ABOVE THE AXE
A NEW FANFIC
BY
MATTHEW SOAMES
I trust youll find it?
Yes.
If you return without it, your career in my house is over.
I know.
A bar in Vivec. At the appointed time. Find out all you can.
I will.
If you die, make sure no-one recognizes you.
That will not be an issue.
The trek would not be an easy one. Since the abolition of slavery, Morrowind had become an especially turbulent battle-ground for warring factions. Reports of rising body tolls was not the best news they could have heard. But to their advantage, Vivec was still under the protection of elitist ordinators. Whether the poet-warrior himself was still alive or not made no difference to anybody.
The sail from the Imperial City to Gnaar Mok was long. He took a small boat, built for fishing; its wooden floor boards emitted an unpleasant odor. Four dunmer accompanied him in plainclothes, returning home from a contract somewhere in the West. One would guide him to Balmora, but no further. He had studied the maps long enough to know his way from there.
When they landed at Gnaar Mok, he was hungry. However, he could not enter any hovel in the town, as his station forbade it. The one dunmer, in an expensive red shirt, green pants and dark blue shirt, wearing an extravagant amulet of some order, found them a smaller boat, with which he would row them to mainland Vvardenfell, make a stop at Caldera, and further guide him to the small metropolis of Balmora. The little gondola-like vessel almost floated across the waters as the dunmer rowed.
Why did you come to Morrowind, Imperial?
Not my business. My masters.
Who is your master?
He is a collector.
And what does he collect?
Old statues. Relics from civilizations long dead.
The pay is good?
My master is most generous.
What do you plan to do when you get to Balmora?
Find lodgings. Find a man. Or a name. And a drink.
And from there, you go to Vivec on your own?
Yes.
Silt strider?
Maybe.
You have a problem with the Camonna Tong?
No.
Thats good. Thats good. You might make it back alive.
They landed the boat on the shore, and went in. A short walk inland, they found a small rats nest, and the dunmer had to dispense of the vermin. A suspicious orc stood shadily, nearby, but paid them no heed. As the two walked on, a naked barbarian leered at them.
Youve never seen one before?
Once, in a plaza in Mournehold, a long time ago.
Theyre not what youd call uncommon on Vvardenfell, Imperial.
The town of Caldera was a refreshing sight after the indigenous fishing village earlier. The Imperial architecture reminded him of quaint little homes in northern Cyrodiil. Here, he had no trouble finding the governors hall. Though his guide at first protested, they proceeded to the great structure.
Inside, they were received by the deputy governor. He introduced himself as the right hand of Umbaccano, a noble of the Empire. Having had a long journey, he was given new clothing, tailored of exquisite silk with gold lace, and belts and shoes of finest racer-suede, and a flame-mirror robe that would keep him warm and safe. His guide was also well-fitted, in garb that would make his greatest kin seethe with jealousy. These they were given, as hospitality from Caldera. The night upon them, they supped with the governor, and afterward retired to their appropriate quarters.
Upon the next morn, they rose and gave thanks to their respective gods. Matters divine having been settled, they were bade farewell by town officials, and he was guided by the dunmer again on an uneventful path to Balmora. While this road was less dangerous and mad than their last, he could not help but feel bored. The guide tried to fill the void with conversation.
Morrowind is in shambles. Since the Nerevarine, or whoever he was, disappeared, there has been nothing but trouble. Our gods are dead for the most part. Even then, Vivec never makes public appearances anymore. We might have been saved from blight, or corpus, or whatever, but this place isnt the same. Crime has spiked in the eastern part of the countryside, Raven Rock completely dissolved in the north, ill-reputed institutions are spreading out from Suran, my native land is not what it once was.
Tamriel is changing. It is to be expected. Nothing lasts forever.
Not even gods anymore, eh?
Yours arent.
Silence enveloped them. Even the cheerful chirping of crickets had dissipated. They had been walking for a few hours, and were almost there.
You got a wife?
No, I never had the time to settle down.
I got a wife. If youre ever in Aldruhn, visit us. My name is Llethri.
What were you doing in Cyrodiil?
Getting away from this place. It depresses me anymore.
They came upon the body of a man. On his person they found a skooma pipe and some gold. Two alits were nearby. Making such great time, the guide decided against confronting the beasts, but pocketed the pipe. One final, short stroll brought them to Balmora, the river-city. They wished each other well, and went their separate ways.
