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The locals tell him it's called Skar. A great domed shell, once the carapace of an enormous crab, now the hollowed-out home of the Redoran Council. It's also the home of a hostelry for lower-level members - by his judgment, the furthest lodging in town from any prying eyes from the Guild and Tong.
He elects to take a longer route, away from the Guildhall and the Rat in the Pot. Large and strange as this city of crescent buildings is, he never loses sight of where he's meant to go. He'll give Ald'ruhn one thing over Vivec - everything is a good deal easier to find.
He enters through where he imagines the beast's head may once have been, and walks the narrow catwalks over the ridges and bones of Skar's ancient shell. The Council Hall is at the back, he's told. He shuffles sideways to make room for a guard as he searches for the entrance...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Garyn hadn't expected that the person he needed to talk to would be a Redguard. He'd been given the impression that the Redoran were hidebound nativists and traditionalists. Perhaps this was a sign they valued competence above all else. Or perhaps one outlander was as good as another to them, Dunmer or no.
In all other respects, Neminda looks the part of the administrator of a Dunmer warrior house. She is dressed in fine robes, and a sword in a use-worn scabbard strapped to her belt. She stands with the posture of a drillmaster as she inquires about Garyn's background.
She nods at his accomplishments and inspects his equipment approvingly.
"This is well and good, mercenary," she says. "But House Redoran stands for more than mere combat. And our oaths are worth more than mere drakes. You must forswear service to all other Great Houses, and dedicate yourself to your House, your people, and your honor. You will be expected at all times to follow the true noble's code, and the teachings of the Tribunal. Life is hard, and all things in it should be treated with the gravity it deserves. I ask that you consider this before you offer your service as our retainer."
Garyn pauses before he answers. Neminda's words deserve this respect. But he does not hesitate.
"With respect, sera, if I weren't prepared to take this seriously I wouldn't be wasting my time standing here."
Neminda smiles. "I think you'll fit in nicely. Hold out your right hand."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's perhaps a little too fitting that Garyn is first tasked to deliver mail. In fairness to him, at least he knows what's in this package. In this case, potions for the treatment of common disease, to a far-flung outpost called Ald Velothi.
There is no direct silt strider service north of Maar Gan for the next four days. He decides to walk from there. It takes perhaps half a day for him to regret this decision.
He'd been warned about the cliff racers. He hadn't expected them to be this relentless. Every time he slowed down, much less stopped to rest or eat, they would begin to circle above him, descending slowly before diving and swarming at him. The lightning enchantment on his sword was capable of persuading to back off for a time. But never long enough to truly rest.
Garyn steps out of his world to sleep in Milliways instead. It is a powerful force indeed that can drive a mer out of his own universe through sheer annoyance.
If nothing else, he'll make better time this way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His next job thankfully requires no treks through the Ashlands. It does, however, involve returning to Balmora rather sooner than Garyn would like. And thanks to the Guild Guide, passing closer to two Guildhalls than he'd ever feel comfortable with.
But he can live with that. The job itself is simple enough - protect the House's honor by retrieving a stolen Founder's helm, but don't stain it by killing the thief. It made it a good deal easier that they knew the name of the thief.
And it made it comically easy when he saw him in the first cornerclub he visited, three sheets to the wind and boasting about the helmet he'd stolen as he put it on his head.
It isn't long before the thief finds himself intimately acquainted with the corner of the bar counter, with his arm perilously close to being snapped in a dozen ways.
"I'll be taking that helmet, f'lah. Care for me to take that arm along with it, or shall we do this the easy way?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Garyn isn't paid in anything but lodging for these first two missions. That and an apparent promotion. Now the oath goes two ways - for returning the relic of an ancestor, Neminda swears that all Redoran are bound to defend Garyn's honor as if it were their own, and grant him hospitality if he so requests it. He is a full Oathman now.
It had only been a few weeks, but his service hadn't escaped their notice. They needed mer like him, she assures him. He's sitting on a big enough pile of looted Tong treasure that this is enough for now.
In the meantime, they've sent him to help a guar herder east of the old fortress of Andsareth. Apparently she's been having pest problems, among other things.
