Chapter 10: The Oblivion Crisis
Frostcrag Spire...
24 Frost Fall, 4E21
"The most challenging enemy we face is self-doubt," Aywin said, pausing from her reading and walking about the tower.
"You were outmatched, I should say the greatest enemy would be the daedra themselves," Said the Bosmer matter-of-factly.
"That is true. Men are numbered, but the immortals are numberless," Aywin explained. "We had forces numbering in the hundreds, and with no Emperor to light the Dragonfires, hope was all but lost."
Aywin reached for yet another map, however this one had been neatly rolled up and set aside. It seemed as though this was not a visual aid she relished the sight of. Unfurling the map on a nearby table, the men gathered around her again. This map was blotted with dozens of black X marks. A few of the X's, most notably the ones nearby the major cities of Cyrodiil, had a circle around them.
"These are all the Oblivion Gates that have been discovered within the Imperium alone. Even though the Oblivion Crisis was over, we were finding the remains of them for several years. Just as a severe enough burn can leave a scar on the body, so it is with Tamriel. The mark of such an evil power can never be fully wiped clean. We find them in the most unusual places, but not a single one placed at random. Each of them strategically significant. Had Mehrunes Dagon been able to unleash his full wrath upon Tamriel, there would be no resistance, only complete and utter annihilation."
"What are the significance of the circled ones?" The Nord asked.
"These are the gates that were closed by us. The others simply closed after the work was done. It was a costly victory, very hard won. But as you can see from this map, it would have been worth almost any price. The siege of Kvatch was only the beginning. What I am about to tell you now is the true heart of the Oblivion Crisis."
Chorrol, Mage's Guild...
8 Hearthfire 3E433
Alessia's journey took her most of the evening. Cloud Top was quite accurately named as the ruins stood atop an enormous hill; in truth more of a small mountain. The slope of the hill was far too steep to climb proper which led her to taking the long way around, through a series of switchbacks.
The moon hung overhead for several hours and Cloud Top seemed to be growing no closer. The sound of crickets and the nearby stream echoed through her already swimming head, and she was finally forced to submit to sleep.
Taking shelter in the remnants of an old camp site, she set up a makeshift tent from a large cloth that had been left behind. She had not expected the journey to take quite so long, or she would have packed more adequately. The scent of the mountain lillies were carried along in the chilly autumn wind. Summer was over. She cast a quick spell of awareness, and confirming that there were no other humans in the nearby forest, she settled down to sleep.
She awoke to the sound of hoof beats on the nearby road. As she rolled out of the tent she saw a small detachment of Imperial soldiers riding swiftly southeast towards the Imperial city. One of the soldiers noticed Alessia and stopped.
"How fares it?" Alessia asked politely.
"The Imperium is recalling all of its expeditionary forces. We have heard that the Emperor was killed and now Kvatch," the soldier replied.
"Yes, I'm afraid it's all true," Alessia nodded.
"If that is true then the roads are no longer safe. If you wish we can escort you back to Chorrol," the soldier offered.
"I still have a ways to go. I'm on a mission for the Mage's Guild."
The soldier nodded. "If you insist, but please be careful."
He returned to his place in the formation as the rest of the army passed by her campsite. Alessia couldn't help but feel a little annoyed. Certainly a few things had gone wrong on her journey, but she was a Mage. She was capable of taking care of herself. And yet every single person whom she had met on her pilgrimage treated her as though she were frail or delicate.
She gathered up her belongings and continued her hike up the mountain path. Once she completed this last objective, things would be different. She would be a proper member of the Guild. Her life would change forever. And no one would ever think of her as weak ever again.
She finally reached Cloud Top around midday. The remnant was of once had been perhaps a single domed structure, stripped down to the columns. A single pillar stood in the center of the ruins. Surrounding the pillar, however, were several scorched corpses, each with hands outstretched towards a book which sat between the two of them. Alessia reached out and took the book. Thumbing through it, each paged seemed to detail more and more illicit pieces of Destruction magic. However even with her background in the runes she could not quite make out what the specifics were.
"I grew tired of waiting for you," Earana said, folding her arms as she appeared from behind one the pillars.
"What are you doing here?" Alessia asked.
"I am about to begin a lesson," She replied. With a wave of her hand the book flew from Alessia's hands to hers.
"Hey!" Alessia shouted, raising her hands.
"I wouldn't if I were you," Earana replied calmly. "The pillar there isn't any ordinary column. It's a beacon for magical energy. It takes any spell you cast at it and returns it tenfold. Wouldn't want you to accidentally hit it and wind up like those poor bastards."
Alessia moved away from the pillar but kept her eye trained on Earana. "So... what happens now?"
"I assume you've been instructed to return this book to the Guild?"
Alessia nodded.
"I will gladly hand it over, once I've taken down a few notes. The spell, Fingers of the Mountain, is a remarkable bit of Destruction magic, you know. And I want it for myself," Earana said. "What about you? Aren't you tired of limiting your potential?"
"Once I return that book my way into the Arcane University will be assured."
"Yes, where you will learn what they permit you to learn and do things that they instruct you to do. Tell me, mage, in all these recommendations that they've sent you on have they actually involved proper magic? Or have they all just been silly little gopher tasks like this?"
Alessia didn't respond. There wasn't a way for her to retain her stance and answer that question truthfully.
Earana shook her head. "Just once, try for a little civil disobedience."
Earana opened the book and glanced through it for a moment while Alessia sat in stunned silence. After a moment, Earana closed the book and then looked back at Alessia.
"I'll tell you what. Allow me to offer you a free lesson, to prove the sincerity of my concern," Earana said.
"You're going to teach me a spell?"
"I am going to teach you the spell. Upon looking through this book, Fingers of the Mountain does not quite live up to its reputation. I have no use for it. For somebody like you, however, it should prove invaluable."
"But I was told-"
"To return the book, which you will. After you have learned the spell."
Alessia folded her arms and Earana sighed.
"Look. Magic is a tool. And to people like us it is the best chance we have to protect ourselves and those we care about. Magic has no morality, only the mage who uses it. Please, trust me."
Alessia supposed there was no other way to go about it. Earana did have a point. She had been nothing but truthful to Alessia up to this point, whereas Teekeus had altered the story to serve his agenda.
"Very well."
