"Run into many smugglers in your time here?" I figure Todwendy already knows more than she should, and there's no point fighting it. We have just separated, falling winded onto different benches in the Fighters Guild training yard.
"Smugglers? Sure, I worked for the Hlaalu, but don't presume that I'm completely criminal." She drops the staff, today's sparring session apparently over, and I do the same. The deadly Redguard is my equal, despite her lack of familiarity with the weapon. Her speed and ferocity made our duels a harrowing, bruising affair, but I held my ground. And then there's the reward of seeing her thin kresh fiber clothes drenched in sweat. Her skin glistens like some sort of exhausted bronze statue.
"Well I thought you might know all types. You got us in here, and turns out the Fighters Guilds is fairly... that..."
"Ha!" She whips her head about, trying to banish the locks of hair struck to her forehead. "Even so, I never had much to do with Vvardenfell smugglers. That's your department, remember?"
The ash statue is with Caius now, along with all the other results of my Vivec mission last week. He is skeptical that the trifle is the Sixth House cargo our Khajiit source alluded to, but had Antabolis look it over anyways. That was a dead end, so now it's bound for the Mages Guild, sometime this evening. Once I work up the nerve to transport the damned thing there.
Todwendy reaches into the satchel containing her day clothes. And holy hell, is that an apple? Where did she get that? She tosses the precious Western gem to me, taking another for herself. Before I can thank her, she retrieves the paralyzing mask as well, and the thanks die in my mouth.
"What are you bringing that out for."
"Don't worry; no one is taking a dirt nap today." She puts her index finger in the eye socket and twirls to delicate artifact in slow circles. "I always wished for some sort of arcane talent, you know."
"Didn't know your people went for that too often."
"Well, yes and no. All Hammerfell's obsessed with stories of Alik'r sorcery and Yokudan sword magic; it's just the Mages Guild variety they don't think much of. And I've never lived in the homeland anyways." She sets the mask on the bench with sudden reverence. "Come over here."
This is going nowhere I like, but I obey because the smell of her gives me that down low tickle.
"Is this really the place for this?"
"Just touch it. You have a knack for this; I know you won't knock yourself out again." Easy for you to say, hotlips. It's like sticking my hand into a candleflame, in the moment before you feel the heat. But the mask doesn't bite this time.
"Well? Naleva?" By the Divines, there it is. The lacquered wood lets me in this time, and I can stroke the flowing contours of the enchantment, picking at loose threads of it like— "If you could only see your face!"
"What about my face?" She's grinning at me now.
"You have that trickster wrapped around your little finger, don't you?"
"I..."
"...know less about enchanting than I do, don't you? Shameful ignorance." She shifts on the bench in her good humor, and our thighs brush together. Heat and damp. "What I know, Naleva, is that when an enchantress has an implanted spell well in hand, she can apply it to other objects. Since you remind me of my younger self, why not let me live vicariously as well? I want to see what you can do."
"Do?"
"I'll need this mask when I leave Vvardenfell. We're both in a dangerous line of work, after all. You're a decent fighter so far, but imagine what you could be if you duplicated the enchantment with that staff there. Now that would keep you alive without my help."
"Are you leaving soon?" Chuna is in Ald'ruhn for the week, and she is more a friend than anyone.
Todwendy laughs.
"Don't change the subject; I'll miss your funny face too. I'm talking about lifesaving craftsmanship, here. Let's hit the Mages Guild today. They're right next door."
"Don't we need soul gems for that?"
"You can buy them on premises. And the robes have all the other equipment on hand as well."
"Those are expensive."
She tucks the mask back into her satchel and pitches her apple core over the wall into some unlucky Balmoran's market stall awning.
"So doesn't your boss pay you? He asks some ratty jobs of you. Ask for an advance. How was Vivec, by the way?"
"Pretty much how you'd expect."
"And what am I to expect? I've never been."
I blink in surprise in that, having assumed that Todwendy's experiences and ability in every way outstrip my own. Except maybe when it comes to paralyzing people.
"I'll ask about money for a soulgem. But I wouldn't know what to do with it."
"I've read about it. And the mages will charge us for the use of their facilities in any case, so they'll be on hand to help."
It occurs to me that she is once again offering assistance on a whim. The realization of ingratitude shows on my face, and it must have shown.
"It's settled, then. We'll go see the mumblers."
