A Painted World

by Jkun33

Fendel has just fled Morrowind and finds himself in Cheydinhal, where a wild journey begins.

"Here," Fendel murmured, reaching into his dirty cloth bag and pulling out ten septims. He slid them across the counter to the Orsimer, keeping his steel blue hand over the cool coins until they were right in front of her. She then slipped them into her own hand, counting and checking them each individually, peering carefully at every indent and detail. Shortly, she deemed them real and opened a wooden chest, letting the coins fall one by one into the interior with separate clangs.

Fendel kept his eyes down and in his bag, which was cluttered with a whole assortment of items of which he had no use for, yet kept in the case he needed them- an event which would likely never come. There were a lot of stupid things; objects which brought back memories and such. But his biggest problem was the plants- yes, the glorious plants which were stuffed into the bottom of the sack, taking up the majority of the space along with his instruments used for alchemy. He was an avid alchemist, always had been and always would be, and his love would bend to no bounds.

"That'll be enough, sir," the woman growled as the tenth coin hit the mark, her voice hideous. His gaze came up from the sack, meeting her grotesque face. She was snarling, her sharp, ivory tusks poking out from her bottom set of teeth. There was an ebony black bun on the top of her head, sloppily done and a bit crooked, lazy yet strangely stern all at once. She wore all heavy armor, worn and rusted from use yet still in exceptional shape. Not a single blow would be able to harm her; no sword would slice through the iron. She was an adventurer of sorts, a journeyer of many lands and queer events; a brave slayer and courageous killer. And it terrified him.

Yellow, slightly slanted eyes were sharp as she looked upon the Dunmer in front of her in disgust. He was obviously an adventurer want-to-be, wearing an ancient leather cuirass, which was fraying at the seams with the material badly scratched, burnt, and stained. He was frail, and the cuirass was far too big on him, hanging loosely and going just a bit too long down his body. It was clearly a hand-me-down, or something bought for cheap at a thrift store, not even remotely made for his size or shape. Along with it were torn, baggy pants, a dark blackish-brown and made out of a scratchy-looking cloth. She was equally as disgusted with him as he was with her, and they stared at each other in mutual distaste.

Other Orcs were lined up behind her, speaking quietly amongst themselves, but never leaving sight of the customer. This one looked weak, but trouble could come from even the most humble of people, and their guard stayed up, one hand always on their weapon of choice. They were intimidating to anyone, and Fendel was no exception; his palms sweat badly as he hoisted his pack back on and tried to keep hands away from his shortsword, which would immediately result in questioning from the brutes, or even a fight. A fight which he couldn't handle.

"Where's my room?" he inquired, holding on to the strap tightly to calm his shaking hands. His face was as free of worry as possible, and he kept his stare from wandering too far to the left, where the brutes were stationed and staring intently through dangerous eyes. Brown messy hair straggled in front of his face, having been unkempt for a long time. One hand rose to swipe the hairs away and he immediately noticed it shaking, snatching it quickly back to the strap.

"Upstairs. First door on the left," she grunted, snarling and narrowing her eyes further, sharp teeth shining dully from the amount of grime built up. Green skin furrowed at her brow, and her whole face was shown with the appearance of complete and utter repulsion. The young Dunmer glared back, ruby red eyes menacing, disliking Cheydinhal more and more by the moment. Hairs swayed back to the front of his face as he nodded, and attempted to blow the eye-length bangs out of the way of his vision. The rest of his hair came to the base of his skull, scraggly but not unattractive, though no one would think anything of him here. Two bronze rings were settled at the tip of his right, long ear, and his cheekbones were very prominent, like most Dunmer. He was no more than a boy- seventeen at the most, if even that- and it showed in the lack of muscle and timid behavior. His hair swirled as he turned and began to climb the wooden steps. Fendel was almost at the landing when he heard a distant remark from one of the bigger- and nastier- Orcs.

"Stupid Elves. I'm sick of them invading our town. We should kill 'em all before they multiply. I mean, did you see that sad excuse of a man?" Grunts of agreement followed, and deep chuckles.

"Excuse me," Fendel called, pausing, then turning around and squeezing the railing, one foot a step below the other. He leaned down, looking straight into the eyes of the man across the room who had just insulted him. "You are Orcs, are you not? Orsimer. Orsimer are mer. Therefore, you are, technically, elves. And since you've said you'll kill all the elves, does that not include you?"

"You're a liar," the Orc yelled in a deep, growling voice, pulling the mace from its holster and holding it in front of him, baring teeth, "Orcs aren't elves!"

"Long ago, during the Merithic Era, many of the Aldmer- the main race of elves, from which all current mer descended from- immigrated to the mainland from Summerset Isle, where they found themselves in different places. Some went to High Rock, where they settled. These people were faithful followers of Trinimac, a powerful god of the Aldmeri, and when Boethiah defeated the god- which turned him into the daedra, Malacath- the followers were turned into the Orsimer." Fendel smirked, his eyes sharp, as the Orc's expression turned angrier and angrier.

"You dare make a fool of me?" he boomed, advancing forward with his weapon held tightly in his hand, "I'll waste you, you stupid greyskin!"

Fendel stared into the yellow eyes, unable to do much more than refuse to fight and hope that he wouldn't crush his skull in two. His knuckles were bright blue as they clenched the wooden railing with all their might, and mentally kicked himself for using his knowledge and getting into trouble yet again. Books were almost as enjoyable as alchemy, and their contents had aided him in many situations- and hurt him, too.

"Stop it! Stop it right now, Bazur," the female behind the counter exclaimed as a candlestick was thrust at the Orc's back, "I don't want a mess to clean up, and this is the third time this month! If you so much as make him spit on my floor, I swear I'll-"

"Alright, alright Oghash," the Orc growled, slipping the weapon back into the empty space he had pulled it from and walking to the group of Orsimer, "But if I hear so much as a mumble out of him, I swear on Oblivion-"

Fendel didn't hear what else the man had to say, as he turned around and stamped up the rest of the steps and onto the landing as quickly as possible. The door to the room was right where she said it was, and he approached even it with caution, then creaked it open and slid in. The space housed one unmade bed, the sheets sprawled lazily at the bottom, and a splintering dresser made of what had once been the finest wood. Fendel pushed the door back and began to undress the moment it closed, needing terribly to get the humongous cuirass off. Button after strap was undone, the work was slow and miserable, and the temperature heightened dangerously underneath the thick material. It was finally off and thrown to the bed, dust flying up from the mattress as it hit.

