Garyn Balvadares

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Sul-Matuul regarded Garyn from within the puff of hackle-lo smoke that billowed around his face. His was a face which seldom betrayed the thoughts behind it, but Garyn could see something glowing behind those eyes. Respect, perhaps. Hope?

"I am impressed. These three tokens you have brought me, and brought them quickly. You may keep them. You have passed the Warrior's Test. And I will give you the secret of the Third Trial."

The ashkhan rose to his feet and strode around the center of the yurt, making his way toward a chest on the other side. Even as he moved, he continued to speak.

"'In caverns dark Azura's eye sees/and makes to shine the moon and star.' This is the Third Vision. And you must go to the Cavern of the Incarnate, a place sacred to Azura, and look for the moon and star. The secret of the Cavern of the Incarnate is set in a riddle:

the eye of the needle lies in the teeth of the wind
the mouth of the cave lies in the skin of the pearl
the dream is the door and the star is the key"

Garyn pondered this for a moment, before a flash of recognition shone in his eyes. "This refers to the ring of Nerevar, the Moon and Star - the one that only he could wear."

Sul-Matuul simply turned his eyes to look at him, pausing as he reached into the chest. Then he continued, pulling out an ancient belt in bright, faded colors. He held it out before Garyn.

"This riddle is Wisdom's Test. Take counsel of the wisdom of the tribes, and you shall find the way. Seek the Cavern of the Incarnate. Gain the moon and star, and bring it to Nibani Maesa. Take with you my blessing, and the blessing of our tribe, Malipu-Ataman's Belt."

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Garyn's face must have looked very grave indeed as he left the ashkhan's yurt, for it prompted an immediate remark from the first Urshilaku he passed.

"Why, you look troubled, Clanfriend!" the hunter said, smiling. "Is there something I can help you find, perhaps?"

Garyn managed a wry half-smile. "Oh, nothing much, Tussurrudad. Simply the wisdom of the tribes."

"Ah, is that all, sera? How much? All of it?"

Another hunter spoke up, sheathing his spear on his back. "This is no time to make light, Tussurrudad - he wears Malipu-Ataman's Belt! Sul-Matuul has given his blessing to his quest."

The smirk faded from Tussurrudad's face. "So he has, Shabinbael," he says softly. "After all, he is the one who may be the Nerevarine. What knowledge do you seek, then?"

"A riddle. 'The eye of the needle lies in the teeth of the wind / The mouth of the cave lies in the skin of the pearl / The dream is the door and the star is the key.' I believe I know what the last line means, but I've no idea about the first two."

Tussurrudad's brow furrowed for a moment. "The eye of the needle...hmmm...perhaps...well. There is a tall rock column in the Valley of the Wind which we call the Needle. I have slept beneath it once or twice. The Valley of the Wind is a valley on the northeast slopes of Red Mountain. The entrance to the valley is marked by Airan’s Teeth, two tall rock spires.”

Then Shabinbael chimed in: "I recall, at the top of that tall spire is — not white, but much lighter than other rocks nearby. The head of the Valley of the Wind sits right under the Needle. In the sun, it gleams a little. It is a good, safe campground, sheltered from wind, with only one approach. That whitish rock at the top of the Needle – that might be the 'skin of the pearl' you’re looking for.”

"But I don't know of any cave, or any mouth of any cave, in that valley," Tussurrudad said. "We stay away from the valley; the winds howl, and the spirits are always awake."

"Perhaps that is why the cave has stayed hidden," Garyn said. "At any rate, I've no other ideas. Could you tell me how to get to the Valley of the Wind?"

"I would not tell most the way there if they asked," Tussurrudad said, "but you have returned alive from lost Kogoruhn, so we know you are strong. East of the Daedric Zergonipal there is a path that goes south from the sea. Go straight south, and you will see the Teeth."

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It was the wisdom of the tribes that would guide Garyn there, but he knew, as did all in the camp, that the journey was for him to walk alone. A lonely journey it was, as most across the Ashlands tend to be. But the thoughts that accompanied him were lonelier still, for they were burdens no one could share.

Supposing the ring didn't kill him - a possibility he couldn't exclude, as much as the incident with corprus seemed to have proved the impossible - what would happen to him then? Would he remember all of his past lives, and cease to call himself Garyn? And what was he supposed to do with that knowledge? How, exactly, was he meant to unite the feuding Great Houses, and kill a god who had bested three other gods?

These questions rolled over and over again in his head like waves against the rocks. They drove him eastward, compelled him to journey further without rest, toward the cavern where the answers lay. There he would find either his death, or the reason he was born.

He could almost hear the Valley before he saw it. Immediately he could see why the Ashlanders steered clear of it - the spirits did seem to be singing through the wind that howled and whistled through Airan's Teeth. There was a mournfulness to it that even Garyn, who thought himself a well-traveled mer, had never heard on any wind before.

Nonetheless, he plowed through the headwind, raising the visor on his helmet. It wasn't far to go, now. Just a ways uphill, toward that white spire he could see in the distance, up that curling path toward the base of where the cavern should be.

It was a hard hike to the base of that spire, the northern side draped in shadow from the late afternoon sun. But there it was - there could be no mistaking it. The entrance was marked by a great arched door, carved with ornate crescent moons and stars, and two large jade handles. This was the Cavern of the Incarnate.

Tentatively, Garyn reached for one of the handles, and a voice rumbled from within:

THE DOOR IS LOCKED, AND WILL NOT OPEN. THE STAR IS THE KEY.

The words were not unexpected - Garyn suspected that the "Star" in Sul-Matuul's riddle referred to Azura's Star, which appears at dawn and dusk. Holamayan could only be opened during these hours.

But the voice these words came from...Garyn knew that voice. He had heard it before in his dreams. Was this Azura? Had she been speaking to him all this time, and he'd never realized? Yet one more thing for him to contemplate as he waited for dusk to come.

Thankfully, he hadn't long to wait. The shadows lengthened, and the light of the setting sun shone upon the cavern door. Garyn roused himself, breathing deeply, and grabbed the handles.

IN THE TWILIGHT HOUR UNDER AZURA'S STAR, THE DOOR IS OPENED.

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Dust billowed from the base of the door as Garyn pushed it. None had been here in a very long time, he could see. But it had not gone wholly unused. As Garyn blinked, he could see, laid out around a monumental statue of Azura with her hands outstretched, was an assortment of mummified bodies, curled and seated beside her. This wasn't simply a cavern...it was a tomb.

These must be the Failed Incarnates, Garyn realized. The Urshilaku had borne witness to every one of them, and interred them here. This was their way to preserve their memory, and keep the prophecy alive. They had been waiting, and waiting, and waiting...and if Garyn were to die, they would keep waiting, keep continuing to believe no matter how many times they had to bury their hopes.

One of the corpses looked a little less dusty than the others - perhaps ten or twenty years old, rather than centuries. This must have been Peakstar - the one that Sul-Matuul had found washed up by the Sea of Ghosts. The one he'd raised himself. The one he'd loved, no doubt, and had to bury.

It occurred now to Garyn that he had spent the first thirteen years of his life raised by priests, and never seen true faith until now.

The sight was enough to distract him a moment from the thing he had come here to retrieve: the Moon-and-Star. He could see it now, floating above the outstretched hands of the statue. In contrast to everything else in this cave, it was bright and glimmering - a spotless gold and ivory-patterned ring in the shape of the star and crescent Masser. He took slow steps toward it, his hands reaching forward like a revenant's.

