"A poet can have no higher purpose than to tell the truth about the human condition."
- Lord Vivec
In the village of Seyda Neen, on the Bitter Coast of Vvardenfell, on the last day of First Seed in the Third Era, the sun burned bright close to the top of noon in the marketplace. The bustle was ordinary- new Imperial tariff laws had put a dent in the profits of some local merchants, but the good Dunmer of Seyda Neen placed their trust in the Tribunal to pull them through these hard times. There was talk of another ash storm, coming from the north and carrying the Blight with it. The citizens were prepared, however, and had constructed impeccable insulation for their houses, storefronts and other locations. Red Mountain was a cruel mistress, and there were reports further up out of Ghostgate of bodies strewn across the ground along the main roads. Bandits had retreated to their hideouts, and Cliffracers dropped from the sky. The foreign traveler was wise to be wary of leaving the main towns; Dunmer locals wouldn't be so uncouth as to let an outlander wander outside without a strong warning. Superstitious types always predicted things- the realization of the Nerevarine prophecy. 'The Ashlanders had it right', cornerclub regulars would argue. 'The Indoril incarnate is going to save us.' Such talk was discouraged by local officials- the Tribunal will provide. Public notices were accompanied by passages from the Sermons of Vivec: "BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM VEHK, WARRIOR-POET", scrawled on Balmora walls. More cynical types predicted the end-times, in a less spiritual way- simply the death of all things.
This hysteria sweeping Morrowind never was able to break the hardy denizens of Seyda Neen- the village had already seen floods, sacks, invasions, and the Great Netch Frenzy of 397. Seyda Neen had been built, burnt, rebuilt and reburnt, and there was a distinctly southern charm to its people- a stiff and morbidly light attitude to ease the hardship. "A little dust won't hurt me none," asserted one friend to another in the marketplace that day, as talk swept through the town about the impending doom of Vvardenfell. All the rumours didn't seem to have much of an effect on the local trade, though. Imperial guards still stood at the doors of public buildings, as the boats from the mainland came and went- some shipments from Blacklight, or Mournhold, or sometimes slaves from the Arnesian plantations. Occasional travelers and pilgrims from Cyrodiil, but outlanders as a whole largely stayed out of Vvardenfell in this troubling time. No wealthy Cyrod businessmen wanted their company workers dropping dead in days upon arrival- bad for business, bad for public opinion.
On this particular day in Seyda Neen, the temperature was hot, and the humidity of the Bitter Coast made the guards almost lethargic- they stood outside their buildings dutifully, but slouched in their watch, spears resting against the walls while their eyes slowly slipped closed. Vendors stood under the gracious shade of their market stalls, conducting their trade undeterred by the heat, drinking every so often from a pitcher of water, or Mazte, depending on the trader. Last among the line of storefronts up the eastern shore of the town, not far from the majestic Silt Strider, stood the establishment of a fine goods merchant. He dealt in jewelry, cloths, vases and all the rest- trinkets, odds and ends, that sort of thing. His ashen-black hair thinned at the top of his head, but came down at the back in a thick wave, tied into a guar tail resting on his neck. His garment was traditionally Dunmer, and his face a darker, watery blue shade of gray, typical of Bitter Coast Dark Elves. His beard came down in braids, that he could almost be mistaken for a Temple priest if not for the environment around him. The roof of his stall was composed of patchwork linen of varying colours, and the body was constructed out of dark brown West Gash wood, famed for its hardiness.
The vendor stood tall under his roof- a cool breeze relieved the worst of the heat that day. On display were his wares, valuable and imported from all kinds of places. He leaned forward, hands on the surface of the booth, looking out at Seyda Neen in its natural splendour. Giant mushrooms sprouted along the roads, and Bungler's Bane clung to the deadwood trees along the Bitter Coast. The rundown buildings of old development contrasted with the brighter, Imperial architecture of some new construction a little ways down the road. The white walls were already becoming coated with ash, and no amount of imported Colovian paints would keep those administrative buildings as pristine as the administration would have liked them to be. They looked out of place, or might have once upon a time, if not for the increasing presence of Cyrodiilic influence in Morrowind. The rise of Hlaalu Helseth as a political player came with the pervasive dominance of House Hlaalu and their Imperial allies in certain portions of Morrowind, where locals with vested interests in certain industries were benefited greatly by the introduction of Imperial laws into Dunmer trade. This, of course, didn't sit well with more orthodox factions in Redoran territory, but money talks, and talk it did for the Hlaalu on the south coast.
