Days 121 to 130
Day 121: Stalking to Balmora
I am hiding at Caius' house. I have calmed considerably, partly because the corprus disease does not seem to be advancing very rapidly. I have noticed a slight heaviness to my muscles, and I am perhaps a tick slower in my thoughts, but that is hard to judge. Caius assures me that I seem normal to him, except for a slight slackening in my face. In some ways I appreciate him more than ever, in others I am furious with him.
I awoke this morning in the Sixth House base at Ilinubi, feeling fortunate to be alive. I slept heavily, tortured by strange dreams, and could have easily been dispatched by some passing horror. I suspect this heavy dream filled sleep is a part of the disease, and I will have to take particular care in choosing where I sleep. I face a daunting journey, and I am excluded from any tradehouse or other shelter. I also obviously cannot negotiate any sort of transport. No caravaner would allow me on a strider, and I cannot risk entering a guild hall. I must travel the backwaters and byways, on foot.
My destination lies deep in Telvanni territory; almost completely across Vvardenfell. At Tel Fyr an ancient Telvanni wizard has been studying the disease. Divayth Fyr apparently runs what he calls a 'corprusarium', giving shelter to those who bear the corprus as he continues his research. Caius believes that Fyr has found a cure, and suggests that the wizard may be swayed by supplying him with a rare Dwemer artifact that Caius provided me. I am very grateful to the spymaster for providing this priceless item, but still agravated at the tune he has been playing for me to dance along.
He has been investigating cures for the corprus for some time. I could look at this as providence, or forethought. The deeper element though is that he fully expected to need the information because he expected me to catch the disease. When he sent me on the mission against Dagoth Gares he stepped up his efforts, because he was almost certain I would come back cursed with corprus. He could have warned me, instead of quietly preparing for this. When I angrily exploded at him his eyes narrowed and he looked first angry, then pained. "Arvil, I would rather not have sent you into this, but there are men I have sent to their deaths, good men. I would rather not have done that as well. I have done what I've done. I live with it. Hopefully you will too. If you don't I'll have to live with that as well." For the first time I realized that Caius disguise as an old man comes naturally enough to him. He carries a great weight. For obvious reasons I hope not to add myself to the burdens of his conscience.
Day 122: A message for Dagoth Ur
Months ago, while on a mission for Ranis, I took shelter in a cavern. Inside that cavern I encountered what I now know was a corprus stalker. The corprus stalker, the red candles; clear signs of a Sixth House base that I did not recognize then. Now I know. This time I am here for more than just shelter.
I left Caius' house under cover of darkness, with my chameleon amulet blending me into the hillside as I climbed the ridge east of Balmora. I paused to look back from the top, then slowly descended; my pace dragged down by a heavy heart. If I do not find a cure I will likely never see Balmora again.
The corprus disease is affecting my thoughts. Throughout the day images distracted me from my journey, rising unbidden to my mind. Most of them were scenes from my time in Balmora; with Ajira, Galbedir, Ranis; at the Southwall Cornerclub; wreaking havoc at the Council Club. Amongst the familiar memories though there floated occasional glimpses that I know are from dreams. Dreams that speak for Dagoth Ur.
I crossed the Foyada Mamaca and toiled up the the trail that winds around the ruins of Arkngthand. The trek was uneventful. My skills with the bow are thus far unaffected, and I felled the wild creatures that chose to attack me before they could reach me for the most part. My goal was this base, and I reached it well before nightfall.
Dagoth Gares said that unless I travel to Red Mountain and bow before Dagoth Ur I will be treated as an enemy. I expected to be met and challenged as I entered, and the minions of Dagoth Ur did not disappoint me. Great showers of sparks cast an eerie illumination over the entry cavern and the walls dripped with venomous green magica as ash ghouls and zombies charged to the defense of the base. I dodged the greater concentrations of their magical attacks, but I noted a slight awkwardness, a hesitation. Knowing I have contracted the corprus is perhaps slowing me down more than the symptoms of the disease. My every move gets replayed in my mind, looking for the hints of the transformation that is bound to overtake me. The arrows sped true from my bow despite my concerns. The evil creatures of House Dagoth fell in showers of ash. They seem to have no blood.
It appeared as if most of the creatures of the base fell defending the entry chamber, but I was cautious as I continued into the depths. A healing potion coursed through me repairing the damage done by shock and poison from the spells, as well as cuts and scratches from the claws of the ash zombies. The passages tightened and I drew my sword. I slowed and slipped into the shadows as I neared a branching of tunnels marked by a raised platform.
On the dais stood two great iron coffers flanking a three sided obelisk. Tapered red candles burned in gracefully carved candlesticks set in ornate niches on all three faces of the triolith, which stood as tall as me. In one of the lidless coffers the abandoned goods of sleepers gathered dust. A gleaming axe, a sharp chitin spear; no longer of use to those who allowed themselves to be consumed into the cult; consumed quite literally. The other coffer held slabs and chunks of flesh; undoubtedly the freely given flesh of those who chose the corprus not as a curse, but as a welcome relief from pain and injury. I hurried onward.
In a deeper chamber I found the bells, and the mighty hammer which is used to ring them, calling the sleepers from their slumbers to participate in the rites of their own undoing. I swung the hammer, splintering the supports. The great bells hit the floor with final clangings. With the stone deadening their chime I beat them into misshapen heaps of iron. They will call no more minions to the cause of the enemy. A small blow against Dagoth Ur, perhaps too small for him even to notice, but I doubt that. I believe my actions here will send an unmistakable signal to the head of House Dagoth; a signal that I am not ready to surrender.
Day 123: Uncharted ruin
Today I traveled through unfamiliar wilderness; unfamiliar to me, and I suspect seldom seen. The Telvanni have settled along the eastern coast of Vvardenfell, mostly on the numerous offshore islands. The eastern grazelands they have left mostly to the Ashlanders, though there are some conflicts. Even the Ashlanders do not travel inland very much, onto the long slopes of Red Mountain known as Molag Amur.
I kept to a mostly eastward path. Ancient trees petrified by ash dot the landscape, and in places give evidence of great forests lost to the fury of the volcano. Pools of bubbling lava seep from the stone to relieve pressure, but clearly demonstrate that the mountain is quiet, but not dead. The cliff racers glide overhead on still wings, lofted by the rising heat. They scour the terrain for a meal, but even they do not nest here. The desolation is near complete. To live here a creature must subsist mostly on magica and heat. There are few that can do so, but around midday I encountered one such monster.
My progress was blocked by a steep ridge of cracked stone. I turned south along the base, seeking an access to the top that did not require levitation. The broken rock did not defy purchase, and I reasoned that a lesser slope could not be far out of my way. Soon I was proven correct and resumed my eastward journey by clambering upwards. I paused atop the ridge, surprised to see a narrow path winding along the base of the further slope. In the arid waste the path could have been cut a week ago, or a thousand years ago. It may have been made by the endless pacing of the great green behemoth that strode purposefully along it, then for no apparent reason turned back the other way. The pacing monster turned at random making no real progress in either direction.
It strode on great legs, each like the trunk of a tree, that ended in great round pads. Three large claws distinguished the front of the leg from the rear, but no discernible foot protruded. The mighty legs held up the weight of a hugely distended belly, arms which also reminded me of tree trunks, and a great dome of a head split by a huge maw. The beast's green skin grated with scales as it moved, and even high above on the ridge I could almost feel the jarring vibration of its ponderous tread.
I considered my options. I could have waited until the erratic random pacing took the monster away to north or south. I could have used my amulet and my stealth to slip across the trail without being noticed. I did not want to wait perched on the hot rock, and I did not want to risk being caught on the flat road. I deemed it better to use the advantage the steep slope gave me and brought forth my bow.
The first arrow buried itself in the green scaly neck of the creature. It seemed that it could have been a fatal shot, but the monster turned with a roar and began lumbering up the slope. I stood my ground, launching shaft after shaft into the great green bulk. It was not long before I actually could feel the strike of each heavy footfall. Fortunately the ponderous gait and the slope prevented a rapid rush, and shot after shot punctured the green flesh.
As the great beast neared I leapt to the top of a rocky spire to gain every possible second. Small tusks flanked the crevasse of the beasts mouth. Beady eyes glared, puzzled, from pits in the bulbous flesh of the face. Hot moist breath roared over rows of teeth as the huge bellows of the chest fell with each mighty exhalation. The arrows were taking a slow toll, and bloody froth flew forth to spatter my boots as the monster gained the top of the ridge. I put a final red fletched arrow into the beast, striking the soft palate inside the gaping mouth, then dropped my bow and drew the Lifetaker sword from its scabbard.
I was wary of the great arms, which could have grappled me in a bone crushing hug from which there would be no escape. I also recognized that even though the teeth lining the great mouth were neither large nor sharp the mighty jaws could snap with shattering force. The monster glared its fury, but stopped its hulking charge with me still just out of reach. The great chest heaved. The eyes glazed. The massive titan wavered, then toppled backwards onto the rock with a shattering crash that nearly shook me off of the spire on which I was perched.. I recognized the monster from conversations, and my study of the Book of Daedra. Why an Ogrim, either summoned or escaped from the nether planes of the Daedra, patrolled this abandoned road I shall never know. It patrols no longer.
The setting sun disappeared early behind the great mountain at my back. I continued in the shadowed daylight, but now it is near dark and I am forced to camp in the open and hope for the best. The dream addled sleep of the corprus disease cannot be stayed. In the distance great spires rise. A mighty Dwemer ruin which in the morning I must pass, or avoid.
Day 124: River of fire
I awoke this morning with the sun rising over the gleaming Dwemer towers on the horizon. The ruins held my gaze as I ate my breakfast. I fear this corprus disease. I roasted the last of my nix hound, and the usually tangy meat tasted bland. The zesty hackle-lo leaf was like chewing paper. Food seems to have lost its flavor, and at the same time the journey through the wastes of Molag Amur has depleted my supplies. The idea rose unbidden, cloaked in curiosity, but my corprus ridden flesh would grow back if I took off a small piece. It would be easier than hunting, and perhaps it would have some flavor. I was disgusted at the thought, but it kept coming back throughout the day.