He curiously surveyed his thin body, abs undersized and visible only faintly. Every inch of skin was glistening, since it was a hot day in the middle of Last Seed, and there had been long hours of travelling since taking it off. The ragged pants were now pulled down, lying in a heap on the ground. His naked legs allowed Fendel to feel only the slightest bit cooler.

With a thump, he fell down onto the bed, mostly on the cuirass, but didn't care. He had been journeying through the wilderness for weeks, and had finally gotten out of Morrowind- where he had been falsely accused of a crime and had had to flee- and into Cyrodiil.

Homesickness had overcome him many times during the trip, and another episode was sneaking into his weary mind. Fendel thought sickly of his family, who he had not been able to bid farewell, and with a heave, he jerked over the side of the bed and threw up all over the ground. They wouldn't be able to survive for long in his absence. He was the worker of the family, and also the town's main potion supplier, even though he was just a young man. Their previous alchemist had trained Fendel, a lovely old woman named Mehra. Knowing she would die soon and needed an apprentice to take up the important task for the people, the Dunmer had sought for a worthy young soul who would fill the void when she passed. Fendel had been more than happy to oblige. An apprenticeship with an alchemist meant a flood of glorious logic, the waves gently crashing new facts lovingly into his brilliant brain. It was his perfect profession, and a false accusation threw it all away.

He again worried nauseatingly of his family. His mother was too frail to do anything more than aid Fendel every once and a while in his work- she had fallen horribly a few years back and was unable to move well. Drieras and Ryei, his brothers, were much too young to have to take up the responsibility of their family- they were eight and ten years younger than him, and if they were even able to get a job, it would be backbreaking labor in a nearby egg mine. They would treat the boys horribly, overworking them with long hours and heavy sacks of kwama eggs every single day, for low pay. The two had never felt an interest in alchemy, which hadn't mattered until now.

His gut twisted into a horrible knot as he imagined the two kids foraging through the caves, hoisting as many eggs onto their backs as they could with a weapon at their side at all times, just in case, just in case one of the kwama turned on them. And would they send them all the way to the main lair, where the aggressive kwama warriors would most definitely attack, in order to save their beloved queen? Would his dear brothers be tasked to fight the dangerous beasts while the adults stand by and laugh, as the weak children are ripped apart limb by limb? Fendel himself was unable to kill well, throwing his shortsword around clumsily at lesser creatures. Kwama warriors were most definitely not lesser, and with his brothers being so much younger…

Fendel rolled onto his bare back, eyes squeezed tight, clenched fist resting on a sweaty forehead. Everything seemed too hot, even with only thin underwear on, and his joints ached and pounded. Even now the heat seemed to quickly escalade, as if he had stumbled into a heating furnace instead of a junky inn room. He dimly worried he had caught Helljoint or Swamp Fever, or even both, with the current condition of his aching body. His hand reached for the bag, which had been flung off in the hurry to get rid of his clothes, and dug into it. A clump of chokeweed was soon pulled out, but the green lichen had all run out and there was nothing else which could help him. He sighed and picked up the next best thing- ginseng, which he had found coming close to the city, and was typically used for treating poison. It didn't grow in Morrowind, but he recognized it easily from a book he had read ages ago on botany, an old tome passed to him from Mehra. Disease wasn't quite poison, but with no green lichen left, the ginseng would have to act as a substitute.

Fendel grabbed the mortar and pestle- made of a light limestone- and slowly crushed the plants, his joint pain intensifying every moment. He tried to move his wrist and elbow as little as possible, but had to use his fingers and was thus unable to avoid irritating the inflamed knuckles further. The stone crushed and mashed and he grimaced at the tight burn, which was concentrating thickly in his fingers. The ingredients were soon reduced to a workable green pulp, smelling faintly pleasant, and forced a small smile- the scent reminded him of home. He glanced around the room and found a clay jug of water on the floor, next to the dresser. It was just far enough away that he couldn't grasp it from arm's length, and was forced to set his things down on the floor and attempt to get his body up from the lying position on the mattress.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling for many moments, but not wanting to move. His bare back and thighs stuck grossly to the sheet and cuirass, his modest, underdeveloped muscles bulging. The diseases were working together to beat him, and he knew that he had to get the potion made soon, lest he wanted to spend the rest of his hours cooking and immobile until he died.

He forced his spine up, swaying a little as he tried to push the need to vomit down, and leaned against the wall for support. It was rough and cool to the touch, and he fought the urge again to let the sickness take him. He then got up, his knees crying, avoiding the place where he had thrown up- it had begun to smell ghastly, and choked his nostrils with its stench. Two steps, taken by two trembling feet, got him close enough to reach the clay container. Grabbing the jug and dragging it back to the foot of the bed, he collapsed onto the ground, out of breath and panting. It sounded as if he had been lugging a dead body, and the loose wood creaked wretchedly under his weight. Every noise he made seemed to be deafening, echoing down to the floor below- he was very worried the Orsimer would find him in this state and finish him off for taunting them, even with the woman's threats. Once again, he damned his smart-alecky mouth.

The most surprising factors of the situation were the severity and quickness of the diseases, and he figured it must've been because of his already feeble and pathetic state. Cases like this came up all the time in his old town, where the poor would crawl dying to his doorstep after an outbreak of an illness. They'd come equipped with collywobbles or ataxia or the like, begging for a free cure, unable to fight it off themselves from their malnourishment. He always helped them.

Some water was poured into a tiny metal pot, fetched from his pack, then mixed with the mashed concoction. Fendel remained sitting on the wooden floor, feeling too exhausted and hot to try to get up onto the mattress. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to concentrate purely on pulling energy to his hand, and was able to produce a well burning flame from his fingertips. The wisps of fire crept down and spread into his palm as his focus narrowed and assembled, creating a brilliant spell at the ready. The blaze twirled prettily around his long fingers and the air around his hand, swirling in reds and yellows, with the bluer shades towards his palm. He held them underneath the pot and swirled the contents, moving the hand holding it in circles- which aggravated his wrist dreadfully- soon thickening the liquid into a pulpy, watery goo. The potion was carefully strained into a small glass vial, and he immediately shoved a good piece of bark into the top to stop the liquid from flowing out. He changed the energy in his hand slightly, turning the heat to coldness, and iced the pot so it wouldn't start a fire or burn the floor. Fendel turned to the flask and bit his lip, hoping dearly that the ingredients had been good enough to use, and that he hadn't overheated them or mashed them too much. The vial was held warily in his hand and he looked upon the dark green liquid it contained, twirling it and watching bubbles float gently to the surface. It didn't look right, like something had gone wrong.