His fingers reached for it, clumsily fumbling. But then, the ring seemed to know where to go - falling onto his finger as though drawn by a magnet. And then his sight grew dark, and his eyes blazed with visions of all corners of Vvardenfell:

NEREVAR REBORN, INCARNATE:
YOUR FIRST THREE TRIALS ARE FINISHED.
NOW, TWO NEW TRIALS LIE BEFORE YOU.
SEEK THE ASHLANDER ASHKHANS, AND THE GREAT HOUSE COUNCILS.
FOUR TRIBES MUST NAME YOU NEREVARINE.
THREE HOUSES MUST NAME YOU HORTATOR.
MY SERVANT NIBANI MAESA SHALL BE YOUR GUIDE.
AND WHEN YOU ARE HORTATOR AND NEREVARINE,
WHEN YOU’VE STOOD BEFORE THE FALSE GOD
AND FREED THE HEART FROM ITS PRISON,
HEAL MY PEOPLE AND RESTORE MOROWIND.
DO THIS FOR ME AND WITH MY BLESSING.

Garyn gasped as his sight returned to him. And gasped again as he saw what now surrounded him: the spirits of all those interred here, surrounding him, looking to him expectantly.

"I...think I may be in over my head."

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The shade at the front was a female Dunmer, youthful, yet with wisdom behind her eyes. She hovered in front of her own mummified body, and regarded Garyn solemnly.

"Welcome, Incarnate, Moon-and-Star Reborn, Hortator, Nerevarine, Mourner of the Tribe Unmourned, Redeemer of the False Gods. I am Peakstar. I was not the one. But I wait and hope. Ask, and I shall answer, if wisdom guides me."

A gentle, surprised huff escaped Garyn's throat. "I...should think I need as much wisdom as you can give, and perhaps more."

The spirit did not smile, but her eyes turned gently upward. "I will answer when I can, and with what I know. But the visions of Azura are often obscure, for two reasons. One, because the future cannot be known, and choices may always be made. Two, because truth is not clear or simple. Azura’s riddles warn us to think long and hard. They force us to search carefully for truth and meaning, and not to rely only on impulse and force."

Garyn gazed down at his hand, at the ring that now fit perfectly on his finger. "Though she seems to have made certain things clear today."

"You bear the Moon-and-Star, the ring of Nerevar. None may deny; you ARE Nerevar Reborn, the prophesied Incarnate. The Temple will know you as an enemy. Ordinators will mark you for death, and the Tribunal Faithful of the Great Houses will hate and fear you. The doubters of the Tribes will test your strength and doubt your honor. You will be known. You must prepare, and be ready."

Garyn closed his eyes and exhaled for a moment. He supposed this made sense - as it stood now, his existence was an affront to all the Temple's teachings. By all the laws of this kingdom, he was now an outlaw. He opened his eyes again, his face once again filled with determination.

"Let them come, if they must. I will do what must be done."

Peakstar nodded, clearly pleased. "That you shall, Lord Nerevar. But you must first become what you were in your first life. Dunmer of the Ashlands and Dunmer of the Houses have traditions of a War Leader set over all the tribes in times of need. First, your task is to prove to them their need. Then you must prove that you should be their war leader — the Nerevarine, for Ashlanders; the Hortator, for the Great Houses.

"To show them their need, you must tell them about the Tribunal, how they have adopted the profane tools of the Dwarves, how they have betrayed and misled their people — and give them proofs. You must tell them about Dagoth Ur, and the Sixth House, about their powers and plans, and how the Tribunal no longer has power to contain them."

"Yes," Garyn said, stroking his chin and musing, "this seems like a place to start. Much of what you say is clear to those with eyes to see. And the rest of the proof I now bear upon my finger. It will be a delicate matter, but...it will have to be done."

"You must go before the ashkhans of the Wastes People and satisfy them," Peakstar said, "for only the ashkhans of the Four Tribes can name you ‘Nerevarine.’ Speak first with Sul-Matuul of the Urshilaku, and with Wise Woman Nibani Maesa, for of all the Ashlanders, they are wisest in the lore of the Incarnate, and you have already shown Sul-Matuul proof of your worth."

Garyn marveled to see Peakstar speaking so formally of people she had known so intimately. Whatever she had been before, she was an ancestor now, with no purpose but to guide her kin and kind. Oddly, he felt he could understand this now - that this was the way of a true Dunmer. Thoughts that never would have occurred to him before seem the most natural thing in the world now.

She continued: "You must also go before the Councilors of the Great Houses and satisfy them, for only the Councils of the Great Houses can name you 'Hortator.' I do not know the settled people of the Great Houses, and can offer you no counsel."

"I know at least one of them very well," Garyn said. "So I know what a difficult task has been placed before me. Even before we deal with the lost Great House, the one yet unmourned."

"Pity Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House. All they do, all they are is foul and evil, but they began in brightness and honor, and the cause of their fall was their loyal service to you, Lord Nerevar. You told Lord Dagoth to guard the profane tools beneath Red Mountain, and thus he was tempted. He did your bidding when he tried to keep these tools from the Tribunal, and so he hates you, who betrayed him, and the Tribunal, who mocked his honor, attacked him, and stole the profane tools for their own use."

A single, strangled burst of nervous laughter escaped Garyn as she addressed him as "Lord Nerevar." As she spoke of events from thousands of years ago as though they had happened to him yesterday. And yet, he could not deny a single word of it - not that it was in his service that Lord Dagoth had fallen, nor that he could not muster any hatred for them.

"This story...has been long in the telling indeed," Garyn said, stepping forward. "You've been waiting thousands of years for its end."

"I am Peakstar. I was not the one..." Peakstar repeated, bowing her head.

The other spirits joined her:

"I am Conoon Chodala. I was not the one..."

"I am Ane Teria. I was not the one..."

"I am Hort-Ledd. I was not the one..."

"I am Idrenie Nerothan. I was not the one..."

"I am Erur-Dan. I was not the one..."

Now they spoke in unison: "...but we wait and hope."

Garyn breathed in deeply. The weight of four thousand years now rested on his shoulders. He drew his sword from his scabbard and held it to his chest.

"You need wait no longer, spirits. I am the one you have hoped for."

As Caius had predicted, the little Balmora apartment is very cramped indeed, with three people and a speeder the size of a motorcycle inside of it. The light, lingering stench of skooma in the air doesn't help matters either.

"I'll ask the other urgent question first: did you eliminate Dagoth Gares?"

Garyn nods, shivering furiously.

"Good. Now that you've told me some good news, I'll do the same. First and quite less importantly, you've been promoted to the rank of Traveler.

"Secondly, I canvassed my informants for possible treatments, just in case you contracted the disease during your mission. I learned from Fast Eddie that your best chance of getting cured is Divayth Fyr, an ancient Telvanni wizard who runs a Corprusarium for victims of the disease.

"He lives in Tel Fyr, a tower on an island on the southwestern edge of Zafirbel Bay. I'll mark that on your map...here."

He leans in to make a mark on a scrap of parchment, then procures something from his footlocker at the end of his bed.

"And here. Take this Dwemer artifact and 1000 drakes, and go to Tel Fyr. A gift may sweeten his disposition, and I'm told he likes Dwemer artifacts."

He turns to Ibani. "Does your companion know the landmarks well enough to navigate?"

They don't kill him on sight. That's the good news.

They respond to his polite-but-still-clearly-foreign Dunmeris without warmth, but without particular hostility, either. The hunter Shabinael still shoots him a sharp, snide grin as he makes his request for Garyn to show his courtesy with a thoughtful gift. In this case, he's to crawl on his knees and dig out some trama root for him.

He's snickering as Garyn returns, his arms full of roots and his armor covered in ashen soot.

"You are not proud, outlander. We welcome humility from outsiders. But I must tell you that an outlander cannot speak to the Ashkhan or Wise Woman uninvited. I suggest you speak with the gulakhan Zabamund. His yurt is to the right of Sul-Matuul's."

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The inside of the yurt, patterned as the canvas is, somehow seems even grayer than the outside does. The gulakhan scowls as Garyn makes the reason for his presence known.