A great ridge running down from red mountain ends abruptly, falling away like a cut off stump. The shoulder created at the end of the ridge offers commanding views of the valley below, spread on three sides. At one time it must have been beautiful, and the great Dwemer castle an enviable palace. The valley now is filled with the petrified husks of trees, and where once perhaps flowed a mighty river a jagged fissure seeps molten stone. The devastated towers shimmer in the rising heat. A huge bridge of Dwemer metal spans the gap to the next ridge running down from the mountain, offering an easy path to continue my journey. An easy path had the bridge been unguarded.
As I drew near I could see what could have been a statue of gleaming golden armor. It could have been a statue, but it was not. The golden armor was actually the unnatural skin of a legendary golden saint, conjured in the untold past to guard the bridge. Although its masters were long gone, the creature still stood to its task, and as I approached the bridge it drew an ebony bladed broadsword. A shield dangled by straps from the saint's left arm, and as it brought it up and to the ready I recognized it as Daedric; nearly impenetrable even for Lifetaker, my Daedric wakizashi. My own shield of dreugh hide would not be near as effective against the ebony blade, but it is lighter and more maneuverable. The creature stood, poised on the balls of its feet, blade raised at the ready. I eased from side to side, stopped by the railings on either edge of the bridge. Only the yellow eyes moved, tracking me.
I knew that the enchantment of the Lifetaker was my only advantage, but I worried about my lack of skills. I have been practicing the Akiviri styles, but I am nowhere near as comfortable with them as I am with the spear. Against the inhuman skills of a golden saint I was afraid I would be found wanting; found wanting and sentenced to death. I cast my defensive spells and took the fateful step forward, the one step too far onto the bridge that its defender could not abide.
I intentionally approached along the right hand railing, to give myself room, and as the saint sprang to the attack I countered with an Akiviri spinning back slash. Stepping left and forwards I dodged the thrust of the broadsword and slammed the flat of the blade with my shield, then continued to rotate, bringing the slashing edge of the wakizashi to bear on the saint's right side, away from its shield. Unfortunately the golden saint is masterful in many styles with many weapons. It rode with the push of my shield and the slashing blade met only air at the most powerful point of the stroke. The last trailing swipe of the tip connected lightly with the saint's armored hide, doing little damage, and the magical nature of the creature resisted the Lifetaking enchantment. In return I took a clout to the shoulder from the flat of the heavy ebony blade. Not an effective swing, but given the defensive movements the creature had executed connecting at all was an impressive display of swordsmanship.
After that first clash of blades I detected a tactical advantage that I hoped would even the odds with my opponent's expertise. I continued moving to my left, on an angle that carried me further onto the bridge. A swordsman of the saint's great skill would normally have continued to their left also, circling away from my shield and jabbing with the longer stouter blade of the broadsword. The saint moved right instead, cutting off my access to the bridge. Its assigned task would limit its options; a limitation I hoped that I could exploit. I immediately launched an attack to try to take advantage.
The wakizashi is a very responsive weapon, using quick movements of the wrist to bring its keen edge to bear. I lunged, again to the left for what would look like a passing attack with another backhanded slash. The saint was compelled to shift to its right to cut off the pass, bringing the broadsword up vertically to block the expected slash. With a twist of the wrist the wakizashi whirled a graceful circle and dragged across the golden chest. There was little force behind it, but the sharp blade left a thin bloody furrow as it slid off. In return I took a hard blow to the shoulder, but I was well inside the effective arc of the broadsword. Near the hilt the ebony blade struck with only the force of the saints arm behind it, not the momentum of the heavy blade, and my armor was equal to the task. The force of the blow drove us apart. Warier than ever the saint moved to prevent even a semblance of a passing attack.
I had drawn blood, twice, but done little damage. The wakizashi would continue to leave shallow slices across my enemy's golden flesh, eventually carrying the day if I could avoid taking a severe blow from the heavy broadsword. The Akiviri call swordplay 'the dance of death'. In an individual battle like I had with the saint it is very effective against the heavier swords of the empire. The Akiviri fight for honor. In the empire their methods frequently fail against the blades of their foes, who feel no remorse at wading in in sufficient numbers to constrain the artistic movements and batter down the Akiviri with their clumsy heavy blows. I was grateful that the saint stood against me alone.
The critical turn of the battle hinged not on swordplay, but on enchantment. The saint was bleeding lightly from a half dozen wounds. My shoulder was stiffening from the first heavy blow it had taken, compounded by a crashing swipe it had absorbed from the heavy Daedric shield. I was also bleeding badly from a hard chop that had slid off my shield and torn through the muscles of my upper left arm. I could still manage the shield to my defense, but I was weakening. Then the saint's powerful magic resistance slipped briefly, and the healing energies of the Lifetaker drew upon my opponent's life force to heal my wounds. Not quite completely, but well enough to push the battle firmly into my favor. A few more exchanges and the weakened saint was no longer quick enough. The wakizashi sliced through the tendons of the wrist and the broadsword clattered to the metal deck of the bridge. The saint was defenseless as a final spinning backslash crossed its throat, cutting to the bone. I added the broadsword to my already heavy pack, and claimed the Daedric shield as my own.
I feel somewhat safer tonight as I make camp. The barren wastes of Molag Amur are behind me and I have reached the coast. Even my deep and dream addled sleep should not put me at terrible risk from the rats, mudcrabs, and beetles that make their homes here. Tomorrow I should reach Tel Fyr.
Day 125: The good wizard
Divayth Fyr is a most rare individual. He is quite probably the oldest Dunmer I have ever seen, by his own reckoning perhaps the oldest alive. As he says "Ancient wizards need projects to keep them occupied." So many wizards keep themselves occupied by turning to games of power that enslave or harm the less fortunate masses. Divayth Fyr is different; perhaps unique. He keeps the Corprusarium.
I entered Tel Fyr hesitantly. The Telvanni have not made me welcome, and I did not expect any different here. I was wrong. I was greeted by a beautiful Dunmer woman. From her name, Delte Fyr, it was clear that she is kin to Divayth Fyr, but I could not quite figure out if she was wife or daughter. She greeted me warmly, expressed sympathy for my slowly worsening case of corprus, and gave me directions to Divayth Fyr's study. Adding to my surprise she told me "I'm sure he won't mind being disturbed." Most retainers of wizards I have met guard their master's privacy as if their lives depended on it. Frequently that is because their lives do depend on it. Sometimes it is because they are tired of cleaning up the ashes that visitors are reduced to by their inhospitable masters.
I did find the wizard in his study, and despite Delte's assurances I was surprised at being welcomed. Having the corprus disease did help I suppose, as he is clearly fascinated by it. He examined me thoroughly, and demonstrated his expertise by proclaiming that I had carried the disease for approximately five days, having contracted it by direct curse rather than from contagion contact with another diseased person. I complimented him on the accuracy of his diagnosis, then asked what he had discovered regarding a cure. My hopes were dashed when he said that he had not found one. He has developed a potion based on his theories about the disease that he believes should cure it, but it has killed every test subject he has tried it on so far.
The aged wizard spent much of his afternoon conversing with me. He expanded on his theories, which mostly were far beyond my understanding. Occasionally he would pause, and write a brief note in a large journal. "Explaining my theory invariably gives me insights into areas for further research. I hope you don't mind," he said with surprising courtesy at the first such pause. I did not mind at all. My only hope was that he would have some sudden insight into a cure.
Perhaps the strangest part of his lecture was the story of his 'daughters'. It is no wonder I was not able to grasp the relationship between Delte Fyr and the wizard. She and her three 'sisters' are a byproduct of the wizard's research. He grew them from samples of his own flesh using the regenerative properties of the corprus disease. Though they are difficult to tell apart by looking at them they all have different temperaments apparently. Delte meticulously manages the accounts of the tower and surprisingly, and as I had already noted she is friendly in a businesslike way. Alfe, who I also met today, is in some ways the brightest of the lot according to the wizard, but some significant portion of her intellect is reserved for guiding her sharp tongue. When we met she smiled slightly, a mere twitch at the corners of her mouth, then she said "You do have the corprus disease. Why aren't you in the caverns with the rest of the monsters?" I will be venturing into those caverns tomorrow, where I will be meeting Uupse Fyr. She takes care of the corprus victims.
Tonight I am staying in a guest room. Divayth Fyr says that my case is not advanced enough to confine me to the caverns. The other inmates would be inclined to kill me. He does want me to go down into the corprusarium tomorrow though. He has an errand I can do for him there, and he wants me to see clearly what it is like for myself. He wants to try his latest potion on me. I suppose he thinks that once I see the alternative I will be more inclined to take the risk. As he points out I have nothing to lose.
Day 126: Corprusarium
Today I toured Divayth Fyr's corprusarium. I would call it more of a dungeon. The caverns under the tower are damp and dark. Of course the denizens are so far gone with the disease that they really don't know the difference. Most of them anyway. Yagrum Bagarn is well aware of his surroundings, most of the time anyway.
My errand for the wizard took me deep into the corprusarium, to the home of Yagrum Bagarn. His corprus is far enough advanced that the other inmates leave him alone. It should be. He was the first guest of the corprusarium; the first case of corprus that Divayth Fyr ever encountered. Yagrum Bagarn is even older than the ancient wizard. In his younger days Yagrum Bagarn was an associate of Kagrenak, reputedly the greatest enchanter of all time. Kagrenak was the Dwemer master of the stronghold in Red Mountain. Yagrum Bagarn is a dwarf; quite possibly the last surviving Dwemer.
Other than my imminent descent into madness from the corprus disease I seem to be on an astonishing run of good fortune. I found someone to translate my Dwemer books, and now I have met and interviewed the last of the Dwemer. Should I survive I can look forward to Trebonius' response when I come back with the answer to the riddle of the Dwemer's disappearance. There is no doubt that it was an assignment he never intended for me to complete.
Kagrenak had a plan. His theory involved using very powerful artifacts to drive an enchantment that would improve the Dwemer race. Among the Dwemer there was opposition, with many saying that it would be too dangerous. Apparently, either on his own or with the approval of the Dwemer council Kagrenak began experimenting with his ideas, perhaps driven by the Dunmer invasion of Red Mountain. Yagrum Bagarn was on a mission to what he calls an 'outer plane'. He returned to find the great halls of the Dwemer desolate; the experiment gone horribly wrong. The opponents of Kagrenak's theory were afraid that the Dwemer could find themselves shifted to some inhospitable alternate plane of existence, if not destroyed outright. It would appear that they were correct.