It's another long hike through Redoran country. Fortunately this time he's been told that a few clumps of ash salts spread over a campfire will keep the racers from getting too close. It seems to work the first time he tries it, at least. Unfortunately it smells like the Deadlands themselves.
But the good weather seems to be holding, for now. There's not a cloud in sight as he approaches Drulene Falen's lonely farmhouse.
She's almost apologetic as she greets him and tells him what she summoned Redoran help for.
"I know it's a...poor herdsmer who can't keep her beasts safe from mudcrabs, of all things, but...I've so little money for help. I can't give you much for your work. If this goes on much longer I'll have to sell what I have left and move back to Tear."
She sighs and points in a direction of a creek in the steep hills surrounding her home.
"If nothing else, I know where they are."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As expected, it isn't difficult at all once he finds the nest. The crabs he skewers, the eggs he crushes. He brings the bodies of the two largest crabs as proof that his work is done.
Drulene's reaction is rather less expected.
When he arrives, she's seated at the door of her hut, sobbing. Garyn quickens his pace, drops the dead crabs, and runs beside her.
"Sera? What's wrong?"
"B-bandits...they ran off to the south with six of my guars! My best breeding stock! There were two of them! They were armed and I couldn't stop them..."
Garyn's eyes narrow. "If they're close, I'll find them. If they're not..."
He draws his sword.
"...I'll find them."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All things considered, a cardinal direction isn't much to go on. But the ground to the south is wet and grassy, and he can follow the tracks away from the farm. They fade once he reaches the harder, rockier ground beneath. But he feels confident in his belief that he can find them. Especially once he notices the tomb passage door with a half dozen guars tied up outside of it.
The panicked expression on the mer's face as Garyn approaches removes any doubt that could conceivably exist. He calls out to his partner, who emerges from within and draws his bow.
There's nothing but open field between Garyn and the bandits. They have him outnumbered two to one. But he's been fighting half his life. He was trained for this, to close the distance against bowmen. No two cattle thieves in history are a match for him.
The first shot misses. So does the second. From the horror on his face Garyn can tell he knows he won't have time for a third. His partner steps forward with his shortsword drawn. His thrust is telegraphed so badly that even a world without telegraphs could receive the message. Garyn steps aside effortlessly and runs him through.
The second bandit's hand trembles. He curses as the arrow slips through his fingers. His back hits the wall and he begins to cry.
Garyn is unmoved. His eyes narrow. "You knew what the penalty for stealing livestock was, thief."
He's enough pity in him to end it quickly. But none more than that. The thieves are both dead long before they've finished bleeding out.
Garyn wipes his blade against the grass and contemplates how he'll return the guars to their owner. The day is getting late, and in the distance he sees reddish-gray clouds forming...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Garyn has learned to do many things in his life. Herding guar is not one of them. So it is only with great difficulty that he is able to lead them over the hill within sight of the Falen farmhouse.
But the winds are picking up, and the clouds beginning to build. In the distance he can see the same haze that gripped the horizon when the storm hit him in Ald'ruhn. Only much larger. And getting closer by the second.
Hastily he pulls the mask and resinous goggles he had purchased in Ald'ruhn over his face. The wind is howling and the sky is on fire. Already he can begin to feel the abrasive sting in the air.
Drulene has spotted him. She runs toward him, waving her arms, imploring him to hurry, scrambling to offer whatever help she could. They've nearly reached each other when the sky turns blood red, and the wind begins to blow harder than he'd ever felt it. Even with his mask and armor on, it burns just to stand outside. The air feels wrong, somehow.
The cattle rope snaps in Garyn's hands as the guar scatter in all directions. Drulene calls out for him.
"Give me your hand!" she cries.
It's all they can do to stumble back to the farmhouse as the ash ravages everything around them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There's nothing left when they emerge from the farmhouse in the morning. What few guar are left in the field are foaming at the mouth, mad with the blight that every ash storm now carries. They scatter as they approach, and no amount of force from them or the tiny gaggle of farmhands can round them back up.
"There isn't even enough left for me to sell," she says. "I...I can't even move back to Tear."
Without a word, Garyn rifles through his pack and pulls out every coin he'd brought with him.