"Excellent. Now, focus all of your energy on the pillar. Remember what I said, it will take whatever energy you send at it and return it tenfold. You must concentrate. It's not just enough to send out the lightning bolt from your hands. You must become the lightning. You must surge forth all at once. The current moves swiftly. You are the pillar, and the pillar is you. Each moment is one continuous circuit."
Alessia felt her hands trembling. This was either going to work brilliantly or it was going to destroy her. After this, nobody would be able to call her weak anymore.
"It is not up to you to begin the process. The pillar and you must work in unison. Just keep focusing, and it will come."
A few sparks flew from Alessia's eager hands. She knew the spell. She had cast lightning before, but never under these conditions. She knew if she simply threw the lightning, it would be the end of her. She must remain calm and collected. Just keep concentrating.
"You are the pillar, and the pillar is you. You are the pillar and the pillar is you."
It happened within an instant. The bolts from Alessia's hand crackled through the air as the surge from the pillar flew simultaneously. For several moment's Alessia's body was enveloped with the fury of a lightning bolt. But she was the lightning bolt, and the the lightning bolt was her.
Once the eruption of energy subsided, Alessia collapsed to the ground. At least she didn't cry this time.
"That was remarkable," Earana smiled. "Not just any mage could pull that off."
"I've never done anything like that before."
"You've held yourself back. Magic is about breaking your barriers," Earana said, handing the book back to Alessia. "Just so long as you use it wisely. I'll look forward to seeing your progress."
Alessia wrapped her arms around the book as Earana slowly walked away down the hill. She had done it. She was now, officially, in the Mage's Guild.
Bravil, Waterfront...
10 Hearthfire 3E433
Will's journey from Cheydinhal was not an easy one. The familiar roads were now becoming strange to him as the nearby lands cracked and burned under the influence of the daedra. As he rounded the road to the south of the Imperial City the sky seemed to burn crimson. He looked to nearby hilltop and saw another of the massive Oblivion Gates looming overhead.
He crossed the river to distance himself from the massive portal. He was a simple merchant and things could not have been any more complicated than this year's journey. He had freed Rythe from the magical painting and made a promise to himself that he would never again bother with the myopic machinations of mages.
This was unfortunate, as his next fellow merchant was the alchemist in Bravil, and he would doubtless run into some manner of trouble in dealing with the obstinate fool. Will remembered the shopkeeper, an Altmer by the name of Ungarion, as a reckless individualist who believed his powers at potion-craft to rival the divines. This usually meant he was running out of stock, so his patronage was reliable.
However he did not seem to have a grasp on the concept of "supply and demand" and believed that his work was so important that any merchant would be honored to have his wares be used- at a fraction of their cost, of course. Will vowed to not let this man dominate the conversation, and that Will would remain steadfast at his prices, regardless what was said to try and sway him.
Fortune was not with Will. Upon arriving in Bravil there was a great deal of panic due to the discovery of yet another Oblivion Gate just outside the city walls. This was exactly as it had been in Cheydinhal. And Will knew that it meant business would not be in his favor. All that had to be said was that a merchant was holding back supplies for potion-craft in a crisis until a ransom was paid (or at least that is how a crafty shopkeeper could word it) and Will would find himself bartering with the entire town for his life.
Bravil hitched his cart outside A Warlock's Luck and entered to do business with Ungarion, and as he had feared, Ungarion was up to his usual theatrics.
"Thank goodness you have arrived!" Ungarion cried. "I am in need of some reagents immediately. I have citizens and soldiers alike in need of potions of healing!"
"I am happy to provide, Ungarion," said Will unfazed. "I can trust then that you have the coin we agreed upon?"
"Well, unfortunately business has not been so good," Ungarion began with an innocent smirk. "But you would not refuse the needs of your countrymen over a scant amount of coin?"
Dirty buggering Altmer, Will thought. His glance turned to the few locals who had been sitting in his shop. It wasn't fair. Will's livelihood was beginning to be affected by this crisis. But Ungarion's scheming notwithstanding, Will couldn't exactly refuse.
"No, I suppose I cannot. Pay me what you can to cover my journey and take the supplies you require," Will explained.
Ungarion graciously handed over a pittance of 400 septims, less than half of the cost of the supplies he handed over. Though a great many of the locals were praising Will as a hero of the people, so there was some compensation.
It was about this time that Will heard of the missing man Aleron Loche. One of the women who had settled inside the store was a woman by the name of Ursanne. As Ungarion began crafting potions, with the help of a few of the alchemically talented women, Ursanne began a piteous bit of sobbing.
Will tried to reassure her that everything would be all right and that the soldiers would keep the city safe from the daedra.
"It's not that," she sobbed. "It's my husband, Aleron."
"What of him?" Will asked.
"He's gone missing. He owed a great deal of money to this man, Kurdan. I just know that the bastard has taken advantage of the chaos to get rid of my husband," she sobbed.
"Will is quite strong, you know. I bet you he isn't scared of a little brute like Kurdan," Ungarion said.
"I'm just a humble merchant," Will insisted.
"Who used to work as a bouncer at the Fo'c'sle. Or so you've told me before on our... previous dealings," Ungarion's smile was now uncomfortably wide. "I'm sure you'll have the matter sorted out in no time. Why I'll even give you a potion of strengthening to help with your encounter!"
And so, rather against his will, the humble merchant Will found himself involved in another heroic deed in which he had no stake.
Imperial City, Arena...
10 Hearthfire 3E433
The fires of the arena burned brightly as the sun began to set. The smoke of the burning torches seemed to swallow the arena in the salty miasma of death. The Dunmer was quick with his bow, but Borin was encased in a shell of iron. His warhammer had now tasted the blood of so many opponents, and the Dunmer was next.
"You're tough leatherskin!" The Dunmer mocked. "But my arrows have yet to fail me!"
"Do you always run your mouth when you fight?" Borin laughed as he ducked around a pillar, preparing his hammer for the final fatal blow.
The Dunmer made a predictable leap atop the pillar. All elves loved their high places.
"You're mine!" The Dunmer cried.
Borin turned and with a stroke light lightning, his hammer brought the pillar down. The Dunmer let loose his arrow before gravity overtook him, but it went wild, hitting the arena wall. As the Dunmer lay on the ground attempting to regain his balance, Borin approached him with his hammer lazily resting at his side.
"You fought well. Talos guide your soul," Borin said.
The Dunmer reached for his dagger, but Borin's hammer was faster, crushing his opponent's chest, and what remained of his dwindling life. The Dunmer's final breath was choked out as blood spilled from between his lips.