If I do not survive I will forward this journal to Ranis in Balmora. It seems a waste for this information to die with me, or be lost in the madness of the corprusarium. Ranis will make sure Trebonius doesn't get to use it for his own aggrandizement.
In his lucid moments Yagrum Bagarn has been working on a pair of enchanted boots that Divayth Fyr acquired. I brought them to the wizard with the dwarf's well educated estimate that they are terminally flawed. Now I face a testing.
The wizard has a potion ready. He has made some minor corrections. He says it may work because of the improvements, and it may work because I may be the Nerevarine. Nothing he says even remotely approaches a promise that it will work, or even a suggestion that if it doesn't I will still be alive, though still with the corprus. My choice though is to knowingly consign myself to the corprus, letting my mind deteriorate until I am such a hazard to myself or others that I need to be confined below. The corprusarium protects the lost from the persecution that comes with the corprus, and Divayth Fyr says the victims seem immune to disease and blight, and age. If I do not get cured I may well outlive the Dunmer, spending uncountable years with my body growing more grotesquely distorted and my mind raving.
My choice is clear. In the morning I must risk the potion.
Day 127: Surprising cure
Divayth Fyr is a genius; underhanded perhaps, but a genius. His potion did not cure the corprus disease. It just countered all the ill effects. I retained the extra muscle that I put on while the disease was active, and I retained the immunity to other diseases that is a side effect of having corprus. Also, since I technically already have the corprus disease I can clearly fit the prophecy that says 'the divine disease before him flees'. I can't catch what I already have. The resounding success inclines me to forgive the ancient wizard, although I was extremely angry when he gave me the potion to drink.
No one could have been more surprised when it worked than he was. He had me shut my eyes while he administered the potion. When it started taking affect I could not help but open them. Divayth Fyr and one of his daughters were there. He was observing, dictating to her as she scribed furiously in a book. The page was headed "Manner of Death'! As I took this in, the wizard started shouting. "Look!" he cried, "Alphe, Look! It's working! It's actually working." She looked up from the book with shock spread large across her face.
"I thought this was just an experiment," she said.
The wizard grabbed my chin and turned my head from side to side. "The eyes are clear," he said. "Skin normal. Open your mouth. Tongue not swollen. He appears perfectly normal." He muttered a brief incantation. Some of the words were familiar from my cure spell for common diseases. I think he tried to give me a disease of some sort. "He still has the immunity, and I can detect the corprus, but the harmful effects are completely checked." He cut my arm with a small knife. "Look, the wild regenerative effects are stopped."
I had had enough. "If you didn't think it would work why did you give me the potion?" I asked as I pressed on my wounded arm to stop the bleeding.
"To see what would happen," he said. Such are the ways of Telvanni wizards.
I spent the day recuperating. Though the disease was arrested it had left my thinking disturbed, and I applied my restorative spells to my recovery. They require substantial reserves of magica, and I rested in between castings to recover. It was during this recuperation that I came to terms with being used in Divayth Fyr's tests. Whatever the motive, in the end I could not complain about the results. A favor from Alphe Fyr also improved my disposition.
I was reclined in a bed gathering strength for another round of spell casting when she knocked on the door. She entered without waiting for a response. "There are two men looking for you," she said.
"Looking for me?" I repeated dumbly, as she was quick to point out.
"That's what I said. Your disease is inactive, you have no excuse for your thinking slower than a kagouti. They said they have been looking for a Breton friend, Arvil Bren, and that they heard he had been infected with corprus. Lord Divayth is bursting at the seams to tell everyone about you being cured. I just managed to fit in saying that you were recovering in the corprusarium before he would have dragged them in here. There is something wrong about them. You don't strike me as having friends who would look for you." Even doing me a favor she was insulting, but I must admit I couldn't think of any friends that would be looking for me either.
In fact people looking for me have a nasty habit of not being friendly at all. "Were they armed?" I asked.
"This is Vvardenfell, n'wah! Every traveler is armed, at least well enough to fend off the wild beasts, but these two carry adamantium swords, heavily enchanted."
Their armor would be under their clothes, masks and gauntlets concealed in belt pouches. "Their feet. Did they have boots on?"
"Yes. Both of them. Black boots of some fine chain mesh. You know them?" she asked.
"I know them." Dark Brotherhood. "Did they go down to the corprusarium?" I asked.
"No. We gave them a room and told them to refresh themselves, then we would take them down."
I started quickly slipping on my armor. "Want to bet that they aren't in their room? Tell your father I'm sorry. I seem to have brought a second plague into his house. This one I will cure myself."
I activated my chameleon amulet as I raced through the twisting passages of the giant tree that Telvanni magic had crafted into a mighty tower. Though I was hurrying I moved as silently as possible. It would not do to be ambushed. I released the spell when I reached the ante-chamber of the caverns, appearing suddenly before the warden, Vistha-Kai. The startled Argonian had his sword half out of it's scabbard before he recognized me. "Dangerous to sneak up on us Arvil Bren," he hissed. "Especially with little tricks."
"Tricks?" I asked.
"The noises in the stair, the opened gate." After a quick exchange it was clear. The assassins had distracted him into the stairs long enough to slip through the gate. They were in the caverns. I trusted the doughty Argonian to hold the gate against them, but assumed they would use magic to teleport away when their job was completed; if they completed it. I activated the amulet and passed through the gate.
I went straight to the center of the caverns to warn Uupse Fyr. She began playing on a guar skin drum, calling the inmates to her. It amazes me how their savagery is abated by her simple rhythms, and how much she cares for their welfare. Clearly she got the best heart from the process by which the daughters of Divayth Fyr were made. The dangerous game began.
While I am not the master of silent movement that the assassins of the Dark Brotherhood are, I have developed some skill. I crept through the passages and caverns, listening. I had an advantage. I knew they were looking for me and they didn't know I was looking for them. And there were two of them. They would coordinate their efforts. That would take sound. Like the clicking sound of a kwama worker scuttling over rocks. A sound not far out of place in such a cavern, but I knew that a kwama would have been torn to shreds by the crazed victims of the corprus. I moved silently towards the passage the sound had come from. The soft clicks came at long intervals, barely sounding above the drumming that echoed soothingly through the caves. The assassins were searching the chambers systematically, and I closed in on them.
They had to be less than ten feet away when I heard the soft whisper "dead end". I pressed into a niche in the stone wall of the passage and held my breath, straining to hear them pass. They were heading back through an area they had already searched. It made them less wary.
The fireball I cast down the passage was not designed to do a lot of damage, but it burst over a wide area, filling the passage with a sticky spray of flame and illuminating my prey. I followed it with a lightning bolt that blasted one of the assassins off his feet, then drew the Lifetaker and my Daedric shield. The second assassin was upon me. I was surprised that the adamantium blade he wielded was a typical shortsword. Most of the Dark Brotherhood's assassins I had encountered had used the wakizashi and fought in the Akiviri style that I have adopted as my own.
As I blocked the first thrust with the Daedric shield I understood. The shortsword is a piercing weapon; the damage done mostly by the point. The Daedric spirit bound in the shield increased my own native resistance to magica, but even so I felt it radiating from the point of impact. A jinkblade! Enchanted to paralyze the target. Even a pinprick wound could leave me helpless. To an Akiviri such a weapon would be the height of dishonor. I focused on defense, trusting the Daedric shield to stop the thrusting blade as well as its deathly spell.
The Akiviri were defeated by Imperial forces because they expected to fight an honorable foe. The second assassin had gathered his footing and was charging towards us. His adamantium shortsword appeared to be a twin, and I had no doubt it would be a jinkblade as well. The Akiviri style of the wakizashi would not serve me well against these two. They would use their number, their jinkblades, and any other advantage they could create. I dropped the Lifetaker, freeing a hand to grasp my amulet and reactivate the powerful chameleon spell that had lapsed. I dove, and rolled to a clattering halt behind a boulder jutting from the floor. As I rolled I cast a spell of silence on myself, then sprang to the top of the boulder as my opponents raced around it jabbing furiously. I bolted up the passage to put some distance between myself and the jinkblades.
I am no Akiviri. I have no scruples about jinkblades, I just appreciate the healing magic of my Lifetaker weapons more. My foes may have expected me to think their jinkblades dishonorable. I proved otherwise to them. I carry my own dishonorable armaments.
In my quiver I keep a dozen very special arrows. I have very few, and I guard them frugally for such occasions as this. I was extremely lucky when I got hit with one months ago. The assassins of the Dark Brotherhood were not. The grey shafts of holding did their deadly work. Just like jinkblades, the enchantment of the arrows paralyzes the target, leaving them defenseless to the onslaught that follows. Both assassins were reduced to stationary targets, and quickly felled. I stripped them of their valuable armor and slung the scabbarded jinkblades over my shoulder. The bodies I left to the inmates of the corprusarium.
Day 128: Mixed feelings
It is good to be home, and healthy. To relax and spend the day with friends was a luxury beyond measure. A rare luxury that I doubt I will see again for some time, if ever. The pace of my fate seems to never slacken. I must either run with it or be cast aside.
I used my recall spell to return home early this morning, surprising Ahnassi with breakfast in bed. Surprising a Khajiit, especially a Khajiit of her standing in the thieve's guild, is not easy. She laughed, and pointed out that some would consider teleporting into the house with breakfast already prepared on the tray to be cheating. Divayth Fyr's chef sets an excellent table.
Once all was settled at home I teleported to Balmora. Wyan, the smith at the fighter's guild there is one of very few smiths who will handle jinkblades. He made a fair offer on one of the adamantium shortswords and I hardly negotiated. The other has been added to my collection. I keep thinking that someday I will be able to settle peacefully and open an armorer's shop. My skill as a smith is not great, but it is adequate, and we could live a life of wealth and ease selling off the fine weapons and armor that are cluttering our basement. I am beset from all directions though. Settling peacefully does not appear likely any time soon.
When I slipped invisibly into the poorest quarters to appear at Caius' house fate gave me another huge yank forward, away from any thoughts of refuge. Caius has been recalled to Cyrodiil. He has given me a promotion; making me the highest ranking member of the Blades in Vvardenfell. Highest ranking that he knows of anyway. His intention is not for me to take over running the organization, but I will be a bit of a figurehead until he returns. If he returns. He is concerned that he may face some tough questions about his use of moon sugar. Some advice he gave me today has me wondering if he will be able to make it back.
