Gaea tapped the lip of her bottle to her cup. A single, pure note rang forth from the union of glass-upon-glass, emerging and then being immediately overwhelmed by the din of the dining hall in quick succession. She poured the last of the liquor into her glass. The man she had won the bottle from had prized it highly—a finely aged heartland brandy, artfully distilled in stark contrast to whatever else you could find on this boat, be it the local elf-swill or the rotgut. She had savored every sip up until this one, the last.

She closed her eyes, picked her glass up and knocked it back in a single gulp. While smooth as a brandy could be, it still bit the back of her throat on the way down. She took a moment to breathe in through her nose, and then let it out again. Her breath was hot from the brandy. That was her favorite part, really. That warmth. It was proof she was still alive.

It is said that in the tundras of the far north there is ground that never fully thaws, not even during the high summer. Gaea did not know if that was true about the soil in Solsthiem, but that never-ending frost was certainly true for the men and women stationed on that forgotten island. During the long nights of winter the sun would only linger above the horizon for a few minutes before fleeing from the cold. Exposed on the battlements during those long watches, buffeted by the wind, she often lost the sense of her own body, and couldn't even tell if hypothermia were setting in. That line between the living and the dead froze with everything else. But at that point, she'd take a sip of whatever she could get, and feel the warmth. She was still warm, if only for a minute. Even now, it relieved her.

She heard the chair in front of her shuffle and someone sit down. She smiled. "Ah, Saenus," she began, leaning an inch forward, "Glad to see—"

But she stopped speaking as soon as she opened her eyes. It was not Lusius who sat before her, but a different man altogether. He looked familiar, perhaps, in that nondescript way that all legionnaire's faces blend into a visage vaguely familiar but ultimately indistinct. He was likely someone who had been transferred over from Vvardenfel, or Ebonheart. Probably. "You're Artoria?" the man said, sitting rigidly.

"What's it to you?" Gaea said in a standoffish way unbecoming of her. Being at his disadvantage had tarnished her pride, and must've been prompting her to close herself off.

At any rate, the man didn't seem to notice, or to care. "They say you're the one to go to for dice."

Gaea looked the man over with a skeptical eye. 'They' said? Yes, she liked to game, but only when she was among with her circle friends, or working at adding new ones to it. She had no such reputation as a gambler with strangers. Still, the man was unmoving. "Will you roll me in?"

She hesitated for a moment, that usually hidden part of her mind enforcing caution. But even she knew that this was unlike herself, and with a shake of her head pushed away her inaction. She grabbed an old wooden cup and a pair of dice from a satchel handing at her side. She tossed the dice into the cup, hearing them click and roll to the bottom. "And you are...?"

"Arius Rulician," the man said, placing a golden drake on the table. He looked to the cup. "Top-half, evens."

Gaea gave a few flicks of her wrist, causing the dice to spin faster. Then, she flipped the cup over and sent it rim-down onto the table. Slowly, she lifted the cup, revealing the faces of the die. A two and a three—good for her. Gaea reached out and put her forefinger on the drake, then drifted her eyes up towards her gambling partner. Rulician's expression remained totally static, not at all registering the outcome in his expression. "Low-half, odds," he said, "I lose."

"That you did," Gaea said, returning her attention to the winnings. "Well, can't win if you never play—"

Rulician cut her off, firmly placing another drake on the table. "Low-half, odds."

Gaea drew the first drake to herself, a bit slowly to think over the situation. She looked to Rulician. He looked back, his eyes seemingly focusing on her rather than the table. She tossed the dice back into the cup and began to spin them again, hearing them clack and dance. Before she could throw down, though, he spoke again. "Ald Redaynia."

Gaea blinked. "Eh? Bless you..?"

"The village we're traveling to," Rulician clarified, not processing her quip, "What do you know of it?"

The name had sounded familiar, maybe. Or maybe not. Gaea could never really keep elf-names apart. "Don't much know," she said, "Don't much care, either. Some fishhole. Who knows if we'll even stay there before starting up the fort."

She swung the cup onto the table once more, then lifted it to reveal the dies' faces. Six and five. "High-half, odds," said Rulician, evenly, "I lose."

Gaea frowned and pulled over her winnings. She glanced over her shoulder to see if Lusius had arrived. Apparently not, although she couldn't see past Hrisskar, who was blocking the door yelling at some boy who must've failed to show him respect. She looked back across the table, to her surprise, to see a fat pouch on the table in front of Rulician. "High-half, odds."

"What's in the purse?" said Gaea.

"My wager," replied Rulician.

What was with this man? Some sort of stiff word-act to get in her head? Trying to be clever, then upping the stakes? No, those mind games hardly made sense in a game with so little skill as dice. Still, Gaea picked up the dice and began rolling them once more. She looked Rulician in his eyes. They returned the glance, dully. Surprisingly dull, really—like a pair of brass eyes on a Dwemer statue, the gleam of them tarnished away by the eras."Imsin," he said.

"What about her?" Gaea said, a spark on temper lighting on her voice.

Rulician's voice remained steady. "What do you know about the Dreamer?"