"The Nerevarine Prophecies are not for outlanders," he says, eternally and ever scowlingly. "Why should Sul-Matuul and Nibani Maesa speak to you about these things? Who are you, that we should trust you?"

The Ashlander's hand drifts slightly closer to the hatchet at his waist. Garyn can see from his expression that he does indeed expect an answer - this is a challenge, not a refusal. He stands straight and firm, taking a step forward.

"Muthsera, I have, to the best of my ability, tried to show the courtesy of a guest," Garyn says. "I do this not because I expect reward for meeting the very least of what is expected of me. But neither is it because I fear you. Speaking plainly, I could defeat any of your camp in single combat if blood were what I had come for.

"And I will be as proud as I am plain. I am a foundling child, born of no one, who has in months risen to attain lordship of a Great House. I have done this through the strength of my arms and by my virtue as a gentlemen. And here in the wastes, I am he who led a column of Legionnaires across strange country, past the notice of the scouts of the Erabenimsun, to the hills above their camp, where I negotiated the release of an Imperial priest. So I am no stranger to victory in these lands either."

Garyn raises a hand and bows his head slightly.

"I am a mer born under a certain sign to uncertain parents. I know of the falseness of the Tribunal, and of the perils of the Sixth House. The stars and my dreams have led me here, that I might, in humility, know what the gods would have of me."

Zabamund nods. His face grows no less severe, but it is clear Garyn's answer has satisfied him.

"Hmmm. These are not simple matters. Your deeds are worthy indeed, and you know a great deal more than I would have thought. I hear the truth in your words. I believe you should speak to Sul-Matuul. Perhaps he will be angry with me. But I think I can bear that. Go to the Ashkhan's Yurt and speak with Sul-Matuul. Ask him your questions, and tell him I have sent you."

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Stone-faced solemnity seems to be universal among the Ashland khans. Sul-Matuul is even more severe than Zabamund had been. He is, however, patient as Garyn shows his courtesy and introduces himself.

"You think you fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies," Sul-Matuul says, sounding out the words slowly as if he is trying to convince himself of what he has just heard. He begins to roll a hackle-lo leaf and continues.

"You wish to be tested to see if you are the Nerevarine. No outlander may join the Nerevarine cult. If you were a Clanfriend, an adopted member of the Ashlander tribes, then perhaps. I have an initiation rite in mind. If you pass this rite, I will adopt you as a Clanfriend of the Ashlanders. And then I will submit you to Nibani Maesa, our wise woman, who is skilled in oracles and mysteries, and who will test you against the prophecies."

Garyn nods. "Very well. Set me to the task, muthsera."

Here the trace of a smile finds the end of the mer's lips, even as the rest of his face does not move. "To be adopted into the tribe, you must undergo a harrowing. In a harrowing, you will be judged by the spirits and ancestors to see if you are worthy. Go to the Urshilaku Burial Caverns and fetch me Sul-Senipul's Bonebiter Bow. Sul-Senipul was my father, and his spirit guards his bonemold long bow deep in the burial caverns. Return to me with this bow, and I will adopt you into the Ashlander tribes as a Clanfriend."

His day does not appear to be getting simpler.

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The walk to the burial caverns feels longer than it is, so much of it being across flat and featureless ashlands. The crawl through the darkly illuminated caverns seems more endless still. It is a long, spiraling maze, which only a people who venerated their ancestors above all else could have excavated, and then only over millennia. Each passage is guarded by some sort of ancestor spirit, or skeleton, or Bonewalker.

It is as vast and wonderous as anything Garyn has ever seen. He wonders if it could even be as extensive as the sewers and catacombs of the Imperial City itself. If he gets nothing else from this long and tiresome journey, he will at least respect the sheer scope of the Urshilaku's dedication to their ancestors.

In the end Garyn finds the spirit of Sul-Senipul, guarding the bow he used in life. Sholagmer was able to return him to peace, and claim his heirloom.

All in the camp - Sul-Matuul most of all - crane their necks at Garyn's return. None had expected to see him again. Thinking, perhaps, that either the outlander would give up and show no more of himself, or that he would fall before the spirits of their mighty ancestors.

The Ashkhan stands with his arms crossed, and signals for Garyn to come into his yurt.

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"Now that you are a Clanfriend, I want to speak plainly. I find it hard to believe that you are the Nerevarine. You are an outlander, but the Nerevarine comes to drive all outlanders from Morrowind. How could an outlander be the Incarnate? The Great Houses stole our lands and mocked us with false gods. The godless outlanders steal our land and our dignity. The Nerevarine is the last hope the Ashlanders have. I will let no outlander steal this hope from us."

Garyn looks away for a moment as Sul-Matuul speaks. The Ashlander speaks more truly than he knows. This entire enterprise is a fraud - a harebrained scheme concocted by a dotard Emperor. All of the hopes and fears of his people, in service of a lie.

"Even so, muthsera, I would know what the stars say of it." Garyn's voice is barely above a whisper as he answers.

"These are serious words, Garyn Balvadares, words of life and death. I see honor and merit in you, and am proud to name you Clanfriend. But take care what you say and do in the name of the Nerevarine. Now go question Nibani Maesa, and learn all she can tell you."

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The wise woman is not even looking toward the entrance of her yurt. But she greets Garyn upon his entering, nonetheless - speaking as though the back of his head could see him indeed.

"You are the outlander who claims to fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies," she says. "Have you come to see if you pass the test? Do you think you are the Nerevarine?"

"I do not know," Garyn says. "But my dreams convince me that it may be so, and I would know for certain."

Nibani Maesa now stands, walking toward Garyn to get a closer look at him.

"Hmmmmm. Dreams are a serious thing. And these dreams of Nerevar, and of the Sixth House, they are signs of the coming of the Nerevarine. Not necessarily a sign that YOU are the Nerevarine. Just as many have the same birthday, and many are not sure of their parents. It is interesting. But it does not mean that you are the one."

Garyn nods. "And what might, muthsera?"

The wise woman continues to pace around Garyn, staring him down from every angle. "There are, in fact, many Nerevarine prophecies, and they suggest many things. Aspect and uncertain parents. The moon-and-star. Sleepers. Seven curses. The curses' bane. The prophecy of the Stranger. The prophecy of the Seven Visions. And still others that are lost prophecies.

"Of these, some are forgotten. Some hidden. Some deliberately lost. The wise women are the memory of the Velothi people. But it is a faulty memory, and we are mortal, and our knowledge dies with us, for we do not love the written word, as the settled folk do. Ask me of these things. If you are patient. If you would be wise. Or, if you are impatient to know, just ask: 'Do I pass the test of the Nerevarine prophecies?' Go ahead, outlander. I am the wise woman. Ask your questions. And I will answer."

Garyn breathes deeply. "I would hear all of it. But before all, I would have your answer to the question I have traveled for."

The wise woman speaks quickly and bluntly. "You are not the Nerevarine."

Garyn lets loose a deep breath he had not known he had been holding. It is a glorious second of pure, profound relief - one that Nibani Maesa needs but a second to break.

"You are one who may become the Nerevarine."

He blinks, puzzled and astonished. "But...how can that be? Surely I either am or am not!"

Maesa chuckles and nods. "It is a puzzle, and a hard one. But you have found some of the pieces, and you may find more. Do you choose to be the Nerevarine?"

"I..."

"Then seek the lost prophecies among the Dissident priests of the Temple. Find the lost prophecies, bring them to me, and I will be your guide."

"Then...you've not enough information to know if I am or am not the Nerevarine?"

She narrows her eyes and stands tall, seeming to loom above him even at her height.