"How much would it cost to start a new herd?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He has enough. Just. But he'll need compensation when he gets back to Ald'ruhn. A sign that their commitment matches his.
Instead he comes back to a city reeling from the very same storm. He walks past street sweeps brush aside piles of ash as tall as a Nord as Dunmer lead their sick, coughing, and jaundiced loved ones toward the Temple to be healed.
Before he can do anything else he's instructed to find a trader lost in the storm. Of all things, he had been carrying a shipment blight cures when the storm hit. He can bring back the trader or his corpse, but above all else they need the potions.
He searches everywhere along the road he'd been taking. It takes him all morning, but thankfully he finds him alive but injured inside the entrance of a passage tomb. His guar is dead, but together they can carry his shipment to the Temple for those who need it.
When he returns under Skar to Neminda, the expression on her face is...worryingly sad.
"You've shown greater devotion to our House and honor in a month than many show in their whole lives, sera," she says. "For protecting our people and enforcing our laws, we name you proudly as an officer of the Law of the Tribunal. The home and hearth of any true Redoran are yours, regardless of need."
She sighs.
"However, we can offer you no more than this. The council must prioritize rebuilding after such a storm. And they'd spent a great deal already rebuilding from the last storm. They seem to be getting worse all the time."
Garyn bows his head. "I understand."
That of the three Great Houses on this island, I picked the one without any money. Swell.
Neminda shakes her head. "Your generosity and devotion will be rewarded in time. Until then...your oath does not forswear service outside the Great Houses. The Deathshead Legion in Gnisis is still recruiting. It would do our House and the Legion great honor if such a model Redoran as you were to join."
Garyn's eyes shut harder. Forced to work for the Emperor. His jailer. Cosades would be sure to know exactly what he's doing.
She continues. "I have also heard talk that Percius Mercius at the Fighters Guild has been looking for you. He might have work for you."
Garyn's eyes snap open. The look of panic on his face is impossible for her to miss.
"But perhaps you left that line of work for a reason," she says, an eyebrow raised. "It is, of course, your decision."
"And I believe I have made it, sera. Thank you."
He bows his head again as he leaves the Council Hall and heads for the strider dock.
Next stop, Fort Darius.
He elects to take a longer route, away from the Guildhall and the Rat in the Pot. Large and strange as this city of crescent buildings is, he never loses sight of where he's meant to go. He'll give Ald'ruhn one thing over Vivec - everything is a good deal easier to find.
He enters through where he imagines the beast's head may once have been, and walks the narrow catwalks over the ridges and bones of Skar's ancient shell. The Council Hall is at the back, he's told. He shuffles sideways to make room for a guard as he searches for the entrance...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Garyn hadn't expected that the person he needed to talk to would be a Redguard. He'd been given the impression that the Redoran were hidebound nativists and traditionalists. Perhaps this was a sign they valued competence above all else. Or perhaps one outlander was as good as another to them, Dunmer or no.
In all other respects, Neminda looks the part of the administrator of a Dunmer warrior house. She is dressed in fine robes, and a sword in a use-worn scabbard strapped to her belt. She stands with the posture of a drillmaster as she inquires about Garyn's background.
She nods at his accomplishments and inspects his equipment approvingly.
"This is well and good, mercenary," she says. "But House Redoran stands for more than mere combat. And our oaths are worth more than mere drakes. You must forswear service to all other Great Houses, and dedicate yourself to your House, your people, and your honor. You will be expected at all times to follow the true noble's code, and the teachings of the Tribunal. Life is hard, and all things in it should be treated with the gravity it deserves. I ask that you consider this before you offer your service as our retainer."
Garyn pauses before he answers. Neminda's words deserve this respect. But he does not hesitate.
"With respect, sera, if I weren't prepared to take this seriously I wouldn't be wasting my time standing here."
Neminda smiles. "I think you'll fit in nicely. Hold out your right hand."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's perhaps a little too fitting that Garyn is first tasked to deliver mail. In fairness to him, at least he knows what's in this package. In this case, potions for the treatment of common disease, to a far-flung outpost called Ald Velothi.