As the merchant glanced out into the common rabble of Seyda Neen, his gaze was drawn to a rather scraggly-looking Dunmer, trudging up the shore towards his stall. He looked a little drab, dressed in gray rags and muddy brown boots. The merchant couldn't discern whether the fellow was a beggar, or a worker from the Kwama mines, or maybe a Saltrice plantation. As the commoner (or lowlife?) approached, his visage became clearer. His hair was of moderate length, and his face dotted with black stubble. He looked rough-shod, but not necessarily one of the wretches who lived inside cornerclubs and slept outside of them. The merchant noticed that his eyes were set on his stall, so he leaned back and adopted a more proper posture, anticipating a sale. He greeted:
"Ashen tidings, Serjo! Welcome to Seyda Neen's finest dealer of the finest wares."
The elf furrowed his brow as he approached, and nodded politely.
"A fine day for wind, surely." He reached the stall and looked down, surveying the goods on display.
"How can I service you today, my friend?" the merchant said, eagerly. He was heartened by the interest- this was to be his first business of the day thus far.
"Hrm," said the customer, scratching his chin as he evaluated the storefront. "Just taking a look at the moment…" His voice was rather deep and growly, with a thick accent that wasn't native to Vvardenfell, but still distinctly Dunmer.
"Anything you need to know, I will happily provide," the merchant smiled. "Are you from around here?"
"No, no," was the response. "I come from the mainland. Blacklight."
"Ah, a mainlander!" the merchant smelled profit. "You must have a special interest in Vvardenfell's natural wonders to come all the way out here."
"No, actually," replied the commoner with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I am a poor mer, y'see." He pulled out his coinpurse and flashed his wealth: a single Septim. The merchant was somewhat taken aback- this was no good for anything. He raised his eyebrow. "I beg up and down the Bitter Coast," the Mer continued. "I've been scraping a life off of guar hunting and the pity of strangers."
"What business have you here, then, at my stand," questioned the merchant. "If you've naught the money to purchase my wares?" he spoke concernedly.
"This cloth," replied the poor elf, pointing a bony, long-nailed finger at a piece of exquisite fine fabric. "I'd like it very much."
The merchant gave him an incredulous look. A moment's pause ensued; he opened his mouth to speak, cut himself off, then said:
"I don't mean to be off-putting, Serjo, but you haven't the money for that."
The cloth was blue, and woven from the finest silk of Daggerfall. It had beautiful white patterns and ornate Breton scripture, clearly crafted for the very upper crust of society. It was one of the vendor's most expensive items, which he had imported from Glenumbra a year or two ago. Naturally, he was very reluctant to part with it for the measly sum of a single coin.
"That may be true," responded the beggar, undeterred. "But you must understand, I would like very much for you to give it to me."
The merchant nearly laughed at the absurdity of the request. He tapped his fingers along the edges of his stand, eyeing the beggar with suspicion.
"Surely you must understand, my friend," he began cautiously. "That I cannot simply give you one of my most expensive wears for the price of ash."
"Oh, but you can," replied the beggar without hesitation, smiling and keeping his eyes on the cloth. "And I think it would be a marvelous thing if you would, for I do very much desire to own and keep it."
"You would keep it for your own?" inquired the merchant, befuddled.
The beggar nodded eagerly. "Or sell it," he responded. "I can get a good price for it the next village over, and then I won't have to worry about food for another couple weeks."
