Chapter 16: Anvil Anxieties

Nim walked briskly from the castle toward the city, only stopping to peer out across the mercurial ocean waters when she reached the bridge connecting the castle district to the eastern gate. She glared over the edge of the stone blocks and met her reflection with a quivering pout and an exasperated shriek.

She had been deceived. She had been granted ownership of a vile, cursed Daedric artifact. More than anything, she had been deprived of sleep for nearly two days.

After quickly realizing the attention she brought to herself, she cast her invisibility spell and sprinted home before a castle guard came to check on the loud cry. Once home, she ran straight up the winding stairs and launched the cowl against the wall of her bedroom. She threw herself onto the bed and wept silently, too drained of energy to call forth tears.

The house was void of light and quiet save the soft flutter of her new curtains swaying in and out by a draft entering the cracked window.

Why is it that I let everyone use me? How did I bring this ill-fate upon myself again?

Nim thought of her journey to Skingrad in the fall of last year. The Council had willingly sent her into a trap with no forewarning. If she was less skilled in combat, she would likely be dead at the hands of Mercator and his necromancer friends. Only Raminus apologized afterwards. If she died on that mission, it was clear that her loss would not have been mourned. And yet she returned to the University readily serving the Council despite the sense of betrayal. It was only a matter of time before they did it again.

Nim closed her eyes against her down-pillow. Velwyn had no qualms about selling her this blighted manor. She was bouncing from one curse to another. As if a haunted house was not enough, now her soul was tainted. How did possession of this cowl affect her spirit? Was she bound to Nocturnal if she wore a mask imbued with the blood of the Daedric Prince? She had tried to leave dark magics behind her, yet there it sat, blue runes glowing in the corner of her room.

She had tried so hard to change for the better over the past two years. She had found an honest occupation, strived for the pursuit of knowledge, built friendships based on mutual interests that did not include pick-pocketing and robbing stores. And now that this evil presence had entered her life, what could she do? Become the Guildmaster? She couldn't remember the last heist she done for pleasure rather than the Gray Fox's demands!

Despite the love she held in her heart for the Nine and the little good she had done to help others in need, at her core Nim knew was still a thief, still a swindler. She worshiped in vain. The Nine saw her sin. How could she have fooled herself into ever thinking she had given up a morally bankrupt life?

Maybe Fathis was right. She would always fall back to manipulation tactics if they worked to her benefit. She was no different from Corvus in that sense, and no amount of mental acrobatics or penance would wash her free of her wicked thoughts. Mephala's lessons held true through the years and she'd remain with that black mark until her corporeal form passed on.

By morning, Nim was a feeling slightly less weighted down by the blanket of self-pity that dragged her into slumber the afternoon before. The dream-less sleep did well for mental clarity, but she remained as unsure as ever about what to do with the cowl in her bedroom. For the moment, she threw it into her trunk and pushed it beneath her bed with the other unmentionables she had begun to horde. After brewing a cup of coffee, she wandered out to her balcony to replace the plate of mud-crab meat that she often left out for the neighborhood cats.

Now after keeping up the habit for a few weeks she was getting a couple of regular visitors. One orange cat with white socks and a scabbed right ear. A tortoise shell with multi-colored eyes and a fearsome hiss. A black cat with a piercing yellow glare that rubbed its head into her palm whenever she made an appearance. Nim was most fond of that one. Sometimes that cat would sit on her lap and purr as she read a book. Nim appreciated the affection and eventually let the cat wander inside her home when she was present. She liked to pretend something loved her every now and then.

Rather than enroll in another session of classes at the University along with the other first-year students, Nim formally accepted Carahil's earlier offer of an apprenticeship to study illusion. Carahil seemed confused when Nim brought it up to her again. She had assumed that Nim's relocation to the Gold Coast was solely for the purpose of this new training regime. Nim didn't have the heart to correct her.