"Alright. But sometime tonight. Sunset or so. I need to go see C—"
"Careful, Naleva. Some unfriendly people are as pretty as I am."
For once she senses that her needling has gone too far. 'Sunset,' I repeat, and make for Cosades' house.
Even as I cross the Odai, something is not right. The locals tend not to loiter around the dwelling, as if Caius' desire for sugar and solitude wards them off. But as I close in on the upper terraces, one figure has not moved from his doorstep. This fellow is standing bolt upright, strange in an Argonian, as if standing guard with that bow of his. Ambiguous lizardfolk expressions be damned, it is certainly a scowl he directs at my approach.
"Who goes there?"
"What do you mean, 'who?'"
"No visitors."
"I'm not a visitor. I have business here."
Caius' voice sounds from within.
"Let her through, Nine-Toes." Not even that recommendation nets me any good will from the Argonian, I note.
The house is unusually well-lit. Another shirtless evening for Cosades, but this time because of the great bloody bandage swaddling his chest. With a shock, I notice the naked corpse lying in his bed.
"What in—"
"Do keep your voice down, Naleva. Come and take a look at my attacker."
"This fellow atta..." It isn't actually a Dunmer corpse. At least not anymore. The thing is as tall than any Altmer I've seen, its limbs and torso distorted in some subtle way I cannot quite define. Its musculature is off, providing the impression of freakish strength and undernourishment. My dreams contain something similar, in a more imposing form. This one seems to be decomposing, as the grey particles of its skin are flaking off onto the bedsheets in the form of fine dust.
"It broke down my door last night." He rolls the carcass onto his back and I think I may have clutched his arm in a moment of weakness. If not, I probably wanted to.
"It has no face!" To be precise, everything between chin and brow was scooped out, leaving a crescent-shaped black abyss. Marks on the rim of the great horrific cavity left me convinced that the husk had done it himself. Peering inside, I could see no evidence of skull or brains, even though half of the head's thickness was still excavated. The wound was simply lined with more of the same sallow blackish skin.
"No need to recoil so, Naleva. Nine-Toes has assured me that this is not a corprus walker. I am waiting for Antabolis to verify it as a Sixth House beast."
It's then I notice my ash statue standing on his dining table.
"Scuttling Hell! You didn't leave that out all night, did you?"
"Why, no. It has been in a footlocker. I expect you to keep the appointment at the Mages Guild."
"And did you have dreams?" Wrong tone of voice there.
"No." The unspoken question is, 'did you?' "Have you shared all your information with me, Naleva?"
"Of course. Everything I turned up."
He flips the ash creature back over. I can't for the life of me fathom why he would lay the disgusting thing down in his own bed.
"Very well. Take that statue across the river and see what you can find out."
If I was hesitant to touch the mask, the statue is worse, but Caius is watching so I grip the neck in my fist. No waking dreams this time.
"I had a request."
"Hmm?"
"Despite me nonviolent role here, I have been in two fights since accepting your assignments, one of them fatal. If this is to go on, I would like to be better prepared."
"You have no serious mission at the moment, and the Blades agents I mentioned will provide instruction if you ask them."
"I meant more in the way of equipment. Your stipends are ample, but I can't know how long they are going to continue. Rather than buy gear, I feel the need to save—"
"Fine. Spend whatever you have now and I will reimburse you."
"I appreciate it."
Cosades goes back to looking at the corpse, thinking too hard to stop me from exiting the room with the statue under my arm for all to see.
Upon crossing the bridge, a Dunmer in a patchy robe fell to his knees at the sight of it, but at the moment I didn't care to give him a second glance. Todwendy met me at the guild entrance, leaning against pillar with dusk's shadows blanking out her face.
"Well met again. How are your bruises treating you?"
"First tell me you feel yours." We enter, apparently disturbing the crimson-eyed woman inside. "You can't actually be present for this meeting of mine, you know."
"Naturally. I will go an inquire about enchanting. Did you get the coin."
"I have a few hundred left over."
"No matter. If it works I'll pay half."
Before I can turn on her to exclaim on her open handedness, she has launched me down the hall with my statue. The second floor has only a few rooms, so finding Galbedir isn't hard. A pinched-looking young Bosmer in a garish yellow robe, she seems disappointed she can't complain of my lateness.
"Naleva, I presume?"