"What'd you even want, eh?" Gaea, said, leaning forward towards him while setting down the cup, "Me to talk garbage about the captain? That it? I hardly even know the woman."

Rulician considered this for a moment. Given his abrupt replies up to this point, the pause seemed twice as long as it was. But then, he concurred. "No, you do not know her."

Gaea felt a surge of anger rush through the side of her head. This stranger had overstayed his welcome, and his act was wearing thin. "Well, you're right! Turns out I don't. I don't know the commander, and I don't know the post. So unless you're storing up some big speech about both, why don't you drop the act and tell me what you really think—or what you really want. Because all said, I don't know you, either!"

The outburst was loud enough to quiet the table to her side, with the now silent guardsmen looking straight at her. She'd be embarrassed about this later, once her temper dimmed. Rulician, however, did not join them in watching her. Now, his eyes were on the cup. Of course. She hadn't yet realized that she had slammed it down in frustration. She lifted the cup.

One and one. "Dead-man's-eyes," said Rulician, "I lose."

Someone a table over barked something, and the din of the mess returned as though it had never broken. Gaea's nervous energy persisted through her hot streak, but Rulician remained as cool as ever. He gave a nod, and it seemed as though he had finally assessed something. He stood, quickly, leaving the pouch on the table. "When you're ready, seek me out."

"What'd you mean, 'when I'm ready'?" Gaea asked, her anger fading, but still exasperated.

"You will know. You can't miss me." With that, he stood and melted into the crowd before she could further respond.

Gaea's cheeks were flushed. She knew that Vvardenfel was a strange old island and frankly a lousy post to get, and it undoubtedly had rubbed it's queerness off on the soldiers stationed there. But this man was something else. Something weirder than just a man with a strange speaking style. He hardly seemed a man at all.

It was probably some sort of racket, she thought, trying to make sense of it all. She wished Lusius were here—he was always better at seeing through people than she was.

She looked to the now empty bottle of brandy on the table. She was still entirely sober. That hadn't been her plan for the evening, of course, but she had to change course now regardless. A drink was something that she'd enjoy with friends, comrades, and the occasional boy. She wouldn't go any further alone. She stood, grabbing her things, and after a moment's hedging, the pouch as well. She was ready to return to her quarters. There, perhaps, she might find a friend, or if not, at least someone she could actually speak to. Here she was utterly alone, and the only drinking companion she would have was the memory of those eyes.

Dear T—,

After waking this morning, I walked through the soft dawn light of my study, towards the windowbox fastened outside my writing desk window. I was looking forward to my daily ritual of tending to the flowers planted there. Instead, I was struck by an unhappy surprise: an unseasonably early frost had set in overnight, and the Lady's Mantle and Alkanet did not weather it. All had succumbed to the cold. It was quite a shock to me. We've yet to even enjoy the Harvest Festival, and yet our flowers are already taken from us. It seems like just yesterday it was First Seed and I was watching the young buds rise up from the soil. But time always demands a payment for the pleasures we borrow from it. We cannot enjoy the new life of spring without the promise of autumnal decline and death.

I'd like to write to you on the topic of dualism.

Dualism, of course, is among the ur-themes in world literature. Light and darkness. Life and death. Aedra and Daedra. Man and woman. Each half of the pair equally complimenting each other, and, in a way, properly defining each other. When examining the world through the dualist lens, phenomena can only be properly understood by contrasting them to what they are not. This is as true in a reading of The Sea of Ghosts as it is in any other story.

Gaea Artoria's chapter here lies in stark contrast to the prior chapters centering around Saenus Lusius. Most obviously, Gaea's characterization is necessarily different, a fiercely choleric rather than detached and melancholic viewpoint. But the dualism works on more layers as well. Saenus' prior chapters primarily serve to build a tone, while Gaea's chapter revisits the plot and cast. Saenus cannot communicate with Tonas despite his wishes, but Gaea engages an extended though reluctant dialogue with Rulician. Gaea sincerely misses her friends, while Saenus' feelings are more ambiguous. I cannot say how clearly these contrasts worked when originally serialized, but the effect was quite noticeable to me while consulting the manuscript.

I believe Townway here is planting a seed in the reader's mind, to encourage them to internalize the dualisitic nature that lies at the core of the story, and of the world. Because while Gaea and Saenus are an initial and obvious example of dualism in the story, there are many others. The guardsmen and the enemy. The dream world and the waking world. Tamriel and [REDACTED]. And, of course, all of the inscrutable shadow-concepts that we, as morals, cannot hope to comprehend, and can only loosely grasp by noticing their dualistic parallels.

Always keep these pairs in mind as you review future dossiers. They are fundamental, not just to the mere themes and plot of the story, but to the deeper message encrypted into the text. For if we do not pay them heed, our rivals certainly will.

But enough of such grave thoughts. I do hope you've been staying well, and not working yourself entirely to the bone. As always, give my warmest regards to H—, as well as to the entire family. I eagerly await our next meeting, and until then, may Hearthfire warm us all.

With love,

G—