"And there you have it, spectators!" The announcer cried out. "Borin gro-Kromlock has advanced to the rank of Myrmidon!"
Borin took a bow and then returned to the Bloodworks, carrying his hammer behind him. He still didn't feel good about ending his opponent's lives, but it was much easier knowing the truth of the sport. And the Count of Leyawin had not been wrong. He was quite gifted at it.
Borin set his armor next to his footlocker in the Bloodworks and changed into his casual wear. He had decided that he would take this opportunity to go walk around the city and clear his head.
He went to the Count's Arms to take his midday meal when a strange looking Argonian sat down beside him. The reptile wore the robe of a Mage's Guild associate, but there was something unseemly about him.
"I saw your display in the arena. Most impressive," The Argonian said. He then nodded to the barman. "Talmika Vintage, for my friend and I."
The barman nodded and placed two goblets of wine on the bar before them. The Argonian handed over a small pouch of coin.
"Awfully rich for a member of the Mage's Guild," Borin noted.
"I said nothing of the Mage's Guild," The Argonian replied. "I have come to do business with Faelian and I have been told that you might be familiar with him."
Borin rubbed his chin. He did recall a Faelian. He was an Altmer who had on a few occasions come to see him fight. He often asked Borin out to drink, but Borin had no interest in fans.
"I don't really know the elf," Borin said. "Stringy fellow. Always looked slightly out of place."
"It is perhaps best this way. The elf is fond of Skooma. Who knows what trouble you could have gotten in to," The Argonian asked. "Do you know where I might find him?"
"I'm just an arena fighter. Aren't you asking a bit much. Especially considering you haven't even told me who you are yet?"
"Drink up, Borin gro-Kromlock. Let my offering of wine serve as an introduction. If you do not possess the information I need, then I have no further use for you."
The Argonian stood and left the bar, leaving Borin alone with his wine.
Imperial City, Elven Gardens District…
10 Hearthfire 3E433
The day had so far been a considerable waste of Azeg-Rael's time and energy. He had chased so many false leads in his attempt to find his latest assassination target of Faelian. It was his first assignment directly from Ocheeva and he did not want to disappoint her. More importantly he did not want to disappoint himself.
A chance visit to the Mystic Emporium was the first reliable bit of information he had obtained all day, with the shop owner talking to his assistant about an Altmer who had tried to purchase Moon Sugar from his store. The owner took such a haughty air of offense that Azeg-Rael suspected that he did, in fact, carry the illicit substance used to concoct Skooma, but did not sell to Faelian for reasons that were best known to him. Perhaps Faelian simply did not possess enough coin.
The shop owner went on to mumble about how he would need to have a word with the owner of the Tiber Septim Hotel about Faelian's continued residence there.
Azeg-Rael left the shop and found that night had finally fallen. He removed the uncomfortable Mage's Guild Robe that he had pilfered, leaving him remaining clad in his black armor. He moved silently through the streets on his way to the hotel. A quick, unnoticed vault to the rooftop from the back alley set him right beside the addict's window. He was going about his usual business, which seemed to consist of reading rather bawdy looking novels.
A copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid sat right beside his window.
Azeg-Rael could not have had a better shot. A single arrow through the fool's heart and it would be done. However, this was not the will of Sithis. There was a Captain, Adamus Phillida, who protected the Imperial City from the n'er-do-well lot of the Dark Brotherhood. Every step of the way, they were being watched by this man and his agents. And so a killing in the middle of a hotel would only bring down further suspicion.
Ocheeva had made it abundantly clear that there must be no clarity in this man's death. It must be as though his soul was simply spirited away. There must be no hint of murder, and it must not be public.
He sat outside the man's window for what seemed like an hour, plotting the manner of his demise. Poison seemed the best strategy, but poison could be detected. Furthermore, it would do him best if the corpse was not found in his hotel room. There had to be some way to lead him away from it.
It was then that the addled man began to sing loudly. The favored song of the drunk was, of course, A Less Rude Song. It was known well especially by the elves. But this supposed lowlife began to sing another tune.
Azeg-Rael had heard it once before. It was known as The Song of the Alchemists, and was a song from the ancient lore of the Dwemer, known colloquially as the "dwarves". The song goes like this:
When King Maraneon's alchemist had to leave his station,
after a laboratory experiment that yielded detonation.
The word went out that the king did want, a new servant to mix his potions and brews.
But he declared he would only choose,
a fellow who knew the tricks and the tools.
The king refused to hire on more fools.
After much deliberation, discussion, and debates,
the king picked two well-learned candidates.
Lanthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer,
an ambitious pair,
vied to prove which one was the best.
Said the King, "There will be a test."
They went to a large chamber with herbs, gems, tomes,
pots, measuring cups, all under high crystalline domes.
"Make me a tonic that will make me invisible,"
laughed the king in a tone some would call risible.
So Umphatic Faer and Lanthippus Mintburk began to work, mincing herbs, mashing metal, refining strange oils,
cautiously setting their cauldrons to burbling boils,
each on his own, sending mixing bowls mixing,
sometimes peeking to see what each other was fixing.
After they had worked for nearly three-quarters of an hour,
both Lanthippus Minthurk and Umphatic Faer winked at the other, certain he won.
Said King Maraneon, "Now you must taste the potions you've wraught,
take a spoon and sample it right from your pot."
Minthurk vanished as his lips touched his brew,
but Faer tasted his and remain apparent in view.
"You think you mixed silver, blue
diamonds, and yellow grass!"
The King laughed, "Look up, Faer, up to the ceiling glass.
The light falling makes the ingredients you choose quite different hues."
"What do you get," asked the floating voice, bold,
"of a potion of red diamond, blue grass, and gold ?"
"By [Dwemer God]," said Faer, his face in a wince,
"I've made a potion to fortify my own intelligence."
The song was rarely heard, and more often used for historical purpose than any other. It was not a common bar theme for certain, due to it's unusual rhyming and rather abysmal melody. There was apparently more to this man that one would think.
He then followed this up by play-acting, as if to no one in particular, a scene from A Hypothetical Treachery.
"Logic would dictate that a scheming battlemage would take the potion, leaving the injured party to the mercy of the elements, I suppose!" Called Faelian, reading the line of Malvasian from the play.
The fool had done it. He'd given Azeg-Rael the hint that he required. He knew how to kill this man without anybody ever suspecting him, or the Dark Brotherhood.
