Guide:

Dwemeris

Thoughts

"Speech"

"Dovahzul"

Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4

Chapter Warning(s): Short chapter. It's nightmarish.

Last time…

"A true master of the arcane can handle any threat!" He feebly protests, already falling behind and looking quite pale, though he juts his chin out proudly. I merely groan and drag a hand down my face. "All the mastery in the world won't save you from being impaled on spears or being pelted by poisoned darts." That said, I carefully check the entryway and the space right beyond it, seeing no tell-tale holes, strings, or pressure plates. "Alright, should be fine. Let's go."

Chapter 17 - Continuity

The main room, so achingly familiar though I've never set foot here before, looks to hold no traps or valuable secrets – as expected of what looks to have been a storeroom. The assault of dust near my nostrils as the air shifts for the first time in centuries should have also been expected, but I still find myself doubling over in a sneezing fit, eyes watering at the small particles flying into my face at the slightest move or provocation.

Nobody has been in here since it was abandoned, not recently at least. There's no indents in the dust anywhere. I scowl at Marcurio as he prods and pokes around like a fascinated researcher, like Calcelmo, before letting go of my anger with a meditative sigh and a wry shake of the head.

To humans, I suppose the Dwemer are worthy of study. Sithis, I would study us myself had I been in their shoes.

Leaving the man to his investigation, I seize up any Dwemer metal lying about. The convector, innocuously dropped on the ground from where Marcurio is standing with a halfway sheepish grin and his hands full of small thingamabobs, is pretty much the only thing of interest in the room.

Though I guess everything here is somewhat 'rare' as it isn't being produced by my kin anymore. "Whilst exploring, try not to walk into any 'spike-filled pits or filthy Skeever dens', alright?" I mutter drolly as the mage drops yet another item in favour of another, the 'clang' echoing through the main chamber.

Watching his face fall before letting the mischief show on my face, I move to do a little prodding around myself, passing the convector from one hand to the other as I test its weight and sturdiness. "This is a storeroom," I inform Marcurio, "probably nothing to worry about. I want to see what city this is from, though. It should be quite close."

This is either Eastmarch or the Rift, the far east of Skyrim. In the mountain region here there should be several ruins, like Mzulft and… Raldbthar? Right. Probably. Why did I never pay much attention during geography class, again?

…Whatever the reason, it must have been a stupid one.

"Can I keep whatever's interesting?"

"Sure."

"Good. You see, I found this odd little gem right here…"

I don't bother to look, merely humming in agreement as he prattles on. Let Marcurio keep his trinket – it's probably just another sapphire or ruby. I've seen plenty of those in my life.

I first move to the door right next to the entrance once everything of interest has been observed. The lock is fairly easy to pick – Taking the picks off of bandits as I went had been a good idea, unlike not following geography lessons, and so I have plenty to break, should it be necessary. It isn't, and the two chests, both unlocked, as well as the veritable treasure trove of ingots would have been worth every pick.

Standing in the opening with Marcurio peering inquisitively over my shoulder, I can only stare blankly for a few heartbeats, hungrily drinking in the sight of so many raw materials to work with in a world where my favourite metal is scarce.

Then I promptly remove my knapsack to see what I can miss.

Let's see… Coin, more coins, even more coins, food, water sack, more food, emerald, some garnets, my notebook, charcoal, map, spare leather and leather strips, needle, bedroll, pan… "Marcurio? I need you to carry some things until we get to Windhelm."

He blanches, eyeing his own already bulging pack from where he'd stuffed it with all kinds of oddities and trinkets and gems he'd found along the road. Pretty sure he even keeps a dead Orc's old tusk in that thing, as well as enough venison to feed the Imperial army.

"I am an apprentice wizard, not a pack mule!" he finally snaps, righteously indignant for all of five quiet seconds before he shuts his eyes and groans mournfully. Hah, he knows it's because I pay him and he's got to do whatever I tell him to, the poor sod.

