Missun Akin stopped his approach and slipped his own bow over his shoulder. "With your armor and blades you have the look of a dangerous man outlander, but an honest one."
"I prefer Arvil Bren to outlander, and I am a clanfriend of the Urshilaku," I called back, then added "I am honored to meet an archer of such skill."
"I too am a friend to the Urshilaku, though I don't see as much of them as I used to, or would like to. Come then Arvil Bren. You carry the scrib, I will offer you my home as shelter against the coming storm." I picked up the eight legged carcass, Missun picked up the round head in his right hand and unslung his bow with his left. "Practice Arvil Bren, practice." The head flew into the air in a high arc. When it landed three arrows had pierced it, crossing within at square angles. There was not much for me to say.
I followed the Ashlander over a nearby ridge. I was expecting to weather the storm in a yurt, the sturdy tents of hide favored by the Ashland tribes. As we topped the ridge I could see that our path led directly to a looming fortress of ominous black stone. "Falasmaryon," said my host, "a citadel from the most ancient days of Velothi glory." Velothi, the ancestors of the modern Dunmer, contemporaries of the Dwemer; sometimes allies, sometimes foes. "Atop the main bulwark there is a large fortress, a propylon chamber, and a small house of stone. I live in the house. We need to be inside when the storm hits. I have bad neighbors." We made it easily despite my many questions. "We can talk inside," was the only answer.
The house is small but comfortable, and definitely sturdy, having stood for uncounted ages. We cleaned the scrib, enjoying the jelly and putting the meat to dry on a rack high over the fire. Missun answered my questions in depth.
He had adapted the round building that is his house. It had likely been built to serve as a duty room. Missun has lived here for two centuries. Hunting provides his basic needs, and he trades hides and shells to the Urshilaku for whatever he cannot make for himself. He is an Ashlander born and raised, and the spare surroundings are more than sufficient for his simple needs.
The slightly larger square building in the compound is the propylon chamber. Missun explained that the Dwemer had assisted in the construction of this and other citadels, and provided a transportation link between them, somewhat like the guild guides provide between mage guild halls. The propylon system though, being of Dwemer manufacture, uses machinery to harness the magica for teleportation rather than human spellcasters. Inside the chamber are two great structures; bare ribs that outline spheres with platforms at the base. Inside the sphere defined by the ribs the channeled voidstream flows in a continuous cascade of energy. Apparently each sphere is keyed to a particular destination, and requires a specific artifact called an index to be activated. Missun has no idea where to find such an index, but has heard rumors that the system still works.
Which brought our conversation to by far the largest structure atop the vast stone base; the fortress itself. The fortress which houses the reason Missun seldom sees the Urshilaku traders any more; his bad neighbors; the Sixth House cult. I was glad to enjoy the hospitality of his home. Above the roar of the gritty wind against the stone the wail of ash monsters and the deep toll of bells can be heard outside. The hours chafed on me while the minions of Dagoth Ur reigned under cover of the storm, and now I cannot sleep.
Day 133: Fortress of the Sixth House
The ashstorm ended with the dawn. Missun Akin and I shared a quiet breakfast of scrib jerky and kwama eggs. I asked him about his neighbors. I could not imagine how he slept through the wailing of the dreamers as they descended into the madness of the corprus disease. The answer is that he doesn't sleep through it.
Most of the time the leaders of the cult keep the dreamers inside the fortress, only when the ashstorms blow do they allow the monsters to stalk the land. The roaring winds blasting their load of gritty ash against the stone is too much to sleep through then anyway. While he is no ally of Dagoth Ur the master archer has no interest in delving into the business of the cult. He fears the corprus disease; a justifiable fear.
"Missun," I said, "I also am no ally of Dagoth Ur. In fact I am a sworn blood enemy. Before I move on I need to visit that fortress."
"I did not take you for a fool Arvil Bren," he replied. "To enter the fortress is death, either quick or slow. The Dagoth who heads the cult will curse you with corprus if his minions don't kill you first."
"Dagoth Ur thinks I am the Nerevarine. One of his Dagoths already gave me the corprus. That is the least of my worries here. I am worried about what sort of creatures I will have to face. Is the fortress just a den of dreamers, or do the ash minions of Red Mountain gather there?"
"You...had the corprus?" the archer asked slowly. "The corprus disease?"
"Yes, I did. In fact I still do, but only a few of the symptoms are active, the rest of the curse has been undone."
"Undone? Corprus doesn't just get 'undone'. What makes you think you had the corprus?"
"The Dagoth of the Sixth House who gave it to me told me what it was, and why he gave it to me. It was supposed to force me to Red Mountain to bow to Dagoth Ur. Instead I went to Tel Fyr; to the corprusarium there."
Archers are not cowards, though some devoted swordsmen might call them that. They are wise warriors who choose their battles to slant in their favor. Through his centuries of life the master archer has gathered a vast trove of wisdom. "The proof of this mad tale will be when you walk out of the fortress. If you do." He told me as much as he knew of the dangers within.
Although I am not the master that Missun Akin is I am fairly skilled, and the layout of the fortress played in my favor. There are sufficient long straight halls to provide opportune shots, and those afflicted with the corprus are not fast, or smart. Those I did not catch in the halls I could lure out from their chambers. While some had great strength due to the ravages of the disease these lowest minions were little danger to me. But with time the servants of the Sixth House transcend the disease they voluntarily take on.
These ascended sleepers channel powerful magica; the destructive spells of House Dagoth. In confronting these horrors the tables turned. The confinement of the narrow halls made it impossible for me to avoid the blasts of their spells, and their massive misshapen bodies took a lot of punishment before collapsing to the ground. Fortunately those massive bodies are almost impossible to miss from any reasonable range, and collapse they did.
Sometimes rushing to the charge, sometimes creeping stealthily, I made my way deeper and deeper into the ancient fortress. The accursed creatures of Red Mountain assailed me; ash zombies with their rending lifeless claws, ash ghouls with command of spellcraft similar to the ascended sleepers but without their bloated and slow moving bodies. I prayed that this fortress being so close to the evil source, Red Mountain, would not be home to the dreaded ash vampires. In that I was blessed, or lucky.
Eventually I fought through and gained the central chamber to confront the Dagoth, head of the cult in this base. Black beady eyes glared from either side of the extended ash grey snout. "You," it hissed. "Until you bow at Red Mountain you are branded enemy, and must be slain. I will be greatly rewarded for this."
"You would be better served to deliver a message to your master, and live," I shot back with far more confidence than I actually felt. "I'm sure he will sense your death, and that will tell him something, but I would rather he heard my words. I will not bow. I am not the Nerevarine, but the times call for the Nerevarine to appear, and that might mean that I will become the Nerevarine. His curse on me is foiled. If I go to Red Mountain it will be by my choice, not his, and it will be to kill him, not bow."
"You talk of killing the undying one Breton. You are not the Nerevarine. Nerevar would not be so stupid. I will deliver your head to Dagoth Ur; not your message." Powerful legs flexed under the monster's robes and it leapt to the attack. Green venomous magica gathered on the long grasping fingers and dripped from the claws. I staggered backwards under the onslaught, fending the ravening beast off with my shield. The venom scourged my forearm as the beast grabbed my shield and tore it from my grasp. I dodged and rolled away. The Daedric shield crashed against the wall, flung furiously aside.
I gained my feet and cast a summoning spell. I am not well practiced at conjurations, but fortune continued to smile upon me. The spell worked, and a powerful Daedric spirit entered our plane, taking the form of a mighty spear. I wheeled on my foe, the long shaft taking a whistling arc. The Dagoth leapt high in the air to clear the slicing blade. With a roar the monster unleashed a great gout of elemental flame. My breastplate of dreugh skin is very tough, but the hide of the aquatic dreugh is not conditioned to resist fire. It stiffened in the blazing heat, pressing unmercifully into my charring flesh as I tried to escape the blast. The spear clattered to the floor as I cast a healing spell, and the monster was upon me.
The healing spell took effect, and further incantations spilled from my blistered lips. A shell of frosty magical energy swirled around me an instant before the grasping arms of the Dagoth could enfold me. The beast roared in pain when the freezing cold ravaged the ashy flesh. I slipped free. The room shimmered in my vision through the icy swirl that continued around me. I shifted the tone of my spells to call upon my own school of destructive magica, forming a frost bolt that smashed devastatingly against the already tortured Dagoth. The creature staggered. I continued weaving the spells that held open the rift to the elemental plane of frost and charged to the attack.
I grappled the beast. My soft grip against the hardened talons of my enemy would seem to be no match, but the boundaries of the planes had been split wide. Frost energy flowed around me in a protective barrier, and gathered to devastating effect in my hands. The horrible Dagoth roared its last as brittle skin and chunks of frozen ash sloughed away from its bones. The destruction of the magically charged minion of Dagoth Ur sent a ripple through the voidstreams. It shook me. Missun Akin sensed it in his stone house. I'm sure Dagoth Ur could feel it as well. The battle is joined.
Day 134: Prisoner of the Orcs
It is amazing how events can reverse the fortunes of the world. In High Rock I was a lad of no social standing. Like all Bretons I had a knack for magic, and picked up some spells here and there. Formal training was not an option for me. My adopted father taught me what he could, but his quick hands were more likely to delve into a passing pocket than weave the drifting threads of magica into some useful form. I was born, I assume, to the peasantry, and went downhill from there.
The elite of Breton society guard their secrets. Many nights I watched as mighty wizards gathered for great galas. I would tag along as my father and his fellows, members of the thieve's guild who I always knew as my uncles and aunts, made what they could, sometimes legally by hiring themselves out to do what work there was to do; more often through some minor pilferage.