He slid down the side of the building and popped into a closed store by means of the back window, from whence he obtained a new disguise, that of a well-to-do merchant. He left the building and returned to the Tiber Septim Hotel.
He snuck into the back window of Faelian's room as his back was turned. Faelian continued to prattle on to himself without taking notice of Azeg-Rael. He had apparently moved on to a discussion of the décor of the room with an imaginary guest.
"Quite fine Cyrodillic furnishings yes, but with a hint of the Aldmeri craftsmanship," Faelian said.
Without doing anything else to make his presence known, Azeg-Rael continued the conversation. "Aye, and the wine is spectacular."
Faelian turned to Azeg-Rael and smirked. He seemed dazed only for a moment, but continued as though nothing else had happened.
"Aye, the wine!" Faelian said. "Talmika Vintage 400. Excellent year."
"But do you not favor Surilie Brothers?"
"Ah, the Surilie Brothers. Yes, an excellent wine."
"Yes, indeed. Mead is piss compared to it."
"Piss indeed!" Faelian said, grabbing a nearby goblet and downing it in a single gulp.
"But perhaps your tastes are more refined yes. A noble lord like yourself is used to the very best, am I right?" Azeg-Rael asked.
"The best in all things!" Faelian replied.
This target was, at one point, a nobleman. All the pieces were coming together now. Undoubtedly the person who had placed the request was doubtless embarrassed by what this relative had become. Well, now was the time to finish the job.
"I've a line on some of the most remarkable Skooma that will ever pass your lordship's lips. But we can't do such a thing here. Surely there is a place you know of?"
"Aye! Lorkmir's house! The old fellow has gone away on holiday, don't you know. Perhaps we should head there now. I would very much like to try this Skooma of yours."
Faelian handed Azeg-Rael a small brass key and pointed out the window to a nearby abandoned looking building. "You fetch the skooma and meet me there!"
"Indeed your lordship," Azeg-Rael nodded.
Azeg-Rael left the hotel by way of the window and made a brief detour to the Mystic Emporium. The store had now closed, but a locked door had not once stopped Azeg-Rael from getting what he needed. After he found his way inside, he looked in the store of alchemical ingredients. Maybe the owner had Moon Sugar, and maybe he didn't. But what he did have was Void Salts, which could be easily mistaken to an uneducated person as Moon Sugar.
Azeg-Rael was not the best alchemist in the world, but he knew well enough to make a simple poison like this. Mixing the void salts with a hint of Spiddal Stick and Nightshade, and the brew looked almost exactly like Skooma. It smelled different, but Faelian was an addict who would likely not bother to stop and smell it.
All that would be left behind would be remnants of something that looked like Moon Sugar, and considering the man's questionable sanity any reasonable person would assume he simply mixed the wrong ingredients together to create the thing he desired most.
He hurried to meet Faelian at Lorkmir's house. His lordship must not be kept waiting.
Leyawin
11 Hearthfire 3E433
Davion would have made it to Leyawin by the 10th of Hearthfire as Modryn had said. Normally a journey across the province by foot took no more than three days, assuming there were no mountains to scale. However, Davion was not able to stick to his path along the road. As he passed by Bravil, he saw yet another Oblivion Gate, like the one he'd seen near Kvatch. This rested on a small spit of land in the middle of the river. It was an effective siege point on the city, and yet with the exception of a few daedric guardians the Gate was bare of soldiers. The Gate stood unwavering, like a great eye that was simply watching. Waiting for a signal to attack.
Davion paid it no mind. He had other business to attend to at the moment. He arrived in Leyawin during the very early morning of the 11th. The sun still had not risen yet. He sought a room at the nearest lodge, The Five Claws. He meant only to get a room for the night, but by unhappy chance, he found himself put right to work.
The three rambunctious Fighter's Guild members whom Davion had been sent to deal with were here, swimming in ale. They were a Redguard, an Orc and an Imperial, and were singing (far too loudly for this time of night) The Warrior's Charge. It is an ancient Redguard poem, the lyrics of which are as follows:
The star sung far-flung tales
Wreathed in the silver of Yokuda fair,
Of a Warrior who, arrayed in hue sails
His charges through the serpent's snare
And the Lord of runes, so bored so soon,
Leaves the ship for an evening's dare,
Perchance to wake, the coiled snake,
To take its shirt of scales to wear
And the Lady East, who e'ery beast,
Asleep or a'prowl can rouse a scare,
Screams as her eye, alight in the sky
A worm no goodly sight can bear
And the mailed Steed, ajoins the deed
Not to be undone from his worthy share,
Rides the night, towards scale bright,
Leaving the seasoned Warrior's care
Then the serpent rose, and made stead to close,
The targets lay plain and there,
But the Warrior's blade the Snake unmade,
And the charges wander no more, they swear
The Innkeeper, a young Argonian woman turned to Davion and hissed. "You're Fighter's Guild. Get them out of here!"
"I'll see what I can do," Davion replied.
He approached the Imperial who seemed to be leading the lot in their revelry.
"Fine tune," Davion said. "But I'm afraid I've been sent here under orders from Modryn Oreyn."
"Oh," the Imperial said taking a bite from a leg of lamb. "And is Modryn Oreyn going to give us jobs?"
"What's this?" Davion asked, leaning on the table.
"It's been weeks since we've had any work," the Orc grunted. "I joined to make money, but how can we when the Blackwood Company steals every bounty!"
There was that name again: Blackwood Company. Modryn had mentioned it before he sent Davion on his way.
"I gather they are a mercenary group?" Davion asked.
"By Mephala," The Redguard said, lifting his head up to look at Davion. He was younger by at least ten years than Davion. "You don't know who the Blackwood Company are? You really are from Chorrol."
"Aye," The Imperial nodded. "They're a mercenary company of the worst sort. They do any job that pays with no sense of honor or code of chivalry. They do stuff that the Fighter's Guild wouldn't dream of touching."
"More in common with the Dark Brotherhood than us," the Orc added.
"And that's all well and good, until they started taking our jobs from us. Undercut us by a few coin here and there just to make sure we're no competition," The Redguard finished.
"Can anything be done about them?" Davion asked.
"We've been told not to engage them. That order suits us well enough," The Imperial said. "We don't want to start a mercenary war, but we need jobs."
"And if I can find you gentlemen jobs will you leave these poor people be and stop causing so much mayhem?" Davion asked.
