Chapter 68: Six and Seven

Hasphat Antabolis was not in the Fighters Guild training room when I returned. A guild member directed me to the nearby Eight Plates public house - where the weapons trainer was having his evening meal. The handsome Imperial man was not difficult to find in the crowded public house; he was sitting alone (though judging by the stares a couple of young women were giving him, probably not for long) at a table, elbows sticking out to the side as he sawed away at a sizeable slab of grilled meat.

I slid into the seat across from him. Hasphat glanced up, and said, with his mouth full:

"Hungwy?" I shrugged, but nodded. The trainer raised his hand to catch the attention of the Dunmer woman behind the bar, and with his mouth still full, called out: "More food over here!"

I waited until he had swallowed before placing the Dwemer puzzle box in the centre of the table. His eyes lit up.

"Ah - good. Very good! You got it... The food's on me, then." He gave a wide grin, momentarily abandoning his heaped plate to study the metal cube, turning it over and over in his hands. "Not too difficult, I hope?"

"I've had more pleasant afternoons." I said shortly. "They usually involved less broken ribs and spilt blood."

Hasphat looked me up and down briefly. There was little evidence of my rough expedition into Arkngthand, as I of course was fully healed; and my battered armour was currently with Ulfred, being repaired.

"Not... officials, I hope?" The trainer gave me a funny look - but I shook my head to dispel any notion that I had been discovered looting the ruin by Imperial officials, and had fought my way out.

"No. Looters - and those damned walking machines."

Hasphat looked a little sheepish, but gave a small smile regardless.

"Ah - well, I couldn't have known that anyone else would be there... though it seems fortunate you went no later than you did. In any case," he gestured with the puzzle box before putting it down and returning to his meal, not pausing to explain what the box did or why he wanted it; "I greatly appreciate this. And don't worry yourself: I'll tell you what I know about the Sixth House - I've even got some notes about it here somewhere that you can give to Caius." He patted down a few pockets before locating and fishing out a folded sheet of paper, which he tossed across to me.

My food arrived just then, and Hasphat proceeded to give me a small history lecture over dinner.

"Now, you know the five ruling Great Houses of Morrowind?" He began to count on his fingers. "Hlaalu, Redoran, Telvanni, Indoril and Dres. A long time ago - in the First Age - there used to be seven ruling houses - House Dagoth was the sixth of those houses; hence the name the 'Sixth House'. As a sidenote, House Dwemer was regarded as the seventh house."

Dagoth... that word again. For a moment I was at a loss as to where I had heard it before - but then I remembered: the 'guidebook' for the Tribunal Temple's Pilgrimage of the Seven Graces, 'The Pilgrim's Path', had said to beware the 'minions of Dagoth Ur' when inside the Ghostfence. Could these two things be related - or simply share the same name? I asked Hasphat; he seemed a bit put out of stride at the question.

"Yes, I was coming to that - hold on... Well, alright: 'Dagoth Ur' is another name for the Red Mountain region - as I understand it - so 'minions of Dagoth Ur' would likely be the blighted creatures found there." The trainer paused to gather his thoughts. "So... Houses Dagoth and Dwemer betrayed the other houses (some religious disagreement or other) and brought about the War of the First Council - which culminated in the 'Battle at Red Mountain'. In this battle, House Dagoth was eliminated. It is also thought that it was at this time that the Dwemer mysteriously disappeared."

Hasphat paused to take a couple of mouthfuls of his dinner. This gave me a chance to digest what he had told me so far. It was quite interesting, to tell the truth: I had previously been given the impression that the Dwemer were actually another race to the Dunmer - not simply one of the great ruling clans of the dark elves. (I was later to discover that this view of things was not strictly accurate either).

"Now -" Hasphat continued after taking a great swig of sujamma, "all members of House Dagoth were either killed or adopted into other houses, so House Dagoth is gone. Completely dead and finished thousands of years ago... makes me wonder why old Caius wants to know about it." The Imperial trainer gave me a wink. "Although come to think of it, the Temple says that the ancient, legendary evil beings that - apparently - live under Red Mountain are actually the original leaders of House Dagoth, if you can believe it. They maintain that some 'powerful, evil sorceries' are keeping them alive. The Temple says a lot of things, though."

The trainer pushed away his plate, finished, and leaned back in his seat, mug of sujamma in hand.

"So that's that - and that's more or less what I wrote in those notes there." He indicated the folded piece of paper he had given me. "Now, as to the Nerevarine; that's something I don't actually know much about..."

And he was right: everything he told me I had heard before, thought Hasphat underlined again how the Tribunal Temple persecuted 'heretics' who believed in the Nerevarine prophecies; something I knew firsthand after my experience with the false prophet in Suran. Hasphat finished by saying:

"... in any case, tell Caius that Sharn gra-Muzgob, over at the Mages Guild, would be a better person to ask about native faiths and superstitions: I only know the history."

I groaned internally, wishing he hadn't said that. Surely not Sharn gra-Muzgob, the Orcish healer who had considered her own sleep more important than coming to heal me after I had been mortally wounded by one of the Dark Brotherhood assassins! She was one of the most difficult, disagreeable people I had ever met. If Caius wanted me to get information out of her...

I thanked Hasphat for his help (though I did not much feel like it after the trouble he had put me through), and made my way across town to report back to the spymaster.


Caius looked at me over the top of Hasphat's notes.

"Yes, there's nothing about the Nerevarine here. You're saying he recommended Sharn gra-Muzgob?"

Involuntarily gritting my teeth, I nodded.

"Well, that's alright; I know Sharn. Very smart - for an Orc," he added, almost absent-mindedly. "She has a somewhat unhealthy interest in the dark arts, some would say, but she knows what she's talking about. Thankyou for this;" Caius gave the sheet of notes a flick with his finger; "this is good. However we do need more information on the Nerevarine, so I'll need you to go talk to Sharn. You would already know her anyway, correct? Same arrangement as with Hasphat: she'll probably have some silly errand for you to run - but do it - and find out what she knows."

I nodded, but my opinion of Sharn gra-Muzgob must have been plain on my face, for Caius grinned and said:

"Oh come now, she's not all that bad! I think you'll find she warms to you if she feels she's gotten something worthwhile out of you." He clapped me on the shoulder, and turned to file away Hasphat's notes on the Sixth House.

Whatever the spymaster's view of the cantankerous Orc, I would leave it for the morning. I had had enough aggravation for one day.

Chapter 67: Looting

Setting off on a beaten dirt path from the Moonmoth Legion fort, just outside Balmora, I skirted around a rocky hill and climbed the gradual slope to the great Dwemer bridge nearby. The ancient metal construction spanned the breadth of the Foyada Mamaea. I had seen the marvel of a bridge once before, passing underneath it as I hiked north up the Foyada to the Ghostgate. Whatever else the history books said about the Dwemer people, there was no denying that they were exceptional engineers. Rusted and pitted as the entirely metal bridge may have been, it was still sturdy and perfectly straight; not warped at all.


As I crossed the bridge I could tell that not all was as it should be at the Arkngthand ruin. The entrance was just a short way up the path from the other end of the bridge, but the approach was being guarded by a man in an iron breastplate. I could tell that he was old, even from halfway across the bridge; his shock of white hair appeared to gleam in the dim, overcast light. He watched me approach, looking quite uncomfortable, as if unsure how to respond to my presence.

He made a decision in that regard as soon as I came within hailing distance, waving his arms and conjuring a walking skeleton on the bridge in front of him. I was well-armed and -experienced enough to have little fear of the average skeletal guardian, but the old man's offensive magic proved more of a threat. The first bolt of magical fire whistled past my ear, and I moved to keep the skeleton between myself and my attacker. The sword-wielding revenant click-clacked across the metal bridge to meet me, and I sprinted towards it, hoping to close most of the distance between myself and the old man while I still had the skeleton as (admittedly meagre) cover.

Before I could bring my sword to bear on the undead thing, the second bolt hit the skeleton in the back, blasting it into a hundred or more small pieces. I leapt through the cloud of fire and bone-shards as if through a smokescreen, finding myself face-to-face with the white-haired man. Before either of us really knew it, I had cut him down.

Nothing he carried gave any indication as to who he might have been, but the manner in which I found him, and the cobbled-together state of his equipment led me to think that he was keeping watch while some 'friends' looked through the ruin; and that those friends were not there on official Imperial business. There was a metal crank a little way up the path from where the old man had been standing, which, with some exertion, proved to open the strange, rotating hemispherical door to the ruins.

Inside Arkngthand was deafening. Virtually all of the ruin (if it can truly be called that - it was in remarkably good condition) was made of the same ancient Dwemer metal, and the weight of the soil and rocks above the subterranean passages caused all the metal to creak and groan horribly against itself. It felt as if the sound had nowhere to go: that it would bounce off the harsh metal surfaces again and again, echoing forever in those dark chambers. It might not have been as bad if it was a constant, level groaning noise, but it wasn't: it was unpredictable, ever-changing, and simply very, very loud:

"Creak groan GROOOAAAN shudder screech crakcrakcrakcrak BANG!" And so it went. (Difficult to describe in words, but something to that effect). It constantly made me jump in mild shock.