He paid a woman fifteen hundred drake to stay in a vacated manor once owned by the illustrious Nerano family, for one weeks length. Making himself at home, he found the small but handsome library and digested two volumes of a queens biography while sipping from a flask of cyrodilic brandy. After a small nap, he went out at night, crossed a bridge to the less favorable side of town, and knocked on a door.
He was admitted by a disheveled professional, a shirtless, balding man who used to have more influence than now. He saw a somewhat rare book on unit tactics laying underneath the mans cot, seemingly unread. The two parlayed, the has-been occasionally indulging in a snort of moon sugar.
I know him. Met him several times.
What is his name, who am I looking for?
Hes a nord. A drunk, in the Lizards Head tavern.
In Vivec?
The Telvanni compound.
He is the one?
Yes, speak to him, and you will have what you need.
He went back to the manor, and slept in. For the rest of his stay in Balmora, he read from the deceased Neranos library, and practiced his swordsmanship. Making sure his belongings were in order, he used a silt strider service to travel from Balmora to Seyda Neen, a small port town, and from there he used the strider again to reach the outskirt of Vivec.
From the Foreign Quarter, it was yet another long walk to his destination. Ordinators in a bronze-gold armor made their rounds through the city, giving him an occasional glance. When he reached Telvanni canton, he had to ask for directions to the Lizards Head. But, once obtained, it was a walk through the waistworks, and he had found his man.
Nord.
Who are you?
I am from the Imperial City. You have something for me.
Iffen you have some mazte on yeh.
Here. Drink up.
Thanks. I tek it youve read up on this already?
No.
Ah-right. Firstff, thangs ferda mazte. Now, lemme recount for yeh how all this came teh be. Back whan these dark elves ware squattin by cempfurs in nix skins, in the first age, whan my peppel still ruled nerthern Tamriel, thar was a longlost Nord hero called Olmgerd the Outlaw, a bastard son of Harold Handfree. A bastard he might uh been, but he was given a noblemens burial, in his own shep, in a tomb deep in mother rock. They buried with him his unchanted bettle ax, Stermkiss, fer pertection to the next life. Well you see this key? See what it says? Stermkiss.
You think this is the key to the tomb?
Ah know it is. Ah jus know it.
And where exactly is the tomb?
Ah, ah, Ill tell yeh ware. They say they buried Olmgerd in the bettom of an ancient dunmer tomb. From the skalds telling, the burial was on a long fenger of land on the soothwest coost of Vvardenfell, on a little island close to shore on the wist coast of the peninsula. Figger its somewhere on thah stetch, between the Daedric ruins at Zaintiraris and Tel Branora.
This information will be most helpful. I thank you for your help. Now, for the key.
Yeh know, Imperial, I was gonna offer it teh none other than the Nerevarine hisself back in the day. I asked im for some mazte, I did, and you know what? He skeffed me off, and went aboot his murry way.
That is his loss. Now, for my gain.
Yer an eager one. Here.
I wish you good health, Nord.
Beh, healer says the mazte is killin me. Im goin home to Skyrim nex week. I hope I finally die. I served my purpose. Gods be with yeh. And thanks fer da mazte.
Key pocketed, he went out of the tavern, and sought shelter in the Hlaalu canton, at the manor of Crassus Curio. Curio welcomed him more enthusiastically than the Governor of Caldera, embracing him, and singing him a sweet melody of his own composition. They partook of fine grapes and cheeses on limeware, also drinking vintage Tamika wine. For night, Curio gave him a silver robe made of silk. He could have sworn, after the candles were snuffed and all were tucked, that hed heard a heavy breathing at his door before he succumbed to the pressure of his dreaming world, and for a while cast aside his waking one.
The morn its peak having breached with golden rays descending, ascending to the untrained eye, he rose and dressed. He relaxed with Curio a while, reading through the councilmans new play, helping act part of it out for fun. When they tired, he asked him if he knew any good, strong adventurers. Curio thought on it for some time, then recollected the name of a Redguard, a certain acrobat. They sent for her, and received her quietly in four days. He was told her name was Helviane, and that she was a master of the skills required for the quest. She was told every necessary detail, those covered by the Nord, and those also covered by his master; she was given food for her expedition, and a map of the region in which the desired treasure lay.
She left shortly thereafter, to find an artifact deep under the earth.