Do I have to put a disclaimer at the top of every chapter? I guess it can't hurt. Morrowind doesn't belong to me, and I'm still waiting for my Vvardenfell Visa application to be processed. Winterbell is technically mine, but she can take care of herself. –[)

Winterbell left Maurrie at a brisk walk that was dangerously close to a jog. Gone were the bright blue skies and fluffy clouds of this morning. The atmosphere was hot and oppressive under a thick layer of cloud that had been pulled across the sky like a soggy woollen blanket. Thunder rumbled ominously in the East, and Winterbell cursed the young woman who had delayed her so.

As Winterbell crossed the foyda a nix hound stirred, and with a grunt, ran at the old Dunmer, its huge feet kicking up clouds of ash. Winterbell did not waste time flailing around with her sword. The nix swiped at her with one of its paws, but Winterbell dodged, and she fearlessly reached out and wrapped her right hand around one of its massive mandibles. With a snarl she summoned her magic. Frost flowed from her hand so powerfully that the nix's carapace cracked, forced apart by shards of ice.

In its death throes, the nix caught Winterbell in her midsection, and she went down, coughing and spluttering, in the dusty ash. Winterbell staggered to her feet, her face and clothes now the same silvery grey as her hair. Wiping the grit out of her eyes and spitting it from between her teeth, she continued on.

She did not give Moonmoth Fort more than a passing glance, her only concern now was to reach the town before the rain hit. As she drew within sight of the Odai River, her spirits rose. Standing before a bridge was stone obelisk, with the word "BALMORA" inscribed on it. Some enterprising person had scratched "Room and Hot Food: Visit the Eight Plates" in-between the official lettering.

Winterbell was thinking that the Eight Plates did indeed sound like a nice prospect, when, with a blinding flash of lightning and an ear-splitting roll of thunder, the heavens opened. Winterbell did not have the energy to run from the deluge. With a cynical "It figures." she trudged across the bridges.

When ash gets wet, it turns to a black, sticky mud, and Winterbell got first-hand experience of this phenomenon. She tried dashing between doorways, but decided that she couldn't possibly get any more cold, wet, and shivery than she already was. She trudged towards a well-lit building emblazoned with "Southwall Cornerclub" with the stoicism of someone who believes that their day cannot get any worse.

Bacola Closcius was not impressed with his latest guest. In poor robes, coughing and shivering, and dripping equal amounts of rainwater and ash-mud on his floor, he had half a mind to toss her out into the rain again. Winterbell blinked in the smoky light, and approached the innkeeper for directions to a certain Caius. She would track mud across more than one Imperial's floor tonight.

Winterbell was all too happy to hand over the, by now rather soggy, Imperial package. Caius spent a couple minutes reading the letter and then looked Winterbell up and down rather curiously.

"This rather unusual letter informs me that I'm to offer you a place in our...ah, organisation. Working for the Emperor, naturally. As long as you can follow orders. Will you follow my orders, Winterbell?"

Winterbell examined the tiny room with distaste; everything about this man was shabby and poor, except for his rather smug attitude. The only thing of any value she could see was a skooma pipe. She drew herself up to her full, if rather unimpressive, height, and with an icy voice replied,

"I thank you for your, doubtlessly generous, offer. However I respectfully decline. The Emperor has caused me more than enough trouble today. Good night to you."

Caius did not seem impressed by her response; with an irritated scowl he told her to get out, to come back only if she was willing to follow his orders. Nose in the air, Winterbell strode out into the storm.

Alone and in an unknown town, Winterbell huddled rather miserably under an awning. Her use of power earlier had made her dizzy, and she knew she wasn't thinking straight, all the buildings looked alike to her. Once again she was racked by coughing, and this drew the attention of an Argonian, who seemed to be out in the storm for no reason other than to enjoy the rain. The Argonian walked slowly up to the mage and offered a clawed hand.

"This scent is new," the Argonian hissed softly, "why is the warm blood out in the rain?"

"I don't have anywhere else to be, really." Winterbell managed between further bouts of coughing.

"You don't sound well. Maybe the warm blood should see a healer at the Temple or the Mage's Guild."

Winterbell's eyes took on a deranged gleam, and she grasped the Argonian's arm hard enough to make her wince, "There's a Mage's Guild here?" she questioned in an urgent, somewhat desperate tone.

The Argonian blinked, and wordlessly pointed to a large building, overlooking the square, in front of which was a large sign that read "Balmora Mage's Guild". The strange old Dunmer winced at her own lack of observation, and with another racking cough headed, rather unsteadily, for the entrance.

"The mages don't usually see customers this...late at night." The Argonian trailed off when it was obvious that mad Dunmer wasn't listening. Shaking her head, the Argonian wandered off into the rain, reflecting that the wizards were going to have a hard time of it.

Ranis Athrys expertly scratched her quill along the paper. She prided herself on her penmanship and on her economy; economy with words, economy with the funds allocated, and, occasionally, economy with the truth. Her reports were, in their own way, works of art, although she doubted anyone bothered to read them.

There was a muffled thump on the door, and it creaked open. Technically it was supposed to be locked when the Mage's Guild wasn't open, but this was soon done away with, as the staff tended to lose their keys with annoying regularity, and not all of them were alteration experts.