Strangely enough, considering the number of underground Daedric ruins I had visited, I had never actually been inside a Dwemer ruin before. I wondered if they were all like Arkngthand: deafening, dark, and home to a mass of twisting, maze-like metal passages. Initially I had avoided them on the advice of - well, basically anyone who had something to say about Dwemer ruins - but later on, when I became more confident of my abilities and came to own better equipment, I had simply not passed anywhere near a ruin.


I wished I had: it was fascinating. The passages were cast in a dim orange light by a multitude of strange glowing rings, each suspended in a glass tube. Mysterious machines of grinding gears and hissing steam rattled away continuously, as they had done for centuries upon centuries. There was metal everywhere - where could it all have come from? It was employed as if metal was not a precious resource. It was easy to get the impression that the Dwemer people had made everything out of metal: I even saw metal cups and plates during my time in Arkngthand. Of course, any Dwemer items made of materials other than metal would have long rotted away, so...

In any case, I had little idea where to begin looking for the 'puzzle box' Hasphat Antabolis had asked for, and my search was soon complicated when I found that I had been right about other people being inside the ruins: looters. They were everywhere, ranging throughout the upper passages of the ruin, evidently looking to take anything that could be carried in one's arms. This made navigating the twisting corridors particularly hazardous, as the racket put up by the groaning metal meant that I was constantly turning a corner to literally bump right into one of the looters; neither of us could hear the other approach!

I killed many of the hostile looters as I searched; like the white-haired man outside, they gave me little choice. There was no way I could sneak past them; the bare corridors offered nowhere to hide. Invisibility magic was no good either; it would have been constantly disrupted by my search through every ancient barrel and strongbox I found. I spent the whole time twisting my head about to look over my shoulder, paranoid that someone would turn the corner behind me, unheard.

And so it was with raw nerves and a bloodied blade that I came to the first locked door I had seen that day. Judging by the greasy handprints that marred its dusty surface, particularly around a dark slot between the two halves of the circular door, one of the looters had attempted to pick the lock; without success. I felt a surge of hope; I had been close to giving up and returning to Hasphat to see if I could possibly do something else for him instead. I just could not find the puzzle box. I'd thought that a looter must have already found the box and escaped with it - probably well before I even arrived.

However, if they had not passed beyond that door, perhaps I would be lucky. With a jolt of alteration magic to the lock and a violent kick to the stubborn door, I was through.

On the other side, I was immediately set upon by one of the mechanical 'constructs' I had heard tell of: a clockwork spider. The thing scuttled forward with purpose, and, in a surprising flash of speed, attempted to stab me through the thighs with its two pointed front legs. The adamantium plates on my greaves caught both blows, and I was able to quickly smash the complicated mass of gears in the automaton's many 'knees' with my heavy Daedric sword. The clockwork spider was left to shudder helplessly on the spot; though it appeared to still be trying to attack me.


I was left no time to study the intriguing device, as at that moment a massive metal 'man' lumbered into view at the far end of the corridor. It too moved to the attack, without hesitation - wisps of steam trailing behind it. The thing towered above me, and looked vaguely similar to the pieces of Dwemer armour I had in my collection. I was wary of the large spiked ball at the end of one of its arms, and thought I had jumped back far enough to avoid its swing... but I did not foresee that the automaton could extend the ball from its arm - on a metal pole.

I was caught full in the chest and thrown back through the air. I landed on my feet, but the force of the swing meant that I still stumbled backwards, tripping over the broken clockwork spider. I fell to the ground with the now familiar agony of several broken ribs. Dropping my sword for a moment, I touched my hand gently to my chest and sent healing magic through my body, mending the bones almost instantly. As I scrambled to my feet, I frantically looked for weak spots on the approaching metal man - as I mentioned, however, the thing was built like a suit of armour - and there weren't many. At least, not on its front... perhaps behind.


At that point, fortune smiled on me and the metal man, too, tripped over the clockwork spider. I dashed around behind it before it could properly regain its footing, and sure enough, the intricate gears that made up its knees were exposed there to facilitate movement. I jammed the point of my Daedric sword into the gears as hard as I could and held on. As the massive automaton attempted to bend its leg to turn around, there was a horrid -screech-, following by a piercing -crack- as something inside the thing broke. It collapsed to the floor, unable to move - like the clockwork spider.

Unlike the smaller automaton, though, the metal man was still quite dangerous, lashing out with its extensible spiked-mace of an arm if I got too close. I was certainly not going to get a chance to examine it.

I searched through the lower parts of the ruin, but found nothing besides near-unbearable heat (the place appeared to be built over the top of an exposed flow of molten rock), nerve-wracking hostile spirits that I couldn't see, but had to listen for to defeat (just as difficult as it sounds - even more so if you take the constant screeching, groaning racket of the metal ruins into account), several precious gemstones, and a few useless scraps of metal. I was about to finally give up right there and teleport home when I remembered seeing a number of doors in the entrance chamber - whereas I had only passed through one.

Cursing my own carelessness, I raced back up through the twisting passages and stairways to the Arkngthand entrance; and just in time, as it turned out. The first door I tried led to a single room, and in it was the biggest looter I had seen that day: a very fat yet powerful-looking Cyrodiilic man. He wasted no time in attempting to hammer me into the wall with an iron mallet, but his girth became the end of him when I darted between a pair of exposed pipes: he was too large to follow. From there, I pelted him with Poisonbloom and Frostball spells until he stopped moving.

I counted myself as very lucky for arriving when I did: on a shelf in plain sight was the puzzle box. There was no doubt in my mind: it fit Hasphat's description exactly. I snatched it up and teleported back home for a steadying drink. The ever-present blanket of deafening noise in Arkngthand - and the danger this presented when passing through a place full of people (and other things) who would have killed me if they could - had been wearing away at my nerves for the whole duration of my visit. The invisible spirits had been the end of it; I was now in a rotten mood.

That was the other reason for a drink - to calm myself before visiting Hasphat Antabolis. I was not happy with him at all.

Chapter 66: This for that

"Look, I'm going to be honest with you: about your approach to these Dark Brotherhood attacks - or, rather - your lack of approach... I just have to say: stupid. Very, very dim." Caius Cosades shook his head gravely.

I was a little taken aback, and momentarily at a loss for what to say. The spymaster went on:

"I can understand not wanting to poke your nose into a nest of professional assassins who seem to have it in for you; probably quite sensible of you - at least initially - but really, you should have come to me straight away."

I gave a small sigh. There seemed little point in objecting to his manner: I had previously considered getting Cosades' opinion on the attacks, but the truth was that at the time, I simply didn't trust him. Now that he was demonstrating his resources as an Imperial Spymaster by showing how much he knew of my recent actions, I was more inclined to believe that he was who he claimed to be.

"You're probably right, Caius... but by the same token, I haven't been sitting back and waiting for another assassin to come after me; I've been training, and studying magic."

"Martial arts and sorcery... they have their place. I'm certainly glad to hear you've been learning such things; but what I'm talking about is in a realm outside acts of direct physical violence." The old Imperial man stood up and stretched. His muscles bulged as he moved, obvious even beneath the shirt he wore. He was patently a physically capable man himself, despite his years. He continued: "Information. I can help you. I know people in Mournhold; I'll make some inquiries. It's doubtful that I can find out why they're after you - the Dark Brotherhood is just as secretive as the Blades - let alone reach some kind of peaceful resolution, but I believe I can tip the scales in favour of you not winding up dead."

It was quite generous of him, considering I hadn't yet done a thing in service of the Blades.

"Well... thankyou!" I said. "I'll admit I had little idea how to ... approach the problem. I'd heard the nearest concentration of Dark Brotherhood was supposed to be in Mournhold somewhere, but not much else."

"You're quite welcome. I have to look after my interests, of course; such as you - you're no good to me dead. Speaking of which, I have some orders you can carry out while I get in touch with my contacts in Mournhold."

And there it was: no help for free. I wasn't complaining, though; it seemed fair enough to me. The matter of the Dark Brotherhood assassins had been a dark shadow in the back of my mind for far too long; that they hadn't paid me a visit in months made it worse, in some ways. Every night when I went to bed I had to fight back the creeping fear that that night might be the one: that I might not wake up again.

I motioned for Caius to give me his task.

"Right now I need information about two potentially related secret cults: the 'Nerevarine' and 'Sixth House' cults."

"The Nerevarine?" I interrupted him. "I've heard about that..." I told him about my dealing with the 'False Incarnate' Elvil Vidron, in Suran, and what little I had learned at the Temple about the Nerevarine prophecies.

The spymaster looked thoughtful at my tale of the False Incarnate, and appeared to be only half paying attention when he said:

"Yes, it seems like everyone is talking about the supposed reincarnation of this Indoril Nerevar." Caius rubbed his chin. "All I know about it, beyond what you just told me, is that these prophecies say that the Nerevarine will be an 'orphan and outcast', born on 'a certain day to uncertain parents'. The Sixth House cult is supposedly related in some way, but apart from that, all I've heard about them is that they're apparently behind ... certain strange events of late."

Caius sank back down onto his bed.