"Aye. I'll keep the explanations short. I'd like you to examine this object here and tell me about any magical properties." I hand over the statue.
"A very... native, item, isn't it?" Is she worried I'll be offended.
"The very nativest. Is your analysis likely to take time?"
I see her debating whether or not to give me the runaround and put on some arcane show.
"Not at all." He better angels prevail. "I can tell you right now that there is no conventional, that is standard school Aetherial, magic to it. ...what I can say is that it serves as a conduit of some sort."
"A conduit of what?"
"It's usually some sort of communication. Surveillance? Messaging? Religious communion? There's a whole range of possibilities. There's a chance I could pin it down more exactly, but that would take more time. And money. A week, perhaps."
"I'm not sure on that. Let me think on it and come back."
Yes, let me think on it. I am gut-sure that this is the item the Sixth House is smuggling off and around the island. If they are smuggling them, the statues must be easily recognizable as profane items, which means the Temple would be able to identify it. Damn, why didn't I think of that before. Maybe Mehra Milo made me flighty about the Tribunal folks. Wouldn't want to see her copper head in a floating moon cell...
"Will that be all?"
"I think so." With statuettes all over Morrowind, the Sixth House has a network of... conduits. Messages through dreams, with the figure in the golden mask. Do they give orders that way? Then why the mass production, and why reach out to me. Caius was attacked mere nights after holding one of those statues in his house. Are they only meant for Dunmer? Surveillance, Galbedir says.
Todwendy's cheery face pops into the room and my pondering.
"Are you two done?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Turns out, Galbedir is the resident enchanter as well, so we aren't done."
I won't inflict the full process on you. Towendy proved impossible to satisfy or shame, willfully ignoring Galbedir's desire to close up for the night. I was supposed to be doing the enchanting myself, so the wood elf was already losing out on the bulk of her fee, despite the four hundred drake soul gem purchase. The mage offered to tell me what sort of creature had filled it, but I decided not to know.
The enchanting altar had a sort of metaphysical halfway house that allowed me to repeatedly duplicate the mask's charm until I got it right, only committing it to the soul gem and staff (which Todwendy dropped out to fetch, allowing me to apologize in her absence) at the very end. As Galbedir warned early on, the mask started smoldering at one point, the guild mage saving it from destruction with a swift cantrip. Somehow it all came together at the end, much to Todwendy's satisfaction and Galbedir's shock. I think the Bosmer was somewhat unnerved that an amateur could pull off such a delicate, academic operation. My staff now pulses at any touch, announcing itself and the rippling malice within. At the time I was too mistrustful of it to be proud, and a little mortified when Todwendy urged me to test it on her. I looked at Galbedir, realizing that she was too annoyed with my companion to fear for her safety.
As we left the guild, though, the crazy raga checked the plaza for onlookers and went into a fighting crouch, urging me on with an impish grin. I gave her a gentle swat on the thigh, stilling the yelp in her throat as every muscle in her body went slack and dumped her onto the paving stones. For a slow count of five she lay there, her chest heaving helplessly up and down. She could not speak, but I could see curiosity and wonder, rather than pain, in her eyes. Lucky that Chuna was gone from Balmora, or else she would have wanted to test it again.
Her idea to enchant the staff rather than the sword was a sound one, giving my makeshift spear a lethal and nonlethal end, or providing me with a debilitating, unobtrusive walking stick. Caius assures me that I will attract less attention traveling armed, as the role of a freelance mercenary is easy to assume. He's right; I got more curious looks on the strider to Vivec than the strider to Ald'ruhn this morning.
I sat next to a talkative Breton who filled my ears with everything I could have wanted to know about Ald Skar. He began talking as we passed through Caldera, and my morning fatigue revived at the sight of the surprisingly pleasant West Gash. If these rocky moors lack Ascadia's idyllic quality, they also lack its humidity, insects and slaves. The Breton was not the only outlander on board, and the number of non-Dunmer on this island still amazes me. Remarking on that, this fellow (who could have left Wayrest yesterday) ticked off the list of settlements that had existed before the opening of settlement. Vivec, Balmora, Ald'ruhn here, Gnisis, Sadrith Mora.
"Everything else is new. Except for some of the Telvanni towers, which aren't really towns, and a handful of coastal villages."
"I would have guessed that Seyda Neen had been there since the dawn of time."
