#give them the piercings from Morrowind

[littledragondork]

The fact that none of the dark elves have piercings in Skyrim is a fucking crime

#give them the piercings from Morrowind #Teldryn sero with some golden piercings hell yes #Skyrim #The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim #Elder Scrolls Skyrim #the elder scrolls skyrim #tes #tes v skyrim #tes v #same can be said for the other elves and humans too they deserve some nice percings #Tattoos would be cool to see too that would be great #I want the wood elves to have their little antlers back too they are so cute

[moriche]

Inktober Day Twenty-Nine: Massive

Distorted fragments interspersed the Dagoth-dreams, drifting in from a different time: Numidium radiant as starlight below a scorching desert sun, a walking tower of burnished brass. Two men stood at its feet, small as ants. A hood cast one of them in shadow, but the other wore a familiar face, displayed on every Imperial coin. Tiber Septim, the Divine Talos, ascended and worshipped as a god, who’d signed the Armistice with the Three. He’d failed to bring Morrowind under his control by force, but threatened the Three in giving up Numidium. The Living Gods submitted to a human Emperor, keeping their own laws and customs in return. Had they foreseen the rise of the Sixth House? Had they placed Numidium in foreign hands for it to raze a country not their own? Tiber Septim, who needed one last piece to complete his collection of conquered kingdoms. Tiber Septim, the Emperor who betrayed his Battlemage by stabbing him between the shoulders, piercing spine with sword, fracturing the soul of his most trusted friend to fuel a Dwemer idol of destruction. From Fear in a Handful of Dust

India ink and red watercolour on paper, 10,5 x 14,8 cm

#morichedraws #morichesfic #elder scrolls #tes #tesart #tes art #the elder scrolls #tesblr #numidium #tesfic #fan fiction #tiber septim #traditional art #artists on tumblr #morrowind #inktober #inktober2023

[roleplayingay]

Silence, my brother

TES Summerfest 2023 | Day 4 Mortal/Sanctuary Summary: The Night Mother calls upon Kovan, again and again.

It’s 580 of the Second Era.

Redoran Kovan is 25.

He is sitting on the table by the corner, face obscured by a hat and the shadows. A Tribunal forsaken bar in the worst part of a small town far enough from Ald’ruhn that nobody would recognize him.

Still, discretion was best when dealing with unpleasant matters.

Through the door comes a scrawny looking dunmer, about the same age as Kovan, wearing old looking clothes. A middleman for sure, someone who nobody would miss if things went wrong and the necessity to erase any traces of the job came to be. He seemed hungry. Or anxious. Either way Kovan ordered a meat pie for the two of them, for at least it would give the man something else to occupy his mind enough so he would stop looking around and making them look suspicious. Along he asked for a sujamma shot with scrib-jelly, a pleasure he often liked to indulge. 

Once the man’s stomach had been filled and his mind calmed, he took from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Kovan. Had Redoran Kovan been older, he would have hesitated. He would have questioned the need for such a level of precaution.

He didn’t know who the Telvanni he was doing this for was. No name or face attached. Just kill the Redoran Councilor as asked, and Kovan would be rewarded with help getting a higher position on the House hierarchy. 

Had Redoran Kovan been older and wiser, he would have hesitated at the idea that a faceless and nameless House Telvanni member was hiring his services through a middleman, who knew nothing about the job, whose only purpose was to deliver to him a note with further instructions to murder a Redoran Councilor.

But it was 580 of the Second Era. Kovan was 25 and foolish.

He read the note, drank his shot, and left the bar to do as told.

It’s 582 of the Second Era.

Kovan is 27.

His hand bears the mark of an exile, and he can’t step foot in Morrowind ever again for fear that a Morag Tong spear will pierce his throat in broad daylight. He is hungry, and tired, and sleeping on the streets of Anvil. The Three Banner War is raging on, but he could not care less. 

He has no money, he can’t find food, he is on his breaking point when he decides to break into a noble’s house. 

It goes wrong, as it often does. As it did back in Vvanderfell. So he finds himself standing over a body, blood in his hands, a knife on the noble’s chest. The guards don’t