"Fine. But make it quick." Is being an apprentice wizard the same as being a master of the arcane? I wonder somewhat bemusedly, probably not grasping the subtleties of the Tamrielic language just yet.

"Alright. Here's most of the rations, some leather and strips, and my gems. Don't even think about taking anything for yourself. I'm going to sell and use up most of it around Windhelm." The mage just sighs again, coughing at the dust particles the action causes to fly up his nose, and takes it, filling his own knapsack. I fill my own to the brim with ingots, coin, scraps and a set of gauntlets I discovered in one of the chests. I also grab all the lock picks.

The expertly locked gate at the far end of the room proves more than a challenge to those same lock picks, but I manage… My stock of picks dwindling down to a meagre six. Marcurio snickers while I work and as I glare down at them with a pout.

It's not fair. I'm a Dwemer, I'm supposed to always have a – a key. To a place not part of even my own city. Yeah, right.

I fill my knapsack to the brim with even more metal, the worn leather groaning under the pressure, and then grab the Dwemer axe – standard quality. Low power enchantment of… absorb stamina. I already know this one. Better sell it and make a new one myself.

We exit the room with heavy packs, but I, at least, have a brand-new spring in my step. "You only have an iron dagger, don't you?" I ask the mage, not waiting for an answer, "I'll make you a new one out of these. Any enchantments you want?" He frowns pensively. "Enchanting? I'm afraid that it's…not my strongest suit. I suppose it would be nice if my foe froze for a few moments so I could get a breather."

I nod along with him as we move further up the hill, the Dwemer city's ruin looming ahead, three majestic golden towers gleaming in the early evening light. The doors won't budge, though, and I'm secretly somewhat glad. "I suppose we can set up camp here. I'll take first watch." Marcurio scouts the area, using several spell to detect nearby creatures or people – alive or dead, he said.

Do dead creatures give off an aura at all? Is it necromantic in nature? I wish I knew how all of it worked. Even though my race is still known for their vast knowledge, even I still get uneasy of things I don't understand. Like the violent Nord culture. Or Marcurio – I mean, magic. Like, not understanding magic is making me uneasy.

Maybe Marcurio can tell me more about the spells in his repertoire.

I settle down for watch in front of the fire, the ruins at my back and leeks cooking. I also chop up some venison and flatten some garlic with a piece of scrap metal, adding it to the leeks and meat with a bit of water. It's not ideal, but it's quite edible. I look up at the mage when he enters our makeshift 'camp', and the man plops down gracelessly on top of his bedroll.

"You know, I consider myself sort of an expert on Nordic ruins, but you seem to know a lot about Dwemer ones, yourself, even though you're a blacksmith." I hum around a spoonful of stew, giving him a look that screams 'so what?' even in the dwindling light. Inwardly, I'm resigning myself to a lengthy explanation or a huge amount of frustration, maybe even both. Here we go.

There's nothing to distract him from his inquiry now, and I do make a point of at least being honest, if not much else. "Hn?" I hum, egging him on, trying to get it over with.

He shrugs with slightly narrowed eyes, gleaming in the firelight. "How come you're an expert? Earlier, you didn't answer my question about the language, either. Are you some sort of hidden scholar, researching the Dwemer in the guise of a smith?" Oh. Sithis' balls.

Even as he grabs himself a bowl of my culinary creation, I snort and drain my own bowl of its contents, as if chugging an entire bottle of liquid courage instead – I could use one of those actually. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, you recognised the storeroom right away. It could have been anything – a watchtower, a trade point, a kitchen, a farmhouse… But no, you immediately called it a storeroom. And you knew about possible traps, what type and where they'd be. If you're not a Dwemer expert, what are you?" Whelp, Meridia help me, I'll just tell him outright – Here goes nothing. "A Dwemer." To give more credence to the unbelievable truth, I tuck my hair behind my too-long, too-pointed-for-even-Altmer-ear and look him dead in his brown puppy eyes as I say it.