"In any case, your orders are to go see Hasphat Antabolis at the Fighters Guild here - he's an amateur local historian, of sorts - and ask him what he knows about the Nerevarine and Sixth House cults. He and I have an arrangement: we trade information for favours; so, with you being my proxy in this case, he'll probably have some job for you to do before he'll give us anything. And that's it. Clear enough?"

I hesitated. The old Imperial obviously wasn't telling me everything he knew... and I hated it, but I just had to ask:

"Yes, although... can I ask why you're collecting this information?"

A faint smile played across the spymaster's lips.

"Well... you're free to ask - but I'm not free to say; I'll put it that way."

I grunted, mildly frustrated. As I have mentioned before, I had a natural tendency to try to satisfy my curiosity; and if I couldn't, I was unhappy. At my obvious lack of enthusiasm, Caius added:

"Don't fret; I'm sure you'll do stellar work, and I'll be able to promote you soon enough. Then I'll be able to tell you things I know, and not just things I need." The Imperial motioned towards the door. "Now, off with you - I have some people to talk to if I'm going to find out anything about these nasty boys in black."

It only took several minutes to reach the Fighters Guild from Caius' hut - it was actually right next to the Mages Guild. I was glad to be out of the old Imperial man's presence: he had proven to be occasionally abrasive in his manners. I never knew when he was about to make some insulting, offhand comment. Well, at least he was mostly civil... and he had offered to help me with my Dark Brotherhood problem.


"So, you're with Caius, eh?" Hasphat Antabolis, an Imperial weapons trainer, looked me up and down. I did the same: he was hardly the stereotypical 'historian-type'. In fact, with his rich, straight, dark brown hair and strong features, he looked the kind that would have the young ladies of Balmora swooning. "What does the old man need this time?" His smile was disarming.


I filled the Imperial in on Caius' request. Hasphat nodded.

"Yes, he was right: I can help, and I will need something from you, first. Have you been inside a Dwemer ruin before?" Hasphat, who had been in the middle of an active training session when I came in, began running on the spot. "Caius may have told you this, but I like to study history: mainly local Morrowind history and the Dwemer. There are some Dwemer ruins just outside Balmora, called 'Arkngthand'. Inside is a small artefact I want to study: a 'puzzle box'. It's a metal cube, about the size of your fist, with a circular design and other symbols on the side. If you can bring that cube back for me, I can help you."

I glanced at the Imperial's students, a short distance away. They were talking amongst themselves, and appeared to not be listening. As I have mentioned before, dealing in Dwemer artefacts was illegal; and so I knew the reason behind Hasphat sending me to the nearby ruin.

"You know this thing is there - you know exactly where it is, and yet you haven't fetched it yourself..." I narrowed my eyes at him. "You want me to run the risk of being caught looting a Dwemer ruin - rather than you - is that it?"

Hasphat gave an infuriating grin.

"You're a sharp one, Frost... which means you should have little trouble."

Again I found myself before a Cyrodiilic man with a somewhat galling manner, and again I could do little but sigh. Of course I had my own small collection of Dwemer armour pieces in my 'museum' - but then I had recovered those from smugglers and bandits - and I had bought an expensive permit so I could count myself as exempt from unwanted 'official' interest in the matter. That was a little different from directly sifting through a prohibited historical site and stealing what I found. I rubbed my chin, thinking it through. If the worst potential outcome should befall me and I was caught, I could probably plead ignorance of the 'specific allowances' of my permit, or somesuch...

I shook the irksome thoughts off and, now in a decidedly foul mood, accepted Hasphat's terms. Dancing around self-serving Imperial laws on a fetch-and-carry mission seemed like such a waste of (my very precious) time, but I would do it anyway...

I sighed again. I had my reasons.

Chapter 65: Friends, lovers and painful thoughts

I told Folms about what happened in the filthy depths of Telasero: about the whispering shrine, the offerings of infected flesh, and the score of insane Dunmer people I'd killed. It was actually only as I recounted the grisly events of the morning that I realised that every single person I encountered in the stronghold was a Dunmer; even the 'tentacle-faced man' looked as if he - or it - could have once been Dunmeri.

It was a fact that seemed to upset Folms; perhaps because he too was a dark elf. He was obviously troubled at my story, in any case, and refused to meet my gaze.

"They didn't leave me a choice, Folms." I frowned. "They were all out of their minds - they would have killed me."

Folms finally looked at me, if only for a moment.

"Yes - yes, I'm sure you wouldn't have killed them for no good reason." The enchanter paused. "Dreamers. They had to be Dreamers." When he realised I didn't know what he was talking about, he went on to explain: "For a little while now, people have been complaining of... strange - dreams. Well, actually not many people are complaining, because the Temple tends to have a fairly dim view of people who complain of strange dreams... but the fact remains that people are having them. Mostly Dunmeri people, actually... and some of these Dunmer - usually the ones who complain the most of odd dreams - have just up and wandered off into the night. Some of them become violent if someone tries to stop them. More than one Dunmer I know has had their blank-faced lover push them down and run off into the wilderness, in the middle of the night."

The enchanter caught the Telasero index up off the table and held the stone up to his face, gazing into its depths. After a moment, he said:

"I think, Mister Frost, that you found where they're going, these 'Dreamers' - some of them, at any rate." He gazed into my eyes.

"You don't mean...?" I was shocked.

I sat down heavily, across from Folms. Since arriving on Vvardenfell, I had killed many, many more people than I would have liked. I had actually lost count. It never ceased to bother me, either... I kept myself going via the usual 'self-defence' argument - and by not thinking about those I killed. Those dead by my hand had no family, friends, or lovers. They had no past or future. They were nothing but an abstract threat to my life that I had removed.

Except that that was obviously not true, and what Folms was saying forced me to confront that awful thought: at least where it concerned the Dreamers in Telasero. Folms heaved a great sigh.

"They're going to be... upset when I tell them." The enchanter was staring into space. I assumed he was talking about his friends whose lovers had wandered off at night. "Anyway," he blinked and looked back to me, "I should have your Master Index ready tomorrow morning. Thankyou again for fetching all these -" he gestured with the Telasero index - "it really was a superlative effort. I'm looking forward to getting this travel service started... although I don't think I'll be sending anyone to Telasero just yet. In the meantime, I very much think you should report what you saw in there to the Temple. Perhaps they can cleanse the place. They would certainly want to know about it, anyway - I can tell you that."

I did exactly as he suggested, teleporting over to Ald'ruhn to talk to the monk Tuls Valen. He too was troubled by my story, and said he would inform the Ordinators right away. After I described the tentacle-faced man, Valen looked thoughtful, and said:

"That sounds like something I've heard Uvoo Llaren - at Ghostgate; you'll remember I mentioned him when we last spoke - like something I've heard Uvoo speak of. He may be able to tell you more about what it was you saw."

I left Valen in short order; he wanted to head off to talk to the Ordinators immediately. Back at Wolfen castle, I spent most of the rest of the day sparring with Rhek'feer, the Khajiiti martial arts trainer I had recently hired. After speaking with some of the castle guards, it had become obvious that none of us - especially myself - knew much about fighting without weapons.

This conversation was prompted by the events of one of the first few nights after parts of the castle were opened to the public. The castle was, of course, not open at night; but a drunken Legion soldier, wandering across from the Six Fishes tavern at Ebonheart, thought that it should be. He became quite obnoxious and belligerent, and the guards were apparently having a difficult time throwing him out: he was quite the brawler. I was woken by the shouting, and after jumping down from the battlements nearest my bedroom wearing nothing but my 'Infallible' belt and a pair of pants, I saw that the situation was becoming quite serious. A couple of the guards, sporting black eyes and bleeding noses, had just drawn their swords when I arrived.

I stopped them before any serious bloodshed could ensue, and incapacitated the drunken lout with a paralysation spell. A couple of the guards dumped the soldier outside the grounds, lowering the portcullis behind him. Once the spell wore off, one of the archers saw him off by firing a couple of arrows past his head.

This was all a cause of concern for me. We needed to be able to see off thieves and unruly visitors without killing them - and without putting ourselves at risk. So I hired Rhek'feer to teach myself and the guards unarmed combat. At first I only intended to keep him on until I felt that we had learned enough from him (and I told him this), but Rhek's incredible skill soon saw him fall into an unofficial 'captain of the guard' role. The great cat's daily physical exercises also proved quite a draw for visitors to the castle: his gymnastic acrobatics routines in particular were spectacular.


As promised, Folms had my Master Index ready for me in the morning. It was a carved blue stone a little bigger than a propylon index, looking somewhat like an elongated spinning top. It felt good to have finally finished that 'little' job for Folms - and to have the evidence in my hand - but I had no need to try it out right then.

I had decided that it was past time I returned to Caius Cosades in Balmora to see what orders he might have for me as a 'Blades operative'. I didn't need his money anymore, and I wasn't going out of respect for the Emperor's wishes or a desire to serve the Empire. I went because I was still curious to discover why I had been abruptly released from a Cyrodiil prison, and taken all the way to Morrowind. I also thought that if, by some chance, the Blades had the means to cure my affliction, they might develop the desire to help me if I served them.


