Chapter 34: Dream Sequence
The lift of the Tower of Mzark was where he remembered: downhill from the Stonehill Bluff giant camp, on the border of the Pale and Whiterun. South-southwest of Fort Dunstad in the Pale, north of the Loreius farm in Whiterun. That would be another lift to modify with an outdoor lock and lift-call button.
"That structure's in good condition," said Urag, pointing its location on the map. "The giants there are very tolerant of humans. They've gotten used to us small nuisances."
He pointed at a tiny house on the Whiterun side of the border. "Heljarchen Hall, owned by Sadri's company, Snow Crown. They do business with the giants."
"No sh-, uh, what kind of business?"
"Dragon bonedust and mammoth bonedust. Sadri collects dragon bones and sends them to the giants along with payments of goats and cattle. The giants grind the bones down to fine powder, then Sadri sells it. Most of it goes to Cliffracer Enterprises, a company he co-owns with three others, two in Blacklight, who produce bonemold weapons and armor, and Councilor Morvayn, who supplies dragon bones from Solstheim. Of the remainder, a large chunk goes to Sadri's Glowlight Alchemy in Tel Windstad, Hjaalmarch, and the rest of the stuff sells at premium prices on the general market. Snow Crown has several jarls and influential Nord families invested in the business. It's an incentive to make harming giants a crime now that Imperial law no longer keeps them safe in Stormcloak territories."
"How in heck did he manage that?" Curtis asked wonderingly. "Snow Crown, yeah, I remember that. That's when Jarl Ulfric came charging up here on his way to kicking Jarl Skald the Elder out because he still insisted on killing every giant in The Pale."
"Sadri managed to talk to the giants with some carefully arranged pictures," said Urag.
Curtis thought about it. "Pictographs. Wow. Sign language. I would never have thought about that."
"Sadri was never one to lose sale over a language problem. Those subsonics you've mentioned in your papers about underwater communication, Sadri suspected the giants were speaking words just under normal hearing range. Low rumbles in the hearing range for mer. We sent J'zargo to confirm because Khajiit ears are the sharpest. J'zargo could make out intonations that sounded like words.
"Sadri also reasoned that the markings the giants made were largely unique to each group. We've put a scholar on that. Bennett, an Alterations adept. He's been living at Heljarchen the past two years with that madman Sadri hired as the agent dealing with the giants." Urag tapped a gorgeous tile-decorated bowl on his desk that Curtis had always admired. "Ketil. An artist. His only job at Heljarchen is to talk to the giants. He's good at identifying the pictorial signatures of each Giant clan and offshoot family groups. Sadri's people do everything else.
"We can arrange for your people to stay at Heljarchen while you're modifying the Mzark Lift."
"That'd be great. It'd be a better place than the secondary lift to Alftand, our original target. Thanks to Tazval, we know that the Tower of Mzark has a lot more value than Alftand."
"A research and library center over a port city administrative center, I'd say so," said Urag. "To us at least."
"Yeah. Knowledge." Curtis picked up the bowl. Urag used the bowl to hold blank scrolls. The tile art reminded him of the intricate Roman tile stuff, but these tiles were chunky and rough-shaped. He dumped out the paper and held the bowl up to the nearest floating light source. The outside was pretty, but looking at it from the inside, with light coming through the tile chunks, the tiles glowing with irregular facets, this was a beauty. Damn, turn the bowl upside-down, drill a hole in the plain ceramic bottom and make a lamp out of it.
Wait, he'd recently learned how to do this. He made a magelight, stuck it to a corner of Urag's desk, and put the bowl upside-down over it. Now the thing glowed in all its Whiterun glory.
"Pretty," grunted Urag.
One could now pick out the pixilated view from Heljarchen Hall. The Mzark lift, the tips of the Stone Bluff home peaking over the hill, the vista of the mountain-rimmed plain with a city sitting on a life-giving ribbon of sparkling blue.