"You come so far, outlander, and yet you do not understand. The stars do not simply open their mouths and tell us that 'You are such a person, and you are such a thing.' Destiny is a duty. It is a path to be walked. This is why an Incarnate can fail, and these failures are a sign of the coming of the Nerevarine. You, if you would be he, must understand this. The prophecies of the Stranger and the Seven Visions speak of this."

She parts her hands and begins to recite:

"When earth is sundered, and skies choked black,
And sleepers serve the seven curses,
To the hearth there comes a stranger
Journeyed for 'neath moon and star.

Though stark-born to sire uncertain
His aspect marks his certain fate.
Wicked stalk him, righteous curse him.
Prophets speak, but all deny.

"Many trials make manifest
The stranger's fate, the curses' bane.
Many touchstones try the stranger.
Many fall, but one remains.

"What does this prophecy mean? It tells us who the Nerevarine will be, and the trials he must undergo before he fulfills his destiny. If this is what you would be, it is what you are tasked with."

Now she produces a scroll of Daedric lettering, kept within the folds of her simple robe.

"I know you foreigners love to read more than you do to listen. Therefore take this written copy of those prophecies we have remembered. Read these words. Think on them. And when you have found the lost prophecies, return to me."

Garyn accepts the scroll. In his hands it feels quite heavy indeed.

They emerge from the bar onto an ancient bridge, made of a metal that Ibani won't be able to identify - but clearly the work of an advanced and accomplished civilization. It bridges the foyada, high and deep on each side.

They won't have time to admire it, however. Because there's a bald Imperial in an iron cuirass standing at the other side of the bridge. He conjures a skeleton warrior, who charges toward them as its master launches bolts of lightning at them.

Garyn stood over the shallow pool as its waters continued to swirl with blood. The caravaner cowered behind the leg of his mount, peering over the hills and bluffs he had once thought safe. The strider, meanwhile, continued to graze, undisturbed and unthreatened.

It had been a classic ruse. The waylaid maiden, stopped by a watering hole, armed with a song-and-dance about a missing ring that had fallen into the pond. She'd had a social function to attend, you see, and she could hardly show up soaking wet. Surely a handsome young gentleman could help a lady in distress?

If it weren't for the armor that Ibani had given him, it may have been the last request that Garyn ever granted. An arrow from the shadows bounced off his back. As he turned, the woman's wicked smile turned to a mask of blanched horror as she drew her dagger in vain. Meanwhile, arrows continued to fly from the top of a nearby hillock.

A second, then a third, even as the shooter's friend fell before Garyn's sword. Then, he finally saw it - a woman, or the faint outline of one, concealed by a powerful Chameleon spell. He would never have seen her if he weren't experienced at tracing the source of a flying arrow. Unfortunately for her, Garyn was faster. He threw his knife before charging with blade drawn.

It was a lucky throw. She tumbled from the top of the ridge into the same pool where her friend now lay.

He grabs the amulet from the archer's neck, taking its enchantment for his own. Yet even as he does, he can only think of the last words of her fellow highwaywoman.

"No good deed goes unpunished, outlander."

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As he descends from the strider dock, Garyn looks upon the town that's been carved into the bluffs in front of him. The buildings are little different from the ones in Ald'ruhn - more crescent stone crab shells arranged in semicircles. In the center of town, a temple. Behind him, the River Samsi. And to the east, a most conspicuous gray wall, roughly three-quarters built, surrounded at its base with stones that were clearly quarried far from here.

This, he supposes, must be the fort. He makes his way there quickly, to be promptly rebuffed by a stocky orc in chainmail. He points a stubby finger toward a larger crabshell building nearer to the Temple. The fort is only half-completed, he says. So General Darius is making his accommodations in the local tradehouse. He'll want to speak to him directly if he wishes to join.

Garyn passes roughly another dozen orcs in Imperial mail on his way there.

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"Oh, it's no imposition at all - we're loyal Imperial subjects in this establishment!"

These words - or something very much like them - had been uttered at some point by the owner of this tradehouse. Of that much Garyn is certain.

It's nearly a comical sight. The ordinary Dunmeri inn and trading post that he sees on the first floor gives way to as many Imperial banners as he's ever seen in such a small space as he descends the stairs.

Garyn heads straight for the room that seems most bedecked with banners and red-dyed finery. His instincts, as they often are, are correct. In the largest of the rented rooms he sees what seems to be two officers huddled over a map - one an orc in heavy steel, and the other draped in the shining gold and red-trimmed armor of the Imperial Templar.

The latter is surely General Darius, and so Garyn introduces himself.

"Ah...Balvadares," Darius says. "House Redoran sent word ahead of your arrival. They told us you may come to join the Ruby Ranks. I take it that's why you've come?"

Garyn nods. "I'm glad they think so well of me. That is indeed why I am here. Whichever oaths there are to swear, I'll swear and keep them."

"All the better for you, for your oaths are simple ones," Darius says.

He unsheaths a broadsword from his scabbard and holds the flat side against his chest. He then begins a recitation, speaking quickly but with full seriousness in every word:

"A man of the Legion shall give his life and the might of his arms, firstly to the Empire and to the Emperor who rules it, and secondly to any commanding officer who holds to the first. He will carry himself with the dignity of his uniform and uphold the law. He will respect his fellow Legionnaire, and will not harm or steal from them. He shall be the face of the Empire to the common man, and be cognizant at all times that his actions reflect on his gods and emperor."

Then, narrowing his eyes and staring straight into Garyn's, he continues:

"Now, do you swear, by the Nine Divines and by all the gods and spirits that intend good for mortals, that you shall perform every duty that I have just described to you?"

Garyn neither flinches nor blinks. "I so swear."

"Then as commander of this fort I hereby declare you a member of the Deathshead Legion. Trooper Nash shall see that you are fitted with a coif and cuirass on your way out. But -"

He raises his fingers, as though sensing that Garyn was beginning to move.

"- do not leave yet. I have orders for you."

The general strokes his chin. "Yes...yes, let's see if you truly are loyal to our cause here in Morrowind. There's a little issue of a land deed here in Gnisis I need you to take care of."

Garyn raises his hand in salute. "As you command, sir."

At this, just for a moment, Darius's expression becomes nearly impossible for Garyn for Garyn to read. He seems to be grimacing - but there's something else to it, something Garyn cannot recognize. At least, not recognize in the brief second it's there. It vanishes as quickly as it appears, and the general continues.

"Mansilamat Vabdas died recently in the eggmine. He is survived by his wife who now owns a parcel of land we could use for another dock. Talk to the Widow Vabdas and get the deed to her land. Don't take 'no' for an answer. Get me that land deed."

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Garyn's expression would not be hard for those who know him to read. Blank, ashen as his skin, with all the usual life gone from his eyes. The look of a mer drained of his last hope. Nonetheless, he continues to be fitted for his cuirass, the armorer remaining oblivious to the darkness of his mind.

All sword work is thug's work, after all. I was a fool to expect any different, and from the Empire of all places.

His feet continue to carry him forward, years of fighter's instincts and obedience drilled into him by the Old Mer, and years of hope trodden down within him. He has, he knows, done worse before.

Yet as he trudges in uniform to the Vabdas' hut on the outskirts of the city, the taste in his mouth is bitter indeed.

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Garyn isn't expecting sympathy from the widow. From the moment she opens the door, before he even speaks, he can see the grit and kagouti-brained stubbornness in her face. A formidable woman - had he known anybody in town, he might not even dared to approach.

She seems to grow taller as she leans forward, her eyes glittering with red rage.

"My husband was murdered by a legionnaire and now you come asking for his land. You will never get his land."

Even as Garyn stands there, too stunned to react, she brandishes the bellows she had been using for her hearth, clutching it at her side like a club.

"I will fight you and all of Gnisis will fight you until all you foreigners leave us in peace. Now get out of my house!"

At last the erstwhile recruit stirs from stunned silence. The hilt of his blade braces the door to stop it from slamming in his face.

