Days 81 through 90
Day Eighty-one: Lost...and found
I spent the entire day wandering around in the West Gash. I did not find Hannat Zainsubari. I didn't even find Mamaca, the underground complex he is supposed to be investigating. I found kagouti, kwama, alit, wild guar, and an abundance of cliff racers, which is to say I found nothing of particular interest. Then late in the day I encountered a man pacing alongside one of the many twisting paths that seemed not to lead anywhere, and he gave me a good excuse.
The sun was settling very low in the west, and I was thinking there was nothing else for it but to bed down in the wilderness for the night. I was not looking forward to that. Lucan Ostorius is not someone I would want to do business with, but in this case an exception was warranted. He is a trader, and was supposed to be meeting a buyer. The obvious questions about what kind of trader meets a customer at a roadside in the middle of nowhere I left unasked. Not surprisingly, the product consisted of an assortment of quality steel weapons, and the buyer turned out to be an Orc who Lucan expected could be found at The Rat In The Pot, an unseemly tradehouse near the Fighter's Guild hall in Ald-ruhn. There were a dozen good reasons not to get involved in this deal. But I did.
The load of weapons was heavy. Not too heavy to carry, but certainly not something I would want to trudge all the way back into town with. So, one intervention spell later I was standing in the dusky twilight in the courtyard of the temple, a short walk from The Rat In The Pot, followed by dinner at the guild house and my own bed. Tomorrow I will go back and renew my search. The walk out will not take that much time away.
Late Addendum:
Despite my last line I have been pitching and turning in my bed. Smuggling weapons for Orcs and thieves wasn't why I came back to town. I came back for the comforts, disregarding that my friend's son could be suffering far greater discomfort than a night sleeping on the ground. Fortunately my conscience was keeping me awake.
Lying in my bed I heard the distinctive pop of a teleportation spell. The guild guide's platform is right down the hall from my room, but it is not that close. Someone had materialized closer; much closer; in my own room! I rolled in the darkness, pitching off the side of the bed away from the door just as the mattress erupted in a storm of feathers. I quickly cast a nighteye spell so that I could see my assailant, then upended the bed. The frame levered upward, sliding the shredded mattress into his feet, and I continued lifting until I could push the empty frame over onto the black clad assassin. My devil spear, abandoned under the bed weeks ago, leapt to hand.
The Dark Brotherhood has stepped up their efforts. This assassin was no novice. With a single slash of his wakizashi the bedframe exploded into splinters. Even in the distorted colors of the nighteye spell I recognized the gleam of a Daedric blade. I have been practicing the heavy armored styles, and close infighting of the shortblade. But my hands gripped the spear like an old friend, and the unarmored fighting styles are still my favorite. Unfortunately, the confines of the room gave the advantage to my attacker, and he struck to good effect with the vicious blade. He was obviously well versed in the Akaviri styles, using the shortbladed wakizashi to slash where a more conventional shortsword would be thrusting to bring the point to advantage.
I was bleeding profusely from a wicked gash across my chest and the situation was deteriorating rapidly when my assailant's nighteye spell ran out. He quickly gulped a potion to restore his vision, but in the brief advantage I struck with good effect, my spear point sliding off the cuff of his gauntlet and up the sleeve of the pauldron to shred his right forearm into useless meat. The heavy wakizashi clattered to the floor. His Akaviri training showed again, as he whirled into an unarmed combat mode and struck a powerful spinning kick to my wounded torso. As I well knew the light flexible mesh of his armor did nothing to hinder his movements, and hardened the already devastating impact. I fell in a heap gasping while he recovered his blade.
Scrabbling among the wreckage of the bed I flung myself into the corner by the door and threw it open. With the blade in his left hand and his right arm disabled the assassin took the swinging door with his shoulder, slowing him enough for me to roll out into the hallway and gain my feet. Outside my door is not actually a hallway. It is more of a balcony overlooking the main room one floor below. I vaulted over the railing, trusting that all my recent practice in the alteration arts would give me sufficient command to rely on my levitation spell. It worked, catching me somewhat below the balcony level, but far above the floor. As I rose I conjured a spear.
The assassin had dropped his blade once again, and his one good hand struggled with a pouch on his right hip. He never had a chance to throw the deadly ebony dart that emerged. That he would even try to throw a dart, left handed, testifies to his confidence in his marksmanship. My conjured spear struck first, piercing through the fine seam between the mask and shirt of black chain mesh. Blood gushed from the severed arteries of his throat, and he died before he hit the floor. I landed, sitting on the stone rail of the balcony, and dropped the conjured spear. Only then did I hear the shouting chaos of my fellow mages.
Day Eighty-two: Something to be lived with
Before I left Ald-ruhn this morning there were things I had to know. I found out. I don't like what I found, but it is better to know than not. The Redorans do not give the latitude to the Cammona Tong criminal syndicate that it enjoys in Hlaalu territory, but it does operate here. While none of the Dunmer merchants are openly involved there is some level of sympathy present. The tong also runs much of the gambling, and it is they who were shorted in the Sarandas affair. When the tong, who had not been paid, contacted the merchants who had, it is safe to assume that I was mentioned by one, some, or perhaps all; innocently or not.
Apparently summoned by the Cammona Tong, the assassin arrived by guild guide from Balmora. Erranil remembers him. No one realized he had stepped into my room to cast a mark spell. I can't fault them. The guild guides get a lot of traffic. The assassin was staying at the Rat In The Pot. He apparently talked about joining the Thieve's Guild, but had not. He came and went frequently, in hindsight watching the comings and goings at the guild hall; watching for me. I walked right by him while I was making my delivery. I have gotten lax.
Tonight I am sleeping in an Ashlander camp in the remote wilds of the West Gash. The three Ashlanders, who I suspect are the only others to even know of this camp, are dead. I feel sorry for them. I'm sure the spread of the blight accounts, at least in part, for their preying on unwary travelers. I could not allow my sympathies to slow my hand when they attacked however. Their corpses are rolled in their bedrolls. A marauder in the night will see four targets, not one, and I ringed the camp with trama vines. The entangling vines and thorns should snare any interloper, slowing them enough to give me warning.
Searching for Mamaca seems an endless task, but at least it will keep me out of sight for a while. Eventually it will bear fruit. It would go faster perhaps if I stopped at the various caverns and egg-mines I have found, but I want no mention made of my passage.
Day Eighty-three: Rescue
I finally found the caverns of Mamaca. Hannat Zainsubani was indeed there. He had not found the rich source of ebony he had hoped for. What he found was the Sixth House cult. The cavern swarms with dreamers; Dunmer who have forsaken their homes and their lives to answer the call of Dagoth Ur. They sleep and dream, and when awake they serve the ash legions of Dagoth Ur. I did not encounter any of the dreaded ash vampires, but had I fully explored the depths of the cave I may have.