"Of course," The Orc said. "If you can find us work."
"There's an Oblivion Gate that appeared just outside Bravil," Davion began.
The men stopped drinking and turned to give Davion their full attention.
"An Oblivion Gate? By the Nine..." The Imperial said.
"You mean like the one that ruined Kvatch?" The Redguard asked.
"The very same," Davion replied. "And I'd be willing to bet there's one near Leyawin as well."
"I wonder what the city would pay us to keep the daedra outside the gates?" The Orc said, lifting his axe.
"Probably quite a bit. And it'd be a chance to show up the Blackwood Company," Davion said. "Fighter's Guild back down from no fight."
"Men!" The Imperial announced, standing up and slamming his hands down on the table. "We go to patrol the city walls. Any daedra we find, we cut them down where they stand!"
"Aye!" The men nodded.
The three warriors left the tavern and the Argonian innkeeper muttered a few words of thanks before giving him a room for free. Davion lay down on his bed, but was unable to get to sleep for quite some time. There were more of these gates showing up. There was probably a daedric eye on every city in the Imperium by now.
What were they waiting for? Davion felt that by the time they knew what the purpose was, all the soldiers in the Imperium and the Fighter's Guild would not be enough to stop it.
Skingrad, Dungeons
11 Hearthfire 3E433
R'darra had seen more than her fair share of piteous situations since she had begun work for the Thieve's Guild. Between robbing tombs and powerful mages, she was beginning to wonder whether she truly had the stomach for this line of work. It was not too long ago, in the warmer months, when she merely stole for the purposes of survival. These grand schemes of plunder seemed a fine bit of vengeance at first, but the maneuvers made by the Thieve's Guild seemed far too grand for her usual liking.
Time often has a way of making us regret the desires of our heart. And so it was with R'darra that on one mid-afternoon when she was seeking the council of S'krivva did she get assigned a quest to remind her why she had become a proper thief.
"We have assigned one of your colleagues to fetch a book, The Lost Histories of Tamriel. It is a very valuable work. Some would even call it priceless," S'krivva explained. "Theranis was his name. He has been sent to recover it and we have not seen or heard from him in a good while."
"And so you want me to recover Theranis?" R'darra asked.
"I want you to recover that book," S'krivva said plainly. "Theranis is an afterthought, but if you can locate him and/or help him without jeopardizing the recovery of the tome then you are encouraged to do so."
This seemed unusually heartless, and the expression of concern etched across R'darra's face was not missed. S'krivva sighed and folded her arms.
"You must understand. The person who wants this book is, well, a person of great importance," S'krivva explained.
"So much so that we would ignore the needs of our comrades?" R'darra asked.
"We are thieves, child," S'krivva explained. "Our first loyalty is to our bounty. If it concerns you so much then you must be the better thief. Succeed where Theranis failed and you can, perhaps, liberate him."
The journey from Bravil to Skingrad seemed to take considerably longer, as the road that wound before her was dotted with two separate, but equally terrifying, new Oblivion Gates. Each time she found herself within sight of one, the sky seemed to crackle with heat lightning and glowed as red as the Red Mountain of Morrowind.
Arriving in Skingrad, she first noticed that, much like Bravil (and the other cities of the Imperium she had to presume) the town was under full alert for an impending daedra attack. With the Gates now open across the Imperium, it was only a matter of time now before the full wrath of the hellspawn monsters came down upon them.
The confusion and chaos made it much easier for a thief to slip about unnoticed by the town guard. She moved about the wall looking for the most reliable sources of information she could find. A bit of coin given to an old woman in beggar's rags gave her a veritable wealth of knowledge.
"Theranis was dragged off to the prison in Skingrad Castle. Horrible acts of depravity are said to befall the men who are locked up there," the woman said. "Rumors abound of a white woman who tortures them, and feeds upon their pain and anguish."
"How long ago was Theranis taken?" R'darra asked.
"Must have been a week now," she replied. "Oh, I fear something dreadful must have happened to him."
R'darra was rather afraid of that too at this point, and made her way down the street towards the castle of Skingrad. Gaining entrance to the public grounds was easy, but infiltrating a prison would be altogether more complicated. She had, after all, only managed the skullduggery with the Arch Mage's staff through sheer luck and a dissipated guard force. Here in the narrow walls, tightly packed with a body of soldiers preparing for war, her chances looked significantly less promising.
But fortune was again on R'darra's side. An Orc stood by the door to the prisons and was shouting himself hoarse at a young Breton man.
"You're a cowardly nitwit, and you're going to die out in the wilds!" The Orc shouted.
"If you think I'm going to stay in this ruddy castle while the daedra swarm it just to feed some damned prisoners you are out of your mead-swilling head," The Breton retorted. "I am making my way down the Gold Road and heading on the fasted boat out of Anvil. I'll go back to High Rock and stay with my relatives!"
"To Oblivion with your relatives and may Malacath sink your vessel you ungrateful paintywaist!" The Orc screamed as the Breton made his way out of the castle, brushing quite rudely past R'darra.
After that bit of unpleasantness had passed, R'darra immediately knew what she must do. She approached the still seething Orc, and patted him on the shoulder.
"Forgive me, sir. I saw that whole display and I was wondering if you will be needing a new slop drudge?" R'darra asked.
The Orc's gratitude was overwhelming, as he vigorously shook her hand. "You're good people!" The Orc insisted. "Shum gro-Yarug, I maintain the cells here. The job is yours if you want. I'll pay you 2 septims a week, plus a half a loaf of bread and glass of mead every day. It's not much, but we'll board you up in the castle to boot."
"That won't be necessary," R'darra said. "I have a home, I'm just seeking to earn a bit of extra gold to help my family."
"It's a pity a sharp young Khajitt like yourself isn't working at the Three Sisters, but I suppose we all have to make a living," Shum sighed. "Well here's today's rations for the prisoners. Make sure each prisoner gets something."
He hastily handed her a pail full of uneven bread chunks, carelessly resting in the remains of what had at one point been perhaps tomatoes. Any olfactory appeal it may have once possessed was washed away with the amber tide of dead plantlife. She understood now why the position was called "slop drudge".
The prison was filled with half-dead prisoners who lay against the harsh stone walls and vainly sought comfort from their wounds. At the rank scent of the "food" they slowly huddled around their bars, looking more like Draugr than living men. R'darra portioned out the food to each of them in turn, before arriving on a Nord near the back. He leaned against the wall and made no attempt to move towards the bars.