"And why should I just hand it over to you?" the merchant questioned. "Do you know how much it costed for me to get my hands on this import? Far more than you should ever hope to make in the time until I sell this to a worthy buyer."
The beggar looked the merchant in the eye. The marketplace was getting a little busier this time of day, and the vendor was worried that other prospective customers may be put off by the sight of him consorting with such rabble. He would have preferred to finish this business as soon as possible.
"Are you a pious mer, Sera?" asked the beggar.
"Why, of course I am," replied the merchant, an elf of great and unwavering faith in the Tribunal. "I visit the Temple at least every week."
"Then surely you know well enough the teachings of the Tribunal?"
The merchant looked at him quizzically. "I'm familiar with the Sermons of Vivec, I'm not sure what you mean-"
"Then surely you have heard in the Homilies of Blessed Almalexia," interrupted the beggar. "The parable of the Wounded Netch?"
"I have heard the tale of the Wounded Netch, yes," replied the vendor, who quickly gazed out at the marketplace to make sure there were no more prospective customers nearby.
"The poor Netch was loved and taken care of," asserted the beggar, raising his finger scholastically. "And yet, for but the greed of all those who looked after him, he died a weak and starving figure."
"This is irrelevant," the vendor stated. "The cloth is not fodder, unless you intend to cut it up and consume it, though surely you are a more sensible beggar than that."
"But you see," said the beggar. "The cloth is the fodder. It is a commodity, and the vehicle of life insofar as I may sell it to acquire food. Don't you see, my friend? I am the Netch!"
"And I'd have no interest in giving imported silk to a dying Netch, either," the vendor replied sharply. "I can wait a few days and sell this for a hundred drams or more, or Drakes if I'm lucky."
"Don't you see the symbolic resonance?" argued the beggar, putting his hand to his chest and pulling on the fabric of his garb. "This, me, this is Netch leather, and my arms are its tentacles. The Bull Netch is me, and I am the Bull Netch. My skin is the leather!" He frantically pulled and grasped at his own arms in a mad fashion.
"You're one hell of a Bull Netch walking on two legs, then," said the merchant, sarcastically. "You must be such a mighty mer, Sera, walking around in genuine Netch leather. I can only imagine how it stings your hide so, and the pain must be terrible. A real tough brute you are, have you considered the Redoran guard?"
The beggar frowned and ceased his display. "Yes, you laugh, I'm sure you find this humorous, but meanwhile I die. The Netch starves while the wealthy and accomplished trader sits back and gets drunk on flin."
"Yours is not a terribly convincing act," said the merchant. "If you're going to lecture me on Almalexia's gospel, then surely you know of the Guar and the Mudcrabs."
The beggar was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"I'm sufficiently versed in Ayem's verses. I don't see where you're going with this."
"You are a tiny little pony guar, you see," chuckled the merchant. "You run, and you run, seeking pity from all around you. 'Give me food, give me money, give me your fine goods! I am but a helpless little guar!'. Sad, drunk and poorly, and no amount of blue cloth will change that." He paused for a moment to look the beggar in the eye. "You run and run and run, run all the way down to the water, where the mudcrabs run in terror of you, so high and mighty. For you have clothes on your back! And a scrib knife fit to cut your face in the finest Bitter Coast waters, and to your credit you certainly don't smell like a guar. You are the least of my worries when it comes to survival, Sera. You've probably been on this plane fifty years or more already, so don't come to me begging for my hard-earned wares when you seem to be surviving perfectly well yourself. Or do you want to take that up with the Argonian slaves inside kwama mines? Or the Dunmer lowlifes relegated to life on a saltrice plantation?"
The merchant was growing louder and angrier with his words. The beggar simply listened attentively, nonplussed by the harsh verse.
"You're higher than the mudcrabs that scurry into the sea, my good mer, so stop lowering yourself down to their level! I don't do charity, and that's that." He folded his arms victoriously.
The beggar nodded, and nodded again for a few seconds.
"You're an astute theologian, Sera," he said after a minute's silence. "But your case is flawed."