"But really, just a few years. Same with all the new growth around Vivec."
"Everyone must have vacated after the year of Sun's Death."
"Ah, another student of history, I see. The year of Red Mountain, yes. All but the Ashlanders fled, and the Temple kept most of them from coming back."
Just then the mahout blew his horn, and Ald'ruhn's inimitable Redoran watchtowers pocked their keyhole heads through the haze. It was blowing perhaps one quarter of an ash storm, the wind a gentle rasp that only carried enough sediment to irritate the eyes. I alone chose to expose myself to the punishment by looking out at the town above the sheltering lip of the cockpit. Except for the breached walls and the handful of crustacean buildings near the strider port, there was little enough to see.
While we dock, I go over Caius' assignment. Find Hassour Zainsubani, an Ashlander who left the wastes to become a wealthy trader. I'm to ask the usual questions about the Nerevarine cult from a firsthand source, but also seek a general education in Ashlander customs and concepts of courtesy. Is Cosades thinking of having me turn diplomat? And here I thought he knew my strengths. At least there was another nice stipend for this trip, plus the cost of the soul gem sitting in a separate coffer at his house.
The Breton escorts me to the Ald Skar in, in his estimation one of the city's more reputable establishments. After doing his duty to inform me that he is bound for the prestigious district Under-Skar (the shell is still obscured by blowing ash, and if I try not to focus on its curving silhouette, the sight of it doesn't kick in the old survival instincts too much) we part. The innkeeper says to expect Hassour by evening, still hours off. Or I can wait by the caravanserai, where he'll show up if the weather doesn't delay him. I opt to walk around the city instead, mountain wind be damned. Todwendy pointed out with some justice that I tend to drink a lot early in the day, so best to avoid the inn until sunset. I had not thought to rebuke her for the unwarranted motherly chiding, as she announced her imminent departure from Balmora and thence Ebonheart, dismaying me momentarily. If I can conclude my business here in a day, there will be time for a farewell.
Redoran's Temple is rather small, surprisingly so for what I know of that House's piety, squatting beneath the bluffs at the edge of town. I had not guessed that there could be entire cities in the ashlands, yet the ashlands this surely is. There is no real comparison to the narrow waste near Seyda Neen, nor even the trench of Foyada Mamaea. After all, it's the weather that stings but the expanse that kills, and the Redoran hide beneath their crab shell in a vast ocean of dark, lashing hostility. For all the stories of their exploits, many doubtless true, the Three are sweetlander gods, scorned by the true inhabitants of these harsh lands, and maybe it is appropriate that their Temple looks so isolated and forlorn. Short miles beyond its down sits the Ghostfence, that humming, imperfect barrier that seems to provide the Dunmer less shelter every day. What use is when the Blight rides in on the air? How do you build walls against dreams? The Tribunal's modest house of worship even looks shuttered or derelict, with racers cavorting about over its roof. For a moment I ponder entering. The Balmora monk said my ancestors lay to the northeast of Balmora, and that's where we are, right? Or thereabouts. But I don't think my reception would be as warm this time. Already I suspect that my guide was not an orthodox monk, but rather some devotee of the Temple's less conventional orders. He seemed half an Armiger, to me.
The ash has ceased to bother me; I must be growing more Dunmeri by the minute. I stand to gawk at Ald Skar for several minutes, but to be a tourist in Ald'ruhn is inexcusable. My restlessness takes over, and I end up pacing the insides of the walls of this town that is so fascinating in its deserted, inhospitable meanness. As the wind slackens, I notice a sort of procession exiting the Temple, a sort of parade in traveling clothes. They have no baggage, bearing only banners and censers, so I guess that it is a ritual visit to the Ghostfence. I follow several dozen paces behind, trying to look pious and un-banditlike with my spear. If there's time in the afternoon, I will see about getting a mount installed for the blade. I can't fasten the hilt as securely as Todwendy can, not with just leather straps. I really wish she wasn't bound for Colovia.
The thought hits me, so very belated. Colovia is, in fact, a part of Cyrodiil, however loosely. Todwendy has already risked life and limb and expended gold on my account, might she also be willing to take me with her... home? The prospect leaves me breathless until I slow to a crawl and the pilgrims draw nearly out of sight ahead. Surely, there are rational concerns to weigh, factors in favor and opposed, but it proves exceedingly difficult to arrive at them. Her and I, on a ship. Nibennium, land and language I know. If there is an evening strider to Balmora, she will certainly still be at the Lucky Lockup.