He popped the cork off and chugged it before his brain could fully reject the idea, and within moments his temperature began dropping to normal and a soothing coolness crept into his joints. He sighed in relief and fell backwards to the side of the bed, bare legs sprawled out on the floor and the rear of his head rested on the edge of the mattress. Brown hair stuck to his glimmering, wet skin, plastered there, unmoving. Fendel felt a little ridiculous lying nearly naked and drenched in sweat next to a pool of his own vomit, but honestly didn't care much. He was just happy to feel the perspiration ceasing, joints loosening, and muscles releasing.

After a little while, Fendel was able to get up, and threw on a loose white V-neck with long, baggy, and flowing sleeves- which he rolled up. It was a simple shirt that he had gotten for cheap, along with the cuirass and pants, and it served its purpose well. He pulled his pants back on, avoiding the gaping tears as each foot slipped through.

A loud grumble erupted from his stomach, a gnawing feeling beginning in his abdomen. The taste of spoil and acid was still left in his mouth, yet he was hungry despite his painful retching. He didn't want to eat here, with only roots and leaves to have and vomit to keep him company, so he replaced his things back into the bag and exited the building. The Orsimer glared angrily at him as he passed- he could see their slanted eyes from his peripheral vision- and he was secretly thankful they hadn't heard the commotion.

Fendel found himself at a local tavern, which smelled surprisingly of fresh baked bread, the aroma bursting into his face the moment the door opened. The bartender, an Altmer, waved him over and gestured to one of the many free stools. The entire establishment was completely empty, save the two of them. It was midafternoon after all, he figured silently, and many would still be at work. His feet made their way to one of the rough stools, and he quickly slid into it. The Altmer smiled and leaned down.

"I've never seen you around here before," he said, grinning, his hair done in a tight, white-blond braid down his back and his eyes a shade of amber.

"Just passing through," Fendel said, keeping his eyes away from the stranger's, "Do you sell bread? I'd like a loaf, and maybe some cheap wine with it."

The Altmer backed off and whipped around, grabbing a dark green bottle from the shelf while simultaneously snatching a goblet, and then draining some of the wine into the cup. He slid it across the bar without looking, and it came straight to where Fendel was sitting. His still trembling and slightly clammy hand grabbed it, the pain in his wrist now decreased to a faint throb. The cup raised to his lips and he took a deep drink, feeling it sting his throat and wash around, its bitter sweetness making him cringe a bit. The taste of alcohol had never pleased him, but he thought that coming to a bar and not ordering a drink would seem a bit strange.

The barkeep returned and handed him a warm loaf, packaged delicately in thin paper. Fendel, in turn, opened it up and devoured it all within seconds, each bite better than the last and seemingly doubling his stomach's size. The entire time the Altmer watched him, surveyed his every feature and determined his strength. He looked to be young and weak, but, what choice did he have?

"How much do I owe you?" Fendel asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The Altmer turned around and looked at him again, peering deep into his eyes. It made Fendel nervous, but he tried to keep eye contact steady, so as not to be decided as such a weakling- although he was.

"Seven hundred and thirty-two septims," he responded, expression stone cold serious. Fendel's mouth gaped open, heart pausing to scream before going to a jog.

"S-Seven hundred and thirty-two?" he asked, eyes round in horror, "I… I think I misheard you." The man remained silent, picking a glass up and polishing it carefully with a stained rag.

"You can't afford it. Fine. As I'm sure you know, Rythe Lythandas has gone missing. He was also a very good friend of mine. If you can't pay me, I wish for you to find him."

"Me?" he asked, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't."

"Do you know who Rythe Lythandas is?" the Altmer questioned, never fraying from keeping direct eye contact with the Dunmer, staring deep into his eyes at all times. "The famous painter? His works come to life when you look at them. The trees move with the wind, the water flows, the clouds float by, birds chirp and grass sways in the breeze… it's all a magnificent trick of the eyes. Rythe is a genius with his brush. It's like magic."

"I'm sorry, I need to leave town tomorrow," Fendel apologized, looking away from the Altmer's gaze and reaching into his sack, "I have fifteen septims left." Looking back up to face him, the anger and desperation in the Altmer's eyes was obvious, and it froze the Dunmer in place.

"Have you seen the Orc thugs out there?" he hissed, leaning in, the tips of their noses nearly touching. "You have to be on a good page with them around here. A lot of them are part of the Orum gang, and you don't want to get on their bad side. I'd suggest you cooperate with me, or I'll have them after you faster than you can say 'nchow'."

The Dunmer froze. The Orsimer at the inn were already at their last string with him, and he could tell the Elf's threat was not a mere bluff. It rang so true, it threw fear into his every inch of being, and he felt his heart sink. He had wanted to get out of the town as fast as possible, but now, this Rythe fellow was put to the top of his priority list. He only hoped it would be a fast job, and an easy one. Not to mention one he could handle.

Fendel got quick directions to Lythandas's house, and soon arrived to the beautiful abode. The buildings in Cheydinhal were heavily influenced by Morrowind culture, being nearly right next to the border, and he felt the homesickness gnaw hungrily at his heart once again. This time he pushed it down and held one fist to the door, knocking gently three times. The clunks were absorbed by the dark, well-kept wood, and his hand retreated, clasping both together behind his back patiently. He admired the architecture, noting the high, pointed roofs, and the white washed outside walls. They were adorned with brown wooden rectangles, touching each other and running all around the house, showing each of the two stories. Some houses, which were in better shape, had diamond-shapes or more wood decorated within the initial wooden structures, and each house was its own masterpiece, every single one a bit different than the other. The base of some of the structures were made of tightly packed stones of different sizes, all a dark to light grey color, and the amount of space which was made up of them differed from building to building. He sighed, his stomach hurting a bit, and continued to wait.

Footsteps echoed out to him from deep inside of the house, walking timidly across a squeaking wooden floor. The warbling of birds flew in the air from tree to tree, and were somehow louder than the sounds coming from the home. The door creaked open, and a pretty Dunmer peered out and met his gaze. Her eyes lit up, and the ingress flew the rest of the way open.