"What else could there be?" asked the merchant, exasperated. "Why should I be sacrificing my hard-earned profits for your convenience?"
"The wily Gods of the Tribunal are the ultimate judges of our morals, are they not? I think you would be wise to heed their words, for it is an enlightened mer who strives to live the words of Vehk, Ayem and Seht." The beggar folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.
"You're starting into semantics, I think," asserted the merchant. "Surely the Tribunal, so wise and blessed as they be, care very much about your want for a very expensive item. An item which belongs to me."
There was more than a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, as the merchant direly watched shoppers walking around, straying far from his stand where he stood arguing with the dirty wretch.
"You may better learn generous ways from the life of Saint Rilms the Barefooted, who I assure you I am all too familiar with," said the vagrant. "Cast off those fancy shoes," he pointed downward, though certainly he couldn't see the vendor's feet from behind the booth. "Throw them into the warm waters of the Bitter Coast, live your life among my kind! Then maybe you shall have some understanding and empathy for our plight."
The merchant scoffed. "With respect," he said, nearly gritting his teeth. "This is not a charity. If you are under the illusion that I have the slightest care for your poverty, the cause of which I am sure rests snugly upon your shoulders, then you are gravely mistaken. I'll quote from the Lives of the Saints, as long as you insist on bastardizing its lessons: 'If you would learn self-respect and respect for others, follow Saint Aralor the Penitent'. That damn elf lived on his knees for the Gods and repented his misdeeds, as should you. Why don't you go to the Temple, and get on your own knees? I'm sure you can derive some fulfilment from serving the Gods, or perchance some wealthy outlander N'wah in another kind of Temple?"
The merchant laughed, while the beggar simply shrugged off the insult. Both of them were beginning to grow impatient, though neither of them would dare show it. The sun grew ever higher and brighter as high noon reached its peak, and the heated debate was beginning to cause a bit of a stir within the marketplace. Various passersby cast curious glances at the scene, and surely the two were well aware of this.
"Then what of Saint Seryn," the irate beggar questioned. "The namesake of my pious aunt, rest her soul? In the Lives of the Saints it is revealed how she took on the burdens of others for the good of her spirit!"
"I'm sure other people's burdens weren't the only things she took on!" laughed the vendor, ever more loudly. "
"And Saint Delyn," asserted the wastrel, undeterred. "Patron of benevolence and-"
"I couldn't care less about the blessed Saint Delyn!" shouted the merchant. "Verse yourself in Vivec's Grace of Generosity! I shall neither hoard nor steal, nor encumber myself with profitless treasures..."
"... but shall share freely among house and hearth!" shouted the beggar in turn. "By the holy word of the Tribunal, I am no less than entitled to your fine wares! For I will make clever use of it in sale and bring honor and fortune upon myself and my own."
The merchant laughed in frustration and shook his head. Some folks had stopped to watch the ongoing scene, and he didn't want to give them any more to gawk about, lest he harm the reputation of his stand.
"You are a most persistent S'wit, you know that?" He reached down to the bottom of his stall and pulled out a jewel. It was the size of a large pebble, a valuable emerald gemstone which was finely cut, as if made to fit a crown, or a pendant.
"This," he said, holding it in front of the beggar's face. "Is a valuable gem that will fetch you at least fifty Septims on an Imperial market, if you're lucky. Be you a smart mer, you'll invest whatever profit you make, use it to feed your kin or do something useful in society. I have had this gem for a long while, and I have many more like it in the bottom of this stand. I have acquired them for the purpose of sale over the course of many years, and as such I can afford to simply give this away. This is because I am a hard worker, blessed by many decades of learning, experience and hardship. I have seen a hundred years and twenty on this blessed island, and going into the second half of my life, I am more than adequately prepared to face whatever challenges it may bring. Perhaps you could learn a thing or two from me."
Thoroughly fed up with talking, he tossed the gem towards the beggar. The poor elf caught it and marveled, if just for a moment. He was almost entranced by the emerald.
