Bells at the mast of the ship rang out to tell the hour. Lusius' mind was still too clouded with sleep to count them reliably in order to make out what time of the morning it could be. The sun wasn't even threatening to rise yet. He had been woken, as all non-commissioned officers had been, to rise early and begin preparations for landfall. After weeks at sea, passing countless rocks and crags, this island would be the island. He felt a mixture of relief and apprehension, muddled into a blend of emotion that he pushed to the back of his mind in order to focus on the task at hand.

Before him, lit by an orange harvest moon hanging low in the sky, was an obscured island. It was hard to make out any detail from this distance: a fine layer of fog lay over it like a burial shroud. Still, he could see the twisted fungal trees of Morrowind breaking through the mists, and the saw-like teeth of a jagged ridge tearing at the horizon. And, of course, the tower that was Ald Redaynia itself.

Tower would not the first word a Colovian would use to describe the structure. The towers of his youth were sweeping chapel steeples and vigilant watchtowers. Tall for the sake of height itself, rising like pillars to hold the sky. They were forthright and rigid in their construction. Ald Redaynia, however, was a native Dunmeri building. He had read enough to know it was properly called a tower, even if he didn't really feel it in his bones.

It was a sloping building, not too dissimilar from a mixing bowl placed on its rim. Adobe, most likely. Very little else could be made out in the moonlight, save the smoldering red glows burning deep within its windows. Lusius had heard of these kinds of Velothi towers from travelers, but had never been far enough east to see one with his own eyes. They were rare, in that regard. The Dunmer didn't build many of them anymore, and especially not this far north. Yes, this was a very, very old building indeed. That Lusius did feel in his bones, even from this far away.

Pulling himself away from the island, the ship itself was alive with activity, with both the soldiers and the sailors moving with urgency. At the bow, near the bells, stood Imsin, her back turned to him, staring out to sea. Hrisskar was yelling orders to an officer who technically outranked him; his commands were headed. Many faces Lusius recognized yet did not know. Her. Gaea was absent, and as she was merely an enlisted trooper, likely still asleep.

It was then he realized that no one was preparing a jetty or launch. Were they to dock? Where? Lusius looked back out across the waves to the moonlit isle. Something was on the shore, looking like barnacles on a whale at this distance. Might be reeds. Might be a town. It was hard to believe they'd have the capacity to house a ship this size, but there wasn't another answer at hand.

"There's a dock, of course," said a voice to his side, "Strong enough to unload on without the cargo breaking through into the sea."

Lusius gave a start and looked to his side. A guardsman, likely Imperial, his face obscured by the night. "Of course," Lusius said, trying to make out his features, "I had been—"

"But we'll need to find somewhere else to depart, eventually," said the man, "It's not going to exist for much longer."

Lusius had no immediate reply. The words were unnatural, crafted to confuse and deceive. And yet, how could have even known what was on his mind? Lusius' narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but before he could interrogate the man another voice called out from the crowd. "Oi, Saenus!"

Lusius looked over his shoulder to see Gaea weave her towards him around two porters, her normally ponytailed hair now a disheveled mane. He looked to his side again, but the man he was speaking too was gone, merged back into the mass of nameless soldiers he worked with. Lusius frowned as he returned his attention to Gaea, who was stretching the sleep out her arms as she approached. "Good evening, Gaea," said Lusius, his voice forced.

"Good morning, more like," Gaea said, covering her mouth to offset an oncoming yawn, "You tired too? Seem a bit stiff."

"Not so much," said Lusius with a shake of his head, "Forgive me. I had a very strange conversation."

Gaea's eyes flashed in recognition, "Yeah, no doubt," she said, "He's a weird one, isn't he?"

Lusius raised his brows in surprise. "You know the man?"

"Oh yeah, sure. Well, sort of. We played dice just a couple days back. Odd duck. Liked to talk all complicated and dramatic—like a villain in a play or something."

"Or something," said Lusius, "Did you get his name?"

Gaea's expression was not promising. "He's... well," Gaea said, rubbing the back of her neck, "Y'know. That guy. Old... what's-his-face."

"Gaea."

"Oh, bugger off, Saenus! You know I'm not good with names!" Gaea said, frustrated at him and herself, "But, it started with an 'R', I think. I think. Ah, I don't know! But it's a small garrison, yeah? We won't be able to really miss him."