Caius has family in Cyrodiil; family that could be put at risk if his actions don't measure up within the emperor's secret service. I, on the other hand, have none. Caius suggested I should be thinking locally. It was a hard thing to hear from the ranking spymaster, but he is anticipating the fall of the empire, or at least the loss of the eastern provinces, including Morrowind. The legions are stretched too thin to really hold them, and even at that they cost more to maintain than the income the empire generates from the provinces they govern. The emperor is not well, and the succession is not clear. Recall of the legions to maintain order through what may be a very difficult transition will effectively return Morrowind to the Dunmer; to the rule of the great houses and the temple. The Nerevarine is supposed to drive out the outlanders. What if they just leave?
My final stop in Balmora was at the guild hall. I have never spoken of my activities with the Blades, and Ranis never asks; but nothing escapes her watchful red eyes. Her network of information is certainly different from Caius', but has apparently led her to some similar conclusions. Our conversation avoided the questions of why and when, but did explore how the guild would operate in a free Morrowind. It becomes clearer with each passing moment that replacing Trebonius is imperative. If the legions leave House Telvanni would immediately strike the guild, and with that buffoon at the helm our ship will surely be sunk.
Ahnassi and I had dinner at the Halfway Tavern and danced through the evening to top off a day free of my fate. Tomorrow I, like the sun, must rise to the occasion.
Day 129: Jailbreak
I set out this morning to reestablish contact with Mehra Milo, Caius' contact in the main temple library in Vivec. He had told me that she had information on the Dissident Priests and possibly the lost Nerevarine prophecies. He was also concerned for her safety. Justifiably so, as it turns out.
Rather than teleporting I opted to leave early and walk through the countryside. The beauty of the Ascadian Isles region cannot be denied, and it gave me a good backdrop for reviewing Caius' guidance to 'think locally'. I had hoped to be able to reduce the multitude of directions I am being pulled in, but had no luck. Basically all of my problems are local problems it seems, except the Dark Brotherhood, and there doesn't seem to be much to be done about that vile crew.
The cantons of Vivec rose majestically above the mists of the bay. Between bringing the dreamer prophet to justice and pursuing the pilgrimages of the temple I have made headway in my relations with the Ordinators. They still call me outlander when they greet me, but I no longer hear 'scum' hissed on the end of it when I pass. I'm glad. It is a beautiful city. Too beautiful to have it spoiled by strained relations with the officers of the law. I hope my part in today's events goes completely unremarked.
When I reached the temple library I could not find Mehra Milo. Despite my pilgrimages I did not want to draw the attention to her that being asked after by an outlander would undoubtedly bring, and if she had run afoul of the temple hierarchy I did not want to bring attention on myself either. There was some hope that today was just her day off. I went to her quarters, being careful that I was not observed turning into the hall that leads to her door. I knocked, but used an opening spell to gain access quickly, before being seen. There would have been nothing gained by waiting. She was not there.
On a table inside her quarters I found a note addressed to Amaya. Amaya is a code word Mehra Milo and Caius had agreed upon. It meant she was in trouble. Without knowing that the contents of the note would have been innocuous enough. Knowing that put an entirely different light on a reference to her work requiring a trip to the hall of justice, with the possibility of being "tied up for hours", and a question about whether the fictitious 'Amaya' was ready to return the teleportation scrolls she had borrowed. I hurried to the guild hall and picked up some scrolls, then used my recall spell to return home and prepare for what had to be done.
I returned to Vivec City late in the afternoon, this time by teleporting direct to the temple. When I appeared on the steps of the High Fane I went directly to the edge of the plaza and used my levitation spell to cross the narrows of the bay, landing on the shore west of the city near the Ebonheart road. To all appearances I was merely a traveler headed to Ebonheart, using the magical means at my disposal to hurry along my way. So it would appear, unless the observer followed me further on as I ducked into a thick stand of brush to remove my robe, revealing the Dark Brotherhood chainmail.
I pulled the hood over my head and donned the black gauntlets. The armor, my chameleon spell, and the setting sun at my back would conceal my approach. I levitated back towards the city, rising to the tiny moon suspended above the High Fane by the mighty spells of Vivec during his battles with the Daedra; the moon now honeycombed with the passages of the hall of justice. The door was stout, with a lock so complex that it took my most powerful spell of opening. I crept inside.
Although my armor may have concealed my identity I had no desire to raise a general alarm. I crept through the passages, avoiding the Ordinators on patrol as well as those who were going about whatever other business had brought them here. I could not escape the eerie feeling of being in a carven stone underground passage while knowing that I was suspended high above the city. Should the spells of suspension fail the carnage will be unbounded.
I found the main detention cells, and brazenly stole the keys from the guard's desk. Brazenly may be overstating. I actually crept to the desk on my belly, cloaked in chameleon spells and praying silently to the divines for assistance in moving undetected. With key in hand I slid from shadowy corner to sheltered niche surveying the prisoners. I wondered about many of them. What crime had brought them to this hall? Was there justice in their case? Today I had no time to satisfy those questions. I avoided guards and prisoners with equal effort until I spotted the coppery hair of Mehra Milo through the tiny barred window of a cell door. I slipped inside and released my chameleon spell as I slid back the black mask.
"Arvil Bren!" she cried, in an appropriately hushed tone. "You found my note?" It wasn't really a question, and she hurriedly continued, "Did you bring a divine intervention scroll?" I drew the teleportation scroll from my sleeve and pressed it into her hand. "Listen, we must depart quickly; you especially. We will draw less attention if we appear separately, though in that armor you are going to be noticed..."
I cut her off. "I have my own exit plan. Where do we meet?"
"The Dissident Priests have a monastery..." She quickly gave me the directions, and the information I would need to gain access, then she read the scroll and disappeared in a swirl of magica, bound for the nearest Imperial Shrine, probably at Ebonheart Castle. I cast my own recall spell and returned home once more. When she is found to have escaped hopefully no connection to me will even cross a mind.
Day 130:Council of the guild stewards
I want to give Mehra Milo time to reach the monastery of the Dissident Priests. I thought that clearing up some loose ends in the Mage's Guild would give her some time. I may have been too right for my own good. By the time these loose ends are taken care of she may well have been able to crawl the length of Azura's Coast on her knees.
When I teleported into Balmora this morning and told Ranis about meeting the last survivor of the Dwemer her red eyes flew so wide I was afraid they might pop out of her head. "Trebonius gives you an impossible mission as a way to get rid of you," she said, "sending you out to solve the mystery of the age, and a week later you find a Dwemer. He is going to birth a litter of nix hounds right there on the spot when he hears this."
"That would be interesting Ranis," I said, "but technically I haven't completed the task yet. Trebonius could very well bluff out that Yagram doesn't really know what happened either. I want to wait for the translations of Egg of Time and Divine Metaphysics before I tell him about it."
"But surely," she protested, "you have discovered something beyond anything that pompous fool could have expected. This has got to be reported! The very foundations of magecraft could be shaken. You can't keep information like that to yourself."
"I'm not. I told you."
Slowly a grin twitched the corners of her mouth, then broke into a full smile. "You devious s'wit! You are leaving him out of the biggest discovery of the age, based on his own demands! He will have no one to blame but himself."
"Well, not really," I admitted. "He is going to blame me, no doubt about that, but he won't be able to make that stick when it is obvious that I wasn't trying to keep anything to myself. I will stand behind saying that I was just trying to fulfill his instructions to the best of my ability. We have to make sure that the guild sees things my way, but there is no question that Trebonius won't. He is going to be furious."
"Arvil, he has risen to power in the guild because he is a master of the school of destruction. He is liable to roast you in a fit of anger. The guild's agreement that you were in the right will roll heavily against him, but that won't bring you back from the dead."
"Then I guess I'll have to keep myself alive; won't I?"
Skink-in-trees-shade and Edwinna arrived in the afternoon. Due to her rank it fell to Ranis to bring them up to date. Edwinna was ready to depart immediately for the corprusarium at Tel Fyr. "Edwinna," Ranis said in her most reasonable tones, "you are an outlander. I say that as a fact, not a slur. An outlander of tremendous talent and ability, but you sometimes don't look at the big picture of guiding the guild here in Morrowind. First of all, do you think Divayth Fyr is just going to allow a train of guild members, headed by a hall steward no less, to barge around his tower. He is a Telvanni, and one of the most ancient wizards of my race. I can tell you that he is not."
In the excitement Edwinna was a little carried away, but she does understand the politics. She wouldn't have been appointed to her current position otherwise. She sat back down. "You plan to use this information to bring down Trebonius," she sighed.
"Not my plan," Ranis replied. "His." They all looked at me.
"We are here and Trebonius is not," Skink said. "He can be shown once again to be out of touch with events, but intentionally keeping him in the dark makes us wrong, not him."
"His task for me was to find out what happened to the Dwarves. I haven't done that yet. He was very clear about not wanting to see me around unless I accomplished my task, so he won't."
"But you are telling us," Edwinna said. "That shows that you know the value of the information. You know it has to be reported. The Guild stands for the sharing and spreading of information and magic. You can't keep something like a surviving Dwemer a secret."
"I'm not! I'm telling plenty of people, people who are my superiors in the guild. I'm not hiding it or being ignorant of its significance. I'm just being thorough in completing my task. Edwinna, I'm only talking to you because you are a valuable source of information on the Dwemer. I'll be delivering the translations of the Dwemer books first into your hands to complete the research. Everyone knows Trebonius is no scholar. That will be the best thing to do, no one but him will question that. Ranis, you told me I need a wizard's staff, I'm working on getting one. We are only discussing how I can fit that in with my primary responsibility, which is to the Archmage. Skink, you said there was a necromancer in the guild. She fled Telvanni territory. She is somewhere in the West Gash or the Bitter Coast. I'm only able to take care of that for you because I'm headed there anyway on a mission from the Archmage. I'm not reporting this find to you, I'm just letting you know that I can take care of your necromancer while I pick up the Dwemer translations for Trebonius. There is no harm in taking care of your problem on the same trip, no crime in telling you why I am making that trip."
"He is devious as a Dunmer," Edwinna muttered.
"He has learned a lot from one," Skink said with a glance at Ranis, "and learned it well."