"This is my first and only act of benevolence I will show you, Sera," he continued. "If you waste this opportunity like I suspect you will, don't come back and expect me to be Saint Delyn for your incompetent hide. If you want to spend all your profit on this on Sujamma and sin, that is your choice and not my responsibility."
"Thank you, Serjo," cried the beggar, overjoyed even though he had received less than what he wanted. "I promise to you and to the blessed Saints, Tribunes and Anticipations, I will make productive use of this new opportunity…"
"Yes, yes," the merchant waved him down. "Now please go and become something better than your wretched form. Maybe, if you follow my sage advice, you can come back one day, and purchase this for yourself, in your own name."
He reached down to pick up the blue cloth, and his hand hit the table.
The merchant and the beggar stared each other in the eyes for a second, then back at the table.
The cloth was gone.
A brief interval:
"Speak none but good of the Gods."
- The Book of Dawn and Dusk
The vendor's eyes widened, and in a brief moment of rage he demanded the beggar turn out his pockets. But the vendor had not been conned, and the poor mer had nothing to show. The guard was called, and everyone involved was left scratching their heads.
"But it… it was just here!" exclaimed the merchant. "How could I possibly take my eyes off of it while it was the subject of conversation?"
The beggar had no clue. "I am content with this gem!" he proclaimed. "I have no business thieving from a legitimate merchant like the good Dunmer here."
The guard, a tall Imperial with a well-groomed moustache and muddied plate armor, nodded curtly, scribbling notes on a piece of parchment. After a short round of questioning, he bowed politely to the merchant, promised to get to the bottom of it and sauntered off to the nearest watch post.
Meanwhile, a wily young Khajiit made his way through the crowd, pushing gently and navigating out of the common rabble before reaching the edge of town, departing Seyda Neen. He wore tight leather pants and a ragged, patchwork shirt. Around his waist was tied a beautiful cloth, woven with intricate and ornate Breton inscriptions. He made his way up a short hill, climbing from wooden step to wooden step, before greeting a Silt Strider operator with a smile.
"Same great service," proclaimed the handler of the majestic beast. A stocky Dunmer, with a toothy grin and flowing black hair. "Same low price. Only for you, Ranaj'dar, my good friend. I see you have acquired quite a beautiful piece of casual wear."
"I have indeed," purred the cat, pointing knowingly to a shining gold earring. "Ranaj'dar tips you five Septims today, special for you. My good friend."
The Khajiit smiled widely, and climbed into the hollowed-out back of the Silt Strider. The mighty insect growled, its tortured cries echoing across the hills and valleys going out of Seyda Neen. Settling down behind the driver, they began to make haste for Balmora, as Ranaj'dar counted out his earnings for the day and marveled about his new cloth, which he had stolen so effortlessly while the Dunmer were engaged in their petty squabble over religion. It would fetch a nice price on the market. If he was lucky, he could come up with a creative backstory and con some noble into forking over quite the sum for it.
Later, in Seyda Neen, the guards compiled and submitted their report the next day. No evidence of the thief was found, as the cat made off with a number of reportedly stolen goods, which he sold for a hefty profit upon reaching Balmora. Both the merchant and the beggar were eventually detained, questioned and subsequently imprisoned by the Ministry of Truth for speaking falsehoods and blaspheming about the Tribunal and its blessed Saints. A stern warning was issued to Bitter Coast residents about the penalties for blasphemy and sedition against the Tribunal, as a lanky Imperial guard read a public edict of fidelity to the crowd gathered in the market. Life carried on in Seyda Neen, as the Bitter Coast waters crashed along the shore in their usual way, and the commotion of the town's market continued to flow as normal. And at the next high noon, a sign was placed on the merchant's stand (from which all his goods had been confiscated). The stall now lay empty and derelict within the bustling Seyda Neen marketplace. The sign was ashwood, and in dark, harsh lettering was etched: "AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK".
"If you would be wise, model your lives on the lives of the saints."
- Lives of the Saints
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.