"No point in eating that bollocks," he croaked. "It's my third time. I'll be gone soon."
"What are you talking about?" R'darra asked.
The Nord turned and looked at her. "You're new."
"What did you mean, third time?" R'darra continued.
The Nord shrugged. "We call her 'the Pale Lady'. She takes us each back to her private room. I don't know what exactly she does, only that we wake up feeling weaker each time. After your third time, you never come back."
"Do the guards know?" R'darra asked.
The Nord laughed. "The guards don't care. Maybe you aren't familiar with Count Skingrad, but this Pale Lady, is one of his ilk. Why do you think I have this?"
The Nord pointed to two thin pinpricks on his neck. R'darra gasped in horror. To hell with her bounty. She had to deal with this Pale Lady. In her fervor, she almost forgot what she was supposed to be asking about, and quickly turned back to the Nord.
"Theranis? Where is he?" R'darra asked.
The Nord sighed. "It was his third time last night. He came in after me, but I guess the Pale Lady just preferred the way he tasted. That sconce there." He pointed to a torch sconce just a few feet from R'darra against the back wall. "That leads to a secret passage into her private quarters. You can go ask her yourself if you like."
He then began to laugh again and settled down against the corner of the cell. But R'darra was resolved to do something before this monster struck again. She pulled the sconce and the stone wall moved back, revealing the small corridor. She readied her short sword and crawled through the passage.
At the end was a cell, and within it lied a familiar face.
"Oh Amusei is so pleased to see that help has come. Please, you must save me!" The fretful Argonian pleaded.
"Amusei? What are you doing here?" R'darra asked.
"I was caught freelancing around here, and that woman means to kill me! We have no time! Please!" Amusei's eyes grew wide with terror. The Pale Lady had taken notice of them.
She was tall and, indeed, pale. Her wild white hair was neatly cropped back in a regal knot and she stretched her ominous fingers towards R'darra. Her fangs and blood red eyes confirmed what R'darra had already suspected.
"Vampire!" R'darra hissed. "Today you will be the prey!"
The Pale Lady shrieked as she lunged towards R'darra, but her shortsword met its mark first. She plunged the pitiless steel into the fiends stomach. The Pale Lady gave a harsh, empty smirk and pulled the blade from her stomach without so much as flinching.
"Silver!" Amusei cried. "Or fire!"
R'darra knew this must be the case now that she was thinking clearly. Impending doom has a remarkable way of focusing one's mind. There was no silver to be seen, but there was the nearby torch. To hell with the Guild, this was one murder they could forgive.
She reached for the torch and flung it at the Pale Lady whose blood-soaked robes caught fire. The wailing shriek of the vampiress ended within moments, leaving R'darra and Amusei alone in the hidden room.
"Theranis is dead," Amusei said weakly, after R'darra opened his cell. "He told me to keep this safe."
Amusei handed her an old leather-bound tome bearing the title The Lost Histories of Tamriel.
"I know," R'darra sighed. "Thank you. So, what will become of you?"
"No more freelancing for me," Amusei said. "I am going to redouble my efforts to get into the Guild."
"The Guild wouldn't have sent somebody to save you," R'darra sighed. "I was only told to retrieve the book."
"That's true," Amusei nodded. "But with enough people like you in the Guild, perhaps things could be different."
Cloud Ruler Temple
11 Hearthfire 3E433
The wilds were beginning to lose their appeal as winter approached. The calendar named Hearthfire only the first month of autumn, and yet in the northern parts of Cyrodiil, a bitter chill began to creep up on Saryn each night. By the time Sun's Dusk rolled around, the cold would be as bitter as Skyrim.
Saryn normally migrated south around winter, returning to Valenwood, or else visiting Elsweyr, where the blistering desert heat was nearly bearable in the winter months. But with the recent crisis, the borders would be far more difficult to cross, even for a Bosmer who generally viewed emigration laws as a trifle to be avoided.
She would certainly be needing warmer clothing at least if she was to stay in Cyrodiil – which she planned to for the time being- but finding suitable living arrangements might be better. Perhaps an inn down in Bravil or Leyawin, where it was considerably warmer. If all else failed and she was unable to stay within the Imperium, she supposed she could risk a border-crossing into Valenwood, where she would at least be given leniency due to her heritage.
But something continued to draw her back whenever her mind fantasized of the warm forests of her homeland. There was even a vision of hope at the prospect of visiting Summerset Isle, quite far from the recent disasters. And yet, she knew she had to stay. There was a role left for her to play.
Her mind kept returning to the Imperial- Ignin.
She was no seeress. She had no ability to tell the future, or to see visions beyond what lay directly before her. But instinct told her that her path lay with him.
She had heard whispers of a gathering collection of the Blades at Cloud Ruler Temple, the stronghold near Bruma. She decided that now would be the best time to rejoin her former ally and to officially lend her services to the needy Imperium. The long trek up the mountains near Bruma was a harsh one. Even though it was only early Hearthfire, the mountains were already covered in an icy frost.
She reached the Citadel and was greeted by an understandably overzealous guard force of the Blades. Six men surrounded her with their katanas drawn.
"Hold!" One of the six shouted. "Identify yourself!"
"Saryn, Bosmer, I was at the Battle of Kvatch," Saryn replied, raising her hands at eyes length as a sign of submission. "I have come here looking for Ignin."
At the drop of Ignin's name the Blades lowered their weapons.
"Ah yes. You were mentioned. You helped defend the city," a Redguard replied. He sheathed his sword. "Baurus. I'm a friend of Ignin's. I'm afraid he's gone at the moment on a mission of great importance. Perhaps you can wait with Martin and Jauffre."
"Damn," Saryn sighed. "Well all-the-same, I've also come to offer my services of freelance work to the Imperium. I'll do my first assignment free of charge if you give me some damned furs."
Baurus laughed appreciatively and led her into the Temple. Her lighter summer garments were replaced with thick woolen undergarments and heavy fur. She was then escorted to the Great Hall where Jauffre and Martin sat, pouring over a variety of ancient tomes from their library.
"Jauffre, we have a volunteer," Baurus said.
"Well not quite a volunteer. I would require payment," Saryn said. "But under the circumstances I would consider room, board and supply adequate payment."
"We are happy to offer it, but I am not certain what use we would have for you outside the role of another soldier," Jauffre said. "Which I take is not something you are interested in?"