I am hiding at Caius' house. I have calmed considerably, partly because the corprus disease does not seem to be advancing very rapidly. I have noticed a slight heaviness to my muscles, and I am perhaps a tick slower in my thoughts, but that is hard to judge. Caius assures me that I seem normal to him, except for a slight slackening in my face. In some ways I appreciate him more than ever, in others I am furious with him.
I awoke this morning in the Sixth House base at Ilinubi, feeling fortunate to be alive. I slept heavily, tortured by strange dreams, and could have easily been dispatched by some passing horror. I suspect this heavy dream filled sleep is a part of the disease, and I will have to take particular care in choosing where I sleep. I face a daunting journey, and I am excluded from any tradehouse or other shelter. I also obviously cannot negotiate any sort of transport. No caravaner would allow me on a strider, and I cannot risk entering a guild hall. I must travel the backwaters and byways, on foot.
My destination lies deep in Telvanni territory; almost completely across Vvardenfell. At Tel Fyr an ancient Telvanni wizard has been studying the disease. Divayth Fyr apparently runs what he calls a 'corprusarium', giving shelter to those who bear the corprus as he continues his research. Caius believes that Fyr has found a cure, and suggests that the wizard may be swayed by supplying him with a rare Dwemer artifact that Caius provided me. I am very grateful to the spymaster for providing this priceless item, but still agravated at the tune he has been playing for me to dance along.
He has been investigating cures for the corprus for some time. I could look at this as providence, or forethought. The deeper element though is that he fully expected to need the information because he expected me to catch the disease. When he sent me on the mission against Dagoth Gares he stepped up his efforts, because he was almost certain I would come back cursed with corprus. He could have warned me, instead of quietly preparing for this. When I angrily exploded at him his eyes narrowed and he looked first angry, then pained. "Arvil, I would rather not have sent you into this, but there are men I have sent to their deaths, good men. I would rather not have done that as well. I have done what I've done. I live with it. Hopefully you will too. If you don't I'll have to live with that as well." For the first time I realized that Caius disguise as an old man comes naturally enough to him. He carries a great weight. For obvious reasons I hope not to add myself to the burdens of his conscience.
Day 122: A message for Dagoth Ur
Months ago, while on a mission for Ranis, I took shelter in a cavern. Inside that cavern I encountered what I now know was a corprus stalker. The corprus stalker, the red candles; clear signs of a Sixth House base that I did not recognize then. Now I know. This time I am here for more than just shelter.
I left Caius' house under cover of darkness, with my chameleon amulet blending me into the hillside as I climbed the ridge east of Balmora. I paused to look back from the top, then slowly descended; my pace dragged down by a heavy heart. If I do not find a cure I will likely never see Balmora again.
The corprus disease is affecting my thoughts. Throughout the day images distracted me from my journey, rising unbidden to my mind. Most of them were scenes from my time in Balmora; with Ajira, Galbedir, Ranis; at the Southwall Cornerclub; wreaking havoc at the Council Club. Amongst the familiar memories though there floated occasional glimpses that I know are from dreams. Dreams that speak for Dagoth Ur.
I crossed the Foyada Mamaca and toiled up the the trail that winds around the ruins of Arkngthand. The trek was uneventful. My skills with the bow are thus far unaffected, and I felled the wild creatures that chose to attack me before they could reach me for the most part. My goal was this base, and I reached it well before nightfall.
Dagoth Gares said that unless I travel to Red Mountain and bow before Dagoth Ur I will be treated as an enemy. I expected to be met and challenged as I entered, and the minions of Dagoth Ur did not disappoint me. Great showers of sparks cast an eerie illumination over the entry cavern and the walls dripped with venomous green magica as ash ghouls and zombies charged to the defense of the base. I dodged the greater concentrations of their magical attacks, but I noted a slight awkwardness, a hesitation. Knowing I have contracted the corprus is perhaps slowing me down more than the symptoms of the disease. My every move gets replayed in my mind, looking for the hints of the transformation that is bound to overtake me. The arrows sped true from my bow despite my concerns. The evil creatures of House Dagoth fell in showers of ash. They seem to have no blood.
It appeared as if most of the creatures of the base fell defending the entry chamber, but I was cautious as I continued into the depths. A healing potion coursed through me repairing the damage done by shock and poison from the spells, as well as cuts and scratches from the claws of the ash zombies. The passages tightened and I drew my sword. I slowed and slipped into the shadows as I neared a branching of tunnels marked by a raised platform.
On the dais stood two great iron coffers flanking a three sided obelisk. Tapered red candles burned in gracefully carved candlesticks set in ornate niches on all three faces of the triolith, which stood as tall as me. In one of the lidless coffers the abandoned goods of sleepers gathered dust. A gleaming axe, a sharp chitin spear; no longer of use to those who allowed themselves to be consumed into the cult; consumed quite literally. The other coffer held slabs and chunks of flesh; undoubtedly the freely given flesh of those who chose the corprus not as a curse, but as a welcome relief from pain and injury. I hurried onward.
In a deeper chamber I found the bells, and the mighty hammer which is used to ring them, calling the sleepers from their slumbers to participate in the rites of their own undoing. I swung the hammer, splintering the supports. The great bells hit the floor with final clangings. With the stone deadening their chime I beat them into misshapen heaps of iron. They will call no more minions to the cause of the enemy. A small blow against Dagoth Ur, perhaps too small for him even to notice, but I doubt that. I believe my actions here will send an unmistakable signal to the head of House Dagoth; a signal that I am not ready to surrender.
Day 123: Uncharted ruin
Today I traveled through unfamiliar wilderness; unfamiliar to me, and I suspect seldom seen. The Telvanni have settled along the eastern coast of Vvardenfell, mostly on the numerous offshore islands. The eastern grazelands they have left mostly to the Ashlanders, though there are some conflicts. Even the Ashlanders do not travel inland very much, onto the long slopes of Red Mountain known as Molag Amur.
I kept to a mostly eastward path. Ancient trees petrified by ash dot the landscape, and in places give evidence of great forests lost to the fury of the volcano. Pools of bubbling lava seep from the stone to relieve pressure, but clearly demonstrate that the mountain is quiet, but not dead. The cliff racers glide overhead on still wings, lofted by the rising heat. They scour the terrain for a meal, but even they do not nest here. The desolation is near complete. To live here a creature must subsist mostly on magica and heat. There are few that can do so, but around midday I encountered one such monster.
My progress was blocked by a steep ridge of cracked stone. I turned south along the base, seeking an access to the top that did not require levitation. The broken rock did not defy purchase, and I reasoned that a lesser slope could not be far out of my way. Soon I was proven correct and resumed my eastward journey by clambering upwards. I paused atop the ridge, surprised to see a narrow path winding along the base of the further slope. In the arid waste the path could have been cut a week ago, or a thousand years ago. It may have been made by the endless pacing of the great green behemoth that strode purposefully along it, then for no apparent reason turned back the other way. The pacing monster turned at random making no real progress in either direction.
It strode on great legs, each like the trunk of a tree, that ended in great round pads. Three large claws distinguished the front of the leg from the rear, but no discernible foot protruded. The mighty legs held up the weight of a hugely distended belly, arms which also reminded me of tree trunks, and a great dome of a head split by a huge maw. The beast's green skin grated with scales as it moved, and even high above on the ridge I could almost feel the jarring vibration of its ponderous tread.
I considered my options. I could have waited until the erratic random pacing took the monster away to north or south. I could have used my amulet and my stealth to slip across the trail without being noticed. I did not want to wait perched on the hot rock, and I did not want to risk being caught on the flat road. I deemed it better to use the advantage the steep slope gave me and brought forth my bow.
The first arrow buried itself in the green scaly neck of the creature. It seemed that it could have been a fatal shot, but the monster turned with a roar and began lumbering up the slope. I stood my ground, launching shaft after shaft into the great green bulk. It was not long before I actually could feel the strike of each heavy footfall. Fortunately the ponderous gait and the slope prevented a rapid rush, and shot after shot punctured the green flesh.
As the great beast neared I leapt to the top of a rocky spire to gain every possible second. Small tusks flanked the crevasse of the beasts mouth. Beady eyes glared, puzzled, from pits in the bulbous flesh of the face. Hot moist breath roared over rows of teeth as the huge bellows of the chest fell with each mighty exhalation. The arrows were taking a slow toll, and bloody froth flew forth to spatter my boots as the monster gained the top of the ridge. I put a final red fletched arrow into the beast, striking the soft palate inside the gaping mouth, then dropped my bow and drew the Lifetaker sword from its scabbard.
I was wary of the great arms, which could have grappled me in a bone crushing hug from which there would be no escape. I also recognized that even though the teeth lining the great mouth were neither large nor sharp the mighty jaws could snap with shattering force. The monster glared its fury, but stopped its hulking charge with me still just out of reach. The great chest heaved. The eyes glazed. The massive titan wavered, then toppled backwards onto the rock with a shattering crash that nearly shook me off of the spire on which I was perched.. I recognized the monster from conversations, and my study of the Book of Daedra. Why an Ogrim, either summoned or escaped from the nether planes of the Daedra, patrolled this abandoned road I shall never know. It patrols no longer.
The setting sun disappeared early behind the great mountain at my back. I continued in the shadowed daylight, but now it is near dark and I am forced to camp in the open and hope for the best. The dream addled sleep of the corprus disease cannot be stayed. In the distance great spires rise. A mighty Dwemer ruin which in the morning I must pass, or avoid.
Day 124: River of fire
I awoke this morning with the sun rising over the gleaming Dwemer towers on the horizon. The ruins held my gaze as I ate my breakfast. I fear this corprus disease. I roasted the last of my nix hound, and the usually tangy meat tasted bland. The zesty hackle-lo leaf was like chewing paper. Food seems to have lost its flavor, and at the same time the journey through the wastes of Molag Amur has depleted my supplies. The idea rose unbidden, cloaked in curiosity, but my corprus ridden flesh would grow back if I took off a small piece. It would be easier than hunting, and perhaps it would have some flavor. I was disgusted at the thought, but it kept coming back throughout the day.