"Frost! Just the man! Come in." Caius opened the door to his hut all the way. He looked as bleary-eyed as the last time I saw him; shortly after arriving on Vvardenfell.

He also seemed... happy to see me. It had been three months since the Imperial Spymaster had sent me off to regain my strength, make friends and contacts, and generally become better established on the island. During that whole time, Caius had apparently had orders waiting for me: I had expected him to be cross with me for keeping him waiting. I had my excuses, of course: a lot had happened - incredible things! I had a whole new face, for goodness' sake - and... actually - that was when it occurred to me:

"Mister Cosades, how did you know it was me?" I gestured at my face.

Caius sat on the edge of his bed.

"Ah, yes - you must be wondering how I could tell you apart from every other Breton on the street ... with a big glowing crescent mark on his face..." he gave me a mildly mocking look - "right?"

I took his point. He had, obviously, heard about my remarkable new identifying mark. Instead, I broached the topic of my long absence:

"I'm sorry if you expected me back sooner. Things have been a little... hectic."

"Hah! Hectic is right." Caius chuckled. He certainly did seem to be in a good mood. "The stories I've been hearing! I very nearly sacked some of my people because I thought they were making it all up. When I last saw you three months ago, now I mean no offence, but you looked like you'd just fought a cave rat for your last square meal - and lost."

The spymaster may have said he meant no offence, but his words nevertheless brought back some painful memories. While I had never 'fought a rat for food', in so many words, there were times in the Imperial prison when such a thing would not have been above me. They did not feed us well.

Caius, oblivious to the hurt he had caused, was still speaking:

"Now look at you, though. Daedric weapons." He pointed to my sword. "Armour I've ... never seen before. Killing Dremora. A goddess asking for your help - apparently. Your own castle!" Caius shook his head slowly. "I don't mind that you took three months to get back to me, because, to be honest, with the condition you were in I thought it would be longer before you'd be fit enough to even swing a sword properly. You've far surpassed my expectations. I couldn't really ask for someone better established here than someone with their own castle. Not to mention the equipment you've got there."

Once again he eyed my heavy Daedric sword and the Netch Adamantium armour - and the blue ioun stone bobbing lazily near my head.

"Anyway, Frost, take a seat." He indicated the lone, rickety wooden chair in the hut. "We have a lot to discuss."

Chapter 64: A Red Day

In the morning I asked Masalinie to teleport me to the Vivec guild hall. The silt strider platform was just outside, and fortunately I was able to charter a strider to take me across the Ascadian Isles to Suran straight away. From there I struck out to the east, heading along the coast to the Telasero stronghold.

Folms' warnings about the Velothi stronghold were dire - but admittedly vague. Walking along the ashen coast, I was restless in my mind. What had the enchanter seen in his vision of the place? I had never heard anything about Telasero; what was it that people said about it? I began to run, putting my 'Tireless' pants to use. I had to know... I wanted to stop wondering.


I ran through fields of dead, skeletal trees, and leapt over shallow, steaming pits of soft and damp sand. I was coming fairly close to the Molag Amur region; the part of Vvardenfell with the most volcanic activity - after Red Mountain itself, of course. Compared to most of the island, the south coast near Suran was home to terrain that was fairly flat and agreeable to travel on foot. Before very long at all, I crested a hill and beheld the massive Telasero stronghold, squatting in its crater as if some giant thumb had pushed it down into the ground.


No living thing grew near the stronghold - not for as far as I could see - all around; even to the nearby coast. A pall of steam and smoke from Molag Amur hung in the air, and everything was grey; and quiet. There were no windows in the stronghold, and only one way in or out: a massive pair of heavy wooden doors. Taking a deep breath, I readied my weapons and went inside.

I almost immediately dashed back out again: the oppressive atmosphere in the stronghold was nearly too much. The air was sweltering, and thick with the stench of rotting flesh and bodily waste. Inside was as silent as the outside - at least I thought it was. I couldn't shake the feeling that someone or something was whispering to me. Clusters of glowering red candles were strewn about the floor, all down the entrance corridor and the chamber beyond; but they did little more than give a rough indication of the dimensions of each room. Even with the candles it was black as pitch - my Night-eye spell would be a necessity.

The smell was by far the worst part - it filled me with revulsion and horror at what could be the cause of it. I constantly felt as if I was about to retch - but shortly I was faced with a more pressing problem. The entrance corridor sloped downwards from the door, and there was something moving at the base of the slope: it was in the doorway to the large chamber - I could see its silhouette in the candlelight.

With my Night-eye spell in place, I could see it more clearly... but I still had no idea what it was. It was a swollen, obese thing in brown and purple robes, roughly shaped like man or mer, with tiny grey arms sticking out uselessly either side. Its head was truly alien, though: two big black cavities where its eyes should have been, and a long central trunk surrounded by two or three waving tentacles. The beast appeared to have trouble shuffling about very quickly, but then it proved that it didn't need to be near to attack me, its tentacles writhing as it projected bolts of magical ice and fire at me.


Keeping low to avoid its magical attacks, I dashed up to the 'tentacle-faced man' (for want of a better name) and swung into it with the Daedric sword. With an angry, trumpeting cry, the thing lashed out with its dry yet awfully sticky tentacles, battering me about the head. I quickly realised that the creature breathed through the central trunk: it exhaled a cloud of musty, pungent air into my face with every swing of its tentacles.

Hacking away at the tentacle-faced man's swollen body seemed to do little more than put the beast off-balance, so when I the opportunity presented itself, I thrust my blade into the base of its waving tentacles, just beneath the central trunk. With a gut-churning gurgle, the thing toppled over backwards - but before it could hit the ground it dissolved into putrid yellow dust, only leaving its monstrous, deformed skull behind.

Blinking, and shaking my head in an attempt to clear it after the pummelling it had received, I prodded the skull experimentally with the tip of my blade. What in Oblivion's name was that thing? Its grey-skinned arms could have belonged to a Dunmer, but the tentacles...?

Before I had a chance to examine the skull more closely, my still tender head received further punishment at the 'hands' of a rock - glancing off my helmet. I was standing in the large chamber I had seen earlier, and up above me on the opposite wall was a balcony - which held a couple of completely naked Dunmer men. They were throwing rocks at me - plus the occasional stone block that had come loose from the stronghold wall or floor. They made no sound, staring dispassionately my way as they went about their haphazard attack. Their eyes reminded me of the first person I'd ever killed: the woman in the smuggler's caves near Seyda Neen who had attacked me while out of her mind on Moon Sugar. She too had stared into the middle distance, as if not really seeing me at all.

With the aid of my Tinur's Hoptoad spell, I leapt up to the balcony and slammed them each, in turn, into the wall with my shield; knocking them unconscious. Aside from rocks they were unarmed; I didn't want to kill them if I didn't absolutely have to.

I didn't know what kind of opposition to expect, or what numbers I would face, so as I carried on deeper into the twisting passages of the stronghold I tried to remain as quiet as possible. Even so, when I rounded a corner and saw another Dunmer shuffling towards me, I was spotted at the same time. I don't know how he did it - he had no eyes! Nevertheless, his swollen, wrinkled head followed me as I moved - he definitely knew I was there. He seemed different to the naked, rock throwing Dunmer men - he was wearing a soiled grey loincloth for one thing - but he also seemed more ... aware, somehow.

He also threw offensive spells at me with frightening speed - using both hands - one spell after the next. Reflexively, I dived to the side, drawing the power of invisibility about me as I went. The eyeless Dunmer tracked my movement, scorching my legs with an electrical attack. But then I winked out of sight and he stopped, confused! I was surprised, but thankful: since he could 'see' me without eyes, I was half-expecting the Invisibility spell to have no effect on him.

In any case, he was far too dangerous to leave at my back while he was still breathing: I dashed up and sliced him in half with a single stroke, becoming visible as the eyeless Dunmer crumpled to the floor. Magically powerful, physically fragile.

By that time I thought I had mastered my unsettled stomach, but as I pushed through another heavy set of doors at the base of a flight of stairs, my nose was assaulted by a stench somehow much worse than in the above chambers. The reek of decay and bodily wastes was redoubled, but on top of that, and worst of all, was the smell of infection. At that moment I vomited on the floor - I just couldn't control myself any longer; the smell was too much.

I was in a great long hall, interspersed with pillars and the ever-present red candles. The whispering I was now sure I had been hearing since setting foot in Telasero was louder here, but nowhere near loud enough to drown out the sound of a Breton man being violently sick. Doors lining the length of the long hall slammed open, and a crowd of naked Dunmeri people - men and women - boiled in from the adjoining rooms. They all remained unnervingly silent as they came, but every last one brandished a vicious-looking spiked club. I was quickly surrounded by a sea of naked, filthy bodies, clambering over each other to bash my head in with their clubs.


"Stop!" I cried, my sides aching from my fit of retching. "What do you want?"

The naked Dunmer never hesitated for a moment, pressing in around me. Truly they must have been insane. Just then was the worst possible moment for my Night-eye spell to wear off, but that is exactly what happened. The world before my eyes was plunged into darkness, and before I could renew the spell, I felt the first of the blows - on my armoured back. Lunging forward to escape injury, I hacked at a dark shape in front of me, cutting right through one of my attackers, from shoulder to waist. I was hammered with blows from their clubs, becoming bruised and bleeding in a short moment.