Often at the center of the celebration some lad or lass would be being welcomed into society at their coming of age. I would dream of what it would have been like to be born of such nobility. To be raised by mighty wizards; to have access to their libraries; I longed for the privileges, the wealth, the security that power brings in High Rock. But if I ever crossed paths with any of the lofty elite the best I could hope for would be to stay beneath their notice. Were I to return to High Rock the skills with magica I have developed could not help but be noticed, but with my lowly heritage I could never join that society.
In Morrowind that has made no difference. Here I am in line, perhaps, to be the Archmage of the Mage's Guild. Arvil Bren, arriving as the penniless son of unknown parents, has the potential to become the Archmage, and the temerity to plot for it. And in Morrowind the daughter of the most legendary alchemist in High Rock becomes a slave.
I took my leave of Missun Akin this morning. He was glad to have had the company and happy to have seen the last of the Sixth House base, but clearly knew that having me around would be very unsafe. Dagoth Ur's minions will come for me; there is no question about that. In looting their base I set aside anything that the Urshilaku would trade for and left it with Missun as compensation for his trouble. I don't expect he will have any. Dagoth Ur will know I have moved on. Some high quality armor and weapons I kept for myself. Fortunately among them was a long spear with a silver blade. I kept it as much for a walking stick as a weapon, but it felt good to again have a spear in my hands. Despite al the practicing I've been doing with various swords it is a spear I still feel most comfortable with.
I had not gone far when I was beset by an orc war party. Four of the green skinned barbarians erupted roaring down a hill in a wild display of axes. They expected me to be intimidated, and I admit that I was. They called for my immediate surrender expecting me to comply. I would not. I could imagine no good end to any captivity they might apply to me. A ransom could perhaps be arranged, but not before the minions of Dagoth Ur came calling.
The orcs clearly entered the fray with no plan beyond me surrendering in the face of their wild charge. The least forethought, or even a smattering of common sense once the battle was joined, and the four to one odds would have been insurmountable. Fortunately orcs are known for neither of those qualities. Their tightly massed charge hampered their axes, and made it impossible to avoid my set spear. Their charge ended with two in a tangled heap from having collided with each other and one thrashing feebly on the ground trying to fit his entrails back in through the gaping wound left when he impaled himself on my point. The fourth had skidded to a halt casting spells that wove a defensive field around him.
I pressed the advantage patiently. Short jabs of the spear did little damage, but kept the two warriors from ever regaining solid footing. Orcs are fierce, and strong, but the battle lust can make them a bit clumsy. Keeping them enraged and off balance easily carried the day. Even the relatively smart one, who had avoided the calamity of the initial charge, bellowed rage and waded in once he had cast his spells, only to be knocked aside by one of his lurching companions. The fight was over almost before it began; the four orcs dispatched and myself barely winded.
That would have been the end of it, except for something one of the orcs said to another as they lay dying in the dust. "You see Gro-Mok, we should have sacrificed the woman to Molag Bal." If they had left a prisoner somewhere I clearly could not abandon them. Whatever the predations of the orcs, with them slain I feared their captive would be left to starve. I was wrong. The war party was a part of a much larger band. When I backtrailed them to their base I found a thriving community. Fortunately most of them were indoors avoiding the afternoon heat.
Having just come from Falasmaryon I recognized the ancient Dunmer construction. The camp consisted of stone domes much like Missun Akin's house, and the largest structure was a duplicate of the propylon chamber. The ancient ashpit, sacred to the Dunmer, was now filled with offal and refuse and lay desecrated under the baleful gaze of a large statue of Molag Bal. Fortunately the heavy construction of the domes precluded any raising of alarm during the slaying of the guard, and the subsequent conflicts inside the domes. Seven more orcs fell to my spear. Finally I raised a heavy bar from the door of what did turn out to be a propylon chamber as well as a prison cell.
I had seen Abelle Chriditte once before. Her father had one of my 'uncles' whipped for the way that he had looked at her as she walked from her coach to a grand ball. Looking back I realize that night was a formative event in my young life. She does not remember it at all. A peasant being whipped for looking at her was not a remarkable enough event. At first she was overjoyed to see a fellow Breton. When she realized what sort of Breton I am she clearly did not rate me much higher than the orcs.
I left her in the propylon chamber. The orcs had actually provided her a reasonable level of rough comfort, she has food, and she should be safe enough. In her view I was obligated to drop whatever I was doing and escort her to Sadrith Mora, her destination when her ship was wrecked. I made it clear that she would likely not survive two days in the Ashlands alone, and said I would return for her. Our conversation ended badly. I couldn't help myself. As she continued to alternately berate me and demand service I finally snapped, and with a wave towards the large heap of armor I had piled in the corner I said "Keep that safe if you know what's good for you, that is really all I'm coming back for."
I slammed the door and stalked into one of the other houses to rest, mad at myself. I have long believed rude behavior is the curse of wealth, and I wonder if I am losing my peasant heritage.
Day 135: Simple pleasures
I made some sort of peace with Abelle Criditte before leaving Valenvaryon this morning. It seems that in the course of the night she accepted that expecting me to abandon my quest for a wizard's staff was unreasonable, and for my part the light of a new day showed that a bit of patience for someone who had been treated so poorly by fate was in order. The orcs had let her live as long as she supplied them with potions, but they had not treated her well, and certainly not with the deference to which she is accustomed. We came to an understanding, and she agreed to spend some time making a set of fine laboratory equipment, which I will buy upon my return, saving her from having to wait pennilessly until her father can be informed of her circumstances. With the Imperial embargo imposed to contain the corprus it could be difficult to contact him.
While we talked I explained what little I know of the propylon system to her. I do not know where all of the Dunmer fortresses are, and I have no idea where to find the indexes that make the propylons work, but it would certainly be nice to have access to such a transport system. When I next return home I will ask Mebestian if he has any suggestions as to where I might find such artifacts. Propylon indexes, returning for Abelle, I seem to collect more and more things to do. Today I rebelled.
It was not far from Valenvaryon to the coast, and I could easily see how the Breton ship transporting Abelle Criditte came to be wrecked. Tall spires of rock stood in ranks on the shore like an army marching out of the sea. Any fool could see that the spires were of a fairly consistent height, and those that stood in the water attested to its depth. Beyond the point where only crowns of stone marked the spires I was sure they continued, like rows of fangs lurking just below the surface waiting to gnash out the bottom of any passing ship. Across the straits more spires rose, as if held in reserve on the further shore. I cast my water breathing spell and walked among them on the sea bottom.
I did not come to shore on the main island of Sheogorad, though I did not know that at the time. This island is small, uninhabited, and alluring. If I were only the simple man who first set foot on the docks of Seyda Neen I could make a home here, but through the course of the day I determined that I am not. There is too much that I cannot ignore. It was an idyllic day though.
While I was still considering taking leave of my responsibilities I thoroughly explored the island. High ridges offered clean sightlines for excellent hunting. I did not find cliff racers nesting on the ridges, but they fly over from the mainland. Nix hounds and guar populate the lower vales. The surrounding waters teem with kallops. I piled my armor on the shore and swam luxuriously about, gathering pearls and crab meat. The comfortable lifestyle of Missun Akin the archer could be maintained here with ease, though without the sturdy stone house he calls home. The only man made feature on this island is a path that connects a small gravel beach on the south shore to a larger sandy beach on the north.
I would guess the path was used in older days to bring goods into northern Vvardenfell. Seagoing trade ships could anchor on the north without risking the deadly straits, and small coastal craft could take it off to the south. A thriving port could have existed here in ancient times, but the only structure remaining is a tomb near the path in the center of the island. If I were to remain here I would undoubtedly meet the clan it belongs to. It appears very well tended. Unfortunately I cannot remain here.
Somewhere to the north-east, near Dagon Fel, a renegade mage holds a staff; the staff of rank of a wizard in the mage's guild. Far to the west, on the Bitter Coast, a practicing necromancer sullies the good name of the guild. The archmage cannot be counted on to lead the guild through the coming times of trial. The survival of the guild rests on his successor; a successor that must know Vvardenfell but meet the requirements imposed from Cyrodiil. Not many can fit both those points.
Ultimately, even without my obligations to the guild I could not stay. Would the Dark Brotherhood stop seeking my death? Would Dagoth Ur forgive the destruction I have wrought on his cult of followers?
By day's end I had again settled with my fate. Tomorrow I cross the straits to the east, bound for Sheogorad.
Day 136: Unexpected company
I was awakened before dawn. An unwanted interruption that brought me from a peaceful dream of sharing this island with Ahnassi; living in peace. I was sleeping in a hollow, not far from the gravel beach on the south shore. I don't know if it was the voices that woke me, or the crunch of the boat grinding ashore. My first thought was that some members of the Dunmer clan had come to visit their tomb. I cast my night eye spell and peered through the bushes. I was wrong.
Their great height revealed two of the three figures who strode up the path to be Altmeri, the third had the stocky frame of a man, probably a Cyrodiil. He was clearly a prisoner. They were barely in earshot, but I heard one of the Altmer say "I wish she didn't want this one. It would have been easier to just kill him." Then they turned a curve in the path and the bushes muffled anything else that was said. I followed up the path; too far back to catch anything further they might have said but close enough to confirm that they entered the tomb in the center of the island. I settled at a safe distance to watch the door. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow with the dawn.
I have met a few of the high elves but the Altmeri are not common in Vvardenfell. I could not think of any reason why they would be on this desolate isle hiding in an ancient tomb. I may have let my thoughts travel too much to this as 'my island', or perhaps I just sensed such a wrongness about it that I could not let it go. I resolved myself to investigate.