By the time I found Zainsubani's cell I had dispatched numerous foes, but no alarm had been raised. Dreamers and the ash legions tend to fight silently, and I was very happy to do the same. While the unarmored and lightly armed dreamers fell easily to my spear, the ash monsters of Dagoth Ur are dangerous foes. Had they sounded the alarm and rallied to the defense I may have been hard pressed. Ash ghouls in particular have a fair command of destruction magic and attack with powerful shocks of electrical energy.
Young Zainsubani was badly shaken by his experience. While in the clutches of the cult his sleep has been tortured continuously by dreams. From what he says the dreams are similar to dreams I have experienced myself, though his were apparently far more vivid and have driven him to the brink of exhaustion. The haggard look of a man deprived of sleep struck a familiar note. I suspect these dreams are far more widespread than anyone would imagine, not confined to the dreamers of the cult, but rampant in the populace. Obviously they emanate from Red Mountain and are a weapon of Dagoth Ur. I left Mamaca as soon as I had found Zainsubani to lead him to safety, but I will return to lance this festering boil of poisonous dreams.
Someday, but not tonight. Once free of the cavern Zainsubani set off into the Ashlands. I was glad that Hannat did not return to my camp with me. I would hate to find out that my campmates were his friends or relatives. He requested that I deliver a message to his father to let him know he is well, and I agreed. Hassour should be done with my notes by now, and tomorrow I expect I will be on my way to Caius with them.
Day Eighty-four: False trail
I woke up this morning trying to blink the grit out of my eyes. I am really not made for camping out. I would not make a very good Ashlander. If I'm going to die from an attack in my sleep let it be at the Dark Brotherhood's hand in a comfortable bed. No need to make it easy for them though.
I returned to Ald-ruhn in time to have lunch with Hassour Zainsubani. I told him his son was alive and well and would be returning home soon. While the harsh Ashlands do not provide much comfort, thus producing a very hardy folk, they give something else. Something that produces a sense of honor that is almost tangible. I found Hannat Zainsubani as a favor to his father, who was doing a favor for me. I neither needed nor expected a reward. In fact, since Hannat's mission to explore Mamaca as a source of wealth had clearly come up empty any expectation I might have had I would have forsaken. I am learning about Ashlander customs, and not just from my notes.
Hannat had told me a line of poetry, and requested I repeat it to his father. I thought it was a way to ensure that I as the messenger was delivering a true message. It was that, and also more. When I quoted the line Hassour said, "You have rescued my son from grave danger, and he owes you a debt of gratitude that he could not repay." We had greeted each other as friends, and the formality of his tone surprised me. He told me to wait while he went to his room.
Upon his return Hassour placed a heavy cloth sack on the table. "Fifty pounds of raw ebony. This, my own blade." He unbuckled his shortsword, a fine Imperial weapon, and placed it alongside the sack. I recognized the venomous enchantment gleaming from the hilt. "And this, a ring from my own finger. My son's debt is repayed." "Hassour! No payment is..." He cut me off. "Silence friend. You came to me to learn the customs of my people. This is a lesson. Never refuse an Ashlander's gift, or their payment. It is a mortal insult."
I nodded. "Thank you my friend. For the opportunity to serve your family, and for the payment of your son's debt."
A smile creased his weathered face, bringing a light to the red eyes. "You learn fast," was all he said, and then the food and drink began to flow. By the time I reached the Ald-ruhn guild hall I was not thinking clearly, and only cooler heads kept me from falling deeply asleep in the room known by the Dark Brotherhood as mine.
Mage's can be such opportunists. I had just lain down on the bed when Edwinna burst peremptorily into the room. "Arvil Bren! You cannot sleep there!" she shouted. "I will not have a conjurer slain in my guild hall, and you are clearly in no shape to defend yourself." I had to concede that was true. I wouldn't have stood a chance with an assassin; I couldn't even escape her onslaught. By closing one eye I could get her into focus at least. "You need to get out of Ald-ruhn, and out of sight. I have just the thing." She pushed a thick packet into my hands as she led me onto the guild guide platform. "No one will know you are in Balmora tonight, and anyone asking for you will be told you are in your lab doing research. Good luck, and hurry back with my plans."
"Plans?" I said, as the teleportation took effect. "What plans?"
It is late at night in Balmora. The guild hall here is secure and on alert. I am finally sober enough to write, and to figure out that I have been dispatched to the remote island of Sheogorad. There is a Dwemer ruin there that Edwinna believes houses a set of blueprints. I hesitate to think what she wants to build. So much for comfortable beds.
Day Eighty-five: The Emperor's plan
I am worried about my reception at the Urshilaku camp. Hopefully the security of a larger clan will give me a moment to speak my piece. At small hunting camps it appears an outlander qualifies for killing on sight. I am once again bedded down in such a small camp, surrounded by my dead hosts. I don't really want to carve a swath of death through the Ashlands. That doesn't seem appropriate for the Nerevarine.
Being the Nerevarine, or at least looking very much like the Nerevarine, was the Emperor's plan for me all along. After breakfast at the guild hall I went to see Caius. He has come to trust me; enough to share the original coded message I delivered to him the first time I saw him. In it the Emperor directed that he use me and the Nerevarine prophecies to further the Empire's objectives in Morrowind. He apparently looks at the Prophecy as somewhat of a native superstition, but ordered that it be treated seriously. We have. So seriously that Caius has come to pretty firmly believe it. Dunmer live for centuries. They are not easily taken in, even the so called 'primitive' Ashlanders.
Whether to find out if I am the Nerevarine, or to find out what would be required to make me look like the Nerevarine, the next step is to approach the Nerevarine Cult directly. The Urshilaku clan leaders head the cult, so I am on the journey to their camp. My first stop is in Maar Gan to check in with a friend of Caius; a scout who can give me directions.
The Mage's Guild, which I joined to provide cover for my covert activities, is certainly providing it now. Doubly so. Ranis in Balmora and Edwinna in Ald-ruhn are reporting that I am holed up in my lab in Ald-ruhn. Under that cover they think I am on my way to the Dwemer ruins, with a stop in Maar Gan for Ranis. The Dark Brotherhood will have a hard time tracking me through all that haze. For my part I left Ald-ruhn hidden by my chameleon amulet and disappeared into the wastes. Tomorrow I will enter Maar Gan, and pursue my destiny.
Day Eighty-six: The necromancer of Maar Gan
I found the scout Nuleno Tedas in Maar Gan. He is a reliable friend of Caius, I hope. The fewer people know about my movements and destinations the better. The directions to the Urshilaku camp that he gave me will be useful in a way, even though I am not following them.
Nuleno's recommended path lead to a narrow pass into a steep walled foyada. His recommendation from there involved following the foyada to the coast and swimming around the headlands to the east. A fine path for a scout, not a conjurer. For me the shorter straight line path appeals more than the swim, so I levitated out of the foyada and will strike directly north in the morning.