A great ridge running down from red mountain ends abruptly, falling away like a cut off stump. The shoulder created at the end of the ridge offers commanding views of the valley below, spread on three sides. At one time it must have been beautiful, and the great Dwemer castle an enviable palace. The valley now is filled with the petrified husks of trees, and where once perhaps flowed a mighty river a jagged fissure seeps molten stone. The devastated towers shimmer in the rising heat. A huge bridge of Dwemer metal spans the gap to the next ridge running down from the mountain, offering an easy path to continue my journey. An easy path had the bridge been unguarded.
As I drew near I could see what could have been a statue of gleaming golden armor. It could have been a statue, but it was not. The golden armor was actually the unnatural skin of a legendary golden saint, conjured in the untold past to guard the bridge. Although its masters were long gone, the creature still stood to its task, and as I approached the bridge it drew an ebony bladed broadsword. A shield dangled by straps from the saint's left arm, and as it brought it up and to the ready I recognized it as Daedric; nearly impenetrable even for Lifetaker, my Daedric wakizashi. My own shield of dreugh hide would not be near as effective against the ebony blade, but it is lighter and more maneuverable. The creature stood, poised on the balls of its feet, blade raised at the ready. I eased from side to side, stopped by the railings on either edge of the bridge. Only the yellow eyes moved, tracking me.
I knew that the enchantment of the Lifetaker was my only advantage, but I worried about my lack of skills. I have been practicing the Akiviri styles, but I am nowhere near as comfortable with them as I am with the spear. Against the inhuman skills of a golden saint I was afraid I would be found wanting; found wanting and sentenced to death. I cast my defensive spells and took the fateful step forward, the one step too far onto the bridge that its defender could not abide.
I intentionally approached along the right hand railing, to give myself room, and as the saint sprang to the attack I countered with an Akiviri spinning back slash. Stepping left and forwards I dodged the thrust of the broadsword and slammed the flat of the blade with my shield, then continued to rotate, bringing the slashing edge of the wakizashi to bear on the saint's right side, away from its shield. Unfortunately the golden saint is masterful in many styles with many weapons. It rode with the push of my shield and the slashing blade met only air at the most powerful point of the stroke. The last trailing swipe of the tip connected lightly with the saint's armored hide, doing little damage, and the magical nature of the creature resisted the Lifetaking enchantment. In return I took a clout to the shoulder from the flat of the heavy ebony blade. Not an effective swing, but given the defensive movements the creature had executed connecting at all was an impressive display of swordsmanship.
After that first clash of blades I detected a tactical advantage that I hoped would even the odds with my opponent's expertise. I continued moving to my left, on an angle that carried me further onto the bridge. A swordsman of the saint's great skill would normally have continued to their left also, circling away from my shield and jabbing with the longer stouter blade of the broadsword. The saint moved right instead, cutting off my access to the bridge. Its assigned task would limit its options; a limitation I hoped that I could exploit. I immediately launched an attack to try to take advantage.
The wakizashi is a very responsive weapon, using quick movements of the wrist to bring its keen edge to bear. I lunged, again to the left for what would look like a passing attack with another backhanded slash. The saint was compelled to shift to its right to cut off the pass, bringing the broadsword up vertically to block the expected slash. With a twist of the wrist the wakizashi whirled a graceful circle and dragged across the golden chest. There was little force behind it, but the sharp blade left a thin bloody furrow as it slid off. In return I took a hard blow to the shoulder, but I was well inside the effective arc of the broadsword. Near the hilt the ebony blade struck with only the force of the saints arm behind it, not the momentum of the heavy blade, and my armor was equal to the task. The force of the blow drove us apart. Warier than ever the saint moved to prevent even a semblance of a passing attack.
I had drawn blood, twice, but done little damage. The wakizashi would continue to leave shallow slices across my enemy's golden flesh, eventually carrying the day if I could avoid taking a severe blow from the heavy broadsword. The Akiviri call swordplay 'the dance of death'. In an individual battle like I had with the saint it is very effective against the heavier swords of the empire. The Akiviri fight for honor. In the empire their methods frequently fail against the blades of their foes, who feel no remorse at wading in in sufficient numbers to constrain the artistic movements and batter down the Akiviri with their clumsy heavy blows. I was grateful that the saint stood against me alone.
The critical turn of the battle hinged not on swordplay, but on enchantment. The saint was bleeding lightly from a half dozen wounds. My shoulder was stiffening from the first heavy blow it had taken, compounded by a crashing swipe it had absorbed from the heavy Daedric shield. I was also bleeding badly from a hard chop that had slid off my shield and torn through the muscles of my upper left arm. I could still manage the shield to my defense, but I was weakening. Then the saint's powerful magic resistance slipped briefly, and the healing energies of the Lifetaker drew upon my opponent's life force to heal my wounds. Not quite completely, but well enough to push the battle firmly into my favor. A few more exchanges and the weakened saint was no longer quick enough. The wakizashi sliced through the tendons of the wrist and the broadsword clattered to the metal deck of the bridge. The saint was defenseless as a final spinning backslash crossed its throat, cutting to the bone. I added the broadsword to my already heavy pack, and claimed the Daedric shield as my own.
I feel somewhat safer tonight as I make camp. The barren wastes of Molag Amur are behind me and I have reached the coast. Even my deep and dream addled sleep should not put me at terrible risk from the rats, mudcrabs, and beetles that make their homes here. Tomorrow I should reach Tel Fyr.
Day 125: The good wizard
Divayth Fyr is a most rare individual. He is quite probably the oldest Dunmer I have ever seen, by his own reckoning perhaps the oldest alive. As he says "Ancient wizards need projects to keep them occupied." So many wizards keep themselves occupied by turning to games of power that enslave or harm the less fortunate masses. Divayth Fyr is different; perhaps unique. He keeps the Corprusarium.
I entered Tel Fyr hesitantly. The Telvanni have not made me welcome, and I did not expect any different here. I was wrong. I was greeted by a beautiful Dunmer woman. From her name, Delte Fyr, it was clear that she is kin to Divayth Fyr, but I could not quite figure out if she was wife or daughter. She greeted me warmly, expressed sympathy for my slowly worsening case of corprus, and gave me directions to Divayth Fyr's study. Adding to my surprise she told me "I'm sure he won't mind being disturbed." Most retainers of wizards I have met guard their master's privacy as if their lives depended on it. Frequently that is because their lives do depend on it. Sometimes it is because they are tired of cleaning up the ashes that visitors are reduced to by their inhospitable masters.
I did find the wizard in his study, and despite Delte's assurances I was surprised at being welcomed. Having the corprus disease did help I suppose, as he is clearly fascinated by it. He examined me thoroughly, and demonstrated his expertise by proclaiming that I had carried the disease for approximately five days, having contracted it by direct curse rather than from contagion contact with another diseased person. I complimented him on the accuracy of his diagnosis, then asked what he had discovered regarding a cure. My hopes were dashed when he said that he had not found one. He has developed a potion based on his theories about the disease that he believes should cure it, but it has killed every test subject he has tried it on so far.
The aged wizard spent much of his afternoon conversing with me. He expanded on his theories, which mostly were far beyond my understanding. Occasionally he would pause, and write a brief note in a large journal. "Explaining my theory invariably gives me insights into areas for further research. I hope you don't mind," he said with surprising courtesy at the first such pause. I did not mind at all. My only hope was that he would have some sudden insight into a cure.
Perhaps the strangest part of his lecture was the story of his 'daughters'. It is no wonder I was not able to grasp the relationship between Delte Fyr and the wizard. She and her three 'sisters' are a byproduct of the wizard's research. He grew them from samples of his own flesh using the regenerative properties of the corprus disease. Though they are difficult to tell apart by looking at them they all have different temperaments apparently. Delte meticulously manages the accounts of the tower and surprisingly, and as I had already noted she is friendly in a businesslike way. Alfe, who I also met today, is in some ways the brightest of the lot according to the wizard, but some significant portion of her intellect is reserved for guiding her sharp tongue. When we met she smiled slightly, a mere twitch at the corners of her mouth, then she said "You do have the corprus disease. Why aren't you in the caverns with the rest of the monsters?" I will be venturing into those caverns tomorrow, where I will be meeting Uupse Fyr. She takes care of the corprus victims.
Tonight I am staying in a guest room. Divayth Fyr says that my case is not advanced enough to confine me to the caverns. The other inmates would be inclined to kill me. He does want me to go down into the corprusarium tomorrow though. He has an errand I can do for him there, and he wants me to see clearly what it is like for myself. He wants to try his latest potion on me. I suppose he thinks that once I see the alternative I will be more inclined to take the risk. As he points out I have nothing to lose.
Day 126: Corprusarium
Today I toured Divayth Fyr's corprusarium. I would call it more of a dungeon. The caverns under the tower are damp and dark. Of course the denizens are so far gone with the disease that they really don't know the difference. Most of them anyway. Yagrum Bagarn is well aware of his surroundings, most of the time anyway.
My errand for the wizard took me deep into the corprusarium, to the home of Yagrum Bagarn. His corprus is far enough advanced that the other inmates leave him alone. It should be. He was the first guest of the corprusarium; the first case of corprus that Divayth Fyr ever encountered. Yagrum Bagarn is even older than the ancient wizard. In his younger days Yagrum Bagarn was an associate of Kagrenak, reputedly the greatest enchanter of all time. Kagrenak was the Dwemer master of the stronghold in Red Mountain. Yagrum Bagarn is a dwarf; quite possibly the last surviving Dwemer.
Other than my imminent descent into madness from the corprus disease I seem to be on an astonishing run of good fortune. I found someone to translate my Dwemer books, and now I have met and interviewed the last of the Dwemer. Should I survive I can look forward to Trebonius' response when I come back with the answer to the riddle of the Dwemer's disappearance. There is no doubt that it was an assignment he never intended for me to complete.
Kagrenak had a plan. His theory involved using very powerful artifacts to drive an enchantment that would improve the Dwemer race. Among the Dwemer there was opposition, with many saying that it would be too dangerous. Apparently, either on his own or with the approval of the Dwemer council Kagrenak began experimenting with his ideas, perhaps driven by the Dunmer invasion of Red Mountain. Yagrum Bagarn was on a mission to what he calls an 'outer plane'. He returned to find the great halls of the Dwemer desolate; the experiment gone horribly wrong. The opponents of Kagrenak's theory were afraid that the Dwemer could find themselves shifted to some inhospitable alternate plane of existence, if not destroyed outright. It would appear that they were correct.