The tomb is a typical example of Dunmer tomb construction, though far larger than most. Large enough to house no less than ten Altmeri, including a smithy and a large alchemy lab, and slave pens. The Altmer are powerful in the ways of magica, and I recovered an array of enchanted weapons from the smithy as well as the occupants. Their alchemical supplies were not extensive, but I did gather a large quantity of valuable vampire dust. Not from their lab, from the Altmeri themselves. The tomb held a nest of blood vampires! I recognized the loathsome creatures immediately when I encountered the first one.
The vampires hid in their tomb; as much from the living as from the daylight because they are an abomination hated by all life. The unspeakable horror of feeding upon the very blood of your fellow man had my heart frozen in my chest. I dispatched them without remorse. I tried to free their slaves, but the poor wretches were beyond escape. Like a blood red dawn the terrible truth rose within me. The slaves, who identified themselves as 'cattle', not only performed menial labors for their masters; they provided food for them as well, freely offering up their throats. They are listless, dispirited creatures. Ending their misery could have been the best thing for them, but I refrained.
Deep beneath the ground I encountered the throne room of Dhaunayne Aundae. According to Ticemius Conciatius she was the queen and matriarch of her clan, Clan Aundae. Ticemius, the Cyrodiil who I had seen being dragged into the lair, is a witch hunter. He has dedicated his life to eradicating such foul monsters, wherever they appear. I freed him from his prison beneath the throne before the vampires began their grisly work on him. Dhaunayne had told him that one day soon he would be offering himself on hands and knees as the footstool to her throne, rising only to allow her to slake her thirst at his throat.
He and some others have herded those who have lost their wills into the cell. They will remain in the tomb for a time attempting to recover their less fortunate fellows, and holding the nest against any additional vampires who should return. I could not stay in those foul depths, and have returned to my campsite. I will leave this island tomorrow. I hope that I can bring my thoughts back here to the idyll that it was, rather than the horror it has become for me. I know that either way it will not be forgettable.
Day 137: Search for Sud
I left 'my' island behind this morning. The witch hunter may be able to reverse the damage to some of the vampires' cattle. Perhaps they will stay there and establish some sort of settlement. They may return to their long lost homes and leave the island in splendid desolation. Either way I suspect that I shall never return; a paradise ruined.
I crossed the straits to the north and arrived on the actual island of Sheogorad. Ranis said that the renegade wizard, Anirne, could be found in the caverns of Sud. The caverns are on the north-west coast, due west of Dagon Fel. I did not want to make the long march north-east to Dagon Fel only to traverse the length of the island again from east to west. It may have been easier if I had.
The island of Sheogorad is rugged, with many ridges that were too steep to climb. It seemed they all run east and west, but that may just be because I was trying to go north. Levitating over them, though good practice, offered its own problems. The cliff racers here are beyond counting, and swarmed around me whenever I left the solid footing of the ground. Fighting them in their own element while suspended by thin tendrils of magica is far from ideal, and having the effects of the spell run out while distracted by the great flying pests led to an assortment of skidding falls down the mountainsides.
I arrived at the coast battered and bruised and shot a mudcrab as much for spite as for lunch. My morale was slightly improved by the succulent meat, but I was not able to regain my normal state of mind. The vampires use powerful spells that sap the will as well as the life force of their victims. Although I have used my restoration magic to return to full fitness the horror still lurks in corners of my head I think. I doubt that the cattle will ever recover.
As usual, a foul humor led to a bad decision. After lunch I estimated my northward progress from the angle of the noon sun. I guessed that I was not as far north as Dagon Fel and turned north-east along the coast. Travel along the coast repeatedly called for a choice. Levitate over a rocky headland, only to be again beset by cliff racers, or wade around it fending off the inevitable slaughterfish. After a couple hours of aggravatingly slow progress I had to admit that I was clearly far north of a line due west of Dagon Fel.
I glared inland at the rugged foothills. Ranis said Sud was on the coast. 'On the coast' doesn't mean 'on the beach'. I climbed into the hills and circled back to the south-west. A zig zag course from hilltop to hilltop scanning each slope and valley for signs of the cavern made for even slower progress. Then I found a path running east and west between two steep ridges. I calculated. Inescapably I concluded that this path, at this point, was probably due west of the distant Dagon Fel. I turned to the west.
The path twisted occasionally to get past some obstacle, but basically flowed between the two ridges until the ridge on the north side dropped away into the sea. The beach was distinctive enough, and if it wasn't the broken crab shell left from my lunch was. I had rushed across this path in a last flight down from the ridge to the sea. The ridge to the south of the path was the last ridge I crossed, and in the broken cliffs just to the west where it too fell into the sea I found the entrance to the caverns of Sud. If I stood on the last curve of the path before it reached the great door I could see the spot where I had sat eating crabmeat half a day before.
I sat on the great crab shell gnawing on scrib jerky and watching the sun settle into the western sea. I do not want to enter the caverns by night. A lingering effect of the vampire clan, or just the weariness from tramping through the uncounted hills of Sheogorad? Either way, tomorrow is time enough.
Day 138: Into the caverns of Sud
I am back at my camp. I can see the entry to the caverns, but I am well screened from view and made sure that I left no tracks. I do not know if the renegade wizard Anirne will emerge to challenge me in the night, or bolster her defenses for tomorrow. Either way I must rest.
I entered Sud this morning and crept through passages lit by glowing crystals. Magica flows strongly in the caverns. The narrow twisting entry tunnel descended into a large tall chamber spanned by numerous arches of stone. Narrow ledges connected the arching bridges, or the bridges connected the ledges. Either way, traversing the chamber involved a torturous path. The exposed tops of the arches made me a target for the denizens of the small alcoves that opened off the chamber. I'm sure in ancient times these alcoves offered sheltered quarters to Dunmer guardsmen. The current master of Sud does not post men, but monsters.
I was ascending one of the great stone spans when a bolt of magica erupted from a hidden alcove and streaked across the wide space. It seemed at first poorly aimed, missing me by some margin even though it arced in flight, but as it passed by it shifted abruptly to strike the tip of my spear as if it were a lightning rod for destructive energy. I realized too late that the spear was the target all along. With amazing speed sheets of tarnished silver peeled away from the blackening point and crumbled as they flew through the air. Flew, not fell; the particles made a foggy stream as they flew back into the cave from which the bolt had struck. The weapon I felt most comfortable with was reduced to little more than a stick.
I activated the enchantment in my boots to levitate across the gap. I could see the path that would get me there, but it was narrow and could be difficult for running feet. The shallow water far below would not be enough to break any fall. It was sufficient to hide a Daedroth however. I was not a target with the stone arches shielding me from below, but before I could cross the gap to deal with my first assailant I was knocked headlong by a geyser of venomous green magica that struck up at me.
As I spun crazily through the air dripping with ichor a lean form leapt from the cave to the arch and nimbly scampered away; a hunger, devourer of arms and armor. The daedroth lurking below splashed about, clearing another line of fire. The poison etched my flesh, creeping through every gap in my armor, sizzling on my face. I slammed against the wall and clung to a ledge clearing my eyes. The great flat feet of the daedroth began slapping stone as it climbed.
I cast the Breton barkskin spell that I learned as a child, then a lightning shield that would not only protect me but actually damage my foe. Then I rolled off the ledge and fell. The great snout of the Daedroth split wide, showing double rows of sharp teeth. A word of activation and my levitating boots gave me control. I used the speed of my fall to swoop across the lowest arch, sweeping the daedroth off with a bone jarring tackle. We hit the water in a mighty splash and blast of sparks from my lightning shield. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but in combination with the crackling lightning the fall did great damage to the daedroth. Then the great jaws closed on my leg.
I struck the beast in the eye with my armored fist. I could hardly believe the creature could maintain such a grip, crushing my leg within its casing of volcanic glass plates. Arcs from the lightning shield crackled about its head, and the stench of burning flesh rose in a wave that made my first gasp as I regained my breath a wretched taste of the nine hells. My stomach heaved. My leg bones cracked. The lightning shield sputtered out. With hacking gasps I choked out an incantation and one great spark arced between my hands, then struck down to blast the last life from the daedroth.
The water was not too deep, but was deep enough to help support my weight as I balanced precariously on one leg. I guzzled a restorative potion which helped focus and contain the magica that fairly crackled on the air of the caverns. As my magical reserves replenished I quickly cast my healing spells to bind my leg. I was almost completely recovered, and the magica continued to flow into me. The daedroth was dead, the sated hunger had disappeared, and I was in fairly good shape, but my favored weapon was destroyed and I had consumed much of my magica restorative. I climbed the arches to the large passage leading deeper into the cavern with a longing glance towards the exit.
The large passage twisted deeper into the mountain, then opened into a great chamber. As I approached the chamber I could see a vast expanse of water casting wildly reflected torchlight. To either side great stone battlements rose, constructed of the dark blocks favored by the ancient Dunmer. They towered above, and I had to step out into the chamber to see the tops.
Undead warriors make great guardians. Their attention never wavers and their eyes never close. The enchantments that summon them require great command of the school of conjuration to make them last. Anirne apparently possesses such mastery. As I stepped into the chamber a fusillade of arrows rained down upon me. Skeletal archers scampered about the battlements above. Their arrows burst into flame as they left their ghostly bows. I dove back into the shelter of the tunnel with a smoldering shaft buried in my shoulder.
More healing magic, and then I cast a spell to give me resistance to magical flame. It would not protect me from the arrows, but would reduce the burning. I quaffed the last of my restorative and began an incantation as I leapt into the chamber. I fought fire with fire. The arrows rained down on my exposed position. The parapets provided cover for the skeletons had I used my bow to fire back, but could not protect them from the explosive bursts of magical fire I lofted up at them. Huge concussions rocked the chamber as the great fireballs burst. Instead of advantageous cover their confined location held them close together, within the blast. By the time I ran out of magica the tops of the walls were littered with scorched bones, but with no magica and another round of gruesome injuries I had no choice but to retreat.
