Cosades seems more than satisfied with the notes provided, not even asking Drevas why it took like a month to acquire them. The elf gets a firm pat on the back that almost knocks him over and is immediately saddled with more things to do.
- Hop on over to the Balmora Mages Guild and get Sharn gra-Muzgob to tell you what she knows about the Nerevarine – Caius says in his commanding voice that always seems uncanny to Drevas when combined with the aura of abject poverty the man exudes. - She'll have some silly errand for you. Do what she asks. And report back when she's given you the information.
- Yes sir – Drevas says firmly, determined to get out of the house as soon as possible to get away from the alcohol fumes that permeate the room and make him slightly dizzy. This appears to be enough, and he is released. He takes a deep breath as he steps out into the fresh air, wondering what to do next as the afternoon sun pleasantly warms up his ears.
He could go to Sharn, but he doesn't feel like risking it with her errand at the moment, just in case it's something that needs to be done immediately and cannot be lazily stretched out over the course of the upcoming few weeks, at least after a good night's rest. He also could go visit Velyn and brag about managing to not kill anyone in Arkngthand, but he's not sure if the elf will be home yet, or be in a proper condition to fully appreciate how hard he's getting made a fool of. He finally remembers Fasile's speech about the Temple. Feeling like he'd worked hard enough for the last few weeks, he decides to make a detour before calling it a night.
The Balmora Temple is pleasantly cool and quiet on the inside. Drevas has a somewhat similar feeling to stepping into an Imperial Temple back in Cyrodiil, only there's something profoundly different about it; maybe it's the smell, like hot coals or a candle that's been extinguished, mixed with a sort of spicy incense he can't really place. The ceiling arches overhead in an unfamiliar way that reminds Drevas more of a tomb than a place of worship, but remembering Fasile's words, he figures it may as well be a tomb. The air is stale and silent, only disturbed by low, murmured prayers of a few Dunmer kneeling down next to ash pits, or next to adobe pillars covered in strange art of humanoid figures. He spots a skull in one of the ash pits, slightly perturbed. A Dunmer woman spots him and walks up to him with a smile.
- Three blessings to you. You are new here, yes? An outlander, perhaps? – she says in a tired, gravelly voice. Drevas nods, not wanting to disturb the silence that seems oddly sacred, like the wrath of strange gods will come down upon him if he does not respect this place.
- Welcome. I am Feldrelo Sadri. You are free to stay as long as you want – the priestess smiles weakly, reaching for one pocket of her expensive looking robe and pulling out a small book – since you're here, would you like some reading material, to familiarize yourself with the Tribunal and the Temple?
Drevas accepts it, muttering a small thank you as Feldrelo nods and leaves. He glances at the cover. The Pilgrim's Path. It seems like a standard pamphlet one would get when entering a temple, and the familiarity of being offered religious pamphlets immediately makes him feel more at ease. This is just another chapel, after all. He sticks the small book in his bag and looks around the place some more.
The ash pits are low and surrounded by candles, some lit and some unlit, and Drevas can see an old Dunmer woman kneel and light one with a small fire from her palm. She stays there for a while, seemingly praying or meditating. The remains of bodies burned in the pits don't seem to disturb anyone – whereas in Cyrodiil people would hurry to hide all the traces of a body inside a cold tomb, here they're openly displayed, without the weird fear of skeletons Imperials have. Drevas starts to understand what Fasile meant by ancestor worship. This is unlike any other tomb he'd been in. He went to the catacombs in a local Imperial chapel once as a child, on a dare, with his friends snickering outside as he sneaked around the dreadful place in the dead of night, and ran out as soon as he heard the slightest noise. The tomb was a place where the living weren't allowed – it was barricaded off, guarded, used in the scary stories children tell each other in the dark. But here, there was none of that; just people calmly meditating, the pleasant smell of incense, and an odd warmth that embraced him as any fear and discomfort slowly melted away.
He ponders if he belongs here for a moment. Yes, he's a Dunmer, but he never knew his ancestors; he knew his mother, who never told him either about his father or anyone from the family. He took her surname – Andaren – without questioning it or thinking about it. But standing here, he thinks about them, figuring that they all came from Vvardenfell originally. He walks upon the ground that his ancestors lived in now, and even if he does not know them, he feels accepted for the first time since being recognized in the Fighters Guild.
He walks up to one of the ash pits and kneels down next to an unlit candle. He knows a bit of Destruction magic by simply being a Dunmer, never having practiced it, and doubts he'll be able to produce a flame. But as he stretches his palm out towards the candle, the odd warmth embraces him again, and a small spark ignites the wick. He stays there for a while, taking in the long, comfortable silence. He tries to think of a prayer he could say, though nothing comes to mind, and he just meditates on the past and his future for a while, reflecting on everything that led up to this moment, feeling calm and cozy in a way he'd seldom felt in this land.