Ranis raised an eyebrow bemusedly at the newcomer. Dunmer like herself, the stranger seemed definitely worse for wear. Her gaze was bright, but in a fevered and brittle way, and her frame shook constantly with coughs. She had been in the rain for a while, and sometime before that in ash. Ranis wasn't too worried about her floor: the Mage's Guild had the funds to employ someone to clean once a week or so, an Argonian girl, if Ranis remembered correctly.

Ranis was about to refer the wild-eyed stranger to the Temple, where the healers were far more expert, when she noticed the over-full bag that the stranger had placed on the floor. It was full of alchemical ingredients. Ranis eyed the stranger again, this time from a professional viewpoint. No armour, few weapons, robe and half-mad.

"Are you here to join?" Ranis asked. The stranger stopped coughing, seemed to stop breathing even and stared at Ranis with eyes like hot coals. Then she carefully took off her muddied shoes, and walked forward, barely blinking, until she was practically nose-to-nose with the surprised mage.

"Me? Join the Guild, just like that?"

"We take anyone. If you're no good you can collect ingredients for the rest of your life, we don't care."

"I'll join!" she practically shouted, her face a picture of eagerness and disbelief.

Ranis backed away from the stranger and got the forms, wondering if she'd made a mistake. She handed the stranger her quill, and watched as she wrote in flowing script "Winterbell, Metamage".

"Metamage?"

"I don't fit any of the usual categories, so I made my own."

"Well then, welcome to the Guild. You can stay here if you like, and make use of the supply box and-"

Winterbell practically lunged at the supply box, pawing through the scrolls until she found some potions. Like someone dying of thirst she slugged back two of them in quick succession, shuddering as they worked their magic.

She felt the fevered light-headedness leave her as the magic flowed back into her veins. Her coughing subsided and she now realised how tired, aching, cold, and hungry she was. She looked up at the well-dressed Dunmer who had admitted her. Rising to her feet, she bowed low to the mage, and uttered her sincere thanks.

Despite her condition, Winterbell practically floated downstairs, a faint, genuine, smile lighting up her features. Athrys, who seemed to be in charge of the guildhall, had referred her to one of her subordinates, a Kaijit named Ajira, and with her feet still bare, Winterbell padded off in search of her.

The guildhall was quiet except for the bubbling of potions and the scratching of quills. A red-headed Dunmer looked up as Winterbell passed, but his eyes were unfocussed, his attention on the book in front of him.

Ajira was still awake too. She was talking quietly with a high elf over some local brew. Winterbell introduced herself, and Ajira told her that her first duties would be collecting mushrooms. Winterbell looked pleased,

"Oh, I can do that." She said, turning and padding back upstairs.

"No, I didn't mean now." Ajira protested, looking to the high elf, who merely shrugged her shoulders. Winterbell soon returned with her bag, and began fishing through its contents. Ajira looked very pleased,

"Ah, I see you travel well, Winterbell. It's always good to see a fellow alchemist."

"I'm afraid I'm not very good, ingredients were always so expensive in the Imperial Capital."

When Winterbell produced the required mushrooms, Ajira was so pleased she promoted the Dunmer on the spot.

"You've had a long day, haven't you," she said sympathetically, "Here, dry off your hair, and you can borrow one of my robes, you can't stand around in that."

Somewhat dryer and a lot warmer, Winterbell took a seat. Ajira busied herself with her new mushrooms, but the high elf produced some food and drink and introduced herself as Estirdalin. As Winterbell wolfed down bread and scrib jelly, Estirdalin leant forward with the eager gaze of a professional gossip, and filled the newcomer in on the doings of her fellow guild members.

"Ajira and Galbedir have been at each others throats for weeks. Athrys encourages them; I think she likes to watch the competition. Sharn is friendly enough, she's always complaining about her 'projects' whatever they may be, but just ignore that. That over there is Marayn Dren, he's-"

"Dren?" mumbled Winterbell through a mouthful of food.

"Ah yes," Estirdalin looked pleased, "even an outlander such as yourself has heard of that name. His brother is the Duke, his family is very big in house Hlaalu. From what I hear, he's a bit of a black guar. If he wasn't the youngest son and indulged a bit, they never would have let him become a mage. They still think we're a bit iffy, even though they know full well how we feel about Telvanni."
Winterbell looked amused, "Two wizarding factions on the island and they're at each other's throats. Why am I not surprised."
"Enough about us, tell me about yourself." Estirdalin urged.
"I'm from the Cyrodil, this morning I was in Seyda Neen, I've been helping lovestruck idiots all day and there was a nix..." Winterbell trailed off, her head sinking lower until it rested on the table.
"Are..are you all right?"
Winterbell didn't answer, although she did start snoring softly. Marayn looked up from his book,
"What have you done to her, Estir?"
"Nothing, I swear. She just fell asleep after half a glass of sujamma."
"After half an hour of your gossiping, more likely," he stood and walked over to the sonnibulant elf, "we should get her into a bed, we can't leave her here."
He bent down and tried to get the sleeping Dunmer to move, "Come on, it's only a few feet."
"She said she was in Seyda Neen this morning."
"No wonder she's exhausted, she doesn't look well enough to be trekking across the countryside, put your arm around..."
Winterbell muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a frost incantation, but did not wake up. Marayn eventually half dragged, half carried her to a bed.

Ranis strolled in, a sheaf of papers in her hands, "I see you've met our newest recruit. She's interesting, isn't she?"