Seeing no other means of escape, I drew my shield in to my side (I couldn't see well enough to actively block incoming attacks, in any case) and began to swing the heavy Daedric sword in flat arcs about me, left and right, hacking through the stinking crowd of insane Dunmer. It was too dark to do otherwise: I span about again and again, laying about me with the blade; striking at the merest suggestion of movement. In a moment it was done, and they were all on the floor around me, dead or dying. In a way I was glad that I hadn't been able to see details of what I had been doing - the carnage was, in more than one sense of the word, shocking.

I stepped gingerly over the bodies, nursing my shield-arm. I was hurt - bruised and bleeding all over. The Keeper shirt was doing its job and slowly healing my wounds, but to speed the process I still used my healing spell, letting it gently spread through my body instead of directly applying it to any one area with my hands. It hurt too much for that kind of intricate movement.

I found the trough Folms had mentioned seeing in his 'vision' - or whatever it was he sensed when he divined the locations of the propylon indices. Well, actually I found two troughs, and looked in the wrong one first. I immediately wished I hadn't: the trough was the source of the smell of infection that polluted the hall, being home to hunks of grey and yellow, decaying flesh. Needless to say perhaps, I reeled away from the trough and began retching again, uncontrollably.

The other trough was more agreeable to the senses; it was filled with miscellaneous objects (again, much as Folms had described), most of moderate value: fine clothes, a few weapons - that sort of thing. Besides the Telasero index (to my great relief - I don't know what I would have done had it not been there), a sack of coins and several gems, there was nothing in the trough I needed or would have taken from such a place.

I was about to teleport home when I noticed a brighter, yet deeper, red glow in a small chamber at the end of the hall. I felt drawn to it - by my own curiosity and perhaps some other force. The malevolent whispering in the air became louder and more insistent the closer I came to the red glow. I stopped at the mouth of the chamber, looking in. The whispering and murmuring was making my head hurt, and something about the room felt very wrong.

At its centre was a low, hexagonal platform, adorned with thin red candles that burned brighter than the fat, squat ones I had seen throughout the rest of the stronghold. A vaguely man or mer-shaped statue sat in the centre of the platform. It was a vivid red, with three strangely luminescent 'eyes' arranged like the points of a triangle. It had to be a shrine of some kind: more of the lumps of rotten, infected flesh were piled on a plate in front of the statue. I was certain the statue was whispering to me; but I couldn't understand what it was saying.


I teleported away home. I couldn't take the heat and the stench any longer. I only realised how much of a mess I was when I appeared in the light of the great hall. The main doors were open to allow visitors in to see my small collection of rare arms and armour. I looked a fright: my armour was scored, torn and dented all over, and I was coated in blood, gore and filth.

I instantly regretted teleporting directly back to the castle - especially since we had a few visitors - both in the yard and in the hall. Shooting an apologetic glance at a collection of visitors being shown about the 'museum' by Falorn, I dashed outside and, with the Tinur's Hoptoad spell, leapt over the castle walls to wash myself in the sea. I wanted to spare everyone such a grisly spectacle; but in hindsight, appearing out of thin air, covered in blood, then leaping over the castle walls was probably quite scary in itself.

Falorn came out to see me a moment later, looking quite worried.

He of course wanted to know what had happened, and if I was alright - but for a long while I could say nothing at all. I just stood there and let the waves break over me.

Chapter 63: Violence in the Temple

"Here Mehrunes Dagon held this rock high above the Dunmer. Vivec taunted Mehrunes Dagon so that Dagon threw the rock at Vivec instead of the people." This was the inscription on the 'Magic Rock of Maar Gan'. The monk Tuls Valen had sent me to the rock on a pilgrimage; I was supposed to read the inscription and then mimic Vivec's actions.

Another riddle, then: it seemed the Tribunal Temple was fond of them. Looking about the main chamber of the Maar Gan shrine, I hoped that the solution to this one was not as cruel as that of the Puzzle Canal.

Despite its name, the 'Magic Rock' was an unremarkable boulder, as far as I could tell. I looked elsewhere. Really, the only other interesting thing in the room was Anhaedra the Dremora. I had learnt his - or its - name on my previous visit to the shrine, but nothing else. One of the priests had merely said: "Watch yourself around Anhaedra."

I thought it through carefully. I had to imitate the actions of Vivec as described in the inscription: right there in the shrine, presumably. In the inscription Vivec had taunted Mehrunes Dagon... Mehrunes was of the Daedra... and there was a Daedra right there in the room: Anhaedra.

I had to taunt and provoke the Dremora, it seemed: to violence, probably. It felt somewhat contrived ... well, I suppose it was contrived, being a recreation of a mythic (or famous, perhaps) event - but sauntering up to a stranger who was minding their own business and insulting them seemed strange to me. I wasn't sure how to go about it. Provoking a Dremora wasn't something to be taken lightly, either. I was still wearing my armour, of course - my shield I had slid up my arm, to leave both hands free. As I approached Anhaedra I let it fall down into the ready position.

"So, you're here to scare the tourists, then?" I stared into the Dremora's eyes (or rather, the glowing lights behind the eye-holes in its helmet) in what I hoped was an antagonistic manner. "Just for show, though, I suspect. Is that dust?" There was actually dust on the Daedra spirit's armoured shoulders; and though it felt like putting my hand in the mouth of a vicious guard dog, I reached out and roughly brushed some of the dust off.

"Do you want something, mortal?" Anhaedra's voice sounded, hissing out of the cracks in the Daedric armour. "You can't possibly be here to mimic Vivec. Your taunts are weak. Like your flesh."

I felt that things became a little juvenile at this point, but I couldn't think of anything better to say than:

"Weak? I'm stronger than you, I'm sure. I've killed many of your kind. In fact," I said, drawing my Daedric longsword and holding it up as if to examine it, "I cut down two Dremora to get this sword." (I was, of course, pretending to be ignorant of the fact that Dremora apparently could not be killed, only banished to Oblivion).

It had the desired effect, anyway. Upon spotting my Daedra blade, Anhaedra's eyes flared, and he bellowed:

"Unworthy!"

The Dremora twisted about and caught up a silver sword he had cunningly concealed in his shadow. Dremora are all mostly slow-moving creatures - Daedric armour is extraordinarily heavy, after all - but Anhaedra was the slowest I had seen. As I easily deflected his first blow with my shield, I wondered how long he had been standing there in that shrine. The joints in his armour seemed to be caked with dust. As I had the time to perfectly line up and execute my swings, I only had to strike him twice before the shriek and crack of breaking metal signified I had beaten him. A priest came up behind me as I watched the animated suit of armour crumble into dust.

"Good, good. Well done," he said. It was the same priest I had spoken to on my last visit to the shrine. He nudged the pile of dust with his toe. "Sometimes I almost feel sorry for Anhaedra. Being summoned and killed periodically would be enough to make anyone irritable, I imagine. Still, it seems to make him more prone to provocation, which is quite suitable to his purpose here, really." He paused, then, as if remembering himself, added: "In any case, you've completed the Maar Gan pilgrimage, so congratulations are in order."

I mumbled some vague words of thanks and excused myself. I was not comfortable there; the whole thing had felt like executing a caged animal to me. In a strange way, the thought that Anhaedra was not really dead was actually comforting.

I paid Valen a quick visit at the Ald'ruhn Temple the next morning, to tell him about the pilgrimage. He was polite about it, but it was obvious that he didn't care much for the whole business either. He gifted me with a book for completing the pilgrimage, the 'Death Blow of Abernanit', hinting as he did that I would learn much more from reading it than I would by cutting down a summoned and bound Dremora. The monk said he had nothing else for me to do right then, and suggested I try Uvoo Llaren at the Ghostgate or Endryn Llethan in Vivec if I was impatient to perform another service for the Temple.

"You do good work though, Sera Frost." Valen clapped me on the shoulder. "I'll be sure to send word through the Temples, should I have something for you."

I was glad of the reprieve, to tell the truth. During the interminable silt strider trip of the previous day, I had decided to focus on retrieving the remaining propylon indices for Folms, so he could make good on his promise to construct a 'Master Index' for me. Now I had the opportunity to do just that. I certainly wasn't beholden to the Temple to perform their will at a moment's notice - or anything like that - but I wanted to cultivate good relations there, and if no-one was waiting on me, I was free to take my time on other endeavours.

My newfound resolve was due mostly to the frightening time limit hanging over my head: if Master Healer Synnolian was right, and I was dying, I didn't have time to sit around in silt striders or hike across rough terrain. I had given up on somehow stumbling across something in the wilds that would lead to a cure. I needed help. For that I needed to curry favour with powerful organisations; which meant scurrying about on various errands, like as not. If Folm's plan worked, a Master Index would allow me to teleport in an instant to any one of the ten ancient Velothi strongholds scattered around the island - as long as the enchanter was available to send me on my way - he would have the actual indices in his possession, after all.

Through a combination of my magic, the services of the guild guides, and the teleportation properties of the Wolfen ring and the Master Index, I could at almost any time travel to a vast range of locations across Vvardenfell in a matter of minutes. That was my plan, and my theory, at any rate.

