When below decks, Lusius simmered with an anxious energy to get out of the ship, and rise back into the fresh night air above him. But as he flung open the hatch and was buffeted by a burst of frigid wind, he quickly remembered why he spent so much time below decks to begin with. It was not yet winter, but late enough into the autumn that it was hard to tell the difference at night. That was more true than ever, now that they were out to sea.

And what of that sea? At this hour of the night it was hard to say. Neither moon nor star was visible in the sky. But that did not mean danger had left him. At the the bow of the ship, two Dunmeri deckhands waved long poles, feeling out into the black and whatever might lay in it. And a moment later the lantern at the prow illuminated just what they were looking for: rough, pillar-like stones jutting from the water, leaving the sea a jagged maze of dark rock and even darker waters. A Dunmer prodded one of the stones with his poles, changing the ship's course ever so slightly so it could squeeze it's way through.

Lusius possessed an overactive imagination since he had been a young boy. In those days his mind would run away from him, seeing all sorts of mythical things in his Colovain homestead. He never saw a stormfront approaching; no, it was a frightful black dragon on the horizon, flying towards him. The naked branches of mid-autumn trees were the twisted claws of a hag-raven. The creaking of his farmstead at midnight was obviously the groans of the angry dead. Or so he thought as a child. As a man closer to middle age than his youth, he had hoped that he had put such thoughts aside. And yet as he looked at the pillars that surrounded his ship, he could not shake the impression there were faces somewhere in the rocks—cold granite eyes watching him, frozen stone mouths calling to the vessel, warning it away lest it be shattered upon the rocks.

Such childish fears. Lusius pulled his jerkin close. But there was real danger to the ship in traveling in these claustrophobic waters. It had gotten to the point where either only seasoned natives, Nords with more bravado than sense, or ghosts would dare travel. Lusius once heard that's how the sea got it's name, this Sea of Ghosts. Most stories about how places get their names are lies, although that gave little comfort on this bitterly cold night.

He had thought that he had grown used to the cold. Solstheim was hardly any better than this, with frigid nights that robbed the hardy of their fingers and the feeble of their lives. But the cold on that island was different, heavier and easy to predict. Here, the winds carried themselves through hidden cracks in his coverings, burrowing towards the life-warmth despite any precaution he took. Howls stung like needles on his cheeks.

Lusius hoped to look at the stars, to think of river of life that had brought him to this moment. He had hoped to reflect, perhaps even understand. All vanity. The ocean had no time for such sentimentalism.

A Dunmer called out, and three shiphands scrambled to the starboard bow, jabbing their long poles into the darkness, pushing the boat away from another abrupt stone crag. It seemed like a narrow miss. How many narrow misses had the ship had over the course of this journey? Best not to even ask. There's no answer that could sooth the nerves. Nothing could give him even a facsimile of control.

Like the boat, he was on dark currents heading ever northward. Like the boat, he was prodded away from the jagged edges of death at the last minute—for now. But the Sea of Ghosts was full of shipwrecks, each one of them once filled with nervous men, hoping that they day would soon come when the would reach the shores. Only to find the water, blackness and cold.

Lusius turned back towards the ship. The fresh air was killing him.

Spymaster -

The chapter is uncharacteristically brief. Apparently, the New Camlorn Herald was running a special edition commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Titus Mede's ascension. Several syndicated publications were requested to submit truncated chapters. I'm sure the authors, paid by the word, were overjoyed. And the readership too, no doubt. Who wouldn't want to read yet another rendition of the seizing of the Imperial City? Whatever else can be said of the men of the Third Era, at least the events they propagandized had some a degree of grandeur.

There a few things worth covering here.

First, the geography issue. The Sea of Ghosts spans hundreds of miles of coastline, from Northpoint to Port Telvannis. Townway rarely specifies either the location or the time of the vessel in his ocean scenes. The physical depictions of the rock formations are reminiscent of Sheogorad, likely influenced by the engraving collection 55 Scenes of Vvardenfel by M'Toshar (published under the enterprisingly cynical nom de plume "Hasbanis Odai"). It's a common enough trope in eastern portrayals beyond this work, but actually less exaggerated than you would first think.

Of course, the problem lies when applying precision. Topography is in general poor in Townway's works, and especially poor in The Sea of Ghosts. The only indication of where they are going is "north", and given the role of Ald Redaynia in later chapters, that seems to narrow down the setting to the north coast of Vvardenfel. But it's a worse fit than it seems. First, it's a highly unorthodox nautical approach that was rarely attempted even before the eruption. And, contra the story, it was an unusually warm one as well, heated from ash-wind running down Red Mountain. At a minimum much warmer than Solstheim. On the aggregate, it's more likely than not this takes place in the Inner Sea, but the text isn't particularly helpful in this regard.

There was a shipwreck at the mouth of the Foyada Bani-Dad some years ago which would be part of a theoretical route, but we've confirmed it's unrelated to the incident.

And on one last aside, this chapter contains the only use of the word 'hag-raven' in Townway's entire corpus of work. I entertained the idea it might be meaningful in a metaphysical sense, but it's more likely a reference to 'The Hagraven', an imminently forgettable short story by Lucanius that ran in a Wayrest literary quarterly, The Jewel of the Bay, in 4e 69. Mediocrity inspires mediocrity, I suppose.

I remain your servant,

L. Cosades, 17 Last Seed, 4e 83.