Amid the foreign and bewilderingly verdant landscape of Gorne, Cyrodiil seemed like a mundane, far-off dream. Whitewashed rocks, pearly and precipitous, lined the edges of the isle like protective teeth rumored to be as treacherous as the fangs of the isle's Striped Wolf, a once-endemic species which had since become a decidedly rare sight on Gorne these days, given the industrious spirit of the Sandils who led hunting competitions during which the whole village was wont to participate, as well as there being a limited amount of space in which the wolves could hide before their presence was inevitably snuffed out. Despite their ever-dwindling numbers, these fierce, rugged creatures had been adopted (with no small degree of pride) by the Sandil family as one of the few symbols unique solely to Sandil House, though banner-houses having symbols of their own was a relatively discontinued trend by the dawn of the Third Era. Despite the glory of the isle's jaws in the daylight, rumor suggested that many a mer had lost their lives on account of tarrying too close to those rocks. They were, in Neht's mind, a thing best admired from afar.

By now, Sandil House found itself wanting for company. Its chief inhabitant was a grim and stately spectre of a mer who happened to be Neht's maternal grandfather, Ranalith Sandil, along with two of his uncle Alveth's young children; twins, a boy-child by the name of Ienas and a girl-child called Lilth. Alveth had officially been named Lord of Gorne, since Ranalith had retired some years before (at least, that is what the public was made to believe, though he'd confided to Neht over a glass of flin that he regularly had to exercise his leverage over the other Indoril councilors for the sake of helping Alveth navigate out of the occasional mishap) meaning that he was often away on business in Mournhold, where he effectively dwelt, leaving the servants (along with Ranalith himself, at times) to tend to the children. They scarcely knew their father, having been robbed of their mother at childbirth-a sentiment not unfamiliar to their cousin.

For Neht, twins' presence made Sandil House feel a bit more at home. When the sky didn't see fit to pelt the island with its grey and incessant weepings, the children often played outdoors. However, when the weather made them resign themselves to indoor entertainment, Neht came to enjoy his status as the new favourite toy. He did not protest as they boisterously shambled into his lap, proudly proclaiming in Dunmeris that he was the tallest tree in all of Morrowind before demanding that he regale them with tales of his exploits in Cyrodiil-a place that, for those having stayed on Gorne for the entirety of their meager years thus far, must've seemed quite exotic indeed. Naturally, he failed to mention his less-than-meritorious deeds, not wanting to spoil the mood nor risk tarnishing whatever image of him the children had mo doubt constructed in their minds. They were surprisingly easygoing, and not at all what Neht expected from a noblemer's children. If there came signs of either of the two becoming ill-tempered or quarrelsome, the situation was easily remedied when the two became easily distracted by Neht dangling a pair of toy guar in front of them.

All around him the steady, roseate gleam of the furniture bathed in lantern light seemed to promise that things might remain peaceful, and otherwise untroubled by the whims of time. The spicy, earthen aroma of bittergreen occasionally wafted in from the green-tinged stained glass windows, and there was something about that scent that refreshed Neht's mind, enabling him to renew his assiduity whenever his concentration threatened to wane, as so often it did when he found himself hitting a particularly dull patch whilst reading about his family's history. Engrossed in these long-ago accounts of his kin's heroic exploits, Neht could envision the armored feet of his ancestors flying across the ash wastes just as the Daedric script seemed to spill across the page, feeding his otherwise indefatigable curiosity-embellished tales of sword-blades, bloodied and keen, held aloft in glory alongside gilt standards before the promise of a sea of splendours conveyed a far more appetizing account of what Neht somehow knew to be grueling drudgery for those who had actually been present.

Life on Gorne was as the boatman who'd ferried Neht across the water to the island in question had said: peaceful, unchanging. The vast majority of people he encountered on the island had been there for generations, and the Sandils were certainly no exception. Initially, Neht had arrived on the island knowing very little of his family, aside from his name and his mother's name. Merciful, he'd been told, were the hands of his family as they'd received him; every soul that dwelt on the island behaving as if they were doing Neht an inscrutably generous favor by forgetting his Cyrodilic upbringing, as if it was some sort of crime, and as if he had any control over where and how he'd been born. This sentiment that the Indorils were good for taking him in was not entirely unfamiliar.

Both Neht's grandsire and the books he'd borrowed from the Sandil chapel library informed him that charity and leadership were defining aspects of House Indoril-and of the Tribunal; the three living gods who held in love both their passive and active vigils over the land and the welfare of the Dunmer people-or at least, that is what he was told, and what all of the Temple's maxims either attested to. For his part, Neht hoped that these three were, as the Temple so zealously confirmed, simply doing their job to protect the people. Moreover, he had no reason to doubt it.

Armed with his mother's signet ring (which was an item of interest all on its own), crested with the ascendant winged sigil, which was the seal of House Indoril, Neht had been advised on one afternoon to read a book on the ring and its history. He had, for his trouble, been allowed to keep the ring, since its sister rested firmly upon the hand of his uncle Alveth in Mournhold.