There is no direct silt strider service north of Maar Gan for the next four days. He decides to walk from there. It takes perhaps half a day for him to regret this decision.
He'd been warned about the cliff racers. He hadn't expected them to be this relentless. Every time he slowed down, much less stopped to rest or eat, they would begin to circle above him, descending slowly before diving and swarming at him. The lightning enchantment on his sword was capable of persuading to back off for a time. But never long enough to truly rest.
Garyn steps out of his world to sleep in Milliways instead. It is a powerful force indeed that can drive a mer out of his own universe through sheer annoyance.
If nothing else, he'll make better time this way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His next job thankfully requires no treks through the Ashlands. It does, however, involve returning to Balmora rather sooner than Garyn would like. And thanks to the Guild Guide, passing closer to two Guildhalls than he'd ever feel comfortable with.
But he can live with that. The job itself is simple enough - protect the House's honor by retrieving a stolen Founder's helm, but don't stain it by killing the thief. It made it a good deal easier that they knew the name of the thief.
And it made it comically easy when he saw him in the first cornerclub he visited, three sheets to the wind and boasting about the helmet he'd stolen as he put it on his head.
It isn't long before the thief finds himself intimately acquainted with the corner of the bar counter, with his arm perilously close to being snapped in a dozen ways.
"I'll be taking that helmet, f'lah. Care for me to take that arm along with it, or shall we do this the easy way?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Garyn isn't paid in anything but lodging for these first two missions. That and an apparent promotion. Now the oath goes two ways - for returning the relic of an ancestor, Neminda swears that all Redoran are bound to defend Garyn's honor as if it were their own, and grant him hospitality if he so requests it. He is a full Oathman now.
It had only been a few weeks, but his service hadn't escaped their notice. They needed mer like him, she assures him. He's sitting on a big enough pile of looted Tong treasure that this is enough for now.
In the meantime, they've sent him to help a guar herder east of the old fortress of Andsareth. Apparently she's been having pest problems, among other things.
It's another long hike through Redoran country. Fortunately this time he's been told that a few clumps of ash salts spread over a campfire will keep the racers from getting too close. It seems to work the first time he tries it, at least. Unfortunately it smells like the Deadlands themselves.
But the good weather seems to be holding, for now. There's not a cloud in sight as he approaches Drulene Falen's lonely farmhouse.
She's almost apologetic as she greets him and tells him what she summoned Redoran help for.
"I know it's a...poor herdsmer who can't keep her beasts safe from mudcrabs, of all things, but...I've so little money for help. I can't give you much for your work. If this goes on much longer I'll have to sell what I have left and move back to Tear."
She sighs and points in a direction of a creek in the steep hills surrounding her home.
"If nothing else, I know where they are."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As expected, it isn't difficult at all once he finds the nest. The crabs he skewers, the eggs he crushes. He brings the bodies of the two largest crabs as proof that his work is done.
Drulene's reaction is rather less expected.
When he arrives, she's seated at the door of her hut, sobbing. Garyn quickens his pace, drops the dead crabs, and runs beside her.
"Sera? What's wrong?"
"B-bandits...they ran off to the south with six of my guars! My best breeding stock! There were two of them! They were armed and I couldn't stop them..."
Garyn's eyes narrow. "If they're close, I'll find them. If they're not..."
He draws his sword.
"...I'll find them."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All things considered, a cardinal direction isn't much to go on. But the ground to the south is wet and grassy, and he can follow the tracks away from the farm. They fade once he reaches the harder, rockier ground beneath. But he feels confident in his belief that he can find them. Especially once he notices the tomb passage door with a half dozen guars tied up outside of it.
The panicked expression on the mer's face as Garyn approaches removes any doubt that could conceivably exist. He calls out to his partner, who emerges from within and draws his bow.
There's nothing but open field between Garyn and the bandits. They have him outnumbered two to one. But he's been fighting half his life. He was trained for this, to close the distance against bowmen. No two cattle thieves in history are a match for him.
The first shot misses. So does the second. From the horror on his face Garyn can tell he knows he won't have time for a third. His partner steps forward with his shortsword drawn. His thrust is telegraphed so badly that even a world without telegraphs could receive the message. Garyn steps aside effortlessly and runs him through.