If I do not survive I will forward this journal to Ranis in Balmora. It seems a waste for this information to die with me, or be lost in the madness of the corprusarium. Ranis will make sure Trebonius doesn't get to use it for his own aggrandizement.
In his lucid moments Yagrum Bagarn has been working on a pair of enchanted boots that Divayth Fyr acquired. I brought them to the wizard with the dwarf's well educated estimate that they are terminally flawed. Now I face a testing.
The wizard has a potion ready. He has made some minor corrections. He says it may work because of the improvements, and it may work because I may be the Nerevarine. Nothing he says even remotely approaches a promise that it will work, or even a suggestion that if it doesn't I will still be alive, though still with the corprus. My choice though is to knowingly consign myself to the corprus, letting my mind deteriorate until I am such a hazard to myself or others that I need to be confined below. The corprusarium protects the lost from the persecution that comes with the corprus, and Divayth Fyr says the victims seem immune to disease and blight, and age. If I do not get cured I may well outlive the Dunmer, spending uncountable years with my body growing more grotesquely distorted and my mind raving.
My choice is clear. In the morning I must risk the potion.
Day 127: Surprising cure
Divayth Fyr is a genius; underhanded perhaps, but a genius. His potion did not cure the corprus disease. It just countered all the ill effects. I retained the extra muscle that I put on while the disease was active, and I retained the immunity to other diseases that is a side effect of having corprus. Also, since I technically already have the corprus disease I can clearly fit the prophecy that says 'the divine disease before him flees'. I can't catch what I already have. The resounding success inclines me to forgive the ancient wizard, although I was extremely angry when he gave me the potion to drink.
No one could have been more surprised when it worked than he was. He had me shut my eyes while he administered the potion. When it started taking affect I could not help but open them. Divayth Fyr and one of his daughters were there. He was observing, dictating to her as she scribed furiously in a book. The page was headed "Manner of Death'! As I took this in, the wizard started shouting. "Look!" he cried, "Alphe, Look! It's working! It's actually working." She looked up from the book with shock spread large across her face.
"I thought this was just an experiment," she said.
The wizard grabbed my chin and turned my head from side to side. "The eyes are clear," he said. "Skin normal. Open your mouth. Tongue not swollen. He appears perfectly normal." He muttered a brief incantation. Some of the words were familiar from my cure spell for common diseases. I think he tried to give me a disease of some sort. "He still has the immunity, and I can detect the corprus, but the harmful effects are completely checked." He cut my arm with a small knife. "Look, the wild regenerative effects are stopped."
I had had enough. "If you didn't think it would work why did you give me the potion?" I asked as I pressed on my wounded arm to stop the bleeding.
"To see what would happen," he said. Such are the ways of Telvanni wizards.
I spent the day recuperating. Though the disease was arrested it had left my thinking disturbed, and I applied my restorative spells to my recovery. They require substantial reserves of magica, and I rested in between castings to recover. It was during this recuperation that I came to terms with being used in Divayth Fyr's tests. Whatever the motive, in the end I could not complain about the results. A favor from Alphe Fyr also improved my disposition.
I was reclined in a bed gathering strength for another round of spell casting when she knocked on the door. She entered without waiting for a response. "There are two men looking for you," she said.
"Looking for me?" I repeated dumbly, as she was quick to point out.
"That's what I said. Your disease is inactive, you have no excuse for your thinking slower than a kagouti. They said they have been looking for a Breton friend, Arvil Bren, and that they heard he had been infected with corprus. Lord Divayth is bursting at the seams to tell everyone about you being cured. I just managed to fit in saying that you were recovering in the corprusarium before he would have dragged them in here. There is something wrong about them. You don't strike me as having friends who would look for you." Even doing me a favor she was insulting, but I must admit I couldn't think of any friends that would be looking for me either.
In fact people looking for me have a nasty habit of not being friendly at all. "Were they armed?" I asked.
"This is Vvardenfell, n'wah! Every traveler is armed, at least well enough to fend off the wild beasts, but these two carry adamantium swords, heavily enchanted."
Their armor would be under their clothes, masks and gauntlets concealed in belt pouches. "Their feet. Did they have boots on?"
"Yes. Both of them. Black boots of some fine chain mesh. You know them?" she asked.
"I know them." Dark Brotherhood. "Did they go down to the corprusarium?" I asked.
"No. We gave them a room and told them to refresh themselves, then we would take them down."
I started quickly slipping on my armor. "Want to bet that they aren't in their room? Tell your father I'm sorry. I seem to have brought a second plague into his house. This one I will cure myself."
I activated my chameleon amulet as I raced through the twisting passages of the giant tree that Telvanni magic had crafted into a mighty tower. Though I was hurrying I moved as silently as possible. It would not do to be ambushed. I released the spell when I reached the ante-chamber of the caverns, appearing suddenly before the warden, Vistha-Kai. The startled Argonian had his sword half out of it's scabbard before he recognized me. "Dangerous to sneak up on us Arvil Bren," he hissed. "Especially with little tricks."
"Tricks?" I asked.
"The noises in the stair, the opened gate." After a quick exchange it was clear. The assassins had distracted him into the stairs long enough to slip through the gate. They were in the caverns. I trusted the doughty Argonian to hold the gate against them, but assumed they would use magic to teleport away when their job was completed; if they completed it. I activated the amulet and passed through the gate.
I went straight to the center of the caverns to warn Uupse Fyr. She began playing on a guar skin drum, calling the inmates to her. It amazes me how their savagery is abated by her simple rhythms, and how much she cares for their welfare. Clearly she got the best heart from the process by which the daughters of Divayth Fyr were made. The dangerous game began.
While I am not the master of silent movement that the assassins of the Dark Brotherhood are, I have developed some skill. I crept through the passages and caverns, listening. I had an advantage. I knew they were looking for me and they didn't know I was looking for them. And there were two of them. They would coordinate their efforts. That would take sound. Like the clicking sound of a kwama worker scuttling over rocks. A sound not far out of place in such a cavern, but I knew that a kwama would have been torn to shreds by the crazed victims of the corprus. I moved silently towards the passage the sound had come from. The soft clicks came at long intervals, barely sounding above the drumming that echoed soothingly through the caves. The assassins were searching the chambers systematically, and I closed in on them.
They had to be less than ten feet away when I heard the soft whisper "dead end". I pressed into a niche in the stone wall of the passage and held my breath, straining to hear them pass. They were heading back through an area they had already searched. It made them less wary.
The fireball I cast down the passage was not designed to do a lot of damage, but it burst over a wide area, filling the passage with a sticky spray of flame and illuminating my prey. I followed it with a lightning bolt that blasted one of the assassins off his feet, then drew the Lifetaker and my Daedric shield. The second assassin was upon me. I was surprised that the adamantium blade he wielded was a typical shortsword. Most of the Dark Brotherhood's assassins I had encountered had used the wakizashi and fought in the Akiviri style that I have adopted as my own.
As I blocked the first thrust with the Daedric shield I understood. The shortsword is a piercing weapon; the damage done mostly by the point. The Daedric spirit bound in the shield increased my own native resistance to magica, but even so I felt it radiating from the point of impact. A jinkblade! Enchanted to paralyze the target. Even a pinprick wound could leave me helpless. To an Akiviri such a weapon would be the height of dishonor. I focused on defense, trusting the Daedric shield to stop the thrusting blade as well as its deathly spell.
The Akiviri were defeated by Imperial forces because they expected to fight an honorable foe. The second assassin had gathered his footing and was charging towards us. His adamantium shortsword appeared to be a twin, and I had no doubt it would be a jinkblade as well. The Akiviri style of the wakizashi would not serve me well against these two. They would use their number, their jinkblades, and any other advantage they could create. I dropped the Lifetaker, freeing a hand to grasp my amulet and reactivate the powerful chameleon spell that had lapsed. I dove, and rolled to a clattering halt behind a boulder jutting from the floor. As I rolled I cast a spell of silence on myself, then sprang to the top of the boulder as my opponents raced around it jabbing furiously. I bolted up the passage to put some distance between myself and the jinkblades.
I am no Akiviri. I have no scruples about jinkblades, I just appreciate the healing magic of my Lifetaker weapons more. My foes may have expected me to think their jinkblades dishonorable. I proved otherwise to them. I carry my own dishonorable armaments.
In my quiver I keep a dozen very special arrows. I have very few, and I guard them frugally for such occasions as this. I was extremely lucky when I got hit with one months ago. The assassins of the Dark Brotherhood were not. The grey shafts of holding did their deadly work. Just like jinkblades, the enchantment of the arrows paralyzes the target, leaving them defenseless to the onslaught that follows. Both assassins were reduced to stationary targets, and quickly felled. I stripped them of their valuable armor and slung the scabbarded jinkblades over my shoulder. The bodies I left to the inmates of the corprusarium.
Day 128: Mixed feelings
It is good to be home, and healthy. To relax and spend the day with friends was a luxury beyond measure. A rare luxury that I doubt I will see again for some time, if ever. The pace of my fate seems to never slacken. I must either run with it or be cast aside.
I used my recall spell to return home early this morning, surprising Ahnassi with breakfast in bed. Surprising a Khajiit, especially a Khajiit of her standing in the thieve's guild, is not easy. She laughed, and pointed out that some would consider teleporting into the house with breakfast already prepared on the tray to be cheating. Divayth Fyr's chef sets an excellent table.
Once all was settled at home I teleported to Balmora. Wyan, the smith at the fighter's guild there is one of very few smiths who will handle jinkblades. He made a fair offer on one of the adamantium shortswords and I hardly negotiated. The other has been added to my collection. I keep thinking that someday I will be able to settle peacefully and open an armorer's shop. My skill as a smith is not great, but it is adequate, and we could live a life of wealth and ease selling off the fine weapons and armor that are cluttering our basement. I am beset from all directions though. Settling peacefully does not appear likely any time soon.
When I slipped invisibly into the poorest quarters to appear at Caius' house fate gave me another huge yank forward, away from any thoughts of refuge. Caius has been recalled to Cyrodiil. He has given me a promotion; making me the highest ranking member of the Blades in Vvardenfell. Highest ranking that he knows of anyway. His intention is not for me to take over running the organization, but I will be a bit of a figurehead until he returns. If he returns. He is concerned that he may face some tough questions about his use of moon sugar. Some advice he gave me today has me wondering if he will be able to make it back.