The book in question was titled "The Hero of the Indoril", authored by a chap by the name of Elam Indoril. Naturally, the scent of propaganda immediately wafted into Neht's nostrils as he noted the connection between the name of the author and the title of the book. Nevertheless, this presumptuousness had managed to secure a marginal degree of his interest (which had initially been stone-shallow), so Neht opened the book and began to leaf through its contents with a noncommittal grunt.

A few nights before, he'd engrossed himself in the seven-part series called "The Poison Song"; a spine-chilling and fictitious account of the ill-fated rebellion posed by House Dagoth survivors sometime after the Battle of Red Mountain. It was filled to the brim with supposition, and when questioned about it, grandfather Ranalith swiftly denounced the majority of the series as apocryphal; pure (and somewhat vile) supposition. The truthful account, he asserted, was that of Elam Indoril, contained in the book that now found itself 'twixt scarred digits. Ranalith had done well to encourage Neht to read it by promising that he could keep that copy of the book if he wished; and far be it from Neht to refuse, as he was a polite creature by nature (for the most part) and was so seldom given things that some had quietly professed that he wouldn't know how to refuse a gift if it was offered to him.

Canting his head curiously as he settled in his cushioned chair for a good long read, Neht glided his thumb across the first few passages. He began to recite the words aloud, softly, as was his wont:

"General Indoril Triffith is one of the greatest heroes of that most ancient of clans, House Indoril. House Indoril itself was formed by the amalgamation of several clans under the leadership of Lord Nerevar Indoril and Lady Almalexia…."

Neht paused as a shudder ran through his body. He rose from his chair stiffly, moving as though mechanically prompted to fetch his ink and quill on the other side of the room. Giving the apex of the quill a few cursory dips in the inkwell, Neht smiled absentmindedly as he began to draw thick, blotchy lines through the name Nerevar each and every time he saw it. Normally, he wouldn't be so swift to deface a book, even one in his keeping, but there was something about that name that bothered him to the core. "Blessed Boethiah and Almighty Azura, what a godsdamned eyesore," he muttered contemptuously, continuing to read only once he was certain that he'd scribbled the accursed name out enough times.

According to the accounts in this book (and several others), Neht surmised that the majority of the remnants of the "bad house" (whose name had also been conveniently censored from all the material the youth could get his hands on) had been collectively exterminated, having ultimately been deemed to much of a risk to keep around, given that whatever this song was possessed the ability to take control of them, corrupting them and driving them to commit heinous crimes of which many were only vaguely aware. All mentions of this house were carefully swept under the rug of vague, religious euphemisms, making it impossible to tell whether or not its members had truly as villainous as what little tales there were insisted. (There was little source material from which to glean anything to begin with, and since the victors are wont to write history in a manner that paints themselves as exceedingly correct, there was simply no telling. Any and all conflicting accounts that might've originated from the other side were, if they existed, well-hidden indeed.)

After his attentions had migrated to one antiquated book with a red cover (which someone had evidently gone to great lengths to conceal, given that Neht had only managed to find it hidden behind a bevy of other books), he noticed that the inner cover of the book was somewhat loose. Heedless of the unspoken warning resounding in his heart, Neht gently caught the edges of the yellow parchment beneath his hands, peeling it back to reveal at what was hidden beneath. Brittle with age, the parchment tore and fragmented in his hands, causing another piece of folded parchment to fall out. It was evident that the actions of whoever had placed it there were quite deliberate.

He unfolded the folded scrap with great care, not wanting it to fall apart before peering at it. Scrawled somewhat hastily across the surface, somehow not faded enough to prevent it from being ominous in its red-brown color in thick, heavy-handed Daedric script was one word: Vissamu. Beneath that word was a curious illustration that roped in Neht's fascination more swiftly than the most adept of netchimen with the errant among his herds. At first glance, it appeared to be a bug-a rotund, beetle-looking creature: scarab of some sort? Neht couldn't shake the eerie feeling that this was not the first time he'd seen it. He tried rotating the paper, as though he believed that looking at the cursed scarab-sigil at a different angle would somehow provide him with a lease on life. It didn't. The more he gazed at that portentous beetle, the more his eyes were drawn to its center. What was arguably the focal point of that spurned symbol seemed to be a horned, devil-like figure standing, pensive yet untroubled at its core, as though to proudly announce its numinous, crimson presence to the world - or perhaps this existed only in the fancy of a now mildly disgruntled swordsmer.

Needless to say, the evening and its peaceful aura had been hideously spoiled by this vicissitude, made worse still by the realization that it had all been a product of his own passion and curiosity.

The sudden rattle of a tree branch against a frosted glass windowpane made Neht nearly leap out of his skin before he noticed that the last remnants daylight had since leeched away. Without bothering to divest himself of his robes, Neht found himself slamming the tome shut before facing his bed and sinking into it dutifully, blinking repeatedly as he buried his face in the pillow, as if he believed that his close proximity to its silken, magenta casing might erase that image of that infernal sigil from his mind, though he felt that the beetle had somehow peeled itself from its parchment-and-ink prison and multiplied somewhere beyond his perception, crawling rampantly through all his thoughts thereafter.

The next morning, Neht awoke, exhausted, as if he'd been running for miles nonstop. Peering over the edge of the bed, he noted that his shoes were nearby - not at all where he recalled leaving them, with fresh traces of soil and early dew marking their soles.