"Pretty like a dream. Speaking of which, how went your dream time nap with Balvus?"
There was no lack of curious volunteers once Curtis put this in front of the masters. Coordinating this little project was put in Drevis Neloran's hands as the Master of Illusion, the idea being dreaming was akin to an active Illusion spell. Curtis gave over what he technically knew about the sleep and dream and REM cycles and the connections to mental stability. Also, the practice of dream journaling.
And it wasn't just the Winterhold masters entertaining themselves with this novel experiment. The Snowmer dream enablers spent hours intently documenting what they saw for their clanmates to research. Urag, who was doing the work of answering their questions, found this kind of feedback fascinating and disturbing.
And a little embarrassing for most of the volunteers. Dream time, after all, was a period of the mind discharging a messy, random mash of data, impressions, suppressions, and reactions the conscious mind dismissed or pushed aside as unnecessary, irrelevant, or adverse to social interactions or ideal standards. They woke up with impressions of events, then had to read the Snowmer write-up of their dream. Most of the volunteers were not yet willing to cavort nude in the public mind as their undisciplined, messy, or rude dream selves.
Curtis wrote out what theories and instructions he remembered of the "conscious dreaming" fad. Drevis had taken that and added or modified it to fit the Illusion school's understanding of the discipline. He took a standard learning spell and adjusted it to better train the waking mind into the dream state.
The Game made Drevis an absent-minded, egotistical clown. It insulted his power and self-control. The standard emotion-control spells in the Skyrim Game only listed spells of peace, flight, and fight. It also listed perception spells such as invisibility, muffle, and quiet-casting. It omitted the insidiously seductive spells of "love" and "attraction" and "bliss." The School of Illusion covered mental and spiritual healing or destruction.
Savos Aren had searched over a decade and interviewed many masters before inviting an Indoril ex-Temple acolyte to join Winterhold. Drevis had trained in the temples of Almalexia to be a high-level mind healer. If not for the Nerevarine and Red Mountain, he would have graduated to a priest, and his duties would have been the continuing effort to heal the corprus-infected and restore their minds. The Temple would have mercilessly mind-blasted any of their healers who had Molag Bal-type desires in them. Winterhold College was quite lucky to have him.
Yeah, and sometimes he was an egotistical jerk. What colleges in existence don't have those types of professors?
"It was nice. Haven't had such vivid dreams in a long while. Nice to see my mother's face again. And all my brothers and sisters. I've outlived them all by a century. A long time." He sighed. "Balvus is struggling a bit in his report. He saw a lot more, but his lack of understanding of Orsimer culture and home life shows his distraction."
"Yeah, I get that. Like me watching subtitled films or animes from other countries. I think I know what's going on, but I know I'm missing a lot of nuances of the story because I don't recognize cultural histories, references, and general 'everybody-knows-that' stuff."
"Huh. Be sure you dream about those things. I'm looking forward to seeing what goes on in that brain of yours," said Urag.
X—X—X—X—X—X—X
He had his laptop hooked up to his wall-mounted wide-screen Samsung flat-panel TV. His avatar was a hot-looking Dunmer woman in skimpy hide armor.
Wow. This game had an anime mod installed. The avatar's boobs made mace-wielding triple redundant. And with that face, she had that 'cat-kin' look.
"Her face is too strange. What kind of half-breed is she?" Slitter scowled and dug out another handful of buttered popcorn.
"So that's what went down at Helgen," said Urag. He stepped into the TV screen and looked up as Alduin made another fire-strafing pass.
"That'sa me! Alduin!"
He hastily jumped out of the screen as the computer game vanished, replaced by a science show reviewing known volcanic explosions that caused climate changes by injecting tons of particulate matter into the upper atmosphere, blocking sunlight, and even causing mini ice ages.