"Are… are you here to help?" she asked, her voice bright yet still timorous. Her midnight black, greasy locks were held in a low bun, with strands of hair free and resting around her head. Long bangs rested crazily, which at one time framed her face strikingly, were now unkempt and awkward. She was clearly distraught and stressed, with nearly fresh stains down her cheeks, and her crimson eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn't slept in many moons. "I miss my husband so much. Please, come in. I'll give you anything if you could just help me…"

The Dunmer, named Tivela, waved him in and soon collapsed into a large armchair, the room over. He followed, staying quiet and respectful. The room was a medium size, a good dimension for a living room which housed light parties and family, and had the same wood floor as the entranceway. Its walls were similar in color and design to the outside, with unique stains in the off-white stone. The splashes of sandy colors and even light ochre in some places were quite beautiful, and dark chocolate-brown planks framed the rectangles. There were banisters supporting the ceiling of the same color and wood, and a large, lone window was positioned on the outside wall to his left, next to the soft green armchair. A duplicate of the chair was at the other side of the window, and each was slid at an angle to the view, making the setup look the slightest bit whimsical. On the sill were two books, one with a green cover and the other red. He wanted to grab and read them- maybe they were only distributed in Cyrodiil and he had never seen them before, or they were simply books which had not been sold where he lived in Vvardenfell- but he pushed the burning urge down. Now was no time to read.

"Muthsera," he began, sitting across from her, "my name is Fendel Andrano. I'm a native of Morrowind and have traveled far to come to Cyrodiil. I've just arrived here and have heard talk of your husband disappearing, and I'd love to help in any way I can." The woman was clearly in immense pain due to her husband's absence, and it hurt him dearly to even think of leaving without offering his help. She began to softly cry and quickly grabbed a white handkerchief, stitched with what looked to be beautiful illustrations of bull and betty netch floating across the perimeter, then dabbed her wet eyes and the tip of her nose, so as to be polite. She smiled half-heartedly and took a deep breath, biting her bottom lip and looking briefly out the window. The hankie was raised to catch more tears, and she turned her head, now looking at Fendel.

"I'm sorry. I've never felt this terrible in my whole life, and I just can't cope for much longer without my dear husband. It's been so long now, and I fear the worst." She shook her head and looked back out the window, biting her lip hard to keep from weeping.

"It's fine," he comforted, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "Where did you last see your husband? Where should I start looking?"

"In… In his studio. He locks himself there when he's working- painting, you know. Rythe would often stay there for hours, and a few times, for days on end. I think he gets into this delicate state of mind when he's painting, and forgets about time. He's really one with his art." She paused, looking back at Fendel with teary eyes, now freely letting them fall. "But some time ago- I'm not even sure how long anymore, for it seems like it's been years- he gave me a kiss and went into his studio, locking the door behind him as usual, then stayed for… well, it must have been at least three or four days until I began to worry about him. I got the key to the door, which he told me to never, ever use, and dared to open it… And he wasn't anywhere to be seen! I screamed in terror and ran all the way down the street, yelling for help… Nobody could find him! There aren't any windows or doors coming out of his studio except for the one, which was locked, and I was the only one with the key! Where on Nirn could he have gone? Oh, I miss him so much!" she wailed, throwing her head into her lap and burying her face in her shaking hands. Tivela sobbed, her back jumping with each cry, whole body tense and shuddering.

Fendel watched, wishing to be able to relieve her of her distress, even a little. She recovered a while later, wiping the waterworks from her thin cheeks and taking deep breaths to try to still her beating heart and twisting throat.

"Thank you for welcoming me so greatly into your aruhn. I know it's been hard these past days and weeks, and I am determined to help you to my greatest ability." To his satisfaction, she lit up at his promise and smiled fully, gasping a little while trying to suck in air from her heavy blubbering. She was finally able to calm herself all the way down, controlling her emotions once again.

"Thank you. I can't express how much I appreciate this. I'll give you something for your good deeds, even if your attempts are in vain," she said, hope filled with every bit of her voice. "I'll give you the key, so you can look for clues or anything of interest in his studio. I'm sure whatever happened, there's some sort of hint in there."

"You locked it again, Muthsera?" he inquired, following her into another side room, where she dug into a drawer and produced a small, iron key.

"I was so scared; I couldn't help but lock it again. I didn't want anything coming out of that door that wasn't welcome. Needless to say, I call from the other room every once and a while, just to see if Rythe calls back, but… well, you know." She handed him the key and he held it carefully in his hand. It was very cool and looked old and frail, as if it could break as he tried to open the lock.

"I'll go see what I can do. Hang in there," he comforted, smiling warmly and reassuringly. She returned it partially and nodded her head, turning around and walking back to her armchair without saying another word. He left her in peace and approached the door.

Fendel had never been a brave person; had never had to be. Now, he was faced with a curious situation, and was unsure of how events would unfold. Nevertheless, he pushed the key into the slot and twisted, hearing the content clunk and feeling the door give way. He remembered his will to live earlier, sensed his shortsword's weight against his leg, and felt the slightest bit better. Yet still, he was a coward.

He stepped cautiously in but found the room empty of all life, blank canvases and painted masterpieces lining every wall and spilling into the room, giving only a thin path to the easel at the far left. It wasn't a gigantic area, only a little bigger than the entranceway and much smaller than the living room, and it seemed tinier with the clutter of painting supplies and extra easels and paper. Upon the walls decked finished paintings, all different scenes and pictures. Had he not been keen to being suspicious, he would've left the room then and started his search elsewhere, but there seemed to be something wrong with the paintings. He walked further into the space, closing the old door behind him, and stepped over and through the clutter of supplies. The wall met him, and he peered closely at a painting done of the chapel in Cheydinhal. It was so gorgeous and perfect- too perfect, indeed, like the whole landscape had been transformed and put directly onto the sheet. He tilted his head, and stared for very long at it. It truly looked as if the trees really moved, and the water really ran, and the clouds really flew. As a matter of fact, they did. It wasn't a trick of the eye at all, they clearly moved, and even the brush strokes changed.

Fear struck him, and he got back up, looking again around the room. It was eerie being alone with these strange, magical paintings. It felt like they had minds and were in their own specially made world, peering curiously out at him. Would creatures snatch him up from Nirn and take him back to… whatever plane they were created in? Was that what happened to Rythe?

He shoved away the desire to flee, trying to still his worried heart the best he could. Turning, he surveying each painting as if it were a foe, noticing the deep detail in every blade of grass, stone, pillar of wood, gentle wave in a river, and the sky- oh, the sky was the most beautiful part in all of the paintings collectively. Some were more blue, some pink, some dark shades of orange, depending on what time of day the scene was set, and they were all mixed so flawlessly that there was no way- no way in all of Oblivion- that it could be done by a mere paintbrush. None were so fine that they could do such details; create such emphasis on the little things. It was simply impossible.