Live in One World with your spirits. Honor the spirits within and without you. Do not grieve for the dead. Take shelter in their arms, and pay heed to their words.
After maybe half an hour, he gets up and heads back to the Fighters Guild, ready for a good night's sleep; and as he finally dozes off under the covers, he wonders if, whatever destiny may await him, he will be able to make his ancestors proud.
The Mages Guild smells like the air after a thunderstorm, but Sharn gra-Muzgob takes up an entire corner of it – and as Drevas carefully walks up to her, he doubts the putrid stench can just be attributed to the fact she's an Orc. She whips around and gives him a death glare.
- No. No interruptions! – she screeches - How many times... Oh. You are one of Caius' associates?
Drevas barely keeps it together as she details the quest she has for him.
- Hold on, are you asking me to break into an ancestral tomb? – he stammers.
- Don't worry about it. You're not even from around these parts, what do you care? It's primitive superstition, that's all. Just don't get caught – Sharn says apathetically, handing him a scribbled-over map that leads to the Andaren ancestral tomb. It seems to Drevas arguing won't do much, so he accepts it and walks off, uncertainty raising in his mind. He sighs deeply as he walks up the incline back outside and wonders how he's going to solve this conundrum. It appears to him as good of a time as any to visit Velyn.
The door is unlocked, and the elf is lying face down on the bed, raising his head slightly and wincing as Drevas barges in, coughs and jumps to open the window.
- What have you been doing in here? It smells like you spilled an entire bottle of cheap wine and then puked all over the walls – he complains, picking up a rag from a shelf and waving it around in an effort to air the room out.
- Had a busy night – Velyn drawls, slowly sitting up and cringing as the midday sunlight hits his eyes.
- I tried to visit you yesterday to tell you some good news, but you weren't in. So what was your busy night like, hmm? Getting extra drunk, by the looks of it – Drevas says cheerfully, sitting on a chair as Velyn gives him a tired stare.
- Somethin' like that.
- Fine, keep it to yourself. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I managed to avoid killing anyone at Arkngthand and still finished the job I was given – Drevas says with pride, positively beaming at the Dunmer.
- Beginner's luck. But y'kno. Keep it up, I s'pose.
- You know, it's probably because you're hungover as hell, but I was kind of hoping you'd be more upset about it – Drevas laughs.
- I ain't upset. I was never upset. When I said you'd kill again, I was just statin' facts. Nobody wants to kill, it's just somethin' you get forced into. – Velyn explains, rubbing his temples and heaving a sigh.
- Isn't it a thing you can avoid, though? You know what I did, Vel? I sneaked and ran. I could have fought and possibly killed someone, but I chose not to.
- So you ran off like a damn coward and you're tryin' to sell this as a good thing? – Velyn laughs weakly.
- A coward that doesn't have any blood on their hands. You should actually be proud of me.
- I dunno if proud is the right word, Drev, but you know what – Velyn looks at him with a vague sadness in his eyes – if you can pull off doin' things in this land without wonderin' what things coulda been if you done them differently, I'm happy fer you.
- What a strange thing to say – Drevas laughs – I don't suppose you'll elaborate?
The question doesn't get answered as Velyn lies back down and covers his face with his pillow, as if trying to signal to Drevas that he's done talkin'. Drevas gets up and is almost out the door when he remembers the thing he'd been trying to put off.
- Oh, there's another thing. I need your advice on something.
- S'what I do – the muffled voice behind the pillow answers – make it quick.
- I have orders to go into an ancestral tomb and retrieve a skull. How do I... do that?
Velyn suddenly sits up, throwing off the pillow and staring daggers at Drevas.
- Short answer, you don't. – he says vehemently – Don't break into tombs. Don't touch any remains. And don't fuck with people's ancestors!
- It's not like I want to do it – Drevas complains, taken aback at the sudden display of anger – They're orders, that's all. And I do respect ancestors! I actually went to the Temple yesterday-
- You're new, so I'll make it clearer – Velyn stands up, pointing one finger at the younger elf – messin' with ancestors is worse than killin' someone. So if you do it, I hope you get caught, 'cus whoever finds you will bring you justice fer sure.
- Look, I'll try to find another way – Drevas says meekly, feeling his skin crawl. – I'll get out of it somehow, I promise.
- You goddamn better. Now get outta my house.
Back outside, Drevas walks the street slowly, trying to conjure up a plan that doesn't involve breaking one of Morrowind's holiest laws, and coming up empty. He sits on the stairs next to the pawnbroker, ignoring some women chatting nearby, and buries his face in his hands.