"...Wait. Did you say 'murdered?'"

The widow Vabdas purses her lips for a moment. "My husband went to the Eggmine and never came home. He knew the mine was closed by you foreigners and guarded by the Legions, but we had no fresh kwama eggs. If you want to help me, go the mines and find out the truth."

The door just about misses the tip of Garyn's nose.

He turns around, clenching his fists.

To hell with this. To hell with my orders. To hell with the Legion. I am not a coward.

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The kwama had dug their colony into the bluffs on the northern edge of town. The workers had followed them, building stairs and scaffolding leading into it. There is even a large patio just beneath the entrance, where workers could relax and enjoy their mealtimes in the fresh air.

It's an odd sight, but it means Garyn needs no directions to reach his new destination. Indeed, walking with purpose he reaches it very quickly indeed.

Another Dunmer in Imperial garb is posted by the entrance.

"You must be new," the soldier says. "I'm Trooper Vatollia Apo. You're here on Legion business, I presume."

Garyn suppresses a strong urge to respond with something snide. "Garyn Balvadares. That I am."

He fishes for something at his waist and tosses it to Garyn.

"You'll need the key, then. You ever been in an eggmine before, soldier?"

Garyn catches the key. "No, but I think I can manage."

"You probably can," the guard says. "Just don't bother the Workers and stay away from the Warriors. 'Specially since you're new. They don't know your smell."

Garyn's "thank you" is directed at the back of the door as it closes behind him.

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As easy as it had been to get in, the mine is a tight-run operation on the inside. And both the kwama and the merish miners seem to be part of the same operation. The kwama are odd beasts - the rough-carapaced workers the size of small ponies, carrying dirt and eggs in their proboscid mouths and even upon their backs, walking abreast with the cat-sized beetle scribs. Right next to them, as though they were part of the hive itself, stride their two-legged human, elven, and beastfolk companions, assisting them with their work and carrying off the surplus eggs.

Garyn would have expected more people here, given the size of the mine. But that, he supposes, must be an effect of the mine being closed to the public.

The place is a maze, with twisting organic passages not designed by architects, but the natural needs of a hivemind at best lightly guided by the people who had tamed it. And Garyn has no idea where to even begin to look.

He works methodically and deliberately, asking any miner who will give him time to answer where last they had seen Mansilamat Vabdas. The answers are vague, and a few are completely unhelpful. But they all lead him forward, deeper into the mine, and closer to the Queen's chamber.

As he rounds a corner and enters the corridor to the lower chambers, a low, gruff voice barks at him.

"Hey!"

Garyn whips his head around. An orc in Imperial chain mail is standing beside him with his axe drawn.

"You're not supposed to be in here. I'm gonna count to ten. And if you're still here when I'm done, you're gonna be in big trouble."

Garyn raises his hands in the air. "And if I do leave, we'll both pretend I wasn't here?"

The orc smiles. "Hey, now he's gettin' it. Run along back to Darius, new blood. Leave the lower chambers to me."

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Of course, with the Amulet of Shadows around his neck, a lone Orc guard is no obstacle at all in the long run. Once he's out of his sight for what Garyn deems a sufficient period of time, he activates the enchantment and creeps forward.

He's easily past the orc, who has made himself comfortable on a bedroll in an alcove near the Queen's chamber. He might not have even needed this Chameleon enchantment to sneak past him.

But no sooner can Garyn begin to congratulate himself when he finds himself surprised yet again - not four feet away, a ragged, hovering, skeletal figure shining dimly with a spectral pallor. Thankfully his weapon is not drawn, and he has seen enough ghosts not to cry out on sight of one.

For this one speaks to him:

"Do not fear me, Dunmer. Listen, and I will tell you how I was murdered by Lugrub gro-Ogdum."

Garyn steps back, his eyes wide with awe and surprise, yet no fear. "You...you are Mansilamat Vabdas!"

The spirit has no neck. Yet Garyn could swear he sees it bob downward, as if to nod.

"I came to the mines to get fresh kwama eggs for my family. Lugrub gro-Ogdum was sleeping, and I snuck past him. When I found enough eggs, I went back the way I came, only this time Lugrub was awake. Lugrub murdered me so that no one would know he failed his duty. He dropped the broken axe he used next to my body in the water behind me."

The spirit turns slightly aside, gesturing to a narrow sump in the passage ahead.

"Take the axe from the water behind me as proof of Lugrub's crimes."

"But who will I go to? The Legion is -"

"Show the axe to Darius. You need not worry about him. He will do as his law and duty commands. Do not let them take my lands. Avenge my death and let my wife live in peace. Then I can rest."

Garyn nods. "You shall rest, sera. I promise you."

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Garyn is still wet as he starts toward the entrance with the evidence. Yet there is a grim satisfaction in knowing that the only way back there goes through one mer.

"Lugrub gro-Ogdum?"

The orc snarls, rising from his bedroll. "Who's askin'?"

Garyn draws his sword and snarls back. "Mansilamat Vabdas."

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Garyn has enough professional restraint not to literally burst into Darius's quarters at the Madach Tradehouse with a broken axe raised high above his head. But he is nonetheless very insistent and brusque with his adjutant before he enters.

The General looks up yet again from his paperwork.

"There had better be a land deed in your hand there, soldier."

Garyn's answer is filled with proud, angry defiance: "No, sir."

Darius, by contrast, remains placid and implacable. "Then might I ask why you've bothered to return? You seem a smart enough sort not to deliberately try to get yourself flogged for insubordination."

"Because Mansilamat Vabdas was murdered by one of your men...sir."

Darius crosses his arms. "Hmmm. A serious accusation. Do you have proof of it?"

Garyn procures the axe and lays it on the table.

"I found this buried in Vabdas's body. It belonged to Lugrub gro-Ogdum."

Darius leans in, running his finger against the edge. He inspects the weapon very closely, and then nods, his expression oddly satisfied.

"Yes, this is Lugrub's Axe. I see the markings of his first initial and clan name. And I can see how it's been damaged from hitting bone here and here. With this, I have no choice but to believe your story. Lugrub gro-Odgum is an outlaw. Find him and kill him. Then justice will be served."

Garyn, not for the first time today, finds himself struck a little dumb.

"Ah, well...I've...already taken care of that, sir."

Darius nods. "Good work. Saved us all a little time."

Garyn blinks. "...Sir?"

The general chuckles. "You seem to think I ought to be surprised, Balvadares. Or angry."

"With...respect, sir...and assumed permission to speak somewhat freely -"

"Granted, but don't push your luck."

"Well, sir, I'm not surprised that you dealt out punishment. No Empire would think it could get away with taking the land of a woman it widowed if it wanted to keep the peace. Basic arse covering, if you'll forgive my language. But this isn't how I would have expected you to react, given that I've just conducted an entire criminal investigation and execution in defiance of a direct order."

Darius sits forward and meets Garyn's eyes directly. "You showed initiative, and responded to the needs of the Emperor's subjects. These are traits we need in non-commissioned officers. I needed to know if you were the sort of mer House Redoran claimed you were - leadership material. You showed me that you are."

Garyn's brow furrows. "You can't be saying that this was all just a test of character, can you, sir?"

"Hardly. It was a task that needed to be performed. We really do still need a second strider dock, and the townsfolk had already made up their minds on what happened to Mansilamat Vabdas. Of course, our own investigation had failed to even turn up a body. I don't suppose you could guess who led that investigation?"

"Lugrub gro-Ogdum, sir?"

"To my eternal shame. I found the report's findings questionable but had no direct cause to reject them. Of course, once an Imperial investigation has been closed, it cannot be reopened without such cause, not even by the fort commander."

Here Garyn's forehead unknots itself slightly, resolving into a raised eyebrow. "And was this your way of reopening it?"