Saryn shook her head. "I am a bit too flighty for soldier's work. But I know the land better than most, and you'd be hard pressed to find a surer shot with a bow."
Martin looked her over. "Well let's not be hasty, Jauffre. We could use a scout."
Jauffre gave an appreciative smile. There was clearly something transpiring between these two men that Saryn was not aware of.
"Quite right, Martin," Jauffre said. "A scout would be most useful. Word from the wilds would help us get an idea at the kind of forces we are dealing with."
"For the time being, it might be prudent to have her go assist that Altmer," Baurus suggested. "Aywin, was it?"
"Agreed," Martin nodded. He then turned back to Saryn. "We have another helper working with the guards out in Bruma. She is teaching them the manner in which to deal with these Oblivion Gates. I'm sure she could use a hand."
"That's perfect," Saryn nodded. "Exactly the kind of work I am looking for."
"It is appreciated. Now, just so you know," Jauffre stumbled over his words for just a moment before continuing. "She is a vampire, but from what we can ascertain she does not mean us harm."
Saryn was beginning to wonder if she'd made the right decision after all.
Shrine of Namira
11 Hearthfire 3E433
Cierra had enjoyed her brief rest in her new house, and had set her more cumbersome rewards (such as the enormous hammer Volendrung) in a secure chest that Methredel had helped her construct. Unless the chest was opened with a specific key, it would appear empty to any burglar, thus ensuring that her daedric treasures were safe.
She kept with her Azura's Star, as she could not bear to part with her first daedric treasure, but the others she left behind. She would have taken The Skeleton Key, but it was currently being used by a person of great importance in the Thieve's Guild. She took some of her time in the city to improve her arsenal. She picked up a shortbow and a quiver of steel arrows, as well as a new shortsword. Her elvish shortsword had lost much of its shimmer in her travels, and she had lost her dagger in the belly of the Minotaur she'd slain in her service to Hircine.
Outfitted with new weapons she replaced her usual armor with the Saviour's Hide. It wasn't the most subtle piece but it was an impressive bit of armor. She also strapped the Wabbajack to her back. It had come in quite useful before, even though it was very unpredictable.
"You are leaving?" Methredel said as Cierra approached her by the banks of the lake.
"It's been a good rest, but I am still on a quest," Cierra replied.
"Service to the Daedric Princes," Methredel nodded. "It is not an easy life to lead. Your service to the Guild is greatly appreciated however, so I shall do you one last favor. I know where a Daedric Shrine is that you have not visited. It is the shrine to the Lady of Decay, Namira."
Methredel pointed at a small out of the way grove on Cierra's map.
"They don't like the beautiful however," Methredel explained.
"I am not beautiful," Cierra shrugged.
"Many would disagree," Methredel said politely. "But it's more than just physical attractiveness. Your soul needs to be decayed. The manner in which you could accomplish this feat is foreign to me-"
"As I said, I am not beautiful," Cierra replied coolly. "I thank you for your assistance."
She turned and - in a manner just casually enough as to not seem completely rude- walked away towards the bridge to the mainland.
After a brief journey through the forest, she found the grove of which Methredel spoke. There lied an enormous stone statue of the Lady of Decay.
You dare approach my shrine, Child of the Light?
The voice of Namira came within Cierra's own mind, as all the Daedric Princes had done before.
You, who walk this plane basking in the light of the warm, cruel sun?
"I live by the night, even though I roam during the day," Cierra said. "I am Dunmer."
Prove to me that you deserve my favor.
"I will do what is required of me. My hands are bloodied with the innocent," Cierra said.
She then pulled out a small bit of cloth from her satchel. No other Daedric Prince, except perhaps Vaermina, had yet known or suspected what this quest she undertook signified. None understood why she traveled so long to serve immortals who were not the Divines. What she wanted was something that no Divine could offer her. She had not known whether or not the request was possible. But in her service to the immortals, she hoped to find solace, if not a remedy to her ailment.
"This belonged to one who might have lived if not for my own weakness," Cierra explained. "I wish to banish my weakness by serving the Daedra."
There was a brief silence. The statue seemed to be considering her words.
In Anga, my Forgotten have lived in peace for many years. They worship me from the dark, basking in their misery and filth. Now, though, some would seek to bring light to their darkness. Priests of Arkay have intruded upon their squalor. I want you to help my Forgotten kill these priests of the Light.
"It shall be done. I can end their lives myself if it need be."
No. Cast this spell upon the priests. Allow my beloved Forgotten to kill the interlopers. When this is done, I shall reward you for your efforts.
A scroll appeared at Cierra's feet. She bent to pick it up.
"I will finish it."
She traveled in a daze going through the night with no true will of her own. It seemed as though Namira was guiding her body to Anga, the ruins wherein her Forgotten lay. Upon her arrival she indeed found many priests of Arkay roaming about the white-gold remains of what had once been an impressive Ayleid city. The place stank of death but the scent did not bother her. In fact, perhaps under the influence of Namira, she began to feel a strange, longing hunger.
She felt her own will return to her. Apparently Namira could not force her to act in this manner, or perhaps the entire test of Namira to see if she truly would.
"Holy men or not," Cierra said. "I need to complete my service."
She read the scroll and as the ancient tongue left her lips all light, even the magical white light that surrounded the priests of Arkay, was blotted out. Darkness covered the ruins. There was silence for a time, the priests not daring to mutter a word with their powers extinguished. A faint bit of crumbling stone echoed in the distance and a cold wind brushed against Cierra. A single, bony footstep, followed by the gnashing of sinew long rotten. Some of the priests began to speak but were abruptly cut short by the wailing shrieks of the Forgotten. There now must have been a dozen or more, moving about swiftly, the clicking of their bony feet on the stone echoing throughout the citadel. The priests now shrieked in terror as they succumbed, one-by-one, to the death they had earned in offending Namira.
The shrieking stopped, and the clicking slowly retreated back to the holes from whence they'd come. Except one pair of feet that inched closer to her in the darkness. She could hear the scraping, dragging sound and its low, raspy moan. It was now mere inches from her in the darkness and yet she could still not see it. Two thin, seemingly distant pinpricks of white light stared back at her. Though they were so small, she knew them to be right next to her- the remains of the eyes of this skeletal husk.
You have cleansed my followers' perfect darkness.
Namira was speaking through one of her Forgotten.
