Morrowind is owned by Bethesda Softworks, not me. That being said, Winterbell is owned by me, although I have no idea why anyone would want to borrow her. Enjoy - [)

The guard wondered vaguely why the empire had bothered to ship such a poor specimen out to Morrowind, but it was not his place to question orders. The Dunmer woman was grimy from weeks spend in the ship's filthy hold and her long iron grey hair was greasy and unkempt. Despite the fact her ragged clothes hung on her thin frame, she carried herself like a queen, an expression of distaste etched upon her aged face.

As she stepped off the gangplank her thin frame was racked by a fit of coughing, and she had to steady herself on one of the wooden posts. The guard offered her his arm, but she refused it, straightened and strode to the Customs and Exercise office.

She claimed that her name was Winterbell, and that she was a metamage, although she did not elabourate on what that might mean. When asked her star sign, her glowing red eyes narrowed and she spat,
"The Atronach."

As soon as she got her papers she strode out, taking revengeful amusement in relieving the officer of every piece of silverware he owned. Outside, in the town square a wood elf was whining to anyone who would stop to listen about his missing ring. Winterbell swished past him without a second glance, the ring in her pocket.

With her meager coinage she purchased a pauper's robe, several spells and a bow with arrows, looking regretfully at the scrolls. In the afternoon sunlight she took one last look around then turned her steps toward Balmora. She wouldn't get very far.

Winterbell walked slowly, picking mushrooms and ferns. With a grimace, she even waded into stagnant pools to collect luminous aquatic plants, reasoning that another layer of dirt wouldn't hurt.

As smugglers go, they weren't very successful. The local constabulary had been duly bought off, but the proximity of the Customs and Exercise complex meant that most of the smuggler's ships headed further north, where the pools and caves of the Bitter Coast hid a multitude of crimes, and the Cammona Tong kept things running smoothly.

The smuggler sat, watching the small fire and thinking about the sweet sugar she hoped she had hidden successfully from her colleagues. She was brought out of her reverie by the sound of the door closing. The young Dunmer stood, peering into the shadows at the back of the cave. She heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the hard stone floor and drew her dagger.

The young smuggler saw an old Dunmer woman, armed only with a bow, trying unsuccessfully to wring swamp water out of the hem of her robe. An easy kill, thought the smuggler, who liked the idea of a new bow.
"It was your last mistake coming in here!" she jeered, and ran at the old woman.

The old woman did not try to run, nor did she reach for her bow. Instead she merely tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear. And waited.

As the smuggler brought her arm up to strike, a thousand icy needles of pain washed over her chest and face. She screamed and her swing went wild. Winterbell's hands moved silently through the air, trailing frosty blue magic. The sparks lit up her face and her gleaming red eyes.

The last thing the smuggler saw was Winterbell's cold, grim smile, and the last thing she heard was the quiet mumbling of magical incantations; fitfully, above her own screaming.

Winterbell went through that cave like a typhoon, flakes of frost searing skin and tearing flesh. She threw a couple keys at some slaves, who ran like the wind from this grim executioner. Within an hour, the cave was Winterbell's.

Winterbell sank to her knees, coughing up bright red blood and shivering. With trembling hands she found the ring and drew on its healing magic again and again, until the metal band was lifeless and dull.

She staggered to her feet, and reeled, grasping at the wall for support. She dragged herself to a bedroll and collapsed into it, sparks flashing behind her eyelids.

Winterbell awoke feeling flat and drained. She stumbled around sleepily, gnawing on bread until she had induced sufficient interest in life to examine the cave more closely.

The pools of water, she discovered, were cold but fresh, and she shiveringly washed off the grime from her journey, and did the best she could with her hair without soap. There is nothing like an icy bath to encourage moving around and warming up, and Winterbell methodically went through the smugglers' stores, carefully separating that which she wanted to keep, and that which she planned to sell.

Her arms and pack loaded with goods, she staggered back into town, and dumped an armload of potions, weapons and armor onto Arrill's counter. She stood there catching her breath and wheezing a bit as he appraised her items.