"Your orders were your orders. Nothing more. But good men in the right place make good things happen."

"I suppose that's true, sir."

"Of course it is," Darius says. "And we'll need a lot more good men now. Lugrub has just wrecked every bit of goodwill we've built among the people of Gnisis. One of ours just murdered an innocent citizen and it looks to all the world like we tried to cover it up. It was hard enough getting them to respect orcs in uniform. It'll take years before these Dunmer trust us again."

The general shakes his head and sighs. "And I'll probably have to give some of the other men who participated in the investigation a firm talking-to. You've caught the killer, but the headache's just started for us."

He rises to his feet and draws his sword, tapping Garyn's left pauldron.

"But that begins tomorrow. Effective today, I'm promoting you to Trooper."

Garyn salutes. "Thank you, sir."

"Now, I want you back at barracks immediately to integrate with your unit. Then get some rest. You'll need it, soldier."

Garyn has been avoiding the Guildhall whenever he can. Lorbumol had finally given him a job he can't do. He's to kill a woman named Adraria Vandacia. It didn't take much digging for him to find out she was a Hlaalu tax agent. He'd already collected debt money for a gang - albeit from their own stores. He's not about to kill government officials for them.

He's even stored most of the goods and gold he'd acquired from Mallapi in his room in Milliways rather than his footlocker. A necessary precaution, given how he'd caught Lorbumol trying to peek in on him as he began loading it.

"Just wonderin' how it is you got so rich so quick," he'd said.

He doesn't know how much Lorbumol knows about Mallapi, or whether he'd be able to identify what few Tong goods remained unsold. But he's left a little present for him under the lid of his footlocker, just in case.

In the meantime, now would be a very good time for him to find a job of his own to do...

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Even with no living witnesses, it's not hard to find rumors on the mysterious killer preying the streets of Vivec. Everyone in town is talking about it. But sifting the real leads from mere town gossip is something Garyn has been trained to do since his adolescence.

He's able to find the sister of one of the victims in the Hlaalu canton. She hadn't seen anything - but she did know a sewer cleaner who said he'd been threatened by a wild-eyed Dunmer woman with a dagger. He'd found the mer and corroborated the story - and he added the detail of a skirt and netch leather armor. Not much in a city of Dunmer, but at least he had a description. And perhaps, an indication of mental instability as a motive.

But from there the trail runs cold. No one can piece together any other details about this woman. And in a city this size, such a woman would be difficult to find. He figures his best bet is the Foreign Quarter. This is where the killer would find the most targets. Perhaps she might find cover in the lower levels.

And so he spends the better part of the next day in the dim and musty confines of the Canalworks of the Foreign Quarter. He sees no sign of the killer. But eventually, an Argonian emerges from a hatch on the floor - another sewer cleaner named Deeh-Jo, whose shift has just ended. And he has a rather unusual sighting to report...

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The Underworks are dark, and about as pleasant as one would expect. Garyn is fortunate to have thought to bring a torch, though this doesn't help with any of the other sensory features of the spacious sewers. If nothing else, the system of viaducts that runs within the cantons does an effective enough job of keeping the foundations from growing rotten and stagnant.

His torch flickers in the damp air as the water beneath him glistens. There is no sound but the water quietly rushing above and beneath him.

Suddenly he spots movement from the corner of his eye. Something floating...and green, trailing crimson behind.

It's an orc. A dead one.

Then a woman's voice, echoing across the water: "We see you, Garyn Balvadares...waking, and sleeping..."

Garyn swivels his head. The voice seems to be shifting, coming at him from all sides. Hurriedly, he reaches for to draw his sword. But she is already upon him.

She rakes across his back shoulder with her chitin dagger, landing only a glancing blow. And yet Garyn staggers back. His vision goes red. Soon he finds he can scarcely lift his sword, much less land a returning blow.

The woman's blade is cursed! This had been why the Ordinators couldn't fight back! He drops to one knee as the killer advances, her eyes seeming to look through him.

She speaks again, without emotion: "At the lonely hour of midnight, I fly, when stars are weeping. Beneath the echo of souls, my spirit sleeping. Dawn is coming, the wickwheat has been winnowed, and His House has risen!"

Garyn's sword clatters to the ground. His vision is fading, and the killer's dagger is rising toward his throat. He has nothing left - save, perhaps, the one gift he had been born with...

He lifts his hand, feeling the mark burning upon his forehead, and says the only words that can possibly save him: "GHARTOK PADHOME."

After this, all goes dark.

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It is about two minutes before he awakens. But it is a great relief to him that he awakens at all. The Star Curse - that awful blessing that marked for certain the night of his birth, the night the Serpent had crossed the Tower - had done its job.

At his feet, his would-be killer foams at the mouth and clutches at her throat. The poison of the Serpent's curse does not kill quickly, or painlessly. But kill her it will...eventually.

He draws his sword and points it at the woman's throat. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

A wide, delirious smile crosses her bluing lips. "I dream dreams, soul of the Sixth House, flesh of Lord Dagoth. We have you in our discerning eye, Garyn Balvadares."

"Why? What's special about me?"

The madwoman coughs, flecks of blood now staining her lips. "All are nothing compared to His glory!
Fire, poisons, claws, pincers, wheels... what slave knows what the lover feels?"

At the last word, she rises suddenly to her feet, pulling herself through Garyn's sword. Even as the lightning laces her body, she begins to laugh. Rivulets of blood bubble and ooze from her throat.

Even as the light drains from her eyes, the ecstatic smile never leaves her face.

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Elam Andas's eyes widen. "...Lord Dagoth, you said?"

"She said. Something about a Sixth House as well."

Andas frowns. His pacing about the room, which had not ceased since Garyn had began his report, begins to slow. "This is...troubling."

"'Troubling' doesn't seem to cover it," Garyn says. "I'd thought Dagoth was some kind of...native Dunmer folk devil, from what little I've heard of him. But apparently he's real enough that his stab-happy little priestesses know me by name!"

"The Sharmat is no mere folk tale!" Andas snaps. The air falls silent for a moment as the momentary anger dissolves into sheepishness.

"Apologies, sera," says Andas. "But Lord Dagoth is real, though no match for the might of Almsivi, of course. And you have served Vivec's will in dealing with one of the poor, misguided souls seduced by his evil. The Watch thanks you for resolving this matter, and more specifically for resolving it with discretion."

Garyn frowns. "And I take it you'd like me to continue that...discretion, concerning the motives and nature of the murderer?"

"Yes," he says. "You must understand, Almsivi have protected the people from Daedra and cosmic evils great and small for thousands of years. If word gets out, it may cause a panic that is entirely unwarranted. You can think of this as no different from banishing a lesser Dremora. But we are prepared to pay very handsomely for the work you have done."

Andas snaps his fingers and signals to a nearby guard. The guard turns to open a large chest pressed against the wall. Inside is a set of gleaming golden armor of unmistakable design.

Garyn's poker face dissolves. "I was going to protest, sera, but if that's what I think it is, I'd say you've bought my silence."

"An Indoril cuirass, helmet, and shield. To be worn outside the confines of the city, of course - you are not a member of our order."

"Of course."

"We'll have it delivered to you promptly," Andas says.

"Thank you, muthsera."

"Oh, and if I may have a private word with you?"

"Of course, sera."

Andas looks over his shoulder and signals the guard to leave. When he's satisfied they're both alone, he clears his throat and continues.

"We've had our eye on you for a while now, Balvadares. It's clear to me that you're a mer of good character. I like you. It's for that reason I advise you to leave Vivec and quit the Fighters Guild immediately."

Garyn's brow furrows. "I rather suspect I know where you're going with this. But I'd like to hear it anyway."