While I was talking to Nuleno I started checking information for my other assignment in Maar Gan. When I asked about necromancy he just looked puzzled. When I asked about Tashpi he told me where to find her, but was clearly astonished that anyone would think she was a necromancer. He definitely would never believe that the village healer could be practicing the dark rites of necromancy. I knew it was quite possible, but decided to do some more checking.
The Redoran guards that patrol the streets of the outpost were my next source. I am coming to respect the Redorans. They seem to have found a balance between honoring the temple and the ancestral ways of the Dunmer, and they carry themselves with the dignity and courage of the Ashlanders without the short temper and xenophobia. The guards were helpful in clarifying information, though their information did not help with my mission. Nothing any of them has seen would indicate that there is an active practicing necromancer anywhere in or near Maar Gan. I went to Tashpi's hut hoping that the mystery could be resolved at the source.
Tashpi was completely taken aback when I asked her about necromancy. She is a lovely Dunmer woman who came to this remote outpost to be of service to her people. With her skills she could make a much better living in a major city, but the smaller villages are frequently in dire need, and she has chosen to meet that need. How could this good woman find herself accused of necromancy? How could I find myself sent here to end her life?
I should have guessed. Nowhere in her chosen life is there a need or a place for the Mage's Guild, so she never joined. Even when she was directly approached by Ranis herself, she refused. There are many villages in need of a healer. I feel bad for the people of Maar Gan, but their healer must go. Tashpi will find a place on the mainland to practice her arts. I will tell Ranis she is dead. I am losing patience with being Ranis' chosen assassin.
Day Eighty-seven: Shelter in the storm
The day dawned clear, but with a brisk wind. Looking down I could see that the deep channel of the foyada focused the wind, and billowing clouds of dusty ash were already rising. By the time I broke camp it was obvious I would need to find shelter as the wind continued to pick up, heading towards a howling fury. I sped down the hill to the north. Before long I was swallowed by the swirling torment of the ash storm. I wrapped my shirt around my head to filter the air. I had to breathe, but with no shirt the grit that seeped inside my armor ground away at my skin. And nothing could protect my eyes. I considered just lying down, curled in a protective ball, but I was afraid the marching dunes would bury me alive.
I hoped I was still headed north, but I wasn't sure. Whatever the direction, off to my left I saw the blurred figure of a man stumbling through the storm. Hoping that he would know a place to seek shelter I turned to join him. As I approached I saw that he was making for a cave entrance, sealed by a worn wooden door. Gratefully I called out to my fellow traveler.
My usual caution had been overcome by the torment of the storm, but as soon as I called out I saw all the reasons that I shouldn't have. Shirtless in the storm; the hulking gait; my hope for safe harbor from the storm collapsed with my recognition of a man far gone with corprus disease. The abomination wheeled clumsily and charged through the swirling ash and dust. With no time for thought I instinctively rammed my spear into its chest. The force of its charge bore me over backwards. The creature thrashed about, showing no sign of human intelligence, or even the slower thoughts of an animal. The fast growing flesh tried to close around the spear, but with every movement the weight of the long shaft would pull and twist the blade releasing great gushes of bloody froth from the shredded lungs. No effort was made to pull the spear free. Driven by malice over self preservation the poor blighted soul poured out its life while vainly struggling to reach me.
Once it was still I recovered my spear and turned to the door. I hesitated briefly, fearful of what must lie within. A corprus stalker on their doorstep did not speak well for the occupants of the cave. Driven by the storm I slipped inside.
Iam afraid to sleep in this evil place, but the storm continues to rage outside. It is a Sixth House base; fortunately small; a single descending spiral ending at a shrine. With no cross passages the fell creatures had no way to get behind me, and were dispatched in sequence and fairly quickly. Still I am uncomfortable here. I am resting against the surface door, as far from the horrid altar with its bins of corprus laden meat as I can get. I pray the storm passes soon.
Day Eighty-eight: The Urshilaku
I slept fitfully through the night, and more through the morning. The storm raged unabated outside the door. No further threats arose from the shrine below, but I was very happy to take my leave when the wind finally died down. The midday sun hung pale red above the settling dust. I set out to the north.
It was not all that far to the shore, and I had not strayed far from my course. The Urshilaku camp appeared off to the west as I topped a rise. I turned to approach, keeping a wary eye on the Ashlanders that could be seen moving among the grouping of yurts. I wanted to appear respectful and cautious, but must admit that I would have been far more comfortable with my bow in my hands rather than slung on my back.
I was well within bowshot, and knew there were many eyes upon me when a rangy Dunmer sauntered out to meet me at the edge of the camp. "Outlander. What do you want?" he asked. His tone was not the hissing accusation I had heard before, just a flat statement. I am an outlander.
I kept my own voice equally flat as I replied. "I have come seeking the counsel of your Ashkhan and your wise woman. I must know more of the prophecy of the Nerevarine."
"What would an outlander need to know of this? What brings you to this place? The Tribunal Temple has called the prophecy heresy. Do you say we are heretics? Would you burn our camp for the tribunes?" The red eyes were narrowed, and even though his hands stayed clear of his weapons danger radiated from him in a near visible cloud.
"I call no one a heretic. I was born on the certain day. I do not know my parents. I must know more about the prophecies. A good friend, an honorable man of the Ashlands, told me this is where I could find the answers I seek. I do not know what gifts to bring to you, your clan, or your honored chief, but I am willing to learn so I can follow that custom."
"An outlander thinks he is the Nerevarine," he said. "This is too much for me. See Zabamund, in that yurt there." He stepped aside as he motioned towards one of the large yurts set in a semicircle in the center of the camp. "He is a gulakhan, a trusted advisor to Sul-Matuul. He can weigh the merits of your story better than I."
I thanked him and walked towards the center of the camp.
"Outlander," he called from behind me. "Gold. We are in a modern age. Zabamund likes gold."
I entered the tent slowly. "Your pardon for the intrusion gulakhan. I would speak to you, and bring a gift of gold which I hope is suitable."
"You know our ways outlander. Many of your kind would call that a 'bribe', something dishonorable to be offered in darkness. I thank you for your gift. You may speak." Zabamund's eyes grew wide and incredulity spread over his features. "An outlander the Nerevarine! Why not a kagouti, or a shalk beetle? I think you may be mad Arvil Bren, but your voice rings true and I warrant you are no liar. Tell your tale to the Ashkahn. If he is upset at the disturbance he will be upset with me. I can afford that.."
The Ashkahn Sul-Matuul was not upset, stating simply that he trusted his advisors as he pocketed the gift of gold I delivered. He also seemed more open to the possibility of an outlander being the Nerevarine, but perhaps as the leader of his people he is just more diplomatic and humored me along. In any event he told me nothing of the prophecies, holding that knowledge secret among the clan. To get the answers I seek I must be named as a clanfriend. I thought this might be just a question of gold, and maybe if it was just up to the living members of the clan it would be, but it isn't.