She was a Magician now, and while it wasn't uncommon for Mages who had advanced this far to take an apprenticeship with high-ranking leaders of other guild halls, most Magicians at the Arcane University were second or third-year students. Nim had moved through the ranks swiftly and kept mostly to herself. Her introverted demeanor was cast in ill light by the members of her cohort who interpreted her reservations as aloofness.

Egoistical. Self-absorbed. She thinks she's the Gods gift to creation just because she slayed a necromancer.

She heard how the first-years whispered her name amongst themselves. Now that she was removed from all the chatter and gossip, she couldn't care less. In fact, she was a little surprised they thought anything of her at all.

Among her cohort, only Chee-tul, a promising Argonian of the Conjurer rank, had secured an apprenticeship with a mentor at another guild chapter. In Skingrad, she believed. Nim wished she had spoken to him more. They took many of the same classes and she had always admired his confidence and stoic expression. Her brief time at the University was filled with solitude when she wasn't pestering Bothiel, Raminus, or Irlav. None of them were here now. Only the solitude remained.

Since uprooting to Anvil, Nim sadly discovered that her fellow mages in the local chapter were not nearly as experienced drinkers as her housemates on the Waterfront had been. After throwing a few beers back with Thaurron on a sleepy Loredas afternoon, she learned that his tamed Imp, Sparky, had a much higher tolerance for alcohol then the bosmer Mage himself. After many lonely weekends splayed out in front of the lobby fireplace with a bottle of wine and a volumes II through IV of A Brief History of the Empire, Nim had decided she would find a drinking buddy in this town and if it was the beggar down the street then so be it!

Eventually, she made her way down to the dock to explore the taverns where the sea farers spent their evenings while docked in Anvil. Carahil had warned her against it, claiming that all the bars on the dock smelled just like you would imagine a sailor who hadn't bathed in a few months might smell. Instead, the Altmer suggested the Counts Arms, a much more respectable establishment for a young mage. Nim had spent the past few weeks trying to perfect a 60 second invisibility spell without ever having reached the 45 second mark. She was hoping to toss back a few pints of mead and fight someone, not sit still and be respectable.

The dock was lined with small, splintered wooden buildings that sometimes appeared to lean with the blowing wind off the Abecean sea and as she walked along the marina, she could hear shouting and roar of sea shanties from the sailors and the pretty tavern wenches that clung to their arms inside at anytime of day.

Nim would slip her way past the crowds at the bar with a bottle of ale and sit in the corner to watch the sailors swear at one another and beat each other bloody over a slurred insult about someone's mother's sexual escapades. She became fast friends with the sailors, the pirates, even the gang of attractive woman that robbed men blind in the night. The inside of the Flowing Bowl smelled of salt-water and the metallic twinge of blood. Nimileth loved it.

While waiting for her next assignment from Traven, Nim spent the majority of her free time refurbishing her home. She spent a good portion of the evenings pouring through furniture catalogues and rearranging her study to fit all the shelves she purchased for her books, alchemy equipment, and jars labeled to hold each type of ingredient. She spent early mornings praying at the Chapel of Dibella and working in her garden to remove weeds and gnarled roots. She planted fresh vegetables, berries, and saplings in the crisp sea breeze before the heat of the afternoon sun drove her inside.

In only a few weeks, her skin had begun to tan a deep brown like clay-rich soil and cinnamon sticks. The color reminded her of earlier years, memories filled by long swims in the Panther River with the other women in her coven, J'rasha sunbathing beside her on the shore of the Topal Bay, the humid streets of Leyawiin as she darted along looting the pockets of unsuspecting shoppers.

Second Seed had come and gone. No word from Traven arrived. The silence from the Arcane University grew unsettling. Though she made great use of the new-found freedom from classes, Nim was becoming anxious.

She had expected to be diving head-first into new research on the necromancer's practices by now, perhaps starting with Lorgren Benirus' Tome of Unlife before it was sent to its permanent storage in the university archives. The Council had been willing to follow her hunch when it came to investigating the source of the black soul gems at the Dark Fissure. What was with the delay now?