Day 139: Wizard's staff
I returned to Sud healed and rested. Before climbing the stone arches I dropped lightly into the water to check for defenders. I found none. The hunger had fled, and only the floating corpse of the daedroth held vigil. I climbed.
When I reached the great chamber I peeked cautiously around the edge of the tunnel, then slipped in under the cloak of my amulet of shadows. Huge blackened marks on the stone walls marked the scene of battle. Silence reigned. It was eerie. I activated my boots and floated upwards. Atop the fortifications on either side stood a door. No clue indicated which direction to turn. Much to my surprise I made the right choice, though it took some time to find that out.
I opened the door on the left. Looking in I was confronted by another stone battlement with no stair or ramp. The ancient Dunmer were clearly well versed in levitation. I stepped forward with the incantation forming on my lips to activate my boots. Fortunately it did not keep me from hearing the now familiar sound of feet slapping on stone. The alcoves on the sides of the chamber were cut using the natural contours of the stone to disguise their presence. I had passed into the crossfire unaware. Fortunately the conjured monsters of Anirne's defenses did not coordinate their attacks well. I turned to meet the daedroth charging from my left and was somewhat warned by its eyes flying wide. I dove to the stone floor as a sheet of crackling lightning roared over me to lash the scaly green beast.
Seeing the error it had made the storm atronach charged to join the attack. Had they both launched the horrific bolts of magica they are capable of harnessing, aiming low to keep each other from harm, the two guardians could perhaps have destroyed me. At the very least I would likely have been too badly wounded to press my attack on the wizard who lived beyond the door at the top of the battlements. Instead they chose to rush me with snapping jaws and grip crackling with the energy of a thunderstorm. I met them with Daedric longsword and shield. Soon enough they both lay dead, and some minor healing spells restored my own condition to its best.
Anirne was far wiser. She did not open her door to assess the effectiveness of her defenses. She did not count on seeing an assailant come through her door. She merely waited for it to open and launched a tremendous poison bloom that burst in the doorway. It struck with even more potent venom than the daedroth's spell yesterday, but I had the advantage of solid footing. I quickly reached into my belt pouch and drew out a vial I have kept for my encounters with the poisonous bull netch. The poison antidote did not heal me, but it countered any further ill effects of the spell from the moment it passed my lips.
I cast off the empty vial. I brought my shield up to deflect the object of my mission. The great ebon staff rang against the daedric plate of the shield. My arm stung from the vibration as if it were being host to a swarm of pestflies. A rush of flame burst from Anirne's hands to singe my eyebrows and blacken my face. I could not long stand against her spells. The wizards staff, unlike normal weapons, does not obstruct the spell caster. She adroitly mixed powerful blows from the staff among her attacks. I responded with my daedric longsword. Despite the lack of enchantments it is a fine and powerful weapon.
I would like to have talked to her about what had led her to reject the guild. I would like to have discussed what could be done if a new archmage were to replace Trebonius. I would like to have had her teach me some of her skills with the art of conjuratan. None of that was possible. I could not understand what led such a wizard to be sheltering in such a remote and unpleasant place. I will never understand. Anirne is dead. One of us would die in her tiny room.
With her staff in my hand I should be able to take command of any of remaining defenses here in this rugged underground fortress. Tomorrow. For now I have cast a locking spell on both doors. If her bed offers a level of comfort suitable for a wizard I am sure that it will be fine for resting my weariness away. I must sleep.
Day 140: What to do?
I have learned that keeping my journal keeps me calm. It focuses my thoughts. Reminds me of things I may have otherwise forgotten. It is a practice, and a habit. Tonight I can barely bring pen to paper, but I have no idea how else to carry on.
I woke this morning well rested, in the chamber of the vanquished wizard Anirne. My store of magica was renewed, I was well, and armed with a staff that would allow me to claim my place among the elite of the mage's guild. It could easily have been a perfect day. I ignored any possible loot that may have lay with other denizens of the cavern of Sud and cast my recall spell. Even before I returned to Ranis in Balmora to raise my staff and be declared a wizard I wanted to share my triumph with Ahnassi.
Her beautiful eyes, with the slitted pupils of a cat, flew wide as I spoke of my perilous battles to claim the staff. She is funny. She hissed with outrage as I described the ambush in the wizard's outer chamber, but her own styles of combat are all centered in stealth and surprise. She is a Khajiit, and a talented thief.
We had Mebestian Ence in for lunch. He is the local trader and my connection to the unseemly world of the smugglers of Dwemer artifacts. He gave me a suggestion about who I could talk to regarding indexes for the powerful propylons of the ancient Dunmer fortresses. They are rare. I left Pelagiad with a cryptic note from Mebestian to a pawnbroker in Caldera. The note was meaninglessly innocuous to the casual eye, but would introduce me to Irgola as a trustworthy friend. Ahnassi clapped her hands and purred at the thought of seeing such a unique item.
I teleported myself to Balmora and walked proudly down the thoroughfare, the great ebon staff of a wizard thumping against the cobbles with each stride. Edwinna has made at least one trip to Tel Fyr. The survival of a Dwemer has been reported to the headquarters of the guild in the distant Imperial capital. Messages from Trebonius have been received; messages demanding my whereabouts. Ranis reported that I was headed to Sheogorad on a quest for a staff; the truth, nothing more, nothing less. Edwinna has reported that I am waiting for some mysterious translation project to be completed, but she does not know where I am. Skink has reported that I am on a mission for him; to slay a necromancer. After I left Ranis sent word to Trebonius that I would be answering his summons as soon as I picked up some translations. Again the truth, though now I do not know when I will be traveling to Gnissis.
I used the guild teleporting system to travel to Caldera. Irgola was very helpful once he had read the note from Mebestian. He actually had an index in his possession. For a large number of septims he became even more helpful and sold it to me. I turned the metal object over in my hands. It is familiar. I have seen similar objects before, most recently in Tel Fyr. I do not know the symbols, but nowhere on this index are there the symbols I associate with Falasmaryon or Valenvaryon. Neither of the fortresses I am familiar with appears to be the target for whatever propylon this index activates.
I cast my recall spell again in the late afternoon, planning to take Ahnassi to the Halfway Tavern for a celebratory evening of dinner and dance. I appeared in the hallway with the index in my hand, ready to show her. She was not downstairs. I charged up the steps calling joyfully "Look kitten! Look what I got!" She was not upstairs either. There was a note on the table, much to my surprise. Although I have seen her manipulate a lock pick with a delicacy that defies all logic, she claims that 'Khajiiti hands are not made for holding pens'. I picked up the paper. It containes two lines of neat text.
"We have the girl. She will not like Mournhold."
Timing has become a very delicate issue. Mehra Milo is free and on her way to join the Dissident Priests at Holamayan. She is safe, and I feel neither need to rush there to meet her, nor need for delay. Trebonius and his mission to solve the riddle of the dwarves though, that must be managed carefully. I must give the guild stewards enough time to act on the information I shared with them before I deliver the translations from Baladas, but I must not appear to be shirking my assignment. It is a thin rope over a deep chasm that I have chosen to trod, but today was an excellent first step on that rope. Ranis has suggested a renegade wizard whose staff of office I can claim. Said wizard is in hiding far to the north, on the shores of Sheogorad. I could have gone to the coast and taken ship for Dagon Fel, but I am also obliged to the temple; a very handy obligation.
I took an early start, demonstrating my eagerness to get on with my task, and had the guild guides teleport me to Ald-ruhn. Edwinna can safely report that she last saw me headed to the temple to garner the blessings of the Tribunal on my journey. I met with Tuls Valen, who was extremely pleased when I reported my successful completion of the seven graces pilgrimages. So pleased that he readily agreed to assign me a pilgrimage to the Maar Gan temple. As I am headed north anyway I could hardly refuse. The slight delay of traveling by foot seems a small price to pay for such a worthy objective. I'm sure Trebonius will see that. Well, perhaps not.
The trek to Maar Gan was surprisingly uneventful. The hoards of mercenaries and adventurers who have descended upon this sleepy little outpost have apparently succeeded in thinning the swarms of blighted beasts and monsters that were threatening to overwhelm the Redoran guards the last time I passed this way. I was surely glad of that, as much of my journey passed within sight of the ghostfence. Hacking through under a steady bombardment of blighted cliff racers was irritating enough without a blighted rat or kwama behind every rock.
The shrine here at the temple of Maar Gan commemorates another of Vivec's battles with the Daedra lord Mehunes Dagon. In the center of the main chamber lies a great boulder. Mehunes Dagon had raised this very boulder overhead, and was about to send it crashing among the temple forces when Vivec intervened. Vivec is the poet warrior of the tribunal. There are countless volumes of his verses. He is a master of words. When Mehunes Dagon held the great stone high Vivec turned that mastery to a different purpose and taunted the Daedra lord into casting the stone at himself rather than the vulnerable troops.
When I met the dremora Krazzt at the shrine of courtesy I was impressed. He is bound to the shrine for eternity, playing the role of Mehunes Dagon as countless pilgrims reenact the gift of the silver longsword. I thought it was a pretty harsh fate, but Krazzt was very accepting of it. At one point I remember him saying "it could be worse". Now I see how.
Another Dremora is similarly bound at the shrine of the rock, also playing the part of Mehunes Dagon. Anhaedra stood quietly while I read the plaque on the stone. As I turned to him I saw a flicker of malicious hope in the wispy eyes visible through the slits of the Daedric helm. The flicker was quickly extinguished as a priest appeared at my side and said "Would you like the blessing of the Tribunal before the reenactment?"