Sul-Matuul sent me on a rite of initiation, to retrieve his father's bow from the clan burial caverns. I will be tested by his ancestors; either accepted or killed.
Day Eighty-nine: Burial caverns
I camped last night on the beach. Sul-Matuul's directions to the burial caverns started from a cairn of stones on the shore, and it seemed like an auspicious place to start the day. It was also far enough from the Urshilaku camp to make it clear that I wasn't presuming success in becoming a clanfriend. Good thing.
I did not find the bone-biter bow. In fact I'm not sure I even found any burial chambers. Overall I was unprepared and ill equipped for the task. Fortunately there was no time limit set for completing this initiation.
Finding the cavern was easy enough. The north facing door is always shadowed by the rocky outcrop above it, but the directions were exact. I fended off some cliff racers and arrived in good spirits well before mid-day. My confidence did not last long.
The heavy wooden door swung shut of its own weight behind me, leaving me in a twilight world of glowing magica and dripping water seemingly far removed from the arid Ashlands above. The raw magica flowing in visible fountains; the basic stuff of the universe on display; no wonder the Urshilaku ancestors had chosen this place to bury their dead. Like all men in all times I'm sure they dreamed of channeling that power. Perhaps in death they have.
The entry passage sloped downwards gently, and was flanked by two short columns that flared into platforms just above my head. On each platform, seated with knees drawn up to their chests, an ancient mummy gazed down, unperturbed by my passing. My passage did not disturb them, but in passing them I clearly entered the realm of the Urshilaku dead. No sooner had I passed between them than I was beset by a skeletal warrior bearing a mighty silver sword.
With the massive haft clutched in both bony hands the skeleton unleashed a great chopping downstoke meant to cleave me in half. I dodged aside, leaving the great blade to glance off my shoulder and crash against the rocky floor. Even the glancing blow took me off my feet. Whatever ethereal muscle animated the skeletal frame held astonishing strength. I rolled against the cave wall to avoid another tremendous chop while unleashing the spear within my enchanted shortsword.
The warrior knew that the outcrops of the roughly hewn wall would catch or deflect the sword's downward chopping path, but the blade could follow a great glittering arc slicing sideways and down to where I lay trying desperately to gather myself. I swung my spear out against the cavern floor at a shallow angle, and the shaft guided the huge claymore upwards, to crash against the rock wall above me. A shower of gritty fragments rained down on me as I continued to my feet.
I am accustomed to the long reach of a spear giving me an advantage over swordsmen, but the giant claymore and supernatural speed of my articulated foe more than matched my advantage, and the ceaseless endurance of the undead kept blows hammering down on me in a torrent. I dodged. I deflected with my spear's sturdy shaft. I leapt backwards, begging my own ancestors to keep me from stumbling on the uneven floor. And I watched. Eventually I saw what I needed to see.
I sidestepped a great chop, then bounded back to land with all my weight on my arms, which brought my spear across the blade before it could rebound off the stone. Driving forward, the shaft slid up the blade to the hilt, gaining leverage with every inch it traveled further from where the point met the floor, eventually crashing the full length of the sword to the ground. The skeleton clung desperately, not wanting to be disarmed, and was dragged helplessly down to crash its bare skull into my armored shoulder. I got a knee onto the haft of the sword, pinning and crushing finger bones, and slammed the spear crossways into the monster's writhing spine. With a loud crunch bones parted, leaving the legs scrambling for purchase and the upper portion scrabbling for its sword. I pounded both parts to splinters.
As the heat of battle faded I recognized that I was far from unharmed and cast a healing spell. I had grown tired of carrying the weight of my steel shield, finding that I am better protected by improved nimbleness without it, but I missed the powerful healing enchantment I had placed on it. My healing spell is slightly more effective, but depletes my reserves of magica. Fine for the occasional battle in the wilderness, but clearly I will not be able to get far enough into the tombs to accomplish my task without every advantage.
I continued down the passage warily, and defeated two more skeletons before reaching a door protected by a wide moat of water. To levitate across would have taken all of my remaining magica. I was out of arrows. I gathered the three heavy silver claymores, opting to use the last of my magica to teleport home in defeat. At least I got out alive, unlike the two battered corpses in various states of decay that showed I was not the first adventurer bent on exploring the crypt.
Day Ninety: Regroup and research
Amazing how often what is intended to be a lie turns into the truth. I created the cover story that I was holed up in Ald-ruhn doing research to mislead any Dark Brotherhood assassin that might be looking for me, and now I am holed up in Ald-ruhn doing research. Actually I used the guild guide late this evening, so I'm sleeping in Balmora; safely off the target I hope.
I got up early this morning and hauled my collected silver weapons off to Mebestien's shop. He was disappointed that I didn't have another load of Dwemer artifacts for him, but satisfied when I allowed him a good price for the swords. That weight off my shoulders I set out for Balmora, with my healing shield and well worn levitation boots. Not my most effective armor, but I will have need of their enchantments.
I maintained my cover by slipping invisibly through the streets of Balmora to the guild hall. By entering through the upper door I spared any passersby the mystery of a door opening by itself, though I did surprise Galbedir when I appeared suddenly in her lab. Ranis was pleased with my report of Tashpi's demise, though I hate to think what will happen if she ever finds out the truth. Edwinna was not as pleased to see me when I transported to Ald-ruhn, since I had to admit I had not gotten anywhere near her Dwemer ruin. She is forgiving though, and understands the occasional need to teleport to safety.
The rest of the day I spent with Hassour Zainsubani. When he heard that Sul-Matuul was considering making me a clanfriend he was impressed. When he heard about the initiation rite I was facing he was dubious. "You will be sorely tested Arvil Bren," he said, and shook his head.
One thing that emerged from our conversation is the difference between an Ashland clan burial cavern and the tombs of the settled Dunmer families that I am already familiar with. I had not considered that the Urshilaku clan, not just a single family, has been using that cavern for possibly hundreds of generations. I can expect that it will be a gigantic underground complex. It was likely a huge cavern to start with, and has had many vaults and chambers added to it. When I described the tunnel I had already explored, which has a chamber on each side high above the floor, Hassour suggested those were likely the original burial vaults, abandoned and unused for millennia. Suitable for discarding the remains of intruders. Hassour didn't say that it was a likely place for me to end up, but I'm sure it crossed his mind.
There are three broad challenges that the Urshilaku ancestors will present. Obviously, this is a test of courage. To face possibly hundreds of undying guardians is daring taken to the border of madness. Also obviously, it challenges all my skill and endurance. Hassour says the undead will reform ranks behind me. If I teleport myself out I will have to start as if I had never entered the caverns, and I will not be able to rest inside. The third challenge is a test of greed. The skeletal warriors will bring their silver weapons from the plane of the dead. If the riches call me they will weigh me down long before I reach the deeper caverns, and again, to leave is to start over.
If this is what the Ashlanders require of their friends, what will they demand of the Nerevarine?