"An informative study. Excellent visualizations," said Dumac, who was standing behind the counter that divided the kitchen area from the living room area. He was eating a snowberry pie. "Except our Ring of Fire is in an eastern ocean, the Sea of Ghosts, not the western Pacific Ocean, and extends inland beyond the Velothi Mountains to the Throat of the World.
"Considering the amount of matter and gases spewing steadily from Red Mountain for more than the past two centuries, I'm surprised the world isn't colder than it is. The winds so far have carried the particulates over the north polar region, but one shift will start killing a lot more of the world. An orbital ice age took Atmora, but Red Mountain extends the cold to Solstheim and northeastern Skyrim, where the direction the winds of the upper atmosphere carries most of the ash fallout. Lower atmospheric currents carry ash that interferes with sunlight in Eastmarch, Winterhold, and the Pale. Only a cross-current keeps Haafingar and beyond at warmer temperatures."
Curtis turned to answer him, but he was gone again. Sheesh. He could at least have the courtesy to close the fridge and not leave all the empty beer cans on the counter.
Man, that was irritating. Dumac kept popping in, tossing pennies, then popping out when you tried to talk or even look at him for more than a second.
Now the screen was back to the Game. He concentrated on fighting all the Falmer attacking them in the Deep Market of Raldbthar. Urag was discussing something with Slitter. Balvus was now sitting beside the big screen, staring at him with teary eyes.
The dream faded as he heard Colette saying firmly, "Wake up. That's enough. Game Over."
# … # … #
"Oh, yeah, bro." Roj grinned, quickly shuffling printouts and authorization contracts around. "I got the accounts for that project all set up. I did have to move some money up from the reserves, thanks to a tip I got that lumber prices will be increasing 'cuz of the new business taxes voted in to fund the state's new wilderness conservation budget —"
"Lying n'wah!"
Slitter's claymore came down, splitting Roj from the top of his head to his shoulders.
"Chimer savage! I agree with the sentiment, but now I've got brain bits in my Starbucks!" Dumac yelled.
Curtis looked at his checkbook and saw a check to Kagrenac partially made out. He wondered what a million gold pieces translated to in dollars. He felt frustrated that the empire didn't exist yet, 'cuz it'd be easier to make change in septims.
# … # … #
"Oh, you expect me to pay off Drovas's debt, hm?" The skinny kid dared grin up at the hulking Orc.
Slitter was conflicted. His job was to keep Mogrul safe and to do collections. The little Hlaalu girl was favored by the Redoran councilor Morvayn and his second. And he'd witness her coming into town many a time hauling weapons and armor she'd taken from reavers or treasures claimed from Dwemer cities and the savage rieklings.
She was just a baby of 16 years. Where were her parents? What were they thinking to let her wander on her own?
She was tall for a Dunmer girl, but still shorter than Mogrul. Whipcord lean was a better description than skinny. Her body wasn't the type to bulk out with muscle.
She was insolent towards Mogrul, and he prayed she wouldn't make any sudden moves that would oblige him to step up to defend Mogrul.
Mogrul finished his threat and swaggered away, convinced he'd successfully intimidated the young girl. But she was smiling. Her face turned slowly to him, and her smile widened.
He'd bet his armor she was Hlaalu Morag Tong. Even if the Tong had officially disbanded, they were still around. Freelancers. She was too good. She had the look of death around her. He looked away and didn't move from his spot until she went to buy a hot pot of horker stew from Garyn.
"Day-um. Tough kid. So that was Lady Helsette Faro?" asked Curtis. He was peering over Slitter's shoulder. Funny thing. He didn't have a body. He felt like a shoulder-mounted camera sitting like a second head.
"Aye. She weren't married then. She laughed off Mogrul's demands. Then he hired some reavers to collect from her. I followed 'em to make sure they did their job. She took 'em out like a Tong enforcer — soon as they made camp and went to sleep, she pinned 'em to the ground with riekling spears like they was sewer rats.
"So I knew it were her when Mogul's suicided with his own knife."