There was a piece sitting patiently on the old easel, standing upright and showing off. It wasn't as complete as the others, he could see, and there were splotches of white around the sides and corners. He approached the picture nervously and gradually, as if he could attract monsters from the paintings if his steps were too loud. This canvas boasted the Great Forest, with its towering, packed trees and swaying, tall grass. There were rocks on the left, and a bit of sky was shown at the top, being a perfect pink, violet, and ochre mix. The whole landscape was tinted yellow- the piece was done in the hug of a sunset. It had a whimsical, creative look to it, not being as realistic as the others but dazzling even so. He leaned in, bit by bit, examining its tiny brushstrokes closely and marveling the wondrous details.

Suddenly, an invisible force pulled him headfirst into the unfinished painting, thrusting him into a dizzying vortex. The world was spinning blindly around him, his eyes unable to make anything out from the speed, and before he knew it, he was spat out and hit grassy ground with a hard crash. Fendel rubbed his forehead, which had been the "cushion" of the fall, and looked around him. He had somehow entered the painting.

His arm, which had been holding him up at a sitting position, went limp from surprise, causing him to nearly fall on his face yet again. Catching himself just in time, he forced his body back up, shuddering with fear. The world he had arrived in was clearly painted with brush strokes visible all around him, even in the rosy sky, which faded into blue at the base of the top of the trees. He looked quickly behind himself, expecting to see a doorway or picture of the studio he had just left, but found nothing but a dark, rocky hill, tinted green and textured by the brushstrokes which had created it.

"F'lah!" the voice of a man sounded. Fendel's head whipped around to see who it belonged to, his heart thumping hard and fast in his chest. A Dunmer stood at the treeline, staring unbelieving and angry at him. "Are you another thief? If you are, by the nine, I will waste you!" They were obviously empty threats, as there were no weapons on him, and he merely held up two skinny fists. A tight ponytail held his long brown hair, and he possessed a fatter face than most Dunmer, cheekbones a mere faint bump visible only in certain lights. He bore a simple white shirt and brown leather vest, with tight matching pants and boots. His eyes were angrily slanted, but Fendel could tell there was a sense of distress behind them.

"Rythe?" Fendel asked, his voice shaking and his gut twisted, even though the man was clearly no threat. "Are you Rythe Lythandas?"

"I most certainly am," he shouted, "and you're not getting your hands on my brush!"

Fendel got himself up and faced Rythe. "I don't want your brush. I'm here to take you back to Cheydinhal… though, I must admit, I'm not sure how to get back now." A questioning tug came to his mind, practically begging him to inquire why he had thought Fendel would steal his brush of all things, but the matter at hand- getting out of the damn painting- was much more important.

"How long have I been in here?" Rythe demanded, stepping out from the shade of the trees a bit.

"I'm not sure," Fendel responded, making his way to the treeline, "but it's been a very long time." He finally got to the man, and held out his hand. "I'm Fendel. Where are we? How did we get here?"

"S'wit!" he yelled, taking a few steps away from the young man, "I'm not touching you! You're only a boy! How dare they only send me a boy as my savior! I will not- I repeat, will not- be saved by a child! I have more dignity than that! I'm Rythe Lythandas!" The shouts discharged loudly, echoing through the still atmosphere surrounding them. His yells were followed by a confused groan, which radiated from the depths of the forest. Rythe went still, eyes widening in terror, and grabbed Fendel's arm, running as fast as possible to the foot of the rocky hill.

"What… was that?" Fendel stuttered, the blood drained from his steel-blue cheeks.

"This is why they shouldn't have sent a boy! Look at you, you're terrified!" he panted, baring teeth at him. His fists lay clenched at his sides, and his thick eyebrows were pointed angrily downward.

"You ran away like a girl!" Fendel protested, "You're no better than me. Now, will you answer my question or not?"

Rythe continued to glare, then turned away from him and leaned against a large rock.

"We're in a painting," he spat.

Fendel shook his head irritably. "Well that's obvious. I did get sucked in by your stupid picture, didn't I?" he snarled, exasperated by the man's childlike behavior. Tivela deserved better than him, a useless toddler, who acted younger than his small siblings. An image of Ryei, the littlest, flew into his mind, the poor seven year old crawling past kwama and stealing the eggs with his tiny hands, struggling to smuggle the heavy sacks back up the tunnels with a heavy sword weighing him down at his side…

"Stupid? My stupid picture?" Rythe snapped, lunging forward into Fendel's face and nearly foaming at the mouth in his fury, "This stupid picture has been created with my treasure, the brush of truepaint, which has allowed me to create the most gorgeous pieces of art ever to be seen in Cyrodiil, and likely all of Tamriel and Mundus! I'm the most skilled artist to have ever been, and don't you ever disrespect my talent and masterpieces again!" he screamed, veins popping out from his neck and temple. He stopped talking, breathing heavily in Fendel's face, which was ridden with Rythe's disgusting spittle from his lash out. The smell of his breath was horrid, flushing over Fendel's face and choking his nostrils.

"I don't think you meant to say Mundus, but Nirn," Fendel began in a calm, quiet tone. "If you were to say you were the best artist in all of Mundus, that would include the eight Aedra. In the creation of Nirn, the original eight Divines- this is not including Talos because he's a human god, and was thus not created yet- were being used by Lorkhan to create this planet. Many other Aedra were used in the process, but when they realized he was draining them of their powers to create Nirn, they fled. All except for the Eight, who willingly stayed to create the beautiful planet with their powers, draining them greatly and making them stay on their own plane- or planet- each of which is included when you say 'Mundus'. They gave up parts of themselves in the creation, and made Nirn the way it is. Nirn is the most beautiful thing of all that we see, is it not? And so, you are claiming to be a better creator than the beings who originally made the things which you are replicating. It's impossible to do this, don't you think?" Fendel smiled, crossing his arms triumphantly at the man's bewildered and rage filled face.

"Shut up! Just shut up, brat!" he screamed, stamping his feet and holding up his fists, wanting badly to hurt him. Fendel merely shook his head, smirking and sighing at the man's idiocy- there was no way Rythe had enough power behind those fists to damage him, and his threats were almost hilarious.