I spent the entire day wandering around in the West Gash. I did not find Hannat Zainsubari. I didn't even find Mamaca, the underground complex he is supposed to be investigating. I found kagouti, kwama, alit, wild guar, and an abundance of cliff racers, which is to say I found nothing of particular interest. Then late in the day I encountered a man pacing alongside one of the many twisting paths that seemed not to lead anywhere, and he gave me a good excuse.
The sun was settling very low in the west, and I was thinking there was nothing else for it but to bed down in the wilderness for the night. I was not looking forward to that. Lucan Ostorius is not someone I would want to do business with, but in this case an exception was warranted. He is a trader, and was supposed to be meeting a buyer. The obvious questions about what kind of trader meets a customer at a roadside in the middle of nowhere I left unasked. Not surprisingly, the product consisted of an assortment of quality steel weapons, and the buyer turned out to be an Orc who Lucan expected could be found at The Rat In The Pot, an unseemly tradehouse near the Fighter's Guild hall in Ald-ruhn. There were a dozen good reasons not to get involved in this deal. But I did.
The load of weapons was heavy. Not too heavy to carry, but certainly not something I would want to trudge all the way back into town with. So, one intervention spell later I was standing in the dusky twilight in the courtyard of the temple, a short walk from The Rat In The Pot, followed by dinner at the guild house and my own bed. Tomorrow I will go back and renew my search. The walk out will not take that much time away.
Late Addendum:
Despite my last line I have been pitching and turning in my bed. Smuggling weapons for Orcs and thieves wasn't why I came back to town. I came back for the comforts, disregarding that my friend's son could be suffering far greater discomfort than a night sleeping on the ground. Fortunately my conscience was keeping me awake.
Lying in my bed I heard the distinctive pop of a teleportation spell. The guild guide's platform is right down the hall from my room, but it is not that close. Someone had materialized closer; much closer; in my own room! I rolled in the darkness, pitching off the side of the bed away from the door just as the mattress erupted in a storm of feathers. I quickly cast a nighteye spell so that I could see my assailant, then upended the bed. The frame levered upward, sliding the shredded mattress into his feet, and I continued lifting until I could push the empty frame over onto the black clad assassin. My devil spear, abandoned under the bed weeks ago, leapt to hand.
The Dark Brotherhood has stepped up their efforts. This assassin was no novice. With a single slash of his wakizashi the bedframe exploded into splinters. Even in the distorted colors of the nighteye spell I recognized the gleam of a Daedric blade. I have been practicing the heavy armored styles, and close infighting of the shortblade. But my hands gripped the spear like an old friend, and the unarmored fighting styles are still my favorite. Unfortunately, the confines of the room gave the advantage to my attacker, and he struck to good effect with the vicious blade. He was obviously well versed in the Akaviri styles, using the shortbladed wakizashi to slash where a more conventional shortsword would be thrusting to bring the point to advantage.
I was bleeding profusely from a wicked gash across my chest and the situation was deteriorating rapidly when my assailant's nighteye spell ran out. He quickly gulped a potion to restore his vision, but in the brief advantage I struck with good effect, my spear point sliding off the cuff of his gauntlet and up the sleeve of the pauldron to shred his right forearm into useless meat. The heavy wakizashi clattered to the floor. His Akaviri training showed again, as he whirled into an unarmed combat mode and struck a powerful spinning kick to my wounded torso. As I well knew the light flexible mesh of his armor did nothing to hinder his movements, and hardened the already devastating impact. I fell in a heap gasping while he recovered his blade.
Scrabbling among the wreckage of the bed I flung myself into the corner by the door and threw it open. With the blade in his left hand and his right arm disabled the assassin took the swinging door with his shoulder, slowing him enough for me to roll out into the hallway and gain my feet. Outside my door is not actually a hallway. It is more of a balcony overlooking the main room one floor below. I vaulted over the railing, trusting that all my recent practice in the alteration arts would give me sufficient command to rely on my levitation spell. It worked, catching me somewhat below the balcony level, but far above the floor. As I rose I conjured a spear.
The assassin had dropped his blade once again, and his one good hand struggled with a pouch on his right hip. He never had a chance to throw the deadly ebony dart that emerged. That he would even try to throw a dart, left handed, testifies to his confidence in his marksmanship. My conjured spear struck first, piercing through the fine seam between the mask and shirt of black chain mesh. Blood gushed from the severed arteries of his throat, and he died before he hit the floor. I landed, sitting on the stone rail of the balcony, and dropped the conjured spear. Only then did I hear the shouting chaos of my fellow mages.
Day Eighty-two: Something to be lived with
Before I left Ald-ruhn this morning there were things I had to know. I found out. I don't like what I found, but it is better to know than not. The Redorans do not give the latitude to the Cammona Tong criminal syndicate that it enjoys in Hlaalu territory, but it does operate here. While none of the Dunmer merchants are openly involved there is some level of sympathy present. The tong also runs much of the gambling, and it is they who were shorted in the Sarandas affair. When the tong, who had not been paid, contacted the merchants who had, it is safe to assume that I was mentioned by one, some, or perhaps all; innocently or not.
Apparently summoned by the Cammona Tong, the assassin arrived by guild guide from Balmora. Erranil remembers him. No one realized he had stepped into my room to cast a mark spell. I can't fault them. The guild guides get a lot of traffic. The assassin was staying at the Rat In The Pot. He apparently talked about joining the Thieve's Guild, but had not. He came and went frequently, in hindsight watching the comings and goings at the guild hall; watching for me. I walked right by him while I was making my delivery. I have gotten lax.
Tonight I am sleeping in an Ashlander camp in the remote wilds of the West Gash. The three Ashlanders, who I suspect are the only others to even know of this camp, are dead. I feel sorry for them. I'm sure the spread of the blight accounts, at least in part, for their preying on unwary travelers. I could not allow my sympathies to slow my hand when they attacked however. Their corpses are rolled in their bedrolls. A marauder in the night will see four targets, not one, and I ringed the camp with trama vines. The entangling vines and thorns should snare any interloper, slowing them enough to give me warning.
Searching for Mamaca seems an endless task, but at least it will keep me out of sight for a while. Eventually it will bear fruit. It would go faster perhaps if I stopped at the various caverns and egg-mines I have found, but I want no mention made of my passage.
Day Eighty-three: Rescue
I finally found the caverns of Mamaca. Hannat Zainsubani was indeed there. He had not found the rich source of ebony he had hoped for. What he found was the Sixth House cult. The cavern swarms with dreamers; Dunmer who have forsaken their homes and their lives to answer the call of Dagoth Ur. They sleep and dream, and when awake they serve the ash legions of Dagoth Ur. I did not encounter any of the dreaded ash vampires, but had I fully explored the depths of the cave I may have.