Lusius wasn't sure that Gaea was right, but he did know that there was nothing in the world that could change a person's nature. Any attempt to push her further would be futile. He shook his head, but before he could return his attention to the moonsoaked island, he noticed Gaea's frustration had abruptly given way to a near mischievous smile. He did not return the expression. "But hey, it's the big day isn't it?" she said.

The 'big day'. Their arrival. "It is. We should finish preparations to land."

Gaea looked at him as though he were speaking nonsense. "Wait, land? No, not work. I'm talking about your birthday, Saenus! Speaking of which—" she said, going to her satchel, first eagerly, then increasingly mortified, "Oh, hells, I left it in my room, hold on one moment—"

She scampered off belowdecks, more focused on recovering some unasked for present than readying herself for Ald Redaynia. Meanwhile, the date struck Lusius, a soft but unexpected blow. His birthday? Yes, he supposed it was his birthday.

He had hoped that as he grew older that he could ignore these days. Birthdays would come and go, drifting into the noise of life, halfheeded milestones on the long path to the grave. But that was not meant to be. His birthday was different. There could be no coincidence that today, on the anniversary of those twelve bad stars that preceded his birth, would the day he would make Landfall.

An important day indeed. A man's second birth is always more consequential than his first.

Dear T—,

Does it seem funny to you that while I love to lose myself exploring new worlds in a good book, I'm not at all fond of traveling outside the realm of pages? I always feel nauseated when I take a boat or even a carriage for too long, and I find that sleeping in a bed that is not my own is now unsettling enough for me that I spend half the night tossing and turning. It's different enough to disrupt my routine, but similar enough that my mind grasps back for the familiar, all in vain. Perhaps I can relate to our ill-fated cast in the Sea of Ghosts, leaving their predictable world behind them and venturing into the surreal.

I jest. At least a little. I am not so self-involved that I would compare the troubles of leaving my lodge for a work meeting to a descent into the inexplicable.

So yes, I did meet with L— and X— at the safehouse to divide the labor for the next round of work. What was decided will hardly come as a surprise. L— will handle the historical and geographical review of Ald Redaynia specifically, and that land once known as Sheogorad more generally. X— is quite excited to examine the daedric angle, although the names and terms he used were not the typical ones I am familiar with, so the actual details of his work I find quite inscrutable. And as for me, I shall continue my literary analysis, be it textual or contextual. L— was, predictably, not pleased. He thinks this analysis is worthless, and a distraction from a proper, materialist-focused review of the text. I disagree with him that my efforts are irrelevant. I assume you disagree, too. Why else would you have hired me?

So, in the spirit of my role, let's consider birthsigns.

Saenus' birthday is brought up, in part, to draw attention to the "twelve bad stars" that portended his birth. From that, we can determine, in this story at any rate, that Saenus was born under a certain sign. Given the count and the time of year, that sign is almost certainly the Tower.

The Tower has numerous associations, of course. The canonical coverage in The Firmament emphasizes a handiness with locks and a knack for finding gold, which is a good starting point in understanding Saenus, although I would take neither too literally. Saenus is 'locked' in a great many ways: shackled to Mundus and to his destiny. In many stories, the reader intuits that a protagonist will find a 'key' to undo these locks and arrive at a satisfying conclusion (be it through a heroic journey, personal growth, etc.). But the Tower destroys locks without every finding these keys. The very freedom it offers seems in a way unnatural or abrupt. And yet the vehicle of these changes is, if my theory is correct, already revealed to us.

When I discussed this with X— he became very agitated, but not in a literary sense. I understand that Towers have great metaphysical importance in certain schools than I have no background in. That, and figures being born under certain signs is suspiciously well documented in the Blades' archives. But I will leave those avenues of research to L— and X—.

Finally, the talk of a 'second birth' troubles me. It seems a bit inelegant in its use, and yet very deliberate. It would be easier for everyone if it were simply a metaphor, but it would be dishonest for me to deny that it has some sort of esoteric use.

I hate to end on such a dour note. Too much travel must have made me very irritable indeed. Please, give my best to H—, and be sure to pass on my good wishes to the family as well. Once I've regained my colour, perhaps I'll brave the roads again down to the Niben. It'd be lovely this time of year. But I doubt you'd have time to enjoy the season. Please don't work too hard—and stay safe.

With love,

G—