"Assisted suicide," Curtis corrected.
"Aye."
"Day-um."
"Picking up her leavings was profitable. I booked passage on the Skinny Horker 'cuz the fare was cheaper than the Northern Maiden, and I also didn't want to risk her noticing me on the same ship."
"Huh. Sucks for you."
"Aye. But it didn't turn out so bad in the end."
# … # … #
He and Slitter faced each other, Curtis scowled, Slitter had on his game face. Colette and Gwenlenor were chattering. Gwenlenor had her chair positioned out of arm's reach of the table and held a mug from which she sipped. Colette was pounding stuff in a stone mortar. It looked like a mini Hermaeus Mora, tentacles writing out the top of the bowl. She pounded the tentacles back with vicious strikes of the pestle. She stood behind an alchemy table of sorts, with a cooking pot and teapot over the burners.
Curtis felt queasy thinking about a chip dip of mashed Daedric Prince guacamole. She added salt and garlic. He didn't care how well it would boost one's DEX, INT, and VIT skills; he didn't want that on his toast.
He couldn't make out what the girls were chattering about, but the tone seemed light and pleasant.
He and Slitter were glaring at each other because they disagreed on which of them could claim fatherhood.
—Waitaminute! Colette is not pregnant," Curtis told himself.
That realization threatened to interrupt the flow of the group dream; he suppressed the urge to try to take control of the dreaming. Gwenlenor expertly helped him settle back in, but now that he was "woke," it all felt different. He was now like a gear with grit on it. He didn't dare move for fear of causing a break in the group dream. —
"My body, my child." Slitter glared at him. "You being in control don't change that fact. And, fact is, any child will have my line's blood. Maybe having Colette as the mother will smarten 'em up, and you could teach 'em better, but my kid."
"Yeah, well —"
"Stop over-thinking it, n'wah. I know you've finally figured you're dreaming. You're hesitating. Just act."
"Wait. You know—"
"I ain't that stupid. Been dreaming since I was a little scrib, like everyone else, I s'pose. Lot easier to get a say in dreams than in life.
"But back to my point. You may be raising my kid, but I want a say in it. If there's a girl, I want her to have my mother's name; if there's a boy, the personal name of old man who took us in for a time, but not his family name. I'm not claiming any connection there. Just honoring his kindness."
Colette slammed down the finished dip in the center of the table. Tiny tentacle tips still quivered. Slitter dipped a fried scrib in. "Needs more tomatoes," he stated.
Tiny eyes in the dip blinked open. "Most amusing," drawled a slow basso voice.
Colette slammed the pestle into the biggest eye. "Sit still and be eaten," she commanded.
Curtis then realized the room they were in wasn't one of the College's small kitchens. At some point, it had become the inside of the Dwemer lockbox at Septimus Signus's Outpost.
"This is getting dangerous. Withdrawing," announced Gwenlenor, booting them all back to their lonely minds. Now it was just him and Slitter in the lockbox.
"What the shit just happened?" asked Slitter.
X—X—X—X—X—X—X
Gwenlenor was deeply upset. It was enough to bring Savos Aren flapping in from Oblivion; it was enough that Balvus, Joric, and Brother Salindil — all came running from wherever they each were at around the College. Since she'd been the unifying focal point of the dreams, Mora's tentacles had to go first through her.
That would gross anyone out.
Mora was supposed to be on lockdown. But the Snowmer and Dwemer had been drifting in the many realms of Oblivion a long time; and, at any point, could've brushed against Mora's realm, picking up stowaways.
Was Colette aware she'd been assaulting a Daedric Prince? Not really. She knew it was alive, but she just thought it was just another exotic Morrowind ingredient like the deep-fried bugs, the vinegar made of fermented berries infested with fly larvae, the ash yam-corn mold mash. How was she supposed to recognize Mini-Me Mora?