By the time I found Zainsubani's cell I had dispatched numerous foes, but no alarm had been raised. Dreamers and the ash legions tend to fight silently, and I was very happy to do the same. While the unarmored and lightly armed dreamers fell easily to my spear, the ash monsters of Dagoth Ur are dangerous foes. Had they sounded the alarm and rallied to the defense I may have been hard pressed. Ash ghouls in particular have a fair command of destruction magic and attack with powerful shocks of electrical energy.
Young Zainsubani was badly shaken by his experience. While in the clutches of the cult his sleep has been tortured continuously by dreams. From what he says the dreams are similar to dreams I have experienced myself, though his were apparently far more vivid and have driven him to the brink of exhaustion. The haggard look of a man deprived of sleep struck a familiar note. I suspect these dreams are far more widespread than anyone would imagine, not confined to the dreamers of the cult, but rampant in the populace. Obviously they emanate from Red Mountain and are a weapon of Dagoth Ur. I left Mamaca as soon as I had found Zainsubani to lead him to safety, but I will return to lance this festering boil of poisonous dreams.
Someday, but not tonight. Once free of the cavern Zainsubani set off into the Ashlands. I was glad that Hannat did not return to my camp with me. I would hate to find out that my campmates were his friends or relatives. He requested that I deliver a message to his father to let him know he is well, and I agreed. Hassour should be done with my notes by now, and tomorrow I expect I will be on my way to Caius with them.
Day Eighty-four: False trail
I woke up this morning trying to blink the grit out of my eyes. I am really not made for camping out. I would not make a very good Ashlander. If I'm going to die from an attack in my sleep let it be at the Dark Brotherhood's hand in a comfortable bed. No need to make it easy for them though.
I returned to Ald-ruhn in time to have lunch with Hassour Zainsubani. I told him his son was alive and well and would be returning home soon. While the harsh Ashlands do not provide much comfort, thus producing a very hardy folk, they give something else. Something that produces a sense of honor that is almost tangible. I found Hannat Zainsubani as a favor to his father, who was doing a favor for me. I neither needed nor expected a reward. In fact, since Hannat's mission to explore Mamaca as a source of wealth had clearly come up empty any expectation I might have had I would have forsaken. I am learning about Ashlander customs, and not just from my notes.
Hannat had told me a line of poetry, and requested I repeat it to his father. I thought it was a way to ensure that I as the messenger was delivering a true message. It was that, and also more. When I quoted the line Hassour said, "You have rescued my son from grave danger, and he owes you a debt of gratitude that he could not repay." We had greeted each other as friends, and the formality of his tone surprised me. He told me to wait while he went to his room.
Upon his return Hassour placed a heavy cloth sack on the table. "Fifty pounds of raw ebony. This, my own blade." He unbuckled his shortsword, a fine Imperial weapon, and placed it alongside the sack. I recognized the venomous enchantment gleaming from the hilt. "And this, a ring from my own finger. My son's debt is repayed." "Hassour! No payment is..." He cut me off. "Silence friend. You came to me to learn the customs of my people. This is a lesson. Never refuse an Ashlander's gift, or their payment. It is a mortal insult."
I nodded. "Thank you my friend. For the opportunity to serve your family, and for the payment of your son's debt."
A smile creased his weathered face, bringing a light to the red eyes. "You learn fast," was all he said, and then the food and drink began to flow. By the time I reached the Ald-ruhn guild hall I was not thinking clearly, and only cooler heads kept me from falling deeply asleep in the room known by the Dark Brotherhood as mine.
Mage's can be such opportunists. I had just lain down on the bed when Edwinna burst peremptorily into the room. "Arvil Bren! You cannot sleep there!" she shouted. "I will not have a conjurer slain in my guild hall, and you are clearly in no shape to defend yourself." I had to concede that was true. I wouldn't have stood a chance with an assassin; I couldn't even escape her onslaught. By closing one eye I could get her into focus at least. "You need to get out of Ald-ruhn, and out of sight. I have just the thing." She pushed a thick packet into my hands as she led me onto the guild guide platform. "No one will know you are in Balmora tonight, and anyone asking for you will be told you are in your lab doing research. Good luck, and hurry back with my plans."
"Plans?" I said, as the teleportation took effect. "What plans?"
It is late at night in Balmora. The guild hall here is secure and on alert. I am finally sober enough to write, and to figure out that I have been dispatched to the remote island of Sheogorad. There is a Dwemer ruin there that Edwinna believes houses a set of blueprints. I hesitate to think what she wants to build. So much for comfortable beds.
Day Eighty-five: The Emperor's plan
I am worried about my reception at the Urshilaku camp. Hopefully the security of a larger clan will give me a moment to speak my piece. At small hunting camps it appears an outlander qualifies for killing on sight. I am once again bedded down in such a small camp, surrounded by my dead hosts. I don't really want to carve a swath of death through the Ashlands. That doesn't seem appropriate for the Nerevarine.
Being the Nerevarine, or at least looking very much like the Nerevarine, was the Emperor's plan for me all along. After breakfast at the guild hall I went to see Caius. He has come to trust me; enough to share the original coded message I delivered to him the first time I saw him. In it the Emperor directed that he use me and the Nerevarine prophecies to further the Empire's objectives in Morrowind. He apparently looks at the Prophecy as somewhat of a native superstition, but ordered that it be treated seriously. We have. So seriously that Caius has come to pretty firmly believe it. Dunmer live for centuries. They are not easily taken in, even the so called 'primitive' Ashlanders.
Whether to find out if I am the Nerevarine, or to find out what would be required to make me look like the Nerevarine, the next step is to approach the Nerevarine Cult directly. The Urshilaku clan leaders head the cult, so I am on the journey to their camp. My first stop is in Maar Gan to check in with a friend of Caius; a scout who can give me directions.
The Mage's Guild, which I joined to provide cover for my covert activities, is certainly providing it now. Doubly so. Ranis in Balmora and Edwinna in Ald-ruhn are reporting that I am holed up in my lab in Ald-ruhn. Under that cover they think I am on my way to the Dwemer ruins, with a stop in Maar Gan for Ranis. The Dark Brotherhood will have a hard time tracking me through all that haze. For my part I left Ald-ruhn hidden by my chameleon amulet and disappeared into the wastes. Tomorrow I will enter Maar Gan, and pursue my destiny.
Day Eighty-six: The necromancer of Maar Gan
I found the scout Nuleno Tedas in Maar Gan. He is a reliable friend of Caius, I hope. The fewer people know about my movements and destinations the better. The directions to the Urshilaku camp that he gave me will be useful in a way, even though I am not following them.
Nuleno's recommended path lead to a narrow pass into a steep walled foyada. His recommendation from there involved following the foyada to the coast and swimming around the headlands to the east. A fine path for a scout, not a conjurer. For me the shorter straight line path appeals more than the swim, so I levitated out of the foyada and will strike directly north in the morning.