The Forgotten are free to wallow in their misery. Take my ring. Let it bring pain to others who would wish it upon you. Namira blesses you.
The skeleton handed her a small onyx ring. It observed her for a moment, before turning away and returning to its crypt. She put the ring on her finger and felt an aura of energy surround her. Another Daedric artifact had been claimed.
Mythic Dawn Sanctuary
10 Hearthfire 3E433
The cavern at Lake Arrius was a perfect place for a cult. The wild lake before the cavern was still and serene, and yet above and below it were rapid whitewater rivers that made even the mountain path slick with the damp. Moss clung to every pebble like a cancer, and Ignin felt that he would likely die of pneumonia before he ever had the chance to die by steel.
A quick bound across a stony bridge brought him near enough to his destination that he could see the distant outline of the mouth of the cave, though it seemed barred by a wooden door. Two men sat outside, though they were not wearing the traditional red robes, but rather normal wolf pelt fur. Baurus had suggested that Ignin don the robes of the enemy in an attempt to gain entry, but Jauffre felt it was wiser to come before them as a new acolyte who had uncovered the secret of the Mysterium Xarxes.
"What if they've a password?" he suggested cunningly. "If he was supposed to be a member but did not know it, he would reveal his true identity."
And so Ignin approached the two guards wearing a simple bit of leather armor. For the purposes of disguise, Jauffre instructed him to leave his usual arsenal behind.
"You cannot go there with your sword, handaxe and bow. They would suspect you are a soldier or bounty hunter."
Ignin was not left defenseless. Jauffre had taken the time to teach him a small bit of magic. There was a spell which gave Ignin the ability to see in total darkness, a spell to heal his wounds, and a rather unwieldy spell of frost which made Ignin quake with chill whenever he used it. Jauffre assured him that he would master the spells before long, and anyways they were better than nothing. Ignin would have preferred a dagger, but he was grateful nonetheless.
It was at the gate he was found by the guards of the Mythic Dawn; wearing nothing but leather armor and carrying nothing but a few coin, some food for the road and the four books of the Mankar Camoran's Commentaries – of which Ignin took a considerable time to peruse.
"What business have you?" Asked the first man, brandishing a great sword at him.
"I have come to seek the Dawn," Ignin said, opening his satchel to reveal the four books.
"And by whom did you obtain the fourth?" The second asked.
Obviously they would have heard that something had gone wrong with their last attempt to deliver the fourth book, and Ignin was prepared for it.
"I found the book in the sewer of the Imperial City. I prayed for guidance and I found the book being burnt by a Redguard Blade," Ignin said. And sure enough the edges of the fourth book were charred greatly as though a fire had begun to consume it. "I snatched the book away and made my escape back into the city. I have uncovered the message behind them and they led me to this cavern."
The story was a rather good one, assuming the Mythic Dawn did not know the whereabouts of the fourth book. If even one spy had caught the book being transported from the sewers, then his story was about to fall apart, and he would have to hope he'd learned his spells well enough to fight two heavily armored guards.
The guards did not respond for a moment. Each seemed to be searching the other for a sign of doubt. It was clear that they did not fully believe this story.
"Head inside," said the man holding the great sword. "Talk to Harrow. He'll be the judge."
The second opened the door for him and shut it hastily behind Ignin as he entered. The cavern was dim, but lit well enough by evenly spaced torches.
"As I live and breathe," said the man named Harrow. He stood at the end of the first chamber, wearing resplendent robes of bright crimson lined with gold. "Ignin Pyrethorn."
Ignin froze at the sound of his name. He had forgotten his house name of Pyrethorn until it was uttered. The crack on his head that hadn't throbbed in a fortnight now came back as sharp as ever, as though a needle had been stabbed into it. A flash of images came back to him all at once, though there was no sound. He almost fell over from the sudden exertion, but caught himself. With effort he returned his focus to the here and now.
"Harrow?" Ignin asked uncertainly.
"Some of the memory is coming back to you, I see," Harrow said with an unpleasant smirk on his face. "We have heard only vague rumors you see. Since you were locked up in the Imperial Dungeon after you were caught gathering information for us."
"I don't know what-"
"Of course you don't, child. I understand your situation. Sudden amnesia was it? A trifle convenient," Harrow laid a delicate stress on the word. "But understandable nonetheless. Otherwise I should think you would know better than to return here where we all know your face, and your betrayals- accidental though they might have been."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ignin lied, for some of the truth was returning to him. He felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.
"Your behavior was exemplary up until you were imprisoned. After all Uriel Septim is dead, thanks to your positioning. You were placed in his escape hatch and as we expected you drove him right to our men," Harrow said. "You were supposed to finish him yourself, but under the circumstances I think we can forgive that. It is only because of his death that I do not slay you where you stand. Because of your actions several of your brethren are dead. A few at your hand."
"Brethren?" Ignin demanded. "Do you mean to say-"
"So it's true then," Harrow said, a bit of softness shining through his harsh voice. "You truly don't remember?"
Ignin rubbed his head. The spot of his injury seemed to be flaring now with the effort. "Only a bit. Just flashes of sight. A life before my life, so to speak."
"Ours is the only life, brother Ignin," Harrow said. "You are and have been since your birth one of Mehrunes most loyal followers."
It was true. Ignin knew this was no trick of his shattered memory, nor a ploy by the enemy to get him to lower his guard. That was why Ignin had been imprisoned. That was why he was in the cell that was supposed to remain off limits. That was who he had been before the final days of Last Seed.
"I understand where you must be now. Torn between worlds. A lifetime of service to Mankar Camoran competing against the more recent, and perhaps more lucrative service to the bastard whelp of the Emperor," Harrow continued.
A great stone seemed to sit in place of Ignin's heart. Flooding back to him now were the myriad memories of his former life. His brothers and sisters of the Mythic Dawn. His friendship with Harrow, Ungra and Mephis- the latter two of whom had died in service to the Mythic Dawn. With a sudden blinding flash of realization, he remembered Mephis to be the one he'd slain in vengeance of the emperor.
Ignin fell back against the stone wall of the cavern. He would have wept from sorrow if he were capable. However at the moment he felt as weak and limp as a fallen leaf. Harrow knelt down beside him.
"Ignin. Please tell me that you have returned to us. Truthfully. By your honor swear to me that this is no enemy's deception," Harrow said.
Ignin looked up into the eyes of Harrow, and without a thought to the contrary he gave a single acquiescent nod.