At the same time, though, do I want to cut and run? Wait, run from what? Do I have anything here, besides a tenuous association with... the Blades? Why is that so hard to walk away from? And yet, it is. In Nibennium I would face the same dilemma of survival all over again, assuming my fellow orphans have not met with sudden success. I would have Todwendy, but will she really suffer me as a hanger-on, attempting unsteadily to follow her trade? The gap between is less than it was several short days ago, but has she ever mentioned anything other than my ability to make my own way here, without her?
In the end, it's the distant, throaty throb that puts this episode of indecision to rest, at least for the moment. The Ghostfence has crept up on me despite my glacial pace, and the Temple folks have cast themselves down into the ash of the ravine before it, in a variety of supplicatory poses. It's not a wall; it's a piece of a blue sky brought down to the stormy ashlands, shot through with wisps of white cloud. A child's summer dream in Mournhold, humming there cutting the valleys and ridges in two. Only after the initial sighting do you recognize the immense pillars, great constructions of ageless Velothi stone, carved with netch-sized sculptures of the Three. The spirit walls extend downwards into the ground, perfect incorporeal planes that adhere—or perhaps hang from—the arcing, ropelike masonry bands strung between towers. Each of the soaring pylons bellows, an echo of the million voices of the million ancestral souls contained within, and the foghorn constructions on either side spew steam. Most of the water vapor evaporates before reaching the ground, but where the ridgelines rear up, the pilgrims can stand in a vanishing cascade of holy spittle and venerate it all.
I never did approach the group, instead walking back to Ald'ruhn ahead of it. On three separate occasions, blighted cliffracers crossed over from the Red Mountain side and tried for a chunk of faithful Velothi flesh. The Temple errants fended them off ably, and I stuck considerably closer from then on. Once back in town, I decided that the Fighters Guild (this chapter is supposed to be the honest one, after all) was worth my custom. Their poleturner attached my the shortsword more securely to the staff (thankfully not paralyzing himself on the business end), and I bought a more pedestrian dagger as a replacement sidearm. He also referred me to an independent Balmora smith who could forge an easily removable mount out of metal.
The evening meal finds me in the lower common room of the Ald Skar Inn. My thoughts on Todwendy's departure are no more developed than they were before, but I know for sure that I am not going to be getting on a strider tonight. There is work to do. When Hassour enters the room, his table set for him in advance, I do not need anyone to point him out for me. Who else could look so entirely an Ashlander, while dressed in Velothi traveling gear and sumptuous garments of a successful caravan merchant. His whole bearing, mohawk on down, has both the austere haughtiness of a nomad patriarch and the commanding self-assurance of a man who has made himself wealthy. I count off the minutes as he composes himself for dinner, and move towards his table as he waits for service.
"Your pardon, master, but I knew no other way to approach you. Might I have your ear?" I can address a Dunmer (sort of), and I can address a man of high station, but neither really fits here.
"You might have waited until after I have eaten, for one. Is your business urgent?"
"My master is anxious for my return, yes. My name is Naleva of Polefel."
"May you bless and be blessed. Tell me of your business, and perhaps we will deal after dinner."
"In truth, I have an unusual request. I wish to learn of manners and politeness among the Ashlanders, how to approach in the proper fashion. And some simple questions concerning their beliefs."
"I see. An intriguing object, albeit one that cannot profit me." He glances over his shoulder, but the opening courses have still not arrived. "Very well, Naleva of Polefel, you shall learn by doing. The most crucial aspect in opening discussion with an Ashlander is the giving of gifts."
He meets my eyes with a piercing gaze, and I motion for him to continue.
"A gift is a sign of courtesy among strangers, and affection among friends. Among strangers, a thoughtful gift is a sign that you are cautious, and considerate, and aware of the other's wants and needs. Among friends, it is a private thing, and subtle, with great risks, for the test of the gift is how well it is tailored to the receiver. Therefore, Naleva, why not leave me in peace while I eat my dinner, and favor me with a gift when you return. Then we shall discuss whatever it is you seek."
He turns away, hands folded beneath his chin. I nod and retreat upstairs. A small bribe to the skeptical barkeep and I returned with a newly-purchased compilation of Ashlander poetry. His meal long done, Hassour sat reclined in the same common room, smoking a pipe in High Rock fashion.