While I was talking to Nuleno I started checking information for my other assignment in Maar Gan. When I asked about necromancy he just looked puzzled. When I asked about Tashpi he told me where to find her, but was clearly astonished that anyone would think she was a necromancer. He definitely would never believe that the village healer could be practicing the dark rites of necromancy. I knew it was quite possible, but decided to do some more checking.
The Redoran guards that patrol the streets of the outpost were my next source. I am coming to respect the Redorans. They seem to have found a balance between honoring the temple and the ancestral ways of the Dunmer, and they carry themselves with the dignity and courage of the Ashlanders without the short temper and xenophobia. The guards were helpful in clarifying information, though their information did not help with my mission. Nothing any of them has seen would indicate that there is an active practicing necromancer anywhere in or near Maar Gan. I went to Tashpi's hut hoping that the mystery could be resolved at the source.
Tashpi was completely taken aback when I asked her about necromancy. She is a lovely Dunmer woman who came to this remote outpost to be of service to her people. With her skills she could make a much better living in a major city, but the smaller villages are frequently in dire need, and she has chosen to meet that need. How could this good woman find herself accused of necromancy? How could I find myself sent here to end her life?
I should have guessed. Nowhere in her chosen life is there a need or a place for the Mage's Guild, so she never joined. Even when she was directly approached by Ranis herself, she refused. There are many villages in need of a healer. I feel bad for the people of Maar Gan, but their healer must go. Tashpi will find a place on the mainland to practice her arts. I will tell Ranis she is dead. I am losing patience with being Ranis' chosen assassin.
Day Eighty-seven: Shelter in the storm
The day dawned clear, but with a brisk wind. Looking down I could see that the deep channel of the foyada focused the wind, and billowing clouds of dusty ash were already rising. By the time I broke camp it was obvious I would need to find shelter as the wind continued to pick up, heading towards a howling fury. I sped down the hill to the north. Before long I was swallowed by the swirling torment of the ash storm. I wrapped my shirt around my head to filter the air. I had to breathe, but with no shirt the grit that seeped inside my armor ground away at my skin. And nothing could protect my eyes. I considered just lying down, curled in a protective ball, but I was afraid the marching dunes would bury me alive.
I hoped I was still headed north, but I wasn't sure. Whatever the direction, off to my left I saw the blurred figure of a man stumbling through the storm. Hoping that he would know a place to seek shelter I turned to join him. As I approached I saw that he was making for a cave entrance, sealed by a worn wooden door. Gratefully I called out to my fellow traveler.
My usual caution had been overcome by the torment of the storm, but as soon as I called out I saw all the reasons that I shouldn't have. Shirtless in the storm; the hulking gait; my hope for safe harbor from the storm collapsed with my recognition of a man far gone with corprus disease. The abomination wheeled clumsily and charged through the swirling ash and dust. With no time for thought I instinctively rammed my spear into its chest. The force of its charge bore me over backwards. The creature thrashed about, showing no sign of human intelligence, or even the slower thoughts of an animal. The fast growing flesh tried to close around the spear, but with every movement the weight of the long shaft would pull and twist the blade releasing great gushes of bloody froth from the shredded lungs. No effort was made to pull the spear free. Driven by malice over self preservation the poor blighted soul poured out its life while vainly struggling to reach me.
Once it was still I recovered my spear and turned to the door. I hesitated briefly, fearful of what must lie within. A corprus stalker on their doorstep did not speak well for the occupants of the cave. Driven by the storm I slipped inside.
Iam afraid to sleep in this evil place, but the storm continues to rage outside. It is a Sixth House base; fortunately small; a single descending spiral ending at a shrine. With no cross passages the fell creatures had no way to get behind me, and were dispatched in sequence and fairly quickly. Still I am uncomfortable here. I am resting against the surface door, as far from the horrid altar with its bins of corprus laden meat as I can get. I pray the storm passes soon.
Day Eighty-eight: The Urshilaku
I slept fitfully through the night, and more through the morning. The storm raged unabated outside the door. No further threats arose from the shrine below, but I was very happy to take my leave when the wind finally died down. The midday sun hung pale red above the settling dust. I set out to the north.
It was not all that far to the shore, and I had not strayed far from my course. The Urshilaku camp appeared off to the west as I topped a rise. I turned to approach, keeping a wary eye on the Ashlanders that could be seen moving among the grouping of yurts. I wanted to appear respectful and cautious, but must admit that I would have been far more comfortable with my bow in my hands rather than slung on my back.
I was well within bowshot, and knew there were many eyes upon me when a rangy Dunmer sauntered out to meet me at the edge of the camp. "Outlander. What do you want?" he asked. His tone was not the hissing accusation I had heard before, just a flat statement. I am an outlander.
I kept my own voice equally flat as I replied. "I have come seeking the counsel of your Ashkhan and your wise woman. I must know more of the prophecy of the Nerevarine."
"What would an outlander need to know of this? What brings you to this place? The Tribunal Temple has called the prophecy heresy. Do you say we are heretics? Would you burn our camp for the tribunes?" The red eyes were narrowed, and even though his hands stayed clear of his weapons danger radiated from him in a near visible cloud.
"I call no one a heretic. I was born on the certain day. I do not know my parents. I must know more about the prophecies. A good friend, an honorable man of the Ashlands, told me this is where I could find the answers I seek. I do not know what gifts to bring to you, your clan, or your honored chief, but I am willing to learn so I can follow that custom."
"An outlander thinks he is the Nerevarine," he said. "This is too much for me. See Zabamund, in that yurt there." He stepped aside as he motioned towards one of the large yurts set in a semicircle in the center of the camp. "He is a gulakhan, a trusted advisor to Sul-Matuul. He can weigh the merits of your story better than I."
I thanked him and walked towards the center of the camp.
"Outlander," he called from behind me. "Gold. We are in a modern age. Zabamund likes gold."
I entered the tent slowly. "Your pardon for the intrusion gulakhan. I would speak to you, and bring a gift of gold which I hope is suitable."
"You know our ways outlander. Many of your kind would call that a 'bribe', something dishonorable to be offered in darkness. I thank you for your gift. You may speak." Zabamund's eyes grew wide and incredulity spread over his features. "An outlander the Nerevarine! Why not a kagouti, or a shalk beetle? I think you may be mad Arvil Bren, but your voice rings true and I warrant you are no liar. Tell your tale to the Ashkahn. If he is upset at the disturbance he will be upset with me. I can afford that.."
The Ashkahn Sul-Matuul was not upset, stating simply that he trusted his advisors as he pocketed the gift of gold I delivered. He also seemed more open to the possibility of an outlander being the Nerevarine, but perhaps as the leader of his people he is just more diplomatic and humored me along. In any event he told me nothing of the prophecies, holding that knowledge secret among the clan. To get the answers I seek I must be named as a clanfriend. I thought this might be just a question of gold, and maybe if it was just up to the living members of the clan it would be, but it isn't.