I had expected my visit to Divayth Fyr, a Dunmer wizard who was allegedly thousands of years old, to be ... interesting - to say the least - but as it turned out, the tale of our meeting is hardly worth the telling.

I found his tower easily enough: one of the curious, hollowed-out giant fungi of the type used in nearby Sadrith Mora. I was directed by a Dunmer woman to his study at the top of the tower: accessible only by a sheer central shaft - without a ladder. A wizard's house, sure enough. I jumped up the shaft with my Tinur's Hoptoad spell, and found the ancient Dunmer seated at a small, cluttered table.

At first I thought I was looking at a Dremora - though I had never seen one of the Daedra spirits scribbling in a notebook; Divayth was wearing full Daedric armour. I realised my mistake when he straightened up, revealing his bare head. He looked old - there was no doubting that - but thousands of years walking the land? I just couldn't say.


In any case, as I said before, our meeting was uneventful. So much so, in fact, that I barely felt as if I met him at all. Our conversation went something like this:


Me: "Uh - hello; nice to meet you, Sera Fyr." (Awkward pause). "Ahem - I was told you have a certain propylon index in your collection. I was wondering..."

Fyr: "Oh - that thing. You want it?" (Rummages through clutter on the table, and tosses index to me). "Here."

Me: "Th-thankyou! That's -"

Fyr: "Yes, yes. Very generous of me, of course. But I don't want it. So." (Stands and adjusts armour). "Now, I'm heading out directly, so if you don't mind?"


And that was it. As I said...

Retrieving the next three indices proved to be just as easy. The Berandas index, interestingly enough, was also in the hands of a reclusive Dunmer wizard. Baladas Demnevanni lived in an ancient Velothi dome on the outskirts of Gnisis. The most interesting thing about Baladas was that he kept a Daedroth as a pet. Like Divayth Fyr, he was polite enough, but fairly dismissive:

"You want that old rock? You're welcome to it - it's of little use to me... just gathering dust here somewhere." After handing it over, the mildly unkempt-looking wizard stood and gazed steadily at me, making it fairly obvious he wished for me to leave. I was not about to risk the anger of a man who let a crocodilian Daedroth wander about his study and bedchambers untethered, so I followed his hint.

The next two indices also shared similar fates - curious, really. According to Folms they were both in the hands of "dangerous outlaws: the Andasreth index at the Hlormaren stronghold west of Balmora, and the Rotheran index (appropriately) at the Rotheran stronghold. The Andasreth was among the easiest of the indices to collect: I levitated over the range of hills west of Balmora, found the dome atop Hlormaren that Folms had told me to look for, and found the index on a shelf inside. There was no sign of the outlaw Folms had warned me about.

The Rotheran stronghold was some way south of Dagon Fel, and the long, protracted boat trip from Sadrith Mora to Vvardenfell's northernmost settlement was a further reminder as to why I was going to so much trouble to collect all the indices. After a few hours' hike through the steep and rocky Sheogorad region I found the Rotheran stronghold, and the index: in the coat pocket of an overly aggressive bandit (he did not survive our meeting).

With those four indices safely in Folms' hands, the enchanter told me the location of the final one on his list: the Telasero index. He gave quite a dire warning of the place:

"The index is in a trough with some other objects, in a dark place - that's all I can see. Listen, I've heard nothing but bad things about Telasero: it's all dark there, really. A very, very bad place."

He was right, too. I have never forgotten the depths of Telasero.

Chapter 62: Penetrate

Tuls Valen seemed quite relieved to hear that I had persuaded Elvil Vidron to see reason, and that there had been no need for violence. He actually gave me three very potent healing potions as a gift for my "wisdom in the matter", as he put it. Lacking another 'odd-job' for me to do for the Temple, Valen had suggested that I could perform another pilgrimage: a much shorter one than the 'Seven Graces', he assured me.

I took up the pilgrimage straight away, as it sounded like one I could easily complete in what remained of the day. My destination was actually somewhere I had stopped during my 'Seven Graces' pilgrimage: the shrine in Maar Gan. There I was to read the inscription on the rock (that I had ignored the last time, in my rush), and to imitate the actions of Vivec described there. Valen would not be drawn further on the subject; I got the impression that it was another pilgrimage he did not much care for.

The silt strider ride from Ald'ruhn to Maar Gan took much longer than I had anticipated. The driver apologised numerous times during the trip, saying that the giant insect was being "stubborn". At one point he was actually kicking the exposed nerve endings that (ideally, at least) allowed him to direct the creature's movement. As it was, the strider spent half the time wandering about as it pleased - at one point it even stopped for several minutes to lean against a large rock spire; having a rest, apparently.

I was glad of Denstagmer's ring (the powerful piece of jewellery I'd found in the tomb near Gnisis): its protection against the elements meant that the merciless sun of the Ashlands was more bearable over the long trip.

After such a delay, it was dusk when I arrived in Maar Gan. Making my way slowly down the tall, precarious 'strider ramp' to the ground, I gazed out to the west, at the last remaining light fading behind the mountains. Admiring the desert sunset turned out to be a mistake: a shape lurking in the inky shadows among the rooftops near the strider ramp caught me completely off guard. The gap between the rooftops and the ramp was one that I was sure no mere mortal could have jumped - and certainly not in the full steel plate armour this figure wore - but the shape closed the distance in the blink of an eye.

Such speed I had never seen: I was halfway down the ramp when the figure crashed into me, sending us both sailing off the ramp, over the village walls and down, down the steep incline on the other side. The breath was knocked completely from my body when we landed, the speed of our flight sending us tumbling down the hill in a great streak of ash and dirt. The figure rolled up and off me when we came to rest at the base of the slope, revealing himself to be a Dunmer - and a vampire. He wore no helmet, and the infernal glow of his eyes gave him away.

"Got you alone now," he grinned, his long canine teeth glittering in the faint light from beyond the village walls.

I staggered to my feet, coughing and heaving; striving to get my breath back. I couldn't say anything. I drew my new Daedric longsword, but before I could make another move I was on my back again, the full weight of the armoured vampire on top of me. Even in full steel plate, he was fast and agile as a cat. The other vampires I had fought had been weak, and near feral: this Dunmer was most certainly not.

Straining against him, striving to keep my neck away from his teeth, I raised my heavy sword above his head, and brought it down hard upon the only part of him I had enough leverage to really damage: his legs. With a hiss, the vampire leapt off me, up into the air; to land unsteadily a short distance away. Blood was seeping from his broken greaves: the Daedric metal of my blade had sliced right through the steel as an axe through wood. The creature scowled, and drew a silver longsword, before leaping to the attack once more.

In the end I think it was only the hobbling blow I had dealt to the vampire's calves that saved me: even slowed down somewhat, the thing still knocked me off my feet again and again. He didn't use his blade much - wanted to avoid spilling my blood if he could, was my assumption. Nevertheless the ramming tackles and stunning blows from his gauntleted fists cracked ribs and split skin; I had to use my healing magic several times, desperately rolling and scrabbling in the ash and dust to avoid his attacks while the spells took effect.

My Daedric sword was brilliant: the vampire was very difficult to hit, but such was the power of the crushing blows my sword facilitated that I only needed to connect a few times to slow the creature enough to finish - or so I thought. His armour rent, broken and stained a deep red with his own blood, the vampire crashed to the ground, the infernal light in his eyes fading away.

A couple of days earlier I had mentioned the high number of vampires I had faced in the West Gash to the priests at the Temple. One of them had mentioned that some more powerful vampires could only be killed by a wooden stake through the heart - not even decapitation would permanently stop them. He sold me a wooden stake with a hardened steel tip, suitable for punching through armour.

The Dunmer lying before me seemed like just the type of vampire the priest was talking about: even as I watched, the creature's visible wounds were closing up. I drew the stake and dove forward, making to drive it through his heart. At the last moment his eyes flashed and his body twisted in place, meaning that although I buried the stake in his chest, I missed the heart. A vicious kick to the jaw sent me staggering back, to watch as the writhing, thrashing vampire disappeared in a cloud of ash and dust, kicked up by his struggle.

I just knew that the deadly thing would try to use the ash-cloud as cover, so I already had my sword drawn back and ready to swing when the vampire shot up into the air in a plume of dust, trying to land on top of me. My blade caught the beast full in the side, before he hit the ground - it severed his arm at the elbow and buried itself halfway through his midriff.

Kicking the Dunmer off my sword and not taking any chances that time, I pinned him in place by driving the point of the blade right through his stomach and into the ground. Stamping down on its throat to further inhibit the squirming, hissing vampire's movement, I again drove the stake into its chest. Jumping back and taking my sword with me (if the damned thing still refused to die, I was not about to let it have my sword), I watched as the vampire again thrashed about and disappeared into a cloud of dust and ash.

This time, when the ash settled, there was nothing left of the creature but its sword and a pile of broken steel armour. I left it there and made my slow way back into the village, checking myself for injury.

As I paused at a public pump to wash myself of the blood, ash and dirt, I realised I was shaking subtly in the aftermath of the fight. It had been a while since I had truly feared for my life.