I accepted his offer and received the blessing; a powerful spell of sanctuary that improved my reflexes such that I would be very difficult to strike in combat. The dremora spat at my feet. "Blessing or no, I, Anhaedra, will slice you to pieces and feed you to the maggots." Where Krazzt was bound to the shrine of courtesy and received an endless stream of silver longswords from pilgrims, Anhaedra was doomed for eternity to be taunted; mostly by pilgrims heavily protected by the blessings of the temple. I could hardly blame him for his bitterness. After a few barbed comments, no doubt feeble among what he has heard through the ages, the dremora drew his sword. We exchanged some desultory thrusts and I dispatched him to the plane of the Daedra; temporarily. He will be returned to face yet another pilgrim, perhaps as early as tomorrow. I do not envy his fate.
I do not envy his fate, though it does offer a sense of certainty. My own fate is an open question, a question that haunts me as I take to bed here in the tradehouse.
Day 132: House of Missun Akin
I set out from Maar Gan this morning, once again headed northward. From Maar Gan there really did not appear to be any faster way so I left on foot. Had I anticipated being halted by a dust storm before the sun had reached its noon peak I would perhaps have traveled a different way. Probably not. The result has turned out very well.
The winds were just beginning to pick up, but the signs were clearly indicating that I should find shelter. I was still in the rugged foothills of Red Mountain, and hoped to find a cave or other suitable place, preferably unoccupied. I considered the various familiar caverns of the northern Ashlands, but I had previously approached them from the north and was not sure I could find them coming from the opposite direction even if I could reach them before the storm hit.
As I plodded onward down the hills I came upon the slithering tracks of kwama foragers, the wormlike scavengers that gather food for a kwama colony. Though they can travel far afield I had hope that there would be a kwama colony nearby; perhaps even an egg mine cultivated by the locals. Sight of a scrib scrabbling over the shale slopes improved my chances. The baby kwama forage freely, but do not travel as far as the foragers. I was considering whether or not to take a shot at the creature with my bow. They are a tempting target, with muscles that dry to an excellent and nourishing jerky and filled with a jelly that serves marvelously on toast or in a sandwich.
The range was great though, and even though they are over two feet long they are low to the ground and can be difficult to hit from a distance. Difficult for me, and I am getting very skilled with a bow. Or so I thought. As I moved quietly towards the scrib; not really creeping as they are not easily scared off, the morning was split by the singing of an arrow cutting the air. The scrib convulsed once, the thin neck with its scaly plating cleanly severed, the head rolling free.
A voice rang out from a nearby hilltop. "I did not want to steal your kill, but from that angle you could only have taken a body shot and wasted half the jelly anyway. This way there is plenty for both of us, unless you would rather fight for it?" I considered my exposed position, and the range from which my potential adversary had slain the scrib, and opted for discretion.
"No, there is no need to fight. In fact you are welcome to all of the jelly and meat. I am more in need of finding shelter. The wind from Red Mountain blows ill, and I'm sure the ash will follow."
The Dunmer archer was striding down the hill. He was tall and distinguished, with graying hair worn long. His armor, made from the chitinous plates of local insects, gave him a scaly appearance that could pass at a glance for one of the abandoned husks left behind when they molt; or die. "I am Missun Akin outlander, and unlike many in the Ashlands I bid you welcome," he called out, but I noted that his bow was still very much at the ready. Suspecting that an exchange from any distance would be no contest anyway I slung my own. Missun Akin stopped his approach and slipped his own bow over his shoulder. "With your armor and blades you have the look of a dangerous man outlander, but an honest one."
"I prefer Arvil Bren to outlander, and I am a clanfriend of the Urshilaku," I called back, then added "I am honored to meet an archer of such skill."
"I too am a friend to the Urshilaku, though I don't see as much of them as I used to, or would like to. Come then Arvil Bren. You carry the scrib, I will offer you my home as shelter against the coming storm." I picked up the eight legged carcass, Missun picked up the round head in his right hand and unslung his bow with his left. "Practice Arvil Bren, practice." The head flew into the air in a high arc. When it landed three arrows had pierced it, crossing within at square angles. There was not much for me to say.
I followed the Ashlander over a nearby ridge. I was expecting to weather the storm in a yurt, the sturdy tents of hide favored by the Ashland tribes. As we topped the ridge I could see that our path led directly to a looming fortress of ominous black stone. "Falasmaryon," said my host, "a citadel from the most ancient days of Velothi glory." Velothi, the ancestors of the modern Dunmer, contemporaries of the Dwemer; sometimes allies, sometimes foes. "Atop the main bulwark there is a large fortress, a propylon chamber, and a small house of stone. I live in the house. We need to be inside when the storm hits. I have bad neighbors." We made it easily despite my many questions. "We can talk inside," was the only answer.
The house is small but comfortable, and definitely sturdy, having stood for uncounted ages. We cleaned the scrib, enjoying the jelly and putting the meat to dry on a rack high over the fire. Missun answered my questions in depth.
He had adapted the round building that is his house. It had likely been built to serve as a duty room. Missun has lived here for two centuries. Hunting provides his basic needs, and he trades hides and shells to the Urshilaku for whatever he cannot make for himself. He is an Ashlander born and raised, and the spare surroundings are more than sufficient for his simple needs.
The slightly larger square building in the compound is the propylon chamber. Missun explained that the Dwemer had assisted in the construction of this and other citadels, and provided a transportation link between them, somewhat like the guild guides provide between mage guild halls. The propylon system though, being of Dwemer manufacture, uses machinery to harness the magica for teleportation rather than human spellcasters. Inside the chamber are two great structures; bare ribs that outline spheres with platforms at the base. Inside the sphere defined by the ribs the channeled voidstream flows in a continuous cascade of energy. Apparently each sphere is keyed to a particular destination, and requires a specific artifact called an index to be activated. Missun has no idea where to find such an index, but has heard rumors that the system still works.
Which brought our conversation to by far the largest structure atop the vast stone base; the fortress itself. The fortress which houses the reason Missun seldom sees the Urshilaku traders any more; his bad neighbors; the Sixth House cult. I was glad to enjoy the hospitality of his home. Above the roar of the gritty wind against the stone the wail of ash monsters and the deep toll of bells can be heard outside. The hours chafed on me while the minions of Dagoth Ur reigned under cover of the storm, and now I cannot sleep.
Day 133: Fortress of the Sixth House
The ashstorm ended with the dawn. Missun Akin and I shared a quiet breakfast of scrib jerky and kwama eggs. I asked him about his neighbors. I could not imagine how he slept through the wailing of the dreamers as they descended into the madness of the corprus disease. The answer is that he doesn't sleep through it.
Most of the time the leaders of the cult keep the dreamers inside the fortress, only when the ashstorms blow do they allow the monsters to stalk the land. The roaring winds blasting their load of gritty ash against the stone is too much to sleep through then anyway. While he is no ally of Dagoth Ur the master archer has no interest in delving into the business of the cult. He fears the corprus disease; a justifiable fear.
"Missun," I said, "I also am no ally of Dagoth Ur. In fact I am a sworn blood enemy. Before I move on I need to visit that fortress."
"I did not take you for a fool Arvil Bren," he replied. "To enter the fortress is death, either quick or slow. The Dagoth who heads the cult will curse you with corprus if his minions don't kill you first."
"Dagoth Ur thinks I am the Nerevarine. One of his Dagoths already gave me the corprus. That is the least of my worries here. I am worried about what sort of creatures I will have to face. Is the fortress just a den of dreamers, or do the ash minions of Red Mountain gather there?"
"You...had the corprus?" the archer asked slowly. "The corprus disease?"
"Yes, I did. In fact I still do, but only a few of the symptoms are active, the rest of the curse has been undone."
"Undone? Corprus doesn't just get 'undone'. What makes you think you had the corprus?"
"The Dagoth of the Sixth House who gave it to me told me what it was, and why he gave it to me. It was supposed to force me to Red Mountain to bow to Dagoth Ur. Instead I went to Tel Fyr; to the corprusarium there."
Archers are not cowards, though some devoted swordsmen might call them that. They are wise warriors who choose their battles to slant in their favor. Through his centuries of life the master archer has gathered a vast trove of wisdom. "The proof of this mad tale will be when you walk out of the fortress. If you do." He told me as much as he knew of the dangers within.
Although I am not the master that Missun Akin is I am fairly skilled, and the layout of the fortress played in my favor. There are sufficient long straight halls to provide opportune shots, and those afflicted with the corprus are not fast, or smart. Those I did not catch in the halls I could lure out from their chambers. While some had great strength due to the ravages of the disease these lowest minions were little danger to me. But with time the servants of the Sixth House transcend the disease they voluntarily take on.
These ascended sleepers channel powerful magica; the destructive spells of House Dagoth. In confronting these horrors the tables turned. The confinement of the narrow halls made it impossible for me to avoid the blasts of their spells, and their massive misshapen bodies took a lot of punishment before collapsing to the ground. Fortunately those massive bodies are almost impossible to miss from any reasonable range, and collapse they did.
Sometimes rushing to the charge, sometimes creeping stealthily, I made my way deeper and deeper into the ancient fortress. The accursed creatures of Red Mountain assailed me; ash zombies with their rending lifeless claws, ash ghouls with command of spellcraft similar to the ascended sleepers but without their bloated and slow moving bodies. I prayed that this fortress being so close to the evil source, Red Mountain, would not be home to the dreaded ash vampires. In that I was blessed, or lucky.
Eventually I fought through and gained the central chamber to confront the Dagoth, head of the cult in this base. Black beady eyes glared from either side of the extended ash grey snout. "You," it hissed. "Until you bow at Red Mountain you are branded enemy, and must be slain. I will be greatly rewarded for this."
"You would be better served to deliver a message to your master, and live," I shot back with far more confidence than I actually felt. "I'm sure he will sense your death, and that will tell him something, but I would rather he heard my words. I will not bow. I am not the Nerevarine, but the times call for the Nerevarine to appear, and that might mean that I will become the Nerevarine. His curse on me is foiled. If I go to Red Mountain it will be by my choice, not his, and it will be to kill him, not bow."