A loud growl came from the treeline, and both of the Dunmer's heads snapped to the side, seeing a most unfavorable sight- a troll. But the troll was more colorful than one from Nirn, made of a bright yellow, its mouth a radiant pink and its eyes a pretty dark blue. The fur which covered most all of its surface was long and matted, streaked with different greens ranging from grassy to brownish, over the stained yellows. Its teeth were sharp and sparkling white, each razor sharp and drawn out and ready to dig into waiting flesh, and its arms were dragging lazily on the painted ground. Rythe ran, retreating up the mountain and leaving Fendel to fend for himself. Had he been able to move quicker, he would've been able to escape, but he missed his few seconds in which he had time to run. The shortsword on his hip slid contently out of its holster, the familiar sound of the blade rubbing quickly against the leather floating up to his ears. Two shaking hands grasped its wrapped handle, holding it tightly in front of his figure as he had briefly been taught when he was a child- he had lost interest in that lesson quickly, as a lot of it was technique compared to knowledge. Concentration was directed to his still-sore muscles, keeping them steady as he could in his trembling fright. He hadn't faced anything this horrifying on his journey into Cyrodiil, and the beasts which would've given him loads of trouble, he was able to avoid. This was not one of those situations, and he felt he was faced with certain death.

Trolls, trolls, he thought, I know I've read about them before. Why has everything come out of my mind?

The painted troll bounded forward at him, its sharp teeth bearing at him from its bright mouth. Fendel held his ground, feet spread apart, unable to do anything else and dearly hoping this wouldn't be his dying hour. The beast was clumsy and graceful all at once, stumbling and thrusting its body forward with its hanging arms, fast as lightning. Closer and closer it came, fur flying, faster, faster.

If I had a poison with me I could use it, but I left my blasted sack at the inn!

It was soon upon him and swinging a humongous arm, Fendel dodging it successfully. With a swift move, twisting his entire being into the thrust, the Dunmer attempted to slice it with harshly his blade. Before it could work, the troll knocked him off course with its other lazy limb, allowing him to only cut a small section of its leg, and then struck him again while he was defenseless. His side hit the ground with a painful thud, agony shooting from the area and into the nearby muscles, sword flying out of his hand and landing feet away. He rolled with great effort, confusing the bumbling animal and grabbing his sword, recovering a bit away from the monster. It lunged at him and he slid to the side, stabbing it in the fat of its arm. The troll was relentless and turned around, throwing its opened mouth and claws straight at him, when Fendel remembered their weakness.

Fire spewed from a free hand and straight into the beast's rosy mouth. He stayed it steady, the troll stumbling backwards and screeching in pain, reaching for its mouth and, in turn, getting his arms burned by the constant flames. The heat momentarily blinded its three eyes, and Fendel thrust his shortsword into the troll's sunny-yellow chest, hitting surprisingly at the right mark and killing it instantly. An extremely lucky hit for a very cowardly man.

Fendel let go of his sword as the beast fell backwards and hit the ground, smashing the grass. He grasped his knees, panting hard, his chest heaving up and down, sucking in air as if he had never tasted of it before. It was the most intense fight he had ever been in, and the adrenaline rush was fantastic. He smiled, looking at the disgusting creature, and felt confidence flush through him.

"Wow," Rythe muttered from a cliff of the mountain. Little by little he was making his way down and to the scene, holding on shakily to the large, crumbling rocks of paint, wincing at each discomfort and ache. Within a few seconds he had successfully gotten down and was observing the painted troll, his head tilted curiously to the side as he surveyed the hideous creature.

"S'wit," Fendel hissed, "You were going to let me die, and you were the one who attracted it."

"How dare-"

"What? How dare I insult you and blame you for something you obviously did?" he condemned, eyes slanted and hair coated with sweat.

"Oh, I attracted it, did I? It most certainly wasn't a chain of events, started by a certain little boy who wanted to play hero?" Rythe snapped, veins pulsing once more. "You were trying to make me angry with your obnoxious big brain. I'd suggest you shut up, get out of my face, and stop accusing me of things which aren't my fault."

Fendel sighed. Rythe may be a child, but he was correct: Fendel had helped the most in calling the beast. "Listen, you're right, I did jeer at you, at which point you reacted… poorly, which in turn called the troll. Happy?" he exhaled deeply. "Now how in Oblivion do we get out of here?"

Rythe simply stared at him, glaring in an ugly way and snarling. Fendel shook his head, contemplating the reasons as to why someone as lovely as Tivela would ever marry such an infant. He grunted and looked back at the dead troll. He put one foot on its furry, painted chest and pulled his sword out, realizing as he did so that, though this troll was painted, it contained prized fat. Within minutes he had dissected the whole animal- it was hard work, but well worth it- and had a good pile of painted blubber, the properties of which were mysterious and unknown. He sadly realized that he had no ingredients with him, and would be unable to experiment with the newly found substance. His fingers poked and prodded the material, and looking through it, he saw some of it was smeared with an ebony black liquid. Curiously, he grabbed some of the fat and lit a flame underneath, followed by a shocking discovery- it turned into the oily black substance, which dripped heavily down onto the grass beneath where he held it, and killed it.

"Turpentine?" Rythe wondered aloud, looking at the liquid. He had left his pouting state for the moment, joining Fendel next to the corpse. "That's very strange."

"Strange or not, it kills the grass, so why wouldn't it kill the trolls?" Fendel asked, smiling. Even though he didn't have his dear alchemy instruments with him, he had found a way to poison the beasts- though, he thought, he would've been able to create a much more potent concoction if he did. "Do you have anything to keep it in, by chance? And would you please tell me why you're stuck here, and how to get out?" He knelt next to the carcass, looking up at Rythe expectantly.

Rythe walked off and soon came back with about eight vials, each with the holding capacity of about a cup. It wasn't much, but it would work. Fendel began heating and straining the turpentine into the glasses, and Rythe knelt beside him, remaining quiet until half of the vials were filled to the brim.

"It's the brush of truepaint which got us in this mess. See, it's a very valuable brush. Priceless, in fact. The brush is said to have been made with Dibella's own hair, and has the power to, well, do this." He dramatically gestured to the world around them, a painted paradise full of color, holding the possibility of complete realism. This specific world was a more colorful version of the great forest, but the specific details to make it look real nonetheless were truly fascinating. "It gives you the ability to go into your artwork, and make the most lifelike images to ever have been seen on a canvas. My secret has been kept for ages. Why, my wife doesn't even know.

"One night, after selling a very expensive and gorgeous piece to a wealthy Breton in the Imperial City, I went to a nearby bar and got sufficiently drunk. I remember meeting a peculiar Bosmer, with whom I shared my identity, and we drank merrily together deep into the night. He asked me many questions about my art, and… well, I'm not saying anything for certain, but I just may have mentioned the brush of truepaint. And he may have asked me how it worked, and I may have told him everything about it. But hey, my mind was pretty cluttered after so much mead, who knows if any of it truly happened," he said, trying his best to convince him. Fendel knew from his tone of voice and twisted face that the idiot had told the Bosmer of the brush in his overly confident, narcissistic mindset. "He must've followed me home, if indeed I did tell him, and got into the painting with me by sneaking into my house and picking the lock to get into my studio. He stole the brush of truepaint from my bare, defenseless hands, painted the trolls, and ran off with the tool deep into the forest. I'm not sure where he went, but I heard screams little afterwards. It seems his creations didn't agree with him."