The second bandit's hand trembles. He curses as the arrow slips through his fingers. His back hits the wall and he begins to cry.
Garyn is unmoved. His eyes narrow. "You knew what the penalty for stealing livestock was, thief."
He's enough pity in him to end it quickly. But none more than that. The thieves are both dead long before they've finished bleeding out.
Garyn wipes his blade against the grass and contemplates how he'll return the guars to their owner. The day is getting late, and in the distance he sees reddish-gray clouds forming...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Garyn has learned to do many things in his life. Herding guar is not one of them. So it is only with great difficulty that he is able to lead them over the hill within sight of the Falen farmhouse.
But the winds are picking up, and the clouds beginning to build. In the distance he can see the same haze that gripped the horizon when the storm hit him in Ald'ruhn. Only much larger. And getting closer by the second.
Hastily he pulls the mask and resinous goggles he had purchased in Ald'ruhn over his face. The wind is howling and the sky is on fire. Already he can begin to feel the abrasive sting in the air.
Drulene has spotted him. She runs toward him, waving her arms, imploring him to hurry, scrambling to offer whatever help she could. They've nearly reached each other when the sky turns blood red, and the wind begins to blow harder than he'd ever felt it. Even with his mask and armor on, it burns just to stand outside. The air feels wrong, somehow.
The cattle rope snaps in Garyn's hands as the guar scatter in all directions. Drulene calls out for him.
"Give me your hand!" she cries.
It's all they can do to stumble back to the farmhouse as the ash ravages everything around them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There's nothing left when they emerge from the farmhouse in the morning. What few guar are left in the field are foaming at the mouth, mad with the blight that every ash storm now carries. They scatter as they approach, and no amount of force from them or the tiny gaggle of farmhands can round them back up.
"There isn't even enough left for me to sell," she says. "I...I can't even move back to Tear."
Without a word, Garyn rifles through his pack and pulls out every coin he'd brought with him.
"How much would it cost to start a new herd?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He has enough. Just. But he'll need compensation when he gets back to Ald'ruhn. A sign that their commitment matches his.
Instead he comes back to a city reeling from the very same storm. He walks past street sweeps brush aside piles of ash as tall as a Nord as Dunmer lead their sick, coughing, and jaundiced loved ones toward the Temple to be healed.
Before he can do anything else he's instructed to find a trader lost in the storm. Of all things, he had been carrying a shipment blight cures when the storm hit. He can bring back the trader or his corpse, but above all else they need the potions.
He searches everywhere along the road he'd been taking. It takes him all morning, but thankfully he finds him alive but injured inside the entrance of a passage tomb. His guar is dead, but together they can carry his shipment to the Temple for those who need it.
When he returns under Skar to Neminda, the expression on her face is...worryingly sad.
"You've shown greater devotion to our House and honor in a month than many show in their whole lives, sera," she says. "For protecting our people and enforcing our laws, we name you proudly as an officer of the Law of the Tribunal. The home and hearth of any true Redoran are yours, regardless of need."
She sighs.
"However, we can offer you no more than this. The council must prioritize rebuilding after such a storm. And they'd spent a great deal already rebuilding from the last storm. They seem to be getting worse all the time."
Garyn bows his head. "I understand."
That of the three Great Houses on this island, I picked the one without any money. Swell.
Neminda shakes her head. "Your generosity and devotion will be rewarded in time. Until then...your oath does not forswear service outside the Great Houses. The Deathshead Legion in Gnisis is still recruiting. It would do our House and the Legion great honor if such a model Redoran as you were to join."
Garyn's eyes shut harder. Forced to work for the Emperor. His jailer. Cosades would be sure to know exactly what he's doing.
She continues. "I have also heard talk that Percius Mercius at the Fighters Guild has been looking for you. He might have work for you."
Garyn's eyes snap open. The look of panic on his face is impossible for her to miss.
"But perhaps you left that line of work for a reason," she says, an eyebrow raised. "It is, of course, your decision."
"And I believe I have made it, sera. Thank you."
He bows his head again as he leaves the Council Hall and heads for the strider dock.
Next stop, Fort Darius.