Chapter 61: The Message

"The time of the Incarnate is at hand! Red Mountain vomits ash and blight over the land! Beware the sleepers and sinners - they gather at the House! I am the Incarnate! Listen: it will all come down from the Mountain - down upon your heads! Listen to me! It will all come down - death, ash, and blight, and fire, and... what?"

Elvil Vidron, the 'False Incarnate' I had been sent by the Tribunal Temple to reason with, finally put a stop to his tirade long enough to respond to my attempts to attract his attention. I repeated myself:

"You are Elvil Vidron, correct? I would like to have a word with you about your ... sermons."

To say 'sermons' was to describe Vidron's behaviour in a fairly generous way. Overall he made for a mildly disturbing and yet pathetic figure; topless and sweating profusely in the hot Suran sun, bellowing nonsense at the top of his voice at anyone unlucky enough to be passing by. Lacking a hapless target, he would simply shout at the sky. I had seen his kind before; in the streets of the Imperial city, during my childhood. Some people follow a religion that requires them to attempt to recruit others to their belief - and some of these people are so lacking in intellect that they see no alternative to accosting people in the street and shouting at them, in order to achieve that end. Surely such a belligerent approach gains them the opposite of what they want?

In any case I was there to stop Vidron's anti-social behaviour - much to the relief of the denizens of Suran, I'm sure. I thought I had an idea how to do it in a peaceful fashion, too.

"You..." Elvil panted, "you wanted to know about the message sent to me?" He stood there and stared at me, chest heaving, waiting for me to say something. I got the impression he was not used to yelling at the top of his voice in the scorching sun for hours. What could have happened to him?


"I wanted to know -" I paused, my mind racing; casting about for the right questions - "what is this message? How did you... receive it?"

The 'False Incarnate' glanced up at the sun and, as if conceding some kind of minor defeat, moved into the shade of a tree at the edge of the town square, beckoning me to follow.

"The waking dream!" He had lowered his voice from a shout, but was still rather more loud than necessary. "Have you not seen it? Every day and every night these past few weeks, the same message: they send me visions of Red Mountain, storms of putrid ash, deformed beasts that were once men and mer, DOOMED TO LIVE ETERNALLY IN DARKNESS AND MADNESS!" Vidron was shouting again. Behind me, a mother quickened her pace as she passed by, pulling at her curious young son's hand.

It was true that since the incident with the crescent moon emblem, I sometimes felt as if the realm of dreams was intruding upon my waking mind; but it was a vague feeling, nothing more. I had certainly not experienced anything like what Elvil Vidron described. I told him as much:

"I've never had a dream like that, Sera Vidron. So... you believe that these dreams - these messages - mean that you're the Incarnate; the Nerevarine?"

Vidron gave me a hard, suspicious look.

"You disbelieve? I know my destiny! I know what I see in the dreams! You'll have a hard time proving otherwise!"

This is where my idea for a peaceful resolution came in:

"You know the prophecy of the Nerevarine, then?" I asked. Miraculously, the Dunmer seemed - momentarily at least - at a loss for words. I took advantage and pressed on: "It's my understanding that the prophecy says that the man - or mer - that will be born as the reincarnation of Indoril Nerevar will 'unite the Dunmer and drive the invaders from Morrowind'. All the Dunmer - on Vvardenfell and mainland Morrowind - united under your command to drive the outlanders and the Imperial Empire out."

I paused, looking the sweaty, bare-chested man up and down.

"That's you, is it?"

As I spoke, Vidron's shoulders slumped ever so slightly. I knew I was getting through to him; I just had to get him to swallow his pride and admit it. Again, I pressed the point home:

"And what about the animosity and distrust I hear about between the Great Ruling Houses? How do you plan to persuade the Redorans to trust the Hlaalu? How would you get the Telvanni to work with anyone besides themselves? And the Empire! Are you ready to face down the Imperial Legion? I imagine they would have something to say about your plans to take Morrowind back from them."

At that, I stopped. I could see he had given up - that he believed me. The Dunmer sat heavily on the steps leading from the square.

"I... thought it would come to me." He spoke quietly now. "The dreams - I thought they would change, and show me the way; what I should do." Vidron looked up at me. "You're from the Temple, aren't you? I've heard that they don't like people mentioning the Nerevarine."

"Yes, they asked me to talk to you;" I replied, figuring there was little point denying it; "and it probably is in your best interest not to mention the Nerevarine again. They apparently wanted to send Ordinators to pay you a visit; they sent me, instead."

At this, Vidron looked positively alarmed:

"Oh! Then - please, please accept my apologies, and my... my thanks!" He jumped to his feet and gave a quick bow. "Please forgive me for this. I will pray - I will go to the Temple and seek penance for my sins."

I felt sorry for him. Facing such a fast, brutal destruction of something he had fervently believed in. I wondered how he would face any friends or family he might have had in Suran, after the performance he had put on.

"If it were me that you should apologise to, then I would forgive you, I think; but it would be best to go to the Temple and seek penance, as you said. For my part, I'll report that you've agreed to stop your public sermons and that you admit that you are not the reincarnation of Nerevar: that you were mistaken. This is right, isn't it?" It was my turn to give him a hard look; I felt I had to be certain.

"Yes, yes!" He nodded, and rubbed his eyes. "It was those dreams - they never stop. I haven't been able to sleep for days, upon days..."

I clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well, maybe someone at the Temple can help you with that too."

Vidron gave me a weak smile before bidding me goodbye; bowing one last time as he left.

And that was that: something of a landmark for me. I hadn't seriously expected to be able to persuade a man against something he believed in strongly enough to shout to the rooftops, but there was the living proof, walking away from me. I hadn't even needed to fall back on my Illusion magic. As I made to teleport back home, I felt remarkably good about myself. Of course I would have normally argued that a person should be free to believe what they want, as long as it doesn't intrude on others' lives: but that was just it: Elvil Vidron's aggressive public 'sermons' were nothing if not intrusive. Also, there was little doubt that I had likely saved his life by getting to him before the Ordinators did.

And finally, all he said about the 'time of the Incarnate' being at hand was pure fantasy, without a doubt.

Wasn't it?

Chapter 60: Faith and Heresy

"You seem... unhappy, Sera Frost." Tuls Valen gazed at my face, his eyes lingering on the glowing crescent-moon mark emblazoned across my left temple and cheek. "Does doing good in this world not please you?"

I had just reported to the monk Valen that I had cured Bulfim gra-Shugarz, the Sheogorath worshipper in the Maelkashishi shrine, of her blight disease. He was pleased to get the Cure Blight Disease potion back; and I could understand that: making them was just as difficult (I'd heard) as finding an apothecary with them in stock. I was unhappy because I still felt guilty over having killed Bulfim's friends - even if it was in self-defence.

"I... killed people in the shrine." I said, staring at the floor before my feet. "I cured one, but killed three. They were Sheogorath worshippers, but..." I trailed off.

Valen placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Why don't you tell me what happened." The monk stood back and waited patiently. Of all the Dunmeri Temple members I had met; he was certainly the friendliest.

So, after a moment's hesitation, I described my visit to the Daedric ruins; from the haphazard descent down the shaft, to how I had cured Bulfim with the spell I somehow 'learned' from Vivec's Ash Mask, and ending with the Orc asking me to leave before her friends saw me - not knowing I had already killed them. Valen was silent for a short moment, though I suspect that it was more out of respect than not knowing what to say: his comments were quite decisive:

"Sera, this may not actually comfort you, but in the eyes of many in the Temple, killing Sheogorath worshippers would not be a bad thing: they are regarded as our enemies, after all. Aside from that, I'm afraid I can't say anything that would not be an obvious platitude." Valen clapped me on the shoulder. "Still, it may be some consolation for you to know that receiving that curative spell from Vivec's Ash Mask is thought of as a great indication of piety. We call that spell 'Vivec's Touch'."

I thought this was curious, and it did serve to provoke my interest and raise me out of the doldrums a little.

"Really?" I asked, puzzled. "But I only recently joined the Temple - how could that be?"

Valen explained:

"It is said that it is not so much a matter of long service to the Tribunal as it is an indication of a great depth of belief and faith. So... yes, as a matter of fact it is unusual for an Outlander and new member to be gifted with Vivec's Touch."

A matter of 'belief and faith', he said. I couldn't help but think that that rang false - at least in my case. Most religions are signified by their members believing in something that cannot be (or perhaps has not been) conclusively proved to others. With the Tribunal Temple, the gods Vivec, Almalexia and Sotha Sil were not only proven to exist, they could be seen by the naked eye (albeit only by the select few admitted into their presence), just like any mere mortal. For me it wasn't a matter of faith - of believing in them: I knew they were there.

"In any case, it's an impressive thing, Sera Frost. Be glad of it." Valen broke across my thoughts. "Now, I do have another task in service of the Tribunal for you, if you wish."

"Yes, alright: I'm ready." I nodded, bringing myself out of my reverie. The more I did for the Temple, the faster I would gain friends, rank, and influence among its members: that was my hope, anyway. It was a slim hope that such influence would grant me access to some Temple secret that could lead to a cure for my affliction, but I had little else to go on.

