Notes: Well. I'm sorry to say that in the time since I started it, Morrowind Live has lost all interest to me. There will be no more chapters, and it will never be finished.

So, in apology, I'll post the various incarnations of what would have happened, had I continued.

"Blah," I announced, flopping onto my bed – finally, a bed after a week of sleeping on the floor!

After I had helped Ceras take Night to the room they where renting, I went in search of the man who rented out rooms – only to find that the "real" people had rented all three of them. Damn them.

So, I headed back to the room that Night was happily snoring away in. Ceras offered me the floor, and as Srath still had my money, I had to accept. There was no way in hell I was going to try to find somewhere to stay that late at night.

After a night spent tossing and turning (never attempt to sleep on a floor when the closest you've come to sleeping on such a surface, even camping, is a tent trailer), I got woken by Night squealing, and then groaning and moaning about her hangover.

Having never gotten a chance to get a handover, I had little sympathy.

Anyway, the next few days had a schedule – Night went out adventuring after her hangover wore off (I sometimes tagged along), Ceras spent time at the Mage's Guild (where I got bored the first time I went), and Srath went to flirt with the guard over at Fort Moonmoth.

On the fifth day, I was wandering down one of the streets on the opposite side of the river from the Corner Club, where I noticed a small building squashed between the Mage's and Fighter's Guilds. Huh, that's not in the game… I thought as I wandered over to it.

The knob turned smoothly in my hand, and I walked into heaven.

"Books!" I squealed joyfully, a large grin growing on my face.

"Ah, welcome, miss," came a quivery old voice from around one of the bookcases. I followed it to find an old Breton kneeling by the bottom shelf of a bookcase. "If you're not too busy, could you help me?" he said, shoving a pile of books into my hands.

"Sure," I replied, turning them so I could see the spines. "Is there any order you want them to be put in?"

The old man stretched, and replied that he didn't much mind, as long as it made sense.

That first day I stayed until nearly sunset, shelving books to my standards – who would have known helping out in the library during middle school would be useful? – and the next day, I arrived just after I ate breakfast. The old man – Biranard, as I learned his name was, eagerly accepted my offer of more help, and I put the rest of the bookshelves into order.

"I'm gettin' a bit too old to be running this store," he told me as I worked, gulping from a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy and gesturing broadly. "I woulda stopped, but… my wife and I built it up, and it's all I've got left to remind me of her. After some fool outlander gave her Black-heart, a blight disease," he explained when I gave him a questioning look, "she just faded away."

"Oh…" I said, not really sure what to say. Frowning slightly, I pulled one book off the shelf and looked at the title. The script it was written in wasn't the one that was common here, and looked rather like Melnics from Tales of Eternia. In fact…

I opened the book to a random page, and started to read it out loud. "And thus the Hero did set off, in search of the Trials moste cruel… Three would be the number, one on each world and one between them."

Biranard gestured towards the book. "You can read that, then?"

I looked up. "Yeah," I replied absently, looking down at the book.

"Take it, then."

"What?" My head shot up as I looked at him.

"I can't sell it, because nobody could read what it says.

"You do realize this is all your fault, right, Srath?" I mumbled to him in irritation, crouching against the side of a car. His lips compressed, and then he nodded, but a growl and the screech of claws against metal brought us back to our current predicament.

I guess I should probably explain, huh?

"Oh, come on," I moaned. "Finish up with the god-damned microwave. What are you doing, cooking a turkey?"

"Actually…" Srath said, a grin beginning to grow on his face as he stepped out of the way, "yes, I am."

"Oh, fuck no. I was just kidding!" I stared in disbelief at the small turkey that was rotating on the little spinny-thing. I wondered briefly what it would be called, then dismissed that as unimportant. "Why are you cooking it in the microwave?"

"The oven is broken," he said laconically. I don't even know what that word means. Go me! Haha.

I looked at the turkey, and back down at the microwave pizza box I held. "…Could I borrow some freezer space?" I asked, holding it up. At Srath's nod, I crossed the kitchen to the freezer. "Whoa. Have enough coffee?" Staring at the rows upon rows of dated freezer bags of coffee beans, I could only reflect on how this is what I thought Greg Sanders' freezer would look like – only it would be full of Blue Hawaiian instead of Columbian.

"No. No, I don't think I do. Want to go buy more with me?" I choked down a laugh and teased him back.

"I don't think your latest boy toy would be happy with you spending so much time with me…" Dead silence was his reply. "Srath?" He stood still, looking resolutely at the wall. "Oh, no, he didn't…"

"He did."

"Don't move! I want all the cash you have!"

Naturally, I had to disobey, so I turned to face the speaker. Younger than me, the boy had a desperate look on his pale face. His shaking hands held a gun that seemed too large for him.

I had always wondered how I would react if I was in a store that was being held up - my mind is never quiet, so I always had time to think up the scenarios, script out the dialogue - but like all of the other times, I was totally wrong.

Srath retreated a few steps, raising his hands into the air, but I simply crossed my arms. The boy focused on me when I took a step forward, but then I stopped, staring at him.

"How brave you are," I commened coldly. "You have a gun and everything. Gonna shoot us if we don't obey?"

"Shut you, bitch!" he shouted, aiming at me.

"I wonder," I continued, hoping that my high Speechcraft level applied to real life, "if you'd be so brave if all you had was a knife? If--"

"Shut up!"

"--what you had to do to kill someone wasn't just pull the trigger--"

"I'll shoot you, you bitch!"

"--but to stab, feeling skin resist, and then the feeling of it suddenly giving way--"

"Shut--"

"--the sudden reak of blood, the grating of blade on bone--"

"--up--"

"--their eyes meeting yours, widening with--"

"--shut up--"

"--pain, pulling the knife out, the stain of blood--"

"--shut up!"

"--then the sudden weight as they--"

"Shut up!"

"--collapse against you--"

"Shut up!"

"--eyes dull, mouth open - their bladder releasing--"

"Shut up!"

"--smelling piss, and shit, and blood--"

"Shut up!"

"--would you be that brave?"

The boy's eyes were wider then before, and his shaking hands raised the gun higher.

I stumbled backwards, and I could hear the gunshot echoing in my head. Looking down, I saw torn flesh and blood. Looking back at the boy, I shook my head. "I thought not. Such a pity."

I fell into darkness.

So, again, sorry. I'd rather let people know it was being discontinued than just leaving it, because I hate it when that happens. And I could have deleted it, but I'd rather leave it up, in case people still wanted to read it.

Sorry.