With her unexpected windfall Winterbell purchased an iron longsword. It was cold and heavy in her hand, and she didn't really know how to use it, but she felt strangely low pressure this morning, and she decided it would be unwise to rely on her magic. She had been extravagant in her use of power, and now she paid the price.

She also bought a couple of the scrolls that she had so coveted the day before. Running her hand reverently over the magical script, she marveled at one of the few forms of magic that she had no talent in.

Once again she started out for Balmora, this time vowing not to enter any strange caves. The journey was, for the most part, pleasant enough. The sky was a deep blue and a gentle breeze blew from the south-east. Winterbell methodically collected ingredients, and added them to her increasingly heavy bag.

There were a few wild animals, some of them hostile, but Winter managed to avoid using her magic, inexpertly wielding her new sword and bow, and utilizing the ring after every fight.

By noon Winterbell's legs were starting to ache, and her pack was heavy on her back. However, the aging dark elf was in luck, for she arrived at the pleasant provincial town of Pelagiad around lunchtime. The local innkeeper was taking full advantage of the warm weather, and had set up several tables outside under a nearby tree.

Winterbell sat in the dappled sunshine and ordered her first proper meal since arriving on the island, hound steak with mushroom sauce and lots of bread. She breathed deep of the fresh clean air, so unlike the smog of the Imperial City, and decided that, while this place was far more dangerous than her previous home, it was also far more pleasant.

She was tempted to stay for a day or two in Pelagiad, maybe explore the large lakes that her waitress had claimed were really worth visiting, but the small package tied to her waist reminded her of more serious matters. She frowned and examined object more closely. It was obviously a packet of papers, the wrapping secured with the Emperor's seal in blood red wax. She ran her fingers over it, viscerally certain that no good news was contained within. She resolved to rid herself of it as soon as possible, and so, rather regretfully, she paid her bill and left, reminding herself to come back someday when she had more time.

The girl was far too young, and far too wealthy to be out on her own. Her rich clothes made Winterbell feel distinctly shabby, and she would have strode past, aching back or no aching back, if it weren't for her piteous expression and desperate tone of voice.

Winterbell eased herself onto the grassy bank, and idly pulled the petals off a willow anther as she listened to the poor girl's story. She was not in the least surprised to learn the young noblewoman was a victim of robbery. She was surprised, however, to learn that she was more distressed by the loss of the robber than the loss of her jewels. She begged the old Dunmer to help her find her crush, however Winterbell was not impressed,
"You should be grateful that he left you with your honour and your throat intact, not seeking more punishment."
"Oh surely you remember what it was like to be young."
"All too clearly," said Winterbell rather sourly.
The young Breton was sharp enough to realize she'd touched upon a sore point, and tried a different tack,
"If this love is a mistake, it will be my mistake, not my father's. I would rather die an old maid, dishonoured by a bandit, than agree to marry whatever fat merchant's son he picks out for me."
Winterbell looked rather more approving,
"If you think you can handle it, on your own head be it. I do happen to remember there was a Dunmer hanging around the place I had lunch. He might be this Nelos you are so keen to find."
"Oh you are too kind, please, give him this token of my affection."
"I'm sure he has more than a couple of your tokens already." said Winterbell wryly, but with good humor.

Leaving her bag at Maurrie's feet, Winterbell made good time back to Pelagiad. The rather tough looking Dunmer did indeed turn out to be Nelos, and Winterbell was heartened by the fact that he seemed to touched by the gesture. Whatever was in the note he wrote to Maurrie, it was enough to make the girl practically sob with joy.

She threw her arms around Winterbell, who smiled awkwardly, and rather gracelessly disentangled herself. She hefted her bag and cast a worried eye over a clouding sky,
"I'd better be going, I have to make Balmora by nightfall."
"Please do take care then, maybe you should meet my friend Barnand-"
Winterbell held up her hand, "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm a bit old for that sort of thing."
"Nonsense, if I can find love I'm sure someone as nice as you can as well. You just have to open your heart." Maurrie declared, her eyes shining.
Winterbell shook her head, and with a scowl that kept threatening to twist into a smile, she set off for Balmora.
"She thinks I'm nice. This island really is full of the strangest people."