Has the Council forgotten about me?

She wondered whether another mage was being sent on her assignments now that she was no longer a sleeping quarter away.

Was I only ever a convenient option for them?

Or perhaps the Council finally had enough with her relentless criticism and impingement on their plans. Now that she was off University grounds, they could wash their hands of her and return to twiddling their thumbs and burying their heads in the sand.

The days flew by. Nim was not called upon. She was no longer anxious. She was angry.

To further fuel her irritable mood, she had been experiencing horrible dreams and nights rife with insomnia. She attributed her sleeplessness to the presence of the sinister cowl beneath her bed. Ever since her first vision from Mephala when she was nearly ten, Nim was extremely sensitive to Daedric magic. She awoke in cold sweats after dreams of falling endlessly down the chimney chute as she escaped the Imperial Palace. As though watching from above, she'd see both her small body and the elder scroll in her arms combust into a pillar of flame until only a cloud of ash remained and drifted down amongst the darkness.

The lack of sleep left her drained physically and mentally. She'd been plagued by spells of throbbing headaches and wondered if her brief glimpse of the Elder Scroll had indeed cursed her. Perhaps she had glimpsed a forbidden knowledge that was now attempting to claim her sight like it did the blind priests.

For a few days, she could concentrate on her spells for only an hour at a time before the aches returned. The pain was maddening. She felt her will and mettle begin to crack. A break loomed on the horizon.

The final straw came in the form an article of The Black Horse Courier she had picked up from the market.

Count Umbranox – Returned! She read the title with a pounding migraine. Corvus had weaseled his way back into the Anvil court and into Milona's arms unpunished. In Milona's own words, his reappearance could only be attributed to divine intervention. A miracle. They played it off as though he had been kidnapped by marauders on the border of Valenwood. Corvus, vowing to return to his beloved wife, had finally escaped. An act of true love and heroism. Nim wanted to retch.

"You blasted rat," she cursed to herself as she paced across the upper floor of her home. "You lie to me, you lie to the papers, but I know the dirty sload you are. You can't come in and taint my city with your presence! You can't shove your duties onto me and parade around as nobility!"

Thoughts of the cowl and its mystical powers danced across her frontal lobe. It called to her from beneath the bed. Wear me it seemed to whisper through her addled mind.

"I'll show you a divine intervention," Nim mumbled as she dug through the trunk.

She stared at the hideous grey thing. Its runes flashed in waves as she turned it in the light. She knew that if she slipped It over her head the pain would be lifted. The cowl wanted her to put it on. She laid it on her dresser to face her as she lay in bed. After one more sleepless night, she obeyed. Her world went black.

When Nim came to, she was standing in a dark room peering down at two unclothed imperials through hooded eyes. A man and a woman lay next to each other with a blanket of cream-colored silk draped loosely across their bodies. They slept soundly, blissfully unaware of her presence lurking above. She watched as their aura rose and fell with slow breaths. Her hand clutched the hilt of her dagger.

Nim bit her tongue to keep from shrieking as she stumbled backwards. When had she entered this room? Gazing around, she recognized it as the private quarters of Castle Anvil from when she had snuck through to Dairihil's office before. She pressed her hand to her face and felt the leather hide of Nocturnal's cowl beneath her fingertips. She didn't remember putting it on.

A groan and rustle of sheets drew her attention to the sleeping Count and Countess. What would they do if they her standing here with her hands on her blade? Nim moved swiftly across the room to the balcony door, as a jingle jangle and clink clank of metal sounded off her person. She reached behind her to feel the pack on her shoulders and noted that leather was stretched to full capacity. Strange, she thought. It didn't feel like she was carrying much at all.

Nim gripped the handle of the balcony door and cast Night-Eye, preparing to enter the night and get the hell out of the Countess's private chamber. She took one glance back, trying to will herself to remember how she had arrived here. The scene that lay before her brought a jolt of surprise.