They stayed silent for a while, Fendel hard at work, thinking about all he had said, and Rythe only wishing to have something to eat other than grass for the first time in weeks. The vials were all filled after a little longer, their black contents glimmering against the shining of the sun, and Fendel tested each to make sure none would spill in their pockets. They were all corked nicely, and he handed half of them to the Dunmer kneeling pitifully next to him.

"You got yourself into this mess, and now you're going to help me get you out of it," he said strictly, keeping his face free of the fear he now felt, the adrenaline rush having dissipated a long while ago. "Come on, let's go get that brush."

Rythe looked at the four vials, a horrified expression on his face, and shook his head. "I can't do that, nope, sorry. Besides, I don't have a weapon." Fendel frowned, getting up and looking around on the ground for a long while. He spotted what he had been looking diligently for and retrieved it. He flung the dagger down so it stuck in the soft painted ground in front of Rythe's knees, scaring him severely.

"That mysterious Bosmer must've dropped this when he came into the painting. What good is a dagger when you have the most magical brush in existence?" he nodded to it, raising his eyebrows. "I saw it earlier, but didn't know what it was. All I knew was that it wasn't made out of brush strokes, so it was from the real world. Go ahead, take it and help me."

"I…" Rythe mumbled, picking it up out of the ground and observing the blade. It wasn't much, only made out of thin iron and old wood, but it was a sharp weapon which could be lathered with the turpentine, and that would have to do. Rythe sighed, knowing it was no use trying to get out of helping Fendel, and prayed dearly to the divines that this wouldn't be his last day to live.

The two set out, crossing the treeline with their weapons at the ready, turpentine slathered across the blades. Fendel tried not to think about the fact that the trolls may be immune to the black goo, and just kept putting one foot in front of the other, stilling his racing mind with all the might he had. The seriousness of the issue at hand was crouching on top of him, knowing that he was nowhere near strong enough to defeat these beasts, even with Rythe's help, and who knew how well Rythe would help anyway? He would likely run at the first sign of danger, leaving Fendel for dead, as he had done before. Rythe was as big a coward as Fendel, but at least Fendel didn't act like a child about it.

The first troll came bumbling out from behind some trees, yelling and beginning to charge at them. Fendel waited for Rythe to flee in terror, but was shocked to see the Dunmer standing his station right beside him. His every bit of being was shaking badly, though Fendel was too, and both clenched their teeth and awaited the fight.

Fendel was the first to strike, missing the beast's chest as it lashed around in front of them, but successfully slicing its bicep. A shriek of anger filled the air as the turpentine seemingly burned away its flesh, its pink mouth wide open and showing a row of piercing teeth. It lunged at him, missing his head by mere inches, as Fendel tried his best to dodge the attack. The duck made him lose balance, slipping and falling on his back, trying to crawl backwards away from the monster so he could get up. Rythe stabbed the beast in the shoulder blade, creating more confusion and pain to the painted troll, the black dripping down its bright yellow fur and burning it away as it went. Rythe was suddenly dangling in the air from its gigantic hands, holding him above its head and opening its gigantic mouth. The troll seemed to smile, and attempted to bite his midsection out.

The monster screamed again in pain as Fendel stabbed it through its gut, dropping Rythe and grabbing for the blade which had gone the whole length through its middle. The shortsword reluctantly left the painting's stomach as Fendel pulled it out with all his might, and was then sent flying into a nearby tree, hit harshly in the chest by the troll's thick, flailing arms. Rythe let a flame go through his palm and strike the monster. Rapid fire followed, spell after spell flying through the air, burning it critically over and over. Its strength was quickly waning, and with one more turpentine-assisted stab to the back, it lay dead.

Both Dunmer looked at it in awe for a moment, then looked at each other in surprised happiness. They smiled and panted, Fendel chuckling a bit and shaking his head, shocked that Rythe hadn't abandoned him. Rythe let out an audible sigh of relief and laughed, then tore the dagger out of the troll's back, quickly bathing it in turpentine and throwing the vial to Fendel.

"Ready for the next one?" Rythe asked, smirking. Fendel nodded, pointing ahead.

"Onward."

They travelled forward, the gorgeously painted trees surrounding them on all sides. The pink and orange sky peeked through the canopy above them as tall, clover-colored grass brushed against their ankles. They defeated three more of the trolls together, each a terrifying new experience, and each time the two cowards felt the need to run away as fast as possible. Yet, no matter the bad situation, they stood strongly together and trusted the other to remain with them through the whole thing, and that trust escaladed with each kill they managed.

They soon came to a point where the forest stopped, and the grass went on for only a little while. Then, blankness took over, stretching as far as the eye could see, halting even the sky. It was pure whiteness ahead, except for three objects in the distance, only two of which moving, and those two were clearly large painted trolls. The third was a small figure, lying in a pool of deep red blood, a strange contrast to the blank canvas underneath.

Fendel glanced at Rythe, who returned the gaze with worry. They hadn't faced two at once before and were both unsure of how they'd manage.

"I was able to kill one earlier by myself," Fendel reassured, though he knew this was different. These two were visibly almost twice the size of the others, which meant twice as strong and twice as vicious. Rythe nodded, unconvinced, and they both strut into the area of blank canvas, running solely on their will to live.

The trolls saw the two Dunmer the second they stepped in, and began to stampede towards them. Their hearts raced in fear but they held their weapons proudly in front of them, their hands with a fire spell at the ready. Mass chaos erupted from the scene.

They fought strongly against them, fire going everywhere and turpentine splashing against the monsters' skin, but they were unyielding no matter what. Rythe and his troll had gotten to the Bosmer's dead body, and Fendel could see him bend down and quickly pick something up- no doubt the brush of truepaint- then begin to run… away.

Unbelieving fury rose in his heart as he tried to slow his troll down with the flames, mashing his teeth together and fighting the panic which was now overcoming him. He had been able to do it before with help, but these monsters were relentless, and would not stop until they were cold dead. Not only that, but they were so much stronger than him, and he doubted he would be able to fight his any longer. And when Rythe's came over, there would be absolutely no hope left for him.

A large fireball hit the side of the troll's head, stunning it, and Fendel was able to slice it through the chest. The beast yelled in rage and struck Fendel in the side, blowing the air out of him and making him fall onto the now bloodstained ground beneath them. He gasped for breath, coughing harshly and cringing away from the approaching troll, when he looked up and saw who had sent the fireball.