"I laud your taste, Naleva of Polefel, be it by instinct alone or not." He flips through the thin volume with practiced fingers, arriving at a page near the end. "Here. One of my favorites, from the wise women of the Urshilaku." He pushes the book across the table towards me. "Read it aloud, if you would."
I hesitate. The room has gone quite quiet and the poetry is not in Dunmeris, so that excuse won't work. Is Blades work always this unpleasant?
"Rise from darkness, Red Mountain!
Spread your dark clouds and green vapors!
Birth earthquakes, shatter stones!
Feed the winds with fire!
Flay the tents of the tribes from the land!
Feed the burned earth with our souls!
Yet never shall you have your rule over me.
Never shall I tremble or flinch from your power.
Never shall I yield my home and hearth.
And from my tears shall spring forth
The flowers of grassland springs."
After the close of that eternity of recitation, Hassour leans back in his seat and takes a long drag on the cigar. I swear I saw smoke come out of his ears.
"Your voice rings true, Naleva, wherever that face of yours may be from. I would make a mirroring gift to you, in the form of another book, if culture could be taught in such ways."
"Your knowledge will be gift enough."
"And the knowledge you seek is the most difficult to transmit. I will stick to the basics. You intend to go among the tribes quite soon?"
"I..." Somehow this hasn't occurred to me yet. "Yes." My reaction warrants a skeptical grunt.
"You have already taken part in the custom of gifts. In the future, eschew such poetry and stick to useful items. Tools and weapons. My people have never loved the written word, and I lament their ignorant scorn for such common yet potent magic. Things of beauty may sometimes please them, but only for the sake of its natural origin and display of cunning craftsmanship. A bauble you purchase at a Balmora jeweler's may be met with scorn and soon traded away. If trade is your object, however, gold is an acceptable offering for a like-minded tribesman."
He gestures for another cup and pours from the bottle at his elbow. To my surprise, fine Cyrodiilic brandy, the likes of which I scarcely tasted in the province itself.
"Never enter a yurt or village without invitation. To do so is to invite a challenge. One crucial distinction foreigners must attempt to make is between a challenge for sport and a challenge for honor. Many warriors hide their emotions, and the context may not always make it clear. It is acceptable to decline a sparring match, but shrink from a challenge to your honor and no member of that tribe will deal with you in honesty or respect again. Your gender may provide some protection here, but women challenge as well."
"And thanks be for that. From what I hear, a duel with an Ashlander would be injurious to my health."
He seems to examine my words for flattery.
"True enough. The single greatest obstacle to dealings with the tribes is their general hostility. Most Ashlanders wish all the foreigners and their false gods could be driven from Morrowind. Failing that, they at least wish the foreign devils would leave them in peace. It shameful to attack unarmed persons, but Ashalnders reserve the right to raid the settled people, and kill without hesitation anyone who offends them or their clan laws. No Ashlander is fool enough to make war against the Empire, but if such a war might be won, many might cheerfully give their lives to win such a war."
He motions for me to drink more, and I take the opportunity to cut in.
"That is all valuable insight, but not all my questions are so general. Specifically, I was hoping you could tell me about the Nerevarine cult."
"Ah. Now there's a subject. Is your employer merely curious, or flirting with illegality? Not even the Empire tolerates that old superstition, you know."
"So I have heard."
"Well then, all Ashlanders are born into an Ancestor cult, and the anticipation of the Nerevarine carries on in addition to that faith. It is a very small cult, headed by a very few wise women with the gift of prophecy, and some warrior-heroes who guard and protect the seers."
I sip the brandy to spur him on.
"The cult has not been influential for many generations, and will certainly continue to decline if Peakstar is truly dead. Although most Ashlanders share the sentiments of the prophecies, they think little of their promises and validity. Really, only the Urshilaku keep the faith nowadays."
"Is that a tribe?"
"Of the northwestern ashlands, and once of the entire West Gash." What is it on his face? Anger? wry wistfulness? "The Urshilaku play host to the last oracle of the prophecies, Nibani Maesa. Their Ashkhan is Sul-Matuul, a well-respected leader who doubles as Warrior-Protector of the cult."
"And would you know where to find the Urshilaku?"