"That's good. Now..." the Dunmer monk hesitated, "I'd like to be able to say that this task will be easy, but it involves persuading a man against something he must believe in with near-religious fervour. I'm sure you know how difficult it is to successfully argue a point of belief with someone who disagrees with you..."

I groaned internally. I would be more inclined to describe it as 'nigh-impossible'. Growing up in the Imperial Cult orphanage listening to the priests argue religion almost every day had taught me that.

"... but still," Valen continued, "this man, a Dunmer named Elvil Vidron, is by all accounts somewhat mad - so who can say? In any case, Elvil is a 'False Incarnate', claiming to be the Nerevarine. This in itself is heresy; but what's worse is that he is roaming the streets of Suran, shouting prophecies of doom and disaster to all that pass. The Ordinators wish him dead; 'no man, no problem' is their line of thinking - and that is how they usually deal with those who profess belief in the Nerevarine. In this particular case there are many priests in the Temple who agree: saying that someone should be sent to execute this Vidron; because if he is indeed the Nerevarine, then he is protected by prophecy and cannot die."

I got the impression from the way he spoke that Valen did not count himself among those ordering Elvil Vidron's death. What he said next further persuaded me of this:

"As I am bound to the Temple, I must tell you this: if you accept this task, you must agree to kill Elvil Vidron if you cannot find some way to persuade him to give up these heretical views. However I, like you - it would seem - believe that we should work to preserve rather than to destroy. Find a way. Do you know much magic?" I nodded (of course). "Good - use it if you need it. Even if you have to manipulate him, and make him believe that he agrees with us; it would be better than killing him."

I agreed with him completely. I was thinking more and more those days that mastery of the Illusion school of magic was my path to saving my conscience. It may have been the opinion of many that Illusion magic was the domain of thieves and deviants, but if it would enable me to placate or avoid enemies that didn't need to be killed, then it seemed worthwhile to me.

As to the business of 'False Incarnates' and the 'Nerevarine', I was a little lost by the terminology. I had heard the word 'Nerevarine' here and there during my stay on Vvardenfell, but I could not remember where or when, and didn't know who or what the Nerevarine was. Valen obliged me with a brief explanation:

"Lord Indoril Nerevar lived at the time when the Tribunal were still mortal - indeed, he was their friend and comrade; a legendary General of the Dunmeri people. He is a Saint to the Temple, and a hero to the history books. The Ashlander people have a prophecy that Nerevar will be reincarnated as the 'Nerevarine'; a figure who will - according to their prophecy - unite the Dunmer and drive the 'invaders' (that would be the Imperial Empire) from Morrowind; so restoring the ancient Dunmeri nation." The monk paused to draw breath, and I strived to make sense of the torrent of information. He continued: "As for us, the Temple says this is heresy: a profane superstition. The Ordinators are - usually - set upon those who profess to believe in this prophecy."

Even hearing all this for the first time, I could tell that Valen had given me only a basic overview of the issues at hand. Nevertheless, it seemed straightforward enough, at least on the level at which I would be dealing with it. Vidron held beliefs that the Tribunal Temple forbade (for whatever reason), and was actively trying to convert others to this belief - at the top of his voice.

My task was to argue religion with a madman. It was not my idea of an enjoyable afternoon.

Chapter 59: Septims

Folms was quite surprised when I delivered two propylon indices at once - and that's putting it lightly.

"Do you understand how unlikely the chances were?" The enchanter studied the Falensarano index I'd found at the top of the shaft in Maelkashishi, and was apparently satisfied that it was genuine. "As far as I know there is only one of each of the ten index types on the island. That you should just stumble across one is ... quite incredible, Mister Frost."

Once he recovered from the mild shock, Folms paid me for both the indices - a thousand drakes (always welcome) - and told me the location of the next index on his list.

"I've divined that the next one, the Indoranyon index, is in the personal collection of Divayth Fyr. Have you heard of him? No? Well, he's a somewhat famous Dunmer wizard - largely because of the mysteries surrounding him; as he has allegedly lived for thousands of years." It was my turn to be surprised. As I have mentioned, I knew that Dunmer, like all elves, lived far longer than humans - but not for tens of centuries - I had never heard that before. Folms went on: "He's something of a recluse, and a collector of artefacts. So... you might have some difficulty persuading him to part with the index. Be careful: one thing that is not rumour is that Divayth Fyr is very, very powerful. Here, get out your map, I'll show you where he lives."

Divayth lived in 'Tel Fyr', which I had learnt meant 'Tower Fyr' - or 'Fyr Tower', I suppose. It was on one of the shattered islands in Zafirbel Bay, south-west of Sadrith Mora. I decided to leave it for a short while, in any case. If the index was in the personal collection of a powerful wizard, it was not likely to be going anywhere for the foreseeable future. Matters at Wolfen Castle required some attention.

Nothing urgent, but something that would be beneficial to deal with sooner rather than later. Falorn and Idaynia, the Dunmeri general merchant I had hired to aid the groundskeeper in preparing the buildings in the castle yard for use as shops, had informed me that morning that they were ready to begin receiving visitors to the castle. They had asked me if I was ready to open the great hall to the public too; as the museum.

I had items ready for display - various suits of armour, mainly; some complete, others only piecemeal - but I didn't know how to best display them. Falorn, ever the useful font of local information, told me of a 'specialty' shop in Vivec: the House of Mannequins. It was located in Vvardenfell's main centre for the arts and crafts industries, the massive Saint Delyn canton, and apparently stocked display mannequins sturdy enough to bear the weight of even Daedric armour (if deployed in a conservative pose).


Glad to have the rest of the day off from travelling and fighting (as the latter seemed inescapable whenever I went anywhere), I teleported across to the Mages Guild hall in Vivec, and walked out to the armourers' shops in the Foreign Quarter plaza. With me I took the ornate, gold-inlaid daikatana. While it was a fine and beautiful weapon, it was not exactly a rarity or artefact by any stretch, so I sold it instead of putting it in my new museum. Neither of the armourers had the drakes to buy the blade outright, so in the end I traded it for money and several other fine weapons (glass daggers and the like) that I would sell on later.

I bought a number of carved wooden mannequins at the House of Mannequins; they were expensive, and heavy, but the workmanship was exquisite. After I added a small bonus on top of the cost of the mannequins, the shop owner was happy to arrange for the bulky and cumbersome items to be carried down to water level at the edge of the canton and taken by gondola to Wolfen castle that very moment. There was a small stone wharf just outside the castle walls - I asked that they be dropped off there.

Back at the castle, I had a look at what Idaynia and Falorn had done with the previously unused buildings in the yard. I soon found that the reason the pair of them had managed to have the place ready for visitors so soon was that not much work had actually been necessary. The buildings had previously been used to house stores of supplies for the castle, so they were easily adapted to hold stores of items to sell to visitors. Falorn had also arranged to have several resin-coated wooden tables (each with a complement of chairs of the same material) to be placed around the yard for the visitors' use.

Idaynia reported that she had the logistical side of things sorted out: the regular delivery of stock and other supplies for the shops, inventories, logbooks; that sort of thing. She had also arranged the hiring of another merchant with the representative from the Lord's Men company in Vivec - something we had spoken about earlier. There were two buildings we were going to use as shops, and Idaynia couldn't attend to both at once, after all.

It all looked good; I was impressed with their work. There were all the makings of a successful little ... I wasn't quite sure what to call it, actually. A 'service centre'? What I meant was that we had all the services an outpost or small village (or, specifically in our case; Ebonheart) could need. There was Idaynia's general store, and another store for the things Ulfred the smith would craft. We would even have the services of a mage, if Yanika could be enticed out of the laboratory. Perhaps she could even enchant items to be put on sale alongside Ulfred's wares.

These thoughts ran through my mind as I carefully piled the various suits of armour near where I planned to display them in the great hall. The mannequins were due to arrive soon. I was startled from my reverie by Falorn. He had someone with him: a green-robed Imperial with streaks of grey in his hair.

"Master Frost," Falorn said, "this is Calvus Essagan. He tells me Apelles Matius sent him." The Bosmer and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that Matius was not happy that I had taken possession of Wolfen Castle before the Imperial Legion had had a chance to do so.

At that moment I was unfortunately holding a piece of Dwemer armour - one of the few I had found amongst the belongings of bandits and smugglers a while back. I know I've previously expressed my reluctance at having anything to do with Dwemer artefacts, because of the Imperial government making it a law that only they can trade in them, and because of how distinctive they are; but I had found Dwemer armour to be too fascinating to resist. At any rate, there I was holding a Dwemer artefact in front of a man who had to be an Imperial official... it was just plain bad luck. I put the armour piece down and shook the man's hand.

"Ah, yes: you must be the ... er - official Apelles told us to expect."

Calvus gave a pleasant smile.

"Yes, that would be me." The Imperial paused, his gaze travelling about the great hall - lingering, to my chagrin, on the pile of Dwemer armour. "Quite a place you have here, Mister Frost. I think I can see why Matius is concerned. Well," he corrected himself, "why the Legion is concerned, I should say."

I offered him a seat at the table near the fireplace. Sitting down, Calvus drew his eyes away from the hall to regard me again.