"You talk of killing the undying one Breton. You are not the Nerevarine. Nerevar would not be so stupid. I will deliver your head to Dagoth Ur; not your message." Powerful legs flexed under the monster's robes and it leapt to the attack. Green venomous magica gathered on the long grasping fingers and dripped from the claws. I staggered backwards under the onslaught, fending the ravening beast off with my shield. The venom scourged my forearm as the beast grabbed my shield and tore it from my grasp. I dodged and rolled away. The Daedric shield crashed against the wall, flung furiously aside.
I gained my feet and cast a summoning spell. I am not well practiced at conjurations, but fortune continued to smile upon me. The spell worked, and a powerful Daedric spirit entered our plane, taking the form of a mighty spear. I wheeled on my foe, the long shaft taking a whistling arc. The Dagoth leapt high in the air to clear the slicing blade. With a roar the monster unleashed a great gout of elemental flame. My breastplate of dreugh skin is very tough, but the hide of the aquatic dreugh is not conditioned to resist fire. It stiffened in the blazing heat, pressing unmercifully into my charring flesh as I tried to escape the blast. The spear clattered to the floor as I cast a healing spell, and the monster was upon me.
The healing spell took effect, and further incantations spilled from my blistered lips. A shell of frosty magical energy swirled around me an instant before the grasping arms of the Dagoth could enfold me. The beast roared in pain when the freezing cold ravaged the ashy flesh. I slipped free. The room shimmered in my vision through the icy swirl that continued around me. I shifted the tone of my spells to call upon my own school of destructive magica, forming a frost bolt that smashed devastatingly against the already tortured Dagoth. The creature staggered. I continued weaving the spells that held open the rift to the elemental plane of frost and charged to the attack.
I grappled the beast. My soft grip against the hardened talons of my enemy would seem to be no match, but the boundaries of the planes had been split wide. Frost energy flowed around me in a protective barrier, and gathered to devastating effect in my hands. The horrible Dagoth roared its last as brittle skin and chunks of frozen ash sloughed away from its bones. The destruction of the magically charged minion of Dagoth Ur sent a ripple through the voidstreams. It shook me. Missun Akin sensed it in his stone house. I'm sure Dagoth Ur could feel it as well. The battle is joined.
Day 134: Prisoner of the Orcs
It is amazing how events can reverse the fortunes of the world. In High Rock I was a lad of no social standing. Like all Bretons I had a knack for magic, and picked up some spells here and there. Formal training was not an option for me. My adopted father taught me what he could, but his quick hands were more likely to delve into a passing pocket than weave the drifting threads of magica into some useful form. I was born, I assume, to the peasantry, and went downhill from there.
The elite of Breton society guard their secrets. Many nights I watched as mighty wizards gathered for great galas. I would tag along as my father and his fellows, members of the thieve's guild who I always knew as my uncles and aunts, made what they could, sometimes legally by hiring themselves out to do what work there was to do; more often through some minor pilferage.
Often at the center of the celebration some lad or lass would be being welcomed into society at their coming of age. I would dream of what it would have been like to be born of such nobility. To be raised by mighty wizards; to have access to their libraries; I longed for the privileges, the wealth, the security that power brings in High Rock. But if I ever crossed paths with any of the lofty elite the best I could hope for would be to stay beneath their notice. Were I to return to High Rock the skills with magica I have developed could not help but be noticed, but with my lowly heritage I could never join that society.
In Morrowind that has made no difference. Here I am in line, perhaps, to be the Archmage of the Mage's Guild. Arvil Bren, arriving as the penniless son of unknown parents, has the potential to become the Archmage, and the temerity to plot for it. And in Morrowind the daughter of the most legendary alchemist in High Rock becomes a slave.
I took my leave of Missun Akin this morning. He was glad to have had the company and happy to have seen the last of the Sixth House base, but clearly knew that having me around would be very unsafe. Dagoth Ur's minions will come for me; there is no question about that. In looting their base I set aside anything that the Urshilaku would trade for and left it with Missun as compensation for his trouble. I don't expect he will have any. Dagoth Ur will know I have moved on. Some high quality armor and weapons I kept for myself. Fortunately among them was a long spear with a silver blade. I kept it as much for a walking stick as a weapon, but it felt good to again have a spear in my hands. Despite al the practicing I've been doing with various swords it is a spear I still feel most comfortable with.
I had not gone far when I was beset by an orc war party. Four of the green skinned barbarians erupted roaring down a hill in a wild display of axes. They expected me to be intimidated, and I admit that I was. They called for my immediate surrender expecting me to comply. I would not. I could imagine no good end to any captivity they might apply to me. A ransom could perhaps be arranged, but not before the minions of Dagoth Ur came calling.
The orcs clearly entered the fray with no plan beyond me surrendering in the face of their wild charge. The least forethought, or even a smattering of common sense once the battle was joined, and the four to one odds would have been insurmountable. Fortunately orcs are known for neither of those qualities. Their tightly massed charge hampered their axes, and made it impossible to avoid my set spear. Their charge ended with two in a tangled heap from having collided with each other and one thrashing feebly on the ground trying to fit his entrails back in through the gaping wound left when he impaled himself on my point. The fourth had skidded to a halt casting spells that wove a defensive field around him.
I pressed the advantage patiently. Short jabs of the spear did little damage, but kept the two warriors from ever regaining solid footing. Orcs are fierce, and strong, but the battle lust can make them a bit clumsy. Keeping them enraged and off balance easily carried the day. Even the relatively smart one, who had avoided the calamity of the initial charge, bellowed rage and waded in once he had cast his spells, only to be knocked aside by one of his lurching companions. The fight was over almost before it began; the four orcs dispatched and myself barely winded.
That would have been the end of it, except for something one of the orcs said to another as they lay dying in the dust. "You see Gro-Mok, we should have sacrificed the woman to Molag Bal." If they had left a prisoner somewhere I clearly could not abandon them. Whatever the predations of the orcs, with them slain I feared their captive would be left to starve. I was wrong. The war party was a part of a much larger band. When I backtrailed them to their base I found a thriving community. Fortunately most of them were indoors avoiding the afternoon heat.
Having just come from Falasmaryon I recognized the ancient Dunmer construction. The camp consisted of stone domes much like Missun Akin's house, and the largest structure was a duplicate of the propylon chamber. The ancient ashpit, sacred to the Dunmer, was now filled with offal and refuse and lay desecrated under the baleful gaze of a large statue of Molag Bal. Fortunately the heavy construction of the domes precluded any raising of alarm during the slaying of the guard, and the subsequent conflicts inside the domes. Seven more orcs fell to my spear. Finally I raised a heavy bar from the door of what did turn out to be a propylon chamber as well as a prison cell.
I had seen Abelle Chriditte once before. Her father had one of my 'uncles' whipped for the way that he had looked at her as she walked from her coach to a grand ball. Looking back I realize that night was a formative event in my young life. She does not remember it at all. A peasant being whipped for looking at her was not a remarkable enough event. At first she was overjoyed to see a fellow Breton. When she realized what sort of Breton I am she clearly did not rate me much higher than the orcs.
I left her in the propylon chamber. The orcs had actually provided her a reasonable level of rough comfort, she has food, and she should be safe enough. In her view I was obligated to drop whatever I was doing and escort her to Sadrith Mora, her destination when her ship was wrecked. I made it clear that she would likely not survive two days in the Ashlands alone, and said I would return for her. Our conversation ended badly. I couldn't help myself. As she continued to alternately berate me and demand service I finally snapped, and with a wave towards the large heap of armor I had piled in the corner I said "Keep that safe if you know what's good for you, that is really all I'm coming back for."
I slammed the door and stalked into one of the other houses to rest, mad at myself. I have long believed rude behavior is the curse of wealth, and I wonder if I am losing my peasant heritage.
Day 135: Simple pleasures
I made some sort of peace with Abelle Criditte before leaving Valenvaryon this morning. It seems that in the course of the night she accepted that expecting me to abandon my quest for a wizard's staff was unreasonable, and for my part the light of a new day showed that a bit of patience for someone who had been treated so poorly by fate was in order. The orcs had let her live as long as she supplied them with potions, but they had not treated her well, and certainly not with the deference to which she is accustomed. We came to an understanding, and she agreed to spend some time making a set of fine laboratory equipment, which I will buy upon my return, saving her from having to wait pennilessly until her father can be informed of her circumstances. With the Imperial embargo imposed to contain the corprus it could be difficult to contact him.
While we talked I explained what little I know of the propylon system to her. I do not know where all of the Dunmer fortresses are, and I have no idea where to find the indexes that make the propylons work, but it would certainly be nice to have access to such a transport system. When I next return home I will ask Mebestian if he has any suggestions as to where I might find such artifacts. Propylon indexes, returning for Abelle, I seem to collect more and more things to do. Today I rebelled.
It was not far from Valenvaryon to the coast, and I could easily see how the Breton ship transporting Abelle Criditte came to be wrecked. Tall spires of rock stood in ranks on the shore like an army marching out of the sea. Any fool could see that the spires were of a fairly consistent height, and those that stood in the water attested to its depth. Beyond the point where only crowns of stone marked the spires I was sure they continued, like rows of fangs lurking just below the surface waiting to gnash out the bottom of any passing ship. Across the straits more spires rose, as if held in reserve on the further shore. I cast my water breathing spell and walked among them on the sea bottom.
I did not come to shore on the main island of Sheogorad, though I did not know that at the time. This island is small, uninhabited, and alluring. If I were only the simple man who first set foot on the docks of Seyda Neen I could make a home here, but through the course of the day I determined that I am not. There is too much that I cannot ignore. It was an idyllic day though.