Curtis didn't have the balls to ask her thoughts on baby names.
"How's Gwenlenor?" asked Curtis, standing, when Brother Salindil exited Gwenlenor's room. Conversation stopped, and the other Snowmer and Dwemer crowded into the central area all looked to him.
"Savos called it a 'tracer bug.' He's examining Balvus for any hidden parasite," answered Brother Salindil. "But she's doing quite well. What upset her most wasn't his violation of her mind, but the horror she glimpsed of his."
"The mind of a Daedric Prince? Yeah, no thanks," grumbled Curtis. "She net a general idea of his intent?"
"Escape. Needing outside agents to work his will. I suppose that should be no surprise." Salindil shrugged. "A few other things that we much consult the Archimage about.
"How would she know his mind?" asked a Snowmer.
"As I understand it, she played an important role in imprisoning the Prince by traveling his realm, learning important secrets, and battling Apocrypha's Champion, an ancient Dragonborn priest. It was the battle where Savos Aren died, and Jhunal gained access and control of the realm. I don't have the details; that was the explanation Savos gave me."
The door opened again, and Joric and Balvus escorted Gwenlenor out. The women surrounded her, giving their brand of comfort.
"So, Jhunal gonna make sure Mora can't interfere again?" asked Curtis.
"He'll do what he can. Savos will need to check over everyone for hidden leeches," answered Joric. "Um, we can handle this. You've got other things to do. Uh, house things. You're joining House Mora, right? So go to Windhelm. Um, Lord Sadri assisted Savos Aren to prepare for the battle in Apocrypha. He might have some insights for you."
"Uh-huh," said Curtis, frowning. "I do have those comm. units to deliver."
Joric gestured for him to follow him out of the room. "Well, I'm sure Elden won't trust anyone else to guard you in Windhelm.
"And take Irdal. They had to raid Nchardak for Mora's Black Book, which opened the arena for their battle with his Champion. And Irdal's from Nchardak. Besides, the more Irdal is comfortable with you — and you with her — the better she'll be able to help with Dumac."
"Aw, man. Give it a rest," muttered Curtis. "Besides, she wasn't working on the communicator project."
"So? She's a competent technician. It's harmless fun, sera. It gives her time to know you before you have to dream together to chase after Dumac. She can dream of Dumac, but when she wakes up, she has to look at you. You're her leader, and her respect for you and sense of decorum will mute her emotional fantasies. And the Dumac part of you is going to respond better to a Dwemer woman. Get her to talk about her life in Nchardak. It's interesting stuff, and one Dumac can relate strongly to.
"And she's a medic specializing in hearing and vocal disabilities. It wasn't much for her to retrain her skills to tonal analytics. She can also help you practice your singing. You croak like two confused frogs."
Curtis growled and swiped at him. The kid dodged, laughing, and went back into the room.
Curtis went to his office to read his mail. People were writing to him, proposing to cut him deals with machines, wanting machines invented to replace workers, requests for non-magical solutions or alternatives to problems — He wasn't interested in being the herald of the industrial age on Tamriel. Maybe it was inevitable, but he wasn't going to push it.
Calling oneself the Angel of Death Metal sounds cool — Hard pass. Blowing the world back to the crucible of creation was Alduin's gig.
Like he always told Paarthurnax: the next kalpa would have to happen on its own without his help.
Related Shopkeeper's Wife stories: #20 Felix Spirituum, #34 Bones to Grind, #41-43 Brother Owl
Godofdestruction20the second : "I'm from another world!" "*sigh* Another College boy be nibbling the magic mushrooms again."
Brother Bov : Thanks.
Ted Hsu: No chance of losing funds. Winterhold and Curtis's future House Mora kin are profiting well from all the little idea eggs this golden Dwemer brass goose produces.
GalacticHalfling : A "Candle in the Dark" in "The Demon-Haunted World." Dumac/Curtis would know how easy it is to get snuffed out.