He looks at me for a few moments, then glances at my now uncovered ear, the point still growing and within a year, impossible to hide. Unlike Altmer, Bosmer, Orismer… or any other race in Tamriel.

For minutes, the clearing is silent, then he lets out a shaky sigh. "Say that I believe you. How are you here? Is it because the dragons are also coming back?" I flinch slightly. The last thing I want anyone to think is that I'm here because of dragons. People might think I'm on the damn lizards' side. "I don't know. I woke up in a ruin not too long ago."

Marcurio drags a hand down his face tiredly. "I need to think about this for a while. Sleep on it. Meanwhile? Let's hope that no bandits stumble across that storeroom tonight and decide to investigate." I agree right away, already cheered by the fact that he doesn't dismiss it easily. I don't think anything is impossible here in Nirn…

…

I'm back in chains, the same room as always, but clearer than before. The central circle, which was all I could see before, is but a platform in a far vaster space. Where am I? The walls are still distorted, pipes twitching and writhing and the carvings forming slowly turning spirals. What is this place? The dark blue mist renders the floor and ceiling invisible still, but the view I burn into my mind. Why do I see this every time I close my eyes?

I need to remember this place. Where is it? The same researcher from before stands deathly still, the machines not making a sound. The silence is far more unnerving than the steam pumps could ever be. Why are they not working? There's a curved mirror on the far wall, a sphere bend inwards, surrounded by delicate golden spikes. But it doesn't show the room I'm in. What..?

An eerily familiar scene unfolds in the mirror device:

How..?

A small, barely lit campfire sheds light on the two figures, one curled up in a bedroll, the other sitting and poking the flames gently. I recognise the mage in the scene. And the one that's asleep.

That, that's…?

My own face, troubled even in slumber, and the ruins of Mzulft behind me. My eyes snap open violently, brilliant gold boring into mine, shocked, looking into my own eyes as -

I shoot up in my bedroll in a moment of utter panic and confusion, letting out a cry of alarm as I try to escape the chains that aren't there, to shake the image of looking into my own eyes away. Marcurio jumps several feet high, shock spell at the ready before he sees it's me. He's startled, but so am I. A few beats pass, black swimming in my vision, my heart racing miles per minute, before my companion suddenly walks up to me and slaps my face. Hard.

I need to remember to breathe.

Taking a deep, gasping breath, my lungs immediately insist on a painful coughing fit. These… These are definitely no normal dreams! I'll admit, I'm quite disturbed.

"You weren't breathing. What in Oblivion just happened?!"

I stare at Marcurio, still partially caught in that room, in that mirror, in a daze. "I had a terrible vision, and I have no idea what it is or why it's happening to me but I want them to just – s-stop." My voice hitches and I draw my knees up to my chest, an uncomfortable position when wearing full armour, and cover my face with my arms, fingers clutching at my hair as I try to take steadying breaths.

I had hoped they'd stopped. Another shaky breath passes my lips. I must endure. It takes a few moments to gather myself before giving the mage a wan smile, barely visible in the darkness.

"Bad dream."

Understatement of the day.

He scoffs and sits down. "If you call that a bad dream, I wonder what classifies as nightmare." Pretending to think about it, I crawl out of my bedroll fully. "Oh, draughr and vampires are downright nightmarish to me, I assure you." I look up at the night sky, the stars winking innocently and the moons dying the world in pale colours. "I'll take watch. I can't sleep right now. You sleep instead."

What in Mundus was that?

A/N: Up next, EXTRA LONG chapter to make up for the shorter ones I've been putting up lately. Who knows, might even take on dragons again. Also, for future reference: I think it's ridiculous how you end up joining four or seven or whatever amount of organisations in Skyrim. Not all of them should want you to join. Example: When joining the Companions, honourable warriors, one should not be allowed in the Thieves' Guild, and vice versa.