While I was still considering taking leave of my responsibilities I thoroughly explored the island. High ridges offered clean sightlines for excellent hunting. I did not find cliff racers nesting on the ridges, but they fly over from the mainland. Nix hounds and guar populate the lower vales. The surrounding waters teem with kallops. I piled my armor on the shore and swam luxuriously about, gathering pearls and crab meat. The comfortable lifestyle of Missun Akin the archer could be maintained here with ease, though without the sturdy stone house he calls home. The only man made feature on this island is a path that connects a small gravel beach on the south shore to a larger sandy beach on the north.
I would guess the path was used in older days to bring goods into northern Vvardenfell. Seagoing trade ships could anchor on the north without risking the deadly straits, and small coastal craft could take it off to the south. A thriving port could have existed here in ancient times, but the only structure remaining is a tomb near the path in the center of the island. If I were to remain here I would undoubtedly meet the clan it belongs to. It appears very well tended. Unfortunately I cannot remain here.
Somewhere to the north-east, near Dagon Fel, a renegade mage holds a staff; the staff of rank of a wizard in the mage's guild. Far to the west, on the Bitter Coast, a practicing necromancer sullies the good name of the guild. The archmage cannot be counted on to lead the guild through the coming times of trial. The survival of the guild rests on his successor; a successor that must know Vvardenfell but meet the requirements imposed from Cyrodiil. Not many can fit both those points.
Ultimately, even without my obligations to the guild I could not stay. Would the Dark Brotherhood stop seeking my death? Would Dagoth Ur forgive the destruction I have wrought on his cult of followers?
By day's end I had again settled with my fate. Tomorrow I cross the straits to the east, bound for Sheogorad.
Day 136: Unexpected company
I was awakened before dawn. An unwanted interruption that brought me from a peaceful dream of sharing this island with Ahnassi; living in peace. I was sleeping in a hollow, not far from the gravel beach on the south shore. I don't know if it was the voices that woke me, or the crunch of the boat grinding ashore. My first thought was that some members of the Dunmer clan had come to visit their tomb. I cast my night eye spell and peered through the bushes. I was wrong.
Their great height revealed two of the three figures who strode up the path to be Altmeri, the third had the stocky frame of a man, probably a Cyrodiil. He was clearly a prisoner. They were barely in earshot, but I heard one of the Altmer say "I wish she didn't want this one. It would have been easier to just kill him." Then they turned a curve in the path and the bushes muffled anything else that was said. I followed up the path; too far back to catch anything further they might have said but close enough to confirm that they entered the tomb in the center of the island. I settled at a safe distance to watch the door. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow with the dawn.
I have met a few of the high elves but the Altmeri are not common in Vvardenfell. I could not think of any reason why they would be on this desolate isle hiding in an ancient tomb. I may have let my thoughts travel too much to this as 'my island', or perhaps I just sensed such a wrongness about it that I could not let it go. I resolved myself to investigate.
The tomb is a typical example of Dunmer tomb construction, though far larger than most. Large enough to house no less than ten Altmeri, including a smithy and a large alchemy lab, and slave pens. The Altmer are powerful in the ways of magica, and I recovered an array of enchanted weapons from the smithy as well as the occupants. Their alchemical supplies were not extensive, but I did gather a large quantity of valuable vampire dust. Not from their lab, from the Altmeri themselves. The tomb held a nest of blood vampires! I recognized the loathsome creatures immediately when I encountered the first one.
The vampires hid in their tomb; as much from the living as from the daylight because they are an abomination hated by all life. The unspeakable horror of feeding upon the very blood of your fellow man had my heart frozen in my chest. I dispatched them without remorse. I tried to free their slaves, but the poor wretches were beyond escape. Like a blood red dawn the terrible truth rose within me. The slaves, who identified themselves as 'cattle', not only performed menial labors for their masters; they provided food for them as well, freely offering up their throats. They are listless, dispirited creatures. Ending their misery could have been the best thing for them, but I refrained.
Deep beneath the ground I encountered the throne room of Dhaunayne Aundae. According to Ticemius Conciatius she was the queen and matriarch of her clan, Clan Aundae. Ticemius, the Cyrodiil who I had seen being dragged into the lair, is a witch hunter. He has dedicated his life to eradicating such foul monsters, wherever they appear. I freed him from his prison beneath the throne before the vampires began their grisly work on him. Dhaunayne had told him that one day soon he would be offering himself on hands and knees as the footstool to her throne, rising only to allow her to slake her thirst at his throat.
He and some others have herded those who have lost their wills into the cell. They will remain in the tomb for a time attempting to recover their less fortunate fellows, and holding the nest against any additional vampires who should return. I could not stay in those foul depths, and have returned to my campsite. I will leave this island tomorrow. I hope that I can bring my thoughts back here to the idyll that it was, rather than the horror it has become for me. I know that either way it will not be forgettable.
Day 137: Search for Sud
I left 'my' island behind this morning. The witch hunter may be able to reverse the damage to some of the vampires' cattle. Perhaps they will stay there and establish some sort of settlement. They may return to their long lost homes and leave the island in splendid desolation. Either way I suspect that I shall never return; a paradise ruined.
I crossed the straits to the north and arrived on the actual island of Sheogorad. Ranis said that the renegade wizard, Anirne, could be found in the caverns of Sud. The caverns are on the north-west coast, due west of Dagon Fel. I did not want to make the long march north-east to Dagon Fel only to traverse the length of the island again from east to west. It may have been easier if I had.
The island of Sheogorad is rugged, with many ridges that were too steep to climb. It seemed they all run east and west, but that may just be because I was trying to go north. Levitating over them, though good practice, offered its own problems. The cliff racers here are beyond counting, and swarmed around me whenever I left the solid footing of the ground. Fighting them in their own element while suspended by thin tendrils of magica is far from ideal, and having the effects of the spell run out while distracted by the great flying pests led to an assortment of skidding falls down the mountainsides.
I arrived at the coast battered and bruised and shot a mudcrab as much for spite as for lunch. My morale was slightly improved by the succulent meat, but I was not able to regain my normal state of mind. The vampires use powerful spells that sap the will as well as the life force of their victims. Although I have used my restoration magic to return to full fitness the horror still lurks in corners of my head I think. I doubt that the cattle will ever recover.
As usual, a foul humor led to a bad decision. After lunch I estimated my northward progress from the angle of the noon sun. I guessed that I was not as far north as Dagon Fel and turned north-east along the coast. Travel along the coast repeatedly called for a choice. Levitate over a rocky headland, only to be again beset by cliff racers, or wade around it fending off the inevitable slaughterfish. After a couple hours of aggravatingly slow progress I had to admit that I was clearly far north of a line due west of Dagon Fel.
I glared inland at the rugged foothills. Ranis said Sud was on the coast. 'On the coast' doesn't mean 'on the beach'. I climbed into the hills and circled back to the south-west. A zig zag course from hilltop to hilltop scanning each slope and valley for signs of the cavern made for even slower progress. Then I found a path running east and west between two steep ridges. I calculated. Inescapably I concluded that this path, at this point, was probably due west of the distant Dagon Fel. I turned to the west.
The path twisted occasionally to get past some obstacle, but basically flowed between the two ridges until the ridge on the north side dropped away into the sea. The beach was distinctive enough, and if it wasn't the broken crab shell left from my lunch was. I had rushed across this path in a last flight down from the ridge to the sea. The ridge to the south of the path was the last ridge I crossed, and in the broken cliffs just to the west where it too fell into the sea I found the entrance to the caverns of Sud. If I stood on the last curve of the path before it reached the great door I could see the spot where I had sat eating crabmeat half a day before.
I sat on the great crab shell gnawing on scrib jerky and watching the sun settle into the western sea. I do not want to enter the caverns by night. A lingering effect of the vampire clan, or just the weariness from tramping through the uncounted hills of Sheogorad? Either way, tomorrow is time enough.
Day 138: Into the caverns of Sud
I am back at my camp. I can see the entry to the caverns, but I am well screened from view and made sure that I left no tracks. I do not know if the renegade wizard Anirne will emerge to challenge me in the night, or bolster her defenses for tomorrow. Either way I must rest.
I entered Sud this morning and crept through passages lit by glowing crystals. Magica flows strongly in the caverns. The narrow twisting entry tunnel descended into a large tall chamber spanned by numerous arches of stone. Narrow ledges connected the arching bridges, or the bridges connected the ledges. Either way, traversing the chamber involved a torturous path. The exposed tops of the arches made me a target for the denizens of the small alcoves that opened off the chamber. I'm sure in ancient times these alcoves offered sheltered quarters to Dunmer guardsmen. The current master of Sud does not post men, but monsters.
I was ascending one of the great stone spans when a bolt of magica erupted from a hidden alcove and streaked across the wide space. It seemed at first poorly aimed, missing me by some margin even though it arced in flight, but as it passed by it shifted abruptly to strike the tip of my spear as if it were a lightning rod for destructive energy. I realized too late that the spear was the target all along. With amazing speed sheets of tarnished silver peeled away from the blackening point and crumbled as they flew through the air. Flew, not fell; the particles made a foggy stream as they flew back into the cave from which the bolt had struck. The weapon I felt most comfortable with was reduced to little more than a stick.
I activated the enchantment in my boots to levitate across the gap. I could see the path that would get me there, but it was narrow and could be difficult for running feet. The shallow water far below would not be enough to break any fall. It was sufficient to hide a Daedroth however. I was not a target with the stone arches shielding me from below, but before I could cross the gap to deal with my first assailant I was knocked headlong by a geyser of venomous green magica that struck up at me.