"Yes. You're no fool, either. It probably didn't take you long to figure out what these foreign devils are. And you should also be smart enough to know that there's no stopping them. The Watch can't stop what they do. The Legion can't stop what they do. They have powerful friends in high places and powerful friends in low places. If you stay with this Guild, they'll either destroy you or make you into one of them."

Garyn's eyes narrow. "That's all as may be, sera, but the Guild is all I've ever known. I can't just -"

"You can, Balvadares. You want to make a living? Be a shrine sergeant for the Temple. Be a retainer for House Redoran. Hell, even the Legion would be better for a mer of your talents. I've watched these crooked invaders take away too much of my city already. I've watched them take down much stronger men than you, outlander. If my words can stop them from claiming one more life, that's a victory to me."

Garyn falls silent.

"I'm just asking you to consider it," Andas says. "Think it over for a little."

"I will consider it, sera."

"It's all I ask," Andas says. "Once again the Watch extends its thanks to you."

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Garyn sleeps uneasily in the Guildhall that night. He recalls only brief moments of his dreams when he wakes, of rows upon rows of the dead, who spoke to him though their lips did not move. The face of the host remained just out of sight, but his voice was clear deep sweet and -

He shakes his head free of the lingering cobwebs as Lorbumol approaches. He'll need all his faculties to tell him what he's about to tell him.

"Fine, then. I'll find someone else to do the job. Clear out your footlocker."

Garyn snarls. "You clear it out."

He storms out the door of the Vivec Fighters Guild, never to return.

There is a moment, when Garyn steps outside in Ald'ruhn, that he almost wonders if the guild guide had sent him to the wrong place. Ald'ruhn scarcely feels like it's in the same province as Vivec, much less the same island. Gone are the verdant blues and greens of the seas and islands that surrounded Vivec, the city he was still getting used to thirty seconds ago. Gone are the tall, splendid cantons, the pleasant weather, and the smell of the sea.

The air is dry here. Something smells wrong about it. In the distance, dusty red clouds clouds billow and froth. The winds howl in strange tones, seemingly in every direction at once - over, above, around, and through the rounded crescent-shaped buildings of the city. None of them hang high above the ground, save one - a great dome that towers over the rest of Ald'ruhn to the north. It looks almost like a mudcrab's shell.

As Garyn has been wont to do the past few days, he stares a little too long. An armored guardsman barks at him to move along. There's one sure sign he hasn't left Vvardenfell, at least.

"Storm's coming, outlander," the guardsman says. "Best get to shelter. Rat in the Pot's got beds to rent for to weather it over."

A stroke of luck, if a small one. He's hoping not to have to say any part of his mission here out loud. It's always better not to announce your purpose when you're looking for your quarry, even if you aren't known in town. Garyn thanks the guard for his directions and heads for the tavern.

Only as he nears the Rat in the Pot do the specifics of his mission rise to the top of Garyn's thoughts. Teleportation will do that to a mer. So will not wanting to think about it. He doesn't want to kill Tongue-Toad if he can help it. Even if he can't, not without some answers first.

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The Rat in the Pot isn't a big place. Food and drink upstairs, room and common area downstairs. A little crowded on a night like this, but not a hard place to find someone either. This suits Garyn just fine. He'd rather not have to do the "complete stranger asking everyone if they'd seen his good friend Tongue-Toad" routine.

He takes in a cup of mazte and makes a quick survey of the dining area. No Argonians here. He finishes his drink quickly, pays the bartender and makes his way downstairs.

And there he is. Well, an Argonian, at least. A well-dressed one at that, seated at a corner table in the common room. Garyn decides to take his chance here; he slides in across from him.

"Tongue-Toad. Ruheeva."

The Argonian's tail darts beneath the table as he turns his head suddenly.

"...I am he. Who are you?"

Garyn's hand slides carefully toward his scabbard as he leans forward. "Right now? Your best friend in the world. And as your friend, I would advise you to keep your voice low and pay very close attention. You are in danger."

Tongue-Toad rises in his seat. His head is still, but his eyes are bulging, twitching from side to side as he scans the room for an exit.

Garyn lowers his voice and beckons the Argonian closer. "Not from me. And not right this moment. Though the Fighters Guild did send me."

"The Fighters Guild!? Why would they want me -"

"Not so loud. Someone from the Vivec chapter sent me to silence you, one way or another. I don't know what it is you're saying that's got them bothered, but something tells me it's something I'm not meant to know either."

Tongue-Toad's cartilaginous lips are as pursed as an Argonian's ever get. "If you're Fighters Guild, you either know already or will soon enough. I have clearly said too much already."

"I'm afraid you might be right," Garyn says. "I don't suppose you've a place to go?"

"Would you let me go and tell them I've fled?"

"Seems a sensible solution to me."

"Then I will go," says Tongue-Toad. "Thank you, stranger."

"You're very welcome."

Then, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard by the nearest patrons: "Remember, Argonian - not another word about the Guild."

Tongue-Toad nods his head as Garyn walks away.

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He had meant to spend the evening at the Guild hall itself - either in Ald'ruhn or in Vivec. No sense in paying for something you get free with your monthly dues. But he's not even across the main plaza when the air stops being air, and the winds grow thick with ash.

Garyn turns his head, fighting through a choking, wheezing cough as he strains to see his hand in front of his own face. The wind burns him now. The night has turned red. Will he even be able to make it back?

He finds a wall and slides fumblingly across it until he finds a door handle. Gods, please let this be The Rat in the Pot. He opens the door...

Garyn isn't quite sure where he is. He's been told this is Vivec City, in some place called the Foreign Quarter. But what that means, where that is, he has no idea. He has seen nothing but stone beneath him and stone above him. He has clambered up four tall flights of stairs from the Mage's Guild teleportation chamber to what he has been assured is the central plaza of the canton - he supposes this must be something like a district.

And indeed, a plaza seems to be what he's found - a large open square, lined on both sides with shops and residences. But the air is still musty, and the wind does not blow freely. The bustle of men and mer going on about their daily gods-know-what echoes around a great stone dome that stretches overhead. The whole canton is one enormous building.

Garyn sees now his error. From what little he'd heard of it, he had been led to believe that Vivec was a city, not a citadel.

Looking across the street, he sees the shield-and-crossed-swords that mark every Fighters Guildhall in Tamriel.

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"Welcome to the Fighters Guild, boy."

Garyn blinked as he entered the well-appointed red hall. Bright red banners marked with crossed shields hang draped from the walls.

"Y-yes," he said. "Thank you, sera."

"You're welcome," said the Old Mer. "Do your job well, and this will all be yours someday."

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It doesn't look anything like the old place. But then, with the way the city's looked so far, he's not surprised. It's a series of cramped corridors and staircases, descending further into the canton with no obvious exterior. But it's the Fighters Guild, alright - the sound of training swords crashing against wood is unmistakable.

For the Guild of the largest city in Vvardenfell, there isn't much to the place. The hallways are narrow and the stairwells are steep. Gods forbid there's ever a fire inside. Still, it only takes one point in the right direction to lead him toward the man in charge - a long-haired Nord, currently nose-deep in a ledger.

"Sjoring Hard-Heart?"

"That's me," he says. "Haven't seen you around before."

"I haven't been," Garyn says. "I'm a mercenary looking to join the Vvardenfell guild. In Cyrodiil I -"

"Talk to Lorbumol downstairs. He'll see if you're worthy to join our ranks. I'll draw up the paperwork if he gives me the word. Until then, consider yourself a freelance associate."

He jabs his thumb rightward and Garyn descends the stairs to meet the orc.

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There was no family at the funeral of Salms Balvadares. None that counted for anything, anyway. The public consensus was that they probably existed somewhere. But the old mer's instructions were clear. His ashes were not to be returned to Morrowind. Instead they were to be scattered over the banks of the Niben. His people had surrendered their sovereignty to the Cyrodiils willingly enough; in his sight, the homeland they had so freely given was as much Cyrodiil as Leyawiin was.