Rythe had painted himself a sword, and had easily killed his troll- which was lying dead across the ground a bit- and sliced Fendel's troll right through the neck, decapitating him with one swift move and jumping back as it fell towards him. He walked over to Fendel and held out his hand, helping him to his feet.

"You didn't think I left, did you?" he asked, obviously feeling guilty for misleading him. "I saw my brush, and I figured that if I just painted a powerful sword… well, you see what it did." He smirked and pulled the paintbrush out of his pocket, twirling it in his fingers and admiring its beauty. It really was a beautiful brush, the bristles made of gorgeous material- Fendel didn't doubt they were strands of Dibella's hair- and the handle of a rosy, shining wood.

Rythe grabbed vials of paint from his pocket and dipped the brush into them, walking to a space a little away from them, and closed his eyes. He opened them again and threw the paint around, swirling the colors together and running the bristles across and around in swift movements. He cheered and stepped back, dramatically posing with his hands pointed to his creation. Fendel walked curiously up- Rythe had created a door into his studio.

"After you, Fendel." He waved in, grinning. Fendel gladly stepped through the portal, suction pulled him through and, before he knew it, he was standing once again in the studio of Rythe Lythandas, circled by canvases and paintings. Rythe stood beside him instants later, flown through the painting with a mighty swoosh, and they looked at each other and laughed. They had made it through all of that, two hopeless cowards, and were left with only minor wounds and large bruises.

"Rythe? Rythe, Fendel, is that you?" Tivela called from the living room, her voice shaking tremendously. It sounded as if tears would come any moment. She was very filled with hope, but was worried that it was just her mind playing tricks again, and that they hadn't come back from whatever in Oblivion was in that studio. Rythe raced to the door, shoving it open and standing in the doorway, looking for his wife. Fendel could see his expression perfectly- it began with anxiety, then turned to brief sorrow, and then into sweet relief as he ran as fast as he could to his bride. Fendel walked quickly to the door and smiled as Rythe picked his darling up and swung her around, their lips meeting in sweet, loving bliss, tears flowing freely down both of their cheeks. They cried together for a long while, not minding Fendel's waiting company, holding each other tight as they could and trembling like an earthquake. Tivela shoved her face in his chest, smiling against the bitter tears, and Rythe kissed the top of her head repeatedly.

They finally separated, leaving the tears on their cheeks, and turned to their visitor and savior. Tivela embraced him, sobbing again and uttering loving thank you's, her heart beating wildly against his chest. He returned the hug lightly, smiling at Rythe over her shoulder while rubbing the top of her back comfortingly. She released, her smile quivering as she held the need to cry, and retreated back to the warmth of her husband's arms. They stood side by side, Rythe's arm squeezed around his wife, both looking at the boy with grateful eyes.

"Why don't you stay here, in Cheydinhal? You've become such a friend to us, and I'd miss your company," Rythe started, his voice heavy as he, too, held the waterworks back, "though, if you think you should go ahead to the Imperial City, why don't you let me pay for a carriage there? Or better yet, I'll buy you a horse. Then you can come visit us whenever you please."

"You… you don't have to do that," Fendel grinned.

"Oh, but I do. When I snatched my brush from the thief's hands, there was a voice inside my head that screamed at me to run while I still could, and save myself. That little voice was who I was mere hours ago. But seeing you fighting there, right beside me, no matter what… I couldn't leave you. I knew you would die if I fled. You had been there to help me when we fought that first troll- and the ones after- and I could tell through all of those fights that you were scared out of your wits. Yet, you never ran. You stayed firmly next to me, fighting battle after battle. You've changed my whole life, Fendel. I'll never be the same selfish person I was before I met you, and I owe you so much for that. Please… let me do something for you," he pleaded, fresh tears falling down his cheeks.

Rythe was just as much a coward as Fendel was. Fendel realized right then in there that he was right- he would've just abandoned him and gone on with his life, even if Fendel had died. But instead he came back for him, no matter the danger or the gnawing fear in his stomach. Though Fendel knew it wasn't a mere obligation to help him, since he had helped Rythe before, but that their bond had grown and each had begun to care about the well-being of the other. The will to survive had become secondary to the will to save each other.

"I'm sorry. I appreciate the offer, but I'm going back to Morrowind. Maybe one day our paths will meet again," he said, holding his hand out, a determined glint put into his eye. Rythe laughed and this time took it, shaking it strongly. They let go, and Rythe quickly went into the studio, holding his hand up as if to say, "just a second". He came back out with an old off-white apron, stained with blotches of different colors of paint, and handed it to him.

"I've had this for a long time. It's spelled, to make you stronger. I've never understood why it had such strange enchantments until now. Do you believe in fate?" Rythe asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. Fendel shrugged and felt the cloth, the familiar vibration and dim glow coming off of the fabric.

"You won't let me leave without something, will you?" he asked, smirking. They both shook their heads, chuckling in unison. He sighed and rolled it up, holding it in his hand. "I guess this is goodbye, then."

Husband and wife sighed, coming forward and hugging him in a group, thanking him again for all he had done and making him promise to try to visit. He agreed, knowing that day would likely never come, and felt a sickening twist in his gut. He would miss these people dearly, but he had to go back.

He was followed out the door, and Fendel muttered a polite, "Muthsera," to Tivela, who was sniffling sadly once again. It had been only a few hours since he had arrived, and the sun was just beginning to set. She grabbed on to her husband, biting her lip and waving him goodbye. They both watched him until he disappeared from sight, and never forgot him.

Fendel fetched his things quickly and left the inn, once again ignoring the growling Orsimer. He quickly emptied the troll fat he had stuffed in his pockets into his bag, tying the top shut and swinging it over his shoulder. He had debated on wearing the cuirass, but sold it before he left town, feeling he only needed the apron to keep him safe. He wore it proudly.

Fendel stopped to look back at the beautiful town, muttering a goodbye which was swept away by the breeze. Cheydinhal basked in the light of the setting sun, the buildings tinted orange and the water almost green, the sky a beautiful pink. He exited the town, walking towards the woods and feeling a sudden déjà vu , when he realized the scene looked exactly like the painting they had entered. He laughed heartily and began to walk, knowing another long journey lay ahead of him. He was off to rejoin his family, no matter the perils which would certainly force themselves into his life. He was determined and ready, even though he was very fearful and still very much a coward. He would always be, he knew, but if Rythe could do it, why couldn't he?