As I spun crazily through the air dripping with ichor a lean form leapt from the cave to the arch and nimbly scampered away; a hunger, devourer of arms and armor. The daedroth lurking below splashed about, clearing another line of fire. The poison etched my flesh, creeping through every gap in my armor, sizzling on my face. I slammed against the wall and clung to a ledge clearing my eyes. The great flat feet of the daedroth began slapping stone as it climbed.
I cast the Breton barkskin spell that I learned as a child, then a lightning shield that would not only protect me but actually damage my foe. Then I rolled off the ledge and fell. The great snout of the Daedroth split wide, showing double rows of sharp teeth. A word of activation and my levitating boots gave me control. I used the speed of my fall to swoop across the lowest arch, sweeping the daedroth off with a bone jarring tackle. We hit the water in a mighty splash and blast of sparks from my lightning shield. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but in combination with the crackling lightning the fall did great damage to the daedroth. Then the great jaws closed on my leg.
I struck the beast in the eye with my armored fist. I could hardly believe the creature could maintain such a grip, crushing my leg within its casing of volcanic glass plates. Arcs from the lightning shield crackled about its head, and the stench of burning flesh rose in a wave that made my first gasp as I regained my breath a wretched taste of the nine hells. My stomach heaved. My leg bones cracked. The lightning shield sputtered out. With hacking gasps I choked out an incantation and one great spark arced between my hands, then struck down to blast the last life from the daedroth.
The water was not too deep, but was deep enough to help support my weight as I balanced precariously on one leg. I guzzled a restorative potion which helped focus and contain the magica that fairly crackled on the air of the caverns. As my magical reserves replenished I quickly cast my healing spells to bind my leg. I was almost completely recovered, and the magica continued to flow into me. The daedroth was dead, the sated hunger had disappeared, and I was in fairly good shape, but my favored weapon was destroyed and I had consumed much of my magica restorative. I climbed the arches to the large passage leading deeper into the cavern with a longing glance towards the exit.
The large passage twisted deeper into the mountain, then opened into a great chamber. As I approached the chamber I could see a vast expanse of water casting wildly reflected torchlight. To either side great stone battlements rose, constructed of the dark blocks favored by the ancient Dunmer. They towered above, and I had to step out into the chamber to see the tops.
Undead warriors make great guardians. Their attention never wavers and their eyes never close. The enchantments that summon them require great command of the school of conjuration to make them last. Anirne apparently possesses such mastery. As I stepped into the chamber a fusillade of arrows rained down upon me. Skeletal archers scampered about the battlements above. Their arrows burst into flame as they left their ghostly bows. I dove back into the shelter of the tunnel with a smoldering shaft buried in my shoulder.
More healing magic, and then I cast a spell to give me resistance to magical flame. It would not protect me from the arrows, but would reduce the burning. I quaffed the last of my restorative and began an incantation as I leapt into the chamber. I fought fire with fire. The arrows rained down on my exposed position. The parapets provided cover for the skeletons had I used my bow to fire back, but could not protect them from the explosive bursts of magical fire I lofted up at them. Huge concussions rocked the chamber as the great fireballs burst. Instead of advantageous cover their confined location held them close together, within the blast. By the time I ran out of magica the tops of the walls were littered with scorched bones, but with no magica and another round of gruesome injuries I had no choice but to retreat.
Day 139: Wizard's staff
I returned to Sud healed and rested. Before climbing the stone arches I dropped lightly into the water to check for defenders. I found none. The hunger had fled, and only the floating corpse of the daedroth held vigil. I climbed.
When I reached the great chamber I peeked cautiously around the edge of the tunnel, then slipped in under the cloak of my amulet of shadows. Huge blackened marks on the stone walls marked the scene of battle. Silence reigned. It was eerie. I activated my boots and floated upwards. Atop the fortifications on either side stood a door. No clue indicated which direction to turn. Much to my surprise I made the right choice, though it took some time to find that out.
I opened the door on the left. Looking in I was confronted by another stone battlement with no stair or ramp. The ancient Dunmer were clearly well versed in levitation. I stepped forward with the incantation forming on my lips to activate my boots. Fortunately it did not keep me from hearing the now familiar sound of feet slapping on stone. The alcoves on the sides of the chamber were cut using the natural contours of the stone to disguise their presence. I had passed into the crossfire unaware. Fortunately the conjured monsters of Anirne's defenses did not coordinate their attacks well. I turned to meet the daedroth charging from my left and was somewhat warned by its eyes flying wide. I dove to the stone floor as a sheet of crackling lightning roared over me to lash the scaly green beast.
Seeing the error it had made the storm atronach charged to join the attack. Had they both launched the horrific bolts of magica they are capable of harnessing, aiming low to keep each other from harm, the two guardians could perhaps have destroyed me. At the very least I would likely have been too badly wounded to press my attack on the wizard who lived beyond the door at the top of the battlements. Instead they chose to rush me with snapping jaws and grip crackling with the energy of a thunderstorm. I met them with Daedric longsword and shield. Soon enough they both lay dead, and some minor healing spells restored my own condition to its best.
Anirne was far wiser. She did not open her door to assess the effectiveness of her defenses. She did not count on seeing an assailant come through her door. She merely waited for it to open and launched a tremendous poison bloom that burst in the doorway. It struck with even more potent venom than the daedroth's spell yesterday, but I had the advantage of solid footing. I quickly reached into my belt pouch and drew out a vial I have kept for my encounters with the poisonous bull netch. The poison antidote did not heal me, but it countered any further ill effects of the spell from the moment it passed my lips.
I cast off the empty vial. I brought my shield up to deflect the object of my mission. The great ebon staff rang against the daedric plate of the shield. My arm stung from the vibration as if it were being host to a swarm of pestflies. A rush of flame burst from Anirne's hands to singe my eyebrows and blacken my face. I could not long stand against her spells. The wizards staff, unlike normal weapons, does not obstruct the spell caster. She adroitly mixed powerful blows from the staff among her attacks. I responded with my daedric longsword. Despite the lack of enchantments it is a fine and powerful weapon.
I would like to have talked to her about what had led her to reject the guild. I would like to have discussed what could be done if a new archmage were to replace Trebonius. I would like to have had her teach me some of her skills with the art of conjuratan. None of that was possible. I could not understand what led such a wizard to be sheltering in such a remote and unpleasant place. I will never understand. Anirne is dead. One of us would die in her tiny room.
With her staff in my hand I should be able to take command of any of remaining defenses here in this rugged underground fortress. Tomorrow. For now I have cast a locking spell on both doors. If her bed offers a level of comfort suitable for a wizard I am sure that it will be fine for resting my weariness away. I must sleep.
Day 140: What to do?
I have learned that keeping my journal keeps me calm. It focuses my thoughts. Reminds me of things I may have otherwise forgotten. It is a practice, and a habit. Tonight I can barely bring pen to paper, but I have no idea how else to carry on.
I woke this morning well rested, in the chamber of the vanquished wizard Anirne. My store of magica was renewed, I was well, and armed with a staff that would allow me to claim my place among the elite of the mage's guild. It could easily have been a perfect day. I ignored any possible loot that may have lay with other denizens of the cavern of Sud and cast my recall spell. Even before I returned to Ranis in Balmora to raise my staff and be declared a wizard I wanted to share my triumph with Ahnassi.
Her beautiful eyes, with the slitted pupils of a cat, flew wide as I spoke of my perilous battles to claim the staff. She is funny. She hissed with outrage as I described the ambush in the wizard's outer chamber, but her own styles of combat are all centered in stealth and surprise. She is a Khajiit, and a talented thief.
We had Mebestian Ence in for lunch. He is the local trader and my connection to the unseemly world of the smugglers of Dwemer artifacts. He gave me a suggestion about who I could talk to regarding indexes for the powerful propylons of the ancient Dunmer fortresses. They are rare. I left Pelagiad with a cryptic note from Mebestian to a pawnbroker in Caldera. The note was meaninglessly innocuous to the casual eye, but would introduce me to Irgola as a trustworthy friend. Ahnassi clapped her hands and purred at the thought of seeing such a unique item.
I teleported myself to Balmora and walked proudly down the thoroughfare, the great ebon staff of a wizard thumping against the cobbles with each stride. Edwinna has made at least one trip to Tel Fyr. The survival of a Dwemer has been reported to the headquarters of the guild in the distant Imperial capital. Messages from Trebonius have been received; messages demanding my whereabouts. Ranis reported that I was headed to Sheogorad on a quest for a staff; the truth, nothing more, nothing less. Edwinna has reported that I am waiting for some mysterious translation project to be completed, but she does not know where I am. Skink has reported that I am on a mission for him; to slay a necromancer. After I left Ranis sent word to Trebonius that I would be answering his summons as soon as I picked up some translations. Again the truth, though now I do not know when I will be traveling to Gnissis.
I used the guild teleporting system to travel to Caldera. Irgola was very helpful once he had read the note from Mebestian. He actually had an index in his possession. For a large number of septims he became even more helpful and sold it to me. I turned the metal object over in my hands. It is familiar. I have seen similar objects before, most recently in Tel Fyr. I do not know the symbols, but nowhere on this index are there the symbols I associate with Falasmaryon or Valenvaryon. Neither of the fortresses I am familiar with appears to be the target for whatever propylon this index activates.
I cast my recall spell again in the late afternoon, planning to take Ahnassi to the Halfway Tavern for a celebratory evening of dinner and dance. I appeared in the hallway with the index in my hand, ready to show her. She was not downstairs. I charged up the steps calling joyfully "Look kitten! Look what I got!" She was not upstairs either. There was a note on the table, much to my surprise. Although I have seen her manipulate a lock pick with a delicacy that defies all logic, she claims that 'Khajiiti hands are not made for holding pens'. I picked up the paper. It containes two lines of neat text.
"We have the girl. She will not like Mournhold."
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