None were to be invited to the scattering other than the persons specially mentioned. Not a single Balvadares was on that list.

There was, however, one person by that name in attendance. Salms's will had stipulated the mandatory attendance of "all standing members of the Leyawiin chapter of the Fighters Guild."

The ceremony, or what passed for it, proceeded under a shroud of dull silence. None had imagined it would end like this. Death not in battle, not even within eyeshot of an enemy, but on his own privy, from a sudden failure of the heart.

His face had always made him look older than he was - the lines, angles, and scars did him no favors. But he was hale and hearty, and carried about his physical labors with the strength and vigor of a soldier in his prime. He was a chiseled granite statue of a mer - muscular, imposing, unstoppable once he started moving. It seemed impossible to think that a mer like that could ever die. Surely one stare from those glinty eyes would have held back Arkay himself if he ever came for him.

The last of Salms swirled apart amidst the rushing current. Modryn Oreyn, the deputy guildmaster of Cyrodiil, read aloud his instructions for the distribution of his estate, unsealed after his scattering as per his will. It was not a long reading - for, it cannot be stressed enough, no family or natural heirs were present at the ceremony. Why he had never endeavored to marry and produce issue, none could be certain, though there were many guesses. It was a popular rumor that he had been castrated in battle, and that he kept his member in a jar on his mantlepiece. No such thing could be confirmed now, of course. His body was gone, and the contents of his office had been willed to the Guild itself, to be held in its stores under lock and key, never to be opened.

Three-fifths of his personal savings were to go to the central coffers of the Fighters Guild of Cyrodiil. The next 15,000 septims were to be spent on the addition of a new wing to the Leyawiin guildhall, to be enabled by the purchase of adjacent land. Control of the Guild Chapter was left to the discretion of the central leadership in Chorrol. They had chosen Lorbulg gro-Bagamu, previously the drillmaster, on the basis of his seniority and experience. Vantus Prellius would be named the manager of the chapter's financial affairs. The rank of Warder and the title of deputy drillmaster, along with the remainder of those savings not already devised (the latter considered as an eight-month advance on his base pay), were granted to Guild Defender Garyn Balvadares.

The banks of the Niben were silent again. There were no words, no expressions of regret, no benediction to his departing spirit. For there was no family at the funeral of Salms Balvadares, nor any who truly knew him.

The Guild turned their eyes to their new chapter leader. Lorbulg stared back at them, his face marked with an unexpression conveying not so much stoicism as utter gormlessness. He turned over his shoulder, as though believing they were expecting someone else. It seemed an eternity before he finally cleared his throat and spoke.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"New blood?" the orc said.

Garyn's eyes narrow. "That's me."

"I'm Lorbumol gro-Aglakh. You want work, you'll be reporting to me. Sjoring's got better things to do. I bet you expect me to give you a job right away, don't you?"

"I didn't come for the pleasant conversation. Sir."

The orc puffs his chest and takes a step closer. Garyn doesn't flinch. A flash of respect shows on Lorbumol's face.

"Well, today's your lucky day, junior. I got some grunt work for you. Nar gro-Shagramph said he'd deliver a ring to Ranes Ienith, but he hasn't delivered. Go find him in the Hlaalu Canton Plaza and bring the Juicedaw Feather Ring to me. Do it quick and you might even get paid."

Garyn nods. "Yes, sir."

Garyn keeps his complaints to himself. He knows better than to ask a question like "Is that all?" He especially knows better than to ask questions about debt collection jobs on his first day here.

If nothing else, he'll finally have the chance to step out into the fresh air.

Garyn had spent the night at the Eight Plates in the company of a bottle of strong mazte, and all his thoughts and burdens. Vainly he had tried to douse the latter with the former. Instead his passions swirl dizzily, mingling with his fears. Ibani. Caius. Blades. Sith. Milliways. Ibani. Above all else, Ibani. They have enough terrors to face on their own without having to bear their fears for each other. Of death, of torture, of transformation. This might be reason enough to stay away. But he knows he can't. He's already sunk too deep. He needs this too badly. And love without fear is a gift a mer like him will never know in his life.

He rises late. His back screams at him. He had fallen asleep half-sitting, the empty bottle still lying on his stomach. He staggers down the stairs, past the barkeep who is already scrubbing the tables down after the breakfast rush. She shoots him a strained, irritated smile and asks him how he slept.

Not well. Never well. Not in a long time.

He finishes his meal quickly. The eggs are cold, but the bread isn't stale yet. He can't complain. He pays his tab and leaves.

It's midday, and the city is melting. The whole of Balmora is a delirious haze, sizzling upward from cracks in the baked clay. He wades through the mass of men and mer on the scorching city streets. Their eyes are tired, indifferent. They scarcely even look his way. They don't know who he is, what he is. What he has done. No one does, save for Ibani.

And Caius Cosades. For all its anonymity, this is his city. And however many nameless eyes have seen him, he knows that at least one set of them had to be his. He could feel them on his back as he passed beneath the ornately stuccoed walls of the Manor District.

They stayed on him as he sat in the courtyard, paging through the Yellow Book of Vvardenfell, and its accompanying forward which extolled the glory of its House. He had been given the volume by an eager Hlaalu kinsman in the Council House. Every noble house needs retainers to perform their martial duties. Garyn has the skill, and needs the money. And everybody knows that the Hlaalu are rich. He leans against a wall on the shaded side of the street and begins to thumb through the book.

House Hlaalu is the most open and modern of the Great Houses. We are the only Great House who has embraced the irresistible tides of Imperial law and custom. And thus we have profited by the Empire's new policies, rising from obscurity as the Greatest of the Houses.

Collaborators, in other words. Ready to betray their cousins when the opportunity struck.

In the great wind of progress, tradition cannot stand.

And perfectly willing to make justifications and allowances. Not that he's ever much cared for tradition himself.

The Redoran may surpass us on the field of battle, but when the dust clears, they will find themselves indebted to us. The Telvanni may know many arcane secrets, but they fight among themselves more than against each other, and they cannot adapt to the ways of the Empire. Ancient and powerful though a Telvanni wizard may be, no individual can withstand the march of history. The Indoril are loved by the people for their gifts and donations, but when the money runs dry, will the people remember? The Dres know how to make money, but they have not learned how not to make enemies.

Grasp fortune by the forelocks. When you see your chances, seize them.

They're practically minded, at least. He'll give them that. They would probably pay him well. He shuts the book and looks upward.

He sees the Argonian. He's been following him since the other side of the river. He knows he never would have seen him if Caius hadn't meant him to. Garyn glares at the beastman and hisses something foul in broken Jel. The agent nods and vanishes into the shade of the nearest corner.

Garyn looks out at the city. Most of it is beneath him now, sloping down into the Odai. Before him is the Grand Manorial Staircase, a quarter mile long, and 30 feet wide. At the bottom he sees the familiar sign of the shield and crossed swords. No doubt it's what Cosades expects of him. From the Guild of Cyrodiil to the Guild of Vvardenfell. It would suit Cosades well to have him in full view.

To hell with Caius Cosades.

From Ibani Garyn has no secrets. But from the world he will hold them sacrosanct. The world can do nothing for him but become a perfect stranger to him. Yes, this would be the best arrangement. He will know nothing of it, and it will know nothing of him. To do that, he will need to find a place where he can be truly lost. Not from the eyes of the Imperial Secret Service, of course - he knows full well that that's impossible. But perhaps, for a moment, he can forget that the Blades exist. He flags down a guard.

"Where's the largest city in Vvardenfell?"

"Vivec City, outlander. To the south."

"And the fastest way there?"

"Teleportation service."

Garyn's brow furrows. Then relaxes, and resolves. He makes his way to the Mage's Guild.