He gazes at me in curiosity, and I crack a guilty smile despite myself. Heady stuff, this flin.
"I hope you will share your object, one day, for it is a fascinating errand your master sets you. The Urshilaku move with the herds, of course, but usually their camp lies close to the Sea of Ghosts. I could send word to your master next time I hear of their location, if he can be relied upon to pay the messenger."
"I would receive your messenger, and pay gladly."
That concluded our official business, but the conversation went on for some time. Hassour urged more brandy on me, eventually presenting a whole variety of Cyrodilic vintages with informed commentary and attentive examination of my reactions. He spent a good deal of money that night, and if I have little to report about our conversation, it is because I remember little of it. It was the first time that I had actually been well and truly drunk in Vvardenfell (have that, Todwendy!), and I only vaguely recall the stories of his Ashlander days, the nobility of their customs, his trading practices and his son (it was the only the brandy that made me look like a good bride for his heir, I'm sure).
Normally when I'm sleeping it off, I never dream. Not so, that night. The gold mask returns, no longer a shimmering outline but a fully-formed vision of complete clarity. He is more real in the dream than in the waking world. The usual shifting environment of the gone, presenting my visitor at a distance, and yet he filled up the entirety of the dreamspace, shutting out all else with his bulk. I almost didn't record his words. After all, what can the mere transcription possibly convey? What use is such shallow reduction and what an one say about such things anyways? But I was urged, so here it is.
"Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hai Resdaynia! Long forgotten, forged anew! Three belied you, three betrayed you! One you betrayed was three times true! Lord Voryn Dagoth, steadfast liegeman, faithful friend, bids you come and climb Red Mountain! Beneath Red Mountain, once again, break your bonds, shed cursed skin, and purge the n'wah from Morrowind!"
I lay in a sifting pale approximation of sleep after that, waking in the early morning without the head pounding I richly deserved. The equally indomitable Hassour had already gone to the caravanserai, the groggy barmaid grunted, so I stumbled out into the morning's fiery orange sun. All Skar was lit up by rays shooting through the remnants of predawn mist, and I stumbled slightly, turning to gawk at the massive stretch of shell, wider than the Foreign Quarter. Hassour was overseeing the preparation of pack guar when I entered, and greeted me with that Dunmeri warmth that so quickly follows hostility and suspicion. I rushed through the pleasantries.
"Hassour Zainsubani, might I beg your counsel a final time, in private? It will be brief."
He hesitates, fixing an underling with a stern glare until an answering gaze seems to satisfy him. We head outside to stand sheltered by an awning and the noise of livestock.
"What troubles you, Naleva of Polefel?"
"'Trouble' is the proper word, I fear. I could expect a judicious answer from only someone of your experiences." That's mostly true. "I have been dreaming."
He narrows his eyes.
"Surely you must mean something specifically... unusual by that."
"They are dreams of this place, only since I arrived, and they recur, showing me things I could not have known."
"Wise women are dream-seers, but it is not a gift likely to be found elsewhere." Except for every holy man on the street in Nibennium, that is. "And then there are the dream-sendings of the Sharmat, that drive the weak to madness and self-mutilation. Have you gained useful knowledge from these dreams, or have they affected your waking mind?"
"Not as such. The Sharmat, he is—"
"Dagoth Ur, scourge of all who walk the wastes."
"And he spreads his totems, and his dream with them," I murmur. "I dreampt in verse. I am called to Red Mountain by Voryn Dagoth, to shed cursed skin and drive the N'wah from Resdayn."
His nostrils flare at the words.
"It is not a dream of madness, thank Three." Which three, I wonder. "It is a test, of the sort often sent to warriors in the Ashlands. Dagoth Ur wants you for his own. He recognizes you as Dunmer, curiously enough, and invites you to join him in expelling the N'wah, the outlanders and slaves."
"Rather optimistic, isn't he?"
"Do not trifle with these matters, Naleva. His persuasion can take less resistible forms." A horn sounds from the lead of the caravan, now assmebled. "Keep the faith until we meet again, and guard your soul from the sickness of the mountain. It is the sort of affliction that makes me fear so for my son."
"My deepest thanks, Hassour Zainsubani. May you walk in sight of the ancestors."
"And may you find yours." His echo of the Balmora monk leaves me stunned, and he strides away in the interim. I'll just have to wonder what he would have thought about Dagoth's form of address.