Sul-Matuul sent me on a rite of initiation, to retrieve his father's bow from the clan burial caverns. I will be tested by his ancestors; either accepted or killed.
Day Eighty-nine: Burial caverns
I camped last night on the beach. Sul-Matuul's directions to the burial caverns started from a cairn of stones on the shore, and it seemed like an auspicious place to start the day. It was also far enough from the Urshilaku camp to make it clear that I wasn't presuming success in becoming a clanfriend. Good thing.
I did not find the bone-biter bow. In fact I'm not sure I even found any burial chambers. Overall I was unprepared and ill equipped for the task. Fortunately there was no time limit set for completing this initiation.
Finding the cavern was easy enough. The north facing door is always shadowed by the rocky outcrop above it, but the directions were exact. I fended off some cliff racers and arrived in good spirits well before mid-day. My confidence did not last long.
The heavy wooden door swung shut of its own weight behind me, leaving me in a twilight world of glowing magica and dripping water seemingly far removed from the arid Ashlands above. The raw magica flowing in visible fountains; the basic stuff of the universe on display; no wonder the Urshilaku ancestors had chosen this place to bury their dead. Like all men in all times I'm sure they dreamed of channeling that power. Perhaps in death they have.
The entry passage sloped downwards gently, and was flanked by two short columns that flared into platforms just above my head. On each platform, seated with knees drawn up to their chests, an ancient mummy gazed down, unperturbed by my passing. My passage did not disturb them, but in passing them I clearly entered the realm of the Urshilaku dead. No sooner had I passed between them than I was beset by a skeletal warrior bearing a mighty silver sword.
With the massive haft clutched in both bony hands the skeleton unleashed a great chopping downstoke meant to cleave me in half. I dodged aside, leaving the great blade to glance off my shoulder and crash against the rocky floor. Even the glancing blow took me off my feet. Whatever ethereal muscle animated the skeletal frame held astonishing strength. I rolled against the cave wall to avoid another tremendous chop while unleashing the spear within my enchanted shortsword.
The warrior knew that the outcrops of the roughly hewn wall would catch or deflect the sword's downward chopping path, but the blade could follow a great glittering arc slicing sideways and down to where I lay trying desperately to gather myself. I swung my spear out against the cavern floor at a shallow angle, and the shaft guided the huge claymore upwards, to crash against the rock wall above me. A shower of gritty fragments rained down on me as I continued to my feet.
I am accustomed to the long reach of a spear giving me an advantage over swordsmen, but the giant claymore and supernatural speed of my articulated foe more than matched my advantage, and the ceaseless endurance of the undead kept blows hammering down on me in a torrent. I dodged. I deflected with my spear's sturdy shaft. I leapt backwards, begging my own ancestors to keep me from stumbling on the uneven floor. And I watched. Eventually I saw what I needed to see.
I sidestepped a great chop, then bounded back to land with all my weight on my arms, which brought my spear across the blade before it could rebound off the stone. Driving forward, the shaft slid up the blade to the hilt, gaining leverage with every inch it traveled further from where the point met the floor, eventually crashing the full length of the sword to the ground. The skeleton clung desperately, not wanting to be disarmed, and was dragged helplessly down to crash its bare skull into my armored shoulder. I got a knee onto the haft of the sword, pinning and crushing finger bones, and slammed the spear crossways into the monster's writhing spine. With a loud crunch bones parted, leaving the legs scrambling for purchase and the upper portion scrabbling for its sword. I pounded both parts to splinters.
As the heat of battle faded I recognized that I was far from unharmed and cast a healing spell. I had grown tired of carrying the weight of my steel shield, finding that I am better protected by improved nimbleness without it, but I missed the powerful healing enchantment I had placed on it. My healing spell is slightly more effective, but depletes my reserves of magica. Fine for the occasional battle in the wilderness, but clearly I will not be able to get far enough into the tombs to accomplish my task without every advantage.
I continued down the passage warily, and defeated two more skeletons before reaching a door protected by a wide moat of water. To levitate across would have taken all of my remaining magica. I was out of arrows. I gathered the three heavy silver claymores, opting to use the last of my magica to teleport home in defeat. At least I got out alive, unlike the two battered corpses in various states of decay that showed I was not the first adventurer bent on exploring the crypt.
Day Ninety: Regroup and research
Amazing how often what is intended to be a lie turns into the truth. I created the cover story that I was holed up in Ald-ruhn doing research to mislead any Dark Brotherhood assassin that might be looking for me, and now I am holed up in Ald-ruhn doing research. Actually I used the guild guide late this evening, so I'm sleeping in Balmora; safely off the target I hope.
I got up early this morning and hauled my collected silver weapons off to Mebestien's shop. He was disappointed that I didn't have another load of Dwemer artifacts for him, but satisfied when I allowed him a good price for the swords. That weight off my shoulders I set out for Balmora, with my healing shield and well worn levitation boots. Not my most effective armor, but I will have need of their enchantments.
I maintained my cover by slipping invisibly through the streets of Balmora to the guild hall. By entering through the upper door I spared any passersby the mystery of a door opening by itself, though I did surprise Galbedir when I appeared suddenly in her lab. Ranis was pleased with my report of Tashpi's demise, though I hate to think what will happen if she ever finds out the truth. Edwinna was not as pleased to see me when I transported to Ald-ruhn, since I had to admit I had not gotten anywhere near her Dwemer ruin. She is forgiving though, and understands the occasional need to teleport to safety.
The rest of the day I spent with Hassour Zainsubani. When he heard that Sul-Matuul was considering making me a clanfriend he was impressed. When he heard about the initiation rite I was facing he was dubious. "You will be sorely tested Arvil Bren," he said, and shook his head.
One thing that emerged from our conversation is the difference between an Ashland clan burial cavern and the tombs of the settled Dunmer families that I am already familiar with. I had not considered that the Urshilaku clan, not just a single family, has been using that cavern for possibly hundreds of generations. I can expect that it will be a gigantic underground complex. It was likely a huge cavern to start with, and has had many vaults and chambers added to it. When I described the tunnel I had already explored, which has a chamber on each side high above the floor, Hassour suggested those were likely the original burial vaults, abandoned and unused for millennia. Suitable for discarding the remains of intruders. Hassour didn't say that it was a likely place for me to end up, but I'm sure it crossed his mind.
There are three broad challenges that the Urshilaku ancestors will present. Obviously, this is a test of courage. To face possibly hundreds of undying guardians is daring taken to the border of madness. Also obviously, it challenges all my skill and endurance. Hassour says the undead will reform ranks behind me. If I teleport myself out I will have to start as if I had never entered the caverns, and I will not be able to rest inside. The third challenge is a test of greed. The skeletal warriors will bring their silver weapons from the plane of the dead. If the riches call me they will weigh me down long before I reach the deeper caverns, and again, to leave is to start over.
If this is what the Ashlanders require of their friends, what will they demand of the Nerevarine?
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