Caius has family in Cyrodiil; family that could be put at risk if his actions don't measure up within the emperor's secret service. I, on the other hand, have none. Caius suggested I should be thinking locally. It was a hard thing to hear from the ranking spymaster, but he is anticipating the fall of the empire, or at least the loss of the eastern provinces, including Morrowind. The legions are stretched too thin to really hold them, and even at that they cost more to maintain than the income the empire generates from the provinces they govern. The emperor is not well, and the succession is not clear. Recall of the legions to maintain order through what may be a very difficult transition will effectively return Morrowind to the Dunmer; to the rule of the great houses and the temple. The Nerevarine is supposed to drive out the outlanders. What if they just leave?
My final stop in Balmora was at the guild hall. I have never spoken of my activities with the Blades, and Ranis never asks; but nothing escapes her watchful red eyes. Her network of information is certainly different from Caius', but has apparently led her to some similar conclusions. Our conversation avoided the questions of why and when, but did explore how the guild would operate in a free Morrowind. It becomes clearer with each passing moment that replacing Trebonius is imperative. If the legions leave House Telvanni would immediately strike the guild, and with that buffoon at the helm our ship will surely be sunk.
Ahnassi and I had dinner at the Halfway Tavern and danced through the evening to top off a day free of my fate. Tomorrow I, like the sun, must rise to the occasion.
Day 129: Jailbreak
I set out this morning to reestablish contact with Mehra Milo, Caius' contact in the main temple library in Vivec. He had told me that she had information on the Dissident Priests and possibly the lost Nerevarine prophecies. He was also concerned for her safety. Justifiably so, as it turns out.
Rather than teleporting I opted to leave early and walk through the countryside. The beauty of the Ascadian Isles region cannot be denied, and it gave me a good backdrop for reviewing Caius' guidance to 'think locally'. I had hoped to be able to reduce the multitude of directions I am being pulled in, but had no luck. Basically all of my problems are local problems it seems, except the Dark Brotherhood, and there doesn't seem to be much to be done about that vile crew.
The cantons of Vivec rose majestically above the mists of the bay. Between bringing the dreamer prophet to justice and pursuing the pilgrimages of the temple I have made headway in my relations with the Ordinators. They still call me outlander when they greet me, but I no longer hear 'scum' hissed on the end of it when I pass. I'm glad. It is a beautiful city. Too beautiful to have it spoiled by strained relations with the officers of the law. I hope my part in today's events goes completely unremarked.
When I reached the temple library I could not find Mehra Milo. Despite my pilgrimages I did not want to draw the attention to her that being asked after by an outlander would undoubtedly bring, and if she had run afoul of the temple hierarchy I did not want to bring attention on myself either. There was some hope that today was just her day off. I went to her quarters, being careful that I was not observed turning into the hall that leads to her door. I knocked, but used an opening spell to gain access quickly, before being seen. There would have been nothing gained by waiting. She was not there.
On a table inside her quarters I found a note addressed to Amaya. Amaya is a code word Mehra Milo and Caius had agreed upon. It meant she was in trouble. Without knowing that the contents of the note would have been innocuous enough. Knowing that put an entirely different light on a reference to her work requiring a trip to the hall of justice, with the possibility of being "tied up for hours", and a question about whether the fictitious 'Amaya' was ready to return the teleportation scrolls she had borrowed. I hurried to the guild hall and picked up some scrolls, then used my recall spell to return home and prepare for what had to be done.
I returned to Vivec City late in the afternoon, this time by teleporting direct to the temple. When I appeared on the steps of the High Fane I went directly to the edge of the plaza and used my levitation spell to cross the narrows of the bay, landing on the shore west of the city near the Ebonheart road. To all appearances I was merely a traveler headed to Ebonheart, using the magical means at my disposal to hurry along my way. So it would appear, unless the observer followed me further on as I ducked into a thick stand of brush to remove my robe, revealing the Dark Brotherhood chainmail.
I pulled the hood over my head and donned the black gauntlets. The armor, my chameleon spell, and the setting sun at my back would conceal my approach. I levitated back towards the city, rising to the tiny moon suspended above the High Fane by the mighty spells of Vivec during his battles with the Daedra; the moon now honeycombed with the passages of the hall of justice. The door was stout, with a lock so complex that it took my most powerful spell of opening. I crept inside.
Although my armor may have concealed my identity I had no desire to raise a general alarm. I crept through the passages, avoiding the Ordinators on patrol as well as those who were going about whatever other business had brought them here. I could not escape the eerie feeling of being in a carven stone underground passage while knowing that I was suspended high above the city. Should the spells of suspension fail the carnage will be unbounded.
I found the main detention cells, and brazenly stole the keys from the guard's desk. Brazenly may be overstating. I actually crept to the desk on my belly, cloaked in chameleon spells and praying silently to the divines for assistance in moving undetected. With key in hand I slid from shadowy corner to sheltered niche surveying the prisoners. I wondered about many of them. What crime had brought them to this hall? Was there justice in their case? Today I had no time to satisfy those questions. I avoided guards and prisoners with equal effort until I spotted the coppery hair of Mehra Milo through the tiny barred window of a cell door. I slipped inside and released my chameleon spell as I slid back the black mask.
"Arvil Bren!" she cried, in an appropriately hushed tone. "You found my note?" It wasn't really a question, and she hurriedly continued, "Did you bring a divine intervention scroll?" I drew the teleportation scroll from my sleeve and pressed it into her hand. "Listen, we must depart quickly; you especially. We will draw less attention if we appear separately, though in that armor you are going to be noticed..."
I cut her off. "I have my own exit plan. Where do we meet?"
"The Dissident Priests have a monastery..." She quickly gave me the directions, and the information I would need to gain access, then she read the scroll and disappeared in a swirl of magica, bound for the nearest Imperial Shrine, probably at Ebonheart Castle. I cast my own recall spell and returned home once more. When she is found to have escaped hopefully no connection to me will even cross a mind.
Day 130:Council of the guild stewards
I want to give Mehra Milo time to reach the monastery of the Dissident Priests. I thought that clearing up some loose ends in the Mage's Guild would give her some time. I may have been too right for my own good. By the time these loose ends are taken care of she may well have been able to crawl the length of Azura's Coast on her knees.
When I teleported into Balmora this morning and told Ranis about meeting the last survivor of the Dwemer her red eyes flew so wide I was afraid they might pop out of her head. "Trebonius gives you an impossible mission as a way to get rid of you," she said, "sending you out to solve the mystery of the age, and a week later you find a Dwemer. He is going to birth a litter of nix hounds right there on the spot when he hears this."
"That would be interesting Ranis," I said, "but technically I haven't completed the task yet. Trebonius could very well bluff out that Yagram doesn't really know what happened either. I want to wait for the translations of Egg of Time and Divine Metaphysics before I tell him about it."
"But surely," she protested, "you have discovered something beyond anything that pompous fool could have expected. This has got to be reported! The very foundations of magecraft could be shaken. You can't keep information like that to yourself."
"I'm not. I told you."
Slowly a grin twitched the corners of her mouth, then broke into a full smile. "You devious s'wit! You are leaving him out of the biggest discovery of the age, based on his own demands! He will have no one to blame but himself."
"Well, not really," I admitted. "He is going to blame me, no doubt about that, but he won't be able to make that stick when it is obvious that I wasn't trying to keep anything to myself. I will stand behind saying that I was just trying to fulfill his instructions to the best of my ability. We have to make sure that the guild sees things my way, but there is no question that Trebonius won't. He is going to be furious."
"Arvil, he has risen to power in the guild because he is a master of the school of destruction. He is liable to roast you in a fit of anger. The guild's agreement that you were in the right will roll heavily against him, but that won't bring you back from the dead."
"Then I guess I'll have to keep myself alive; won't I?"
Skink-in-trees-shade and Edwinna arrived in the afternoon. Due to her rank it fell to Ranis to bring them up to date. Edwinna was ready to depart immediately for the corprusarium at Tel Fyr. "Edwinna," Ranis said in her most reasonable tones, "you are an outlander. I say that as a fact, not a slur. An outlander of tremendous talent and ability, but you sometimes don't look at the big picture of guiding the guild here in Morrowind. First of all, do you think Divayth Fyr is just going to allow a train of guild members, headed by a hall steward no less, to barge around his tower. He is a Telvanni, and one of the most ancient wizards of my race. I can tell you that he is not."
In the excitement Edwinna was a little carried away, but she does understand the politics. She wouldn't have been appointed to her current position otherwise. She sat back down. "You plan to use this information to bring down Trebonius," she sighed.
"Not my plan," Ranis replied. "His." They all looked at me.
"We are here and Trebonius is not," Skink said. "He can be shown once again to be out of touch with events, but intentionally keeping him in the dark makes us wrong, not him."
"His task for me was to find out what happened to the Dwarves. I haven't done that yet. He was very clear about not wanting to see me around unless I accomplished my task, so he won't."
"But you are telling us," Edwinna said. "That shows that you know the value of the information. You know it has to be reported. The Guild stands for the sharing and spreading of information and magic. You can't keep something like a surviving Dwemer a secret."
"I'm not! I'm telling plenty of people, people who are my superiors in the guild. I'm not hiding it or being ignorant of its significance. I'm just being thorough in completing my task. Edwinna, I'm only talking to you because you are a valuable source of information on the Dwemer. I'll be delivering the translations of the Dwemer books first into your hands to complete the research. Everyone knows Trebonius is no scholar. That will be the best thing to do, no one but him will question that. Ranis, you told me I need a wizard's staff, I'm working on getting one. We are only discussing how I can fit that in with my primary responsibility, which is to the Archmage. Skink, you said there was a necromancer in the guild. She fled Telvanni territory. She is somewhere in the West Gash or the Bitter Coast. I'm only able to take care of that for you because I'm headed there anyway on a mission from the Archmage. I'm not reporting this find to you, I'm just letting you know that I can take care of your necromancer while I pick up the Dwemer translations for Trebonius. There is no harm in taking care of your problem on the same trip, no crime in telling you why I am making that trip."
"He is devious as a Dunmer," Edwinna muttered.
"He has learned a lot from one," Skink said with a glance at Ranis, "and learned it well."
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