The doors of the wardrobes and drawers of the dressers were wide open, their contents strewn across the tile floor. Books and plates, scrolls and pelts, quills and baskets of yarn and cloth, all were scattered around her. The tapestries and curtains on the wall were torn to shreds, and many ornate wooden frames hung around her void of pictures. Had she thrown the room into shambles without waking anyone?

Startled by the chaos of the room and the coursing adrenaline, Nim quickly fled the bedroom and scaled down the side of the balcony, clinging to the thick vines rooted into the grooves between the brick. She returned home and let her bloated pack fall to the floor of the foyer behind her as she secured all three of the locks on her front door. She slipped the cowl off her head and breathed a sigh of relief when the headache did not come flooding back. With a snap of her fingers, she called forth a flame to light the wall sconces on the entryway. Once more, the state of disarray in the surrounding room shocked her.

On the floor of her living room lay bundles of rugs, decorative clay urns, rolled up paintings, pelts, silver carafes – Nim froze.

Where in Oblivion did these come from? Did I-

She looked down to her hand and found the cowl staring back. Nim shivered and she dropped it to the floor as she rubbed her temples. She sat down on bench in front of the empty fire placed and slowed her breathing.

Think.

Closing her eyes, she retraced her steps. Home, newspaper, bedroom, trunk. She had put on the cowl, slipping into a fugue state that led her trapezing off to Castle Anvil. She concentrated harder, recalling her movements as she traversed the narrow halls of the castles hidden passages. Castle, smithy, secret passage, royal quarters. Loot. Repeat. Loot. Repeat.

"Okay," she said to herself with a small nod as she gazed around at all her stolen possessions. It began to make sense, though she wasn't sure how many trips it took her to get all of these items into her house. More confusing was the thought that she accomplished it without being seen by anyone. But even if she had been seen, the cowl concealed her true identity. Nim was unsettled to find that fact gave her comfort.

She leaned down to unroll one of the rugs out of curiosity. Lavish was the first word that came to her mind. Hand-woven silk with wool fringe. Even in her fugue state she had good taste.

She dragged her pack across the floor to join the other piles of loot, finding It much heavier now than when she donned the cowl. Inside she found books, velvet garments, a handful of precious gemstones, and an entire jewelry box still locked.

"Okay," she said again. Many emotions blipped about in her mind.

Pride? No, this was the work of an enchanted cowl, not her own prowess as a thief. There was no way she could lug all of this across town without magical aid. Guilt? No, they were merely material wealth. The Countess and her beloved husband could always buy more. Concern? Would the Corvus come looking for her? Shame? She was giving into the sinful ways of the daedra once more.

She smirked to herself as she ran her fingers down the leather spine of The Waters of Oblivion. An overwhelming part of her was satisfied. So sickly satisfied.

Nim decided she would keep it. All of it. There was not much else you could reasonably do with a house full of stolen goods A house warming present to herself, but the cowl had to leave. She did not appreciate the power it granted and the recklessness with which she used it. This is exactly what she had tried to tell Corvus – it was a not a strength she would use for the benefit of others, only abuse for her personal gain.

She had to get it out of her house and off her person. The memory-loss, the sleepless nights, the carelessness, and grand theft - This was not the person she wanted to be! She would take it to the Waterfront, to the Garden of Dareloth where she would pass it on to Armand Christophe. She had always admired the Doyen's leadership and knew without a doubt he would make a fine guildmaster, orders of magnitudes better than Nim could ever hope to be. After she handed off this cursed artifact, she planned to embark on a pilgrimage to refine her values. Her soul had been feeling very heavy these days, and though her new treasures had certainly lifted her spirits, she wasn't sure this was the kind of lifting she needed in her life right now.

Nim looked around at the mess she had made and tutted. She was perplexed and not entirely unpleasantly surprised. The paintings she had swiped were gorgeous, Rythe Lythandas originals no less! She made a mental note to put in an order for five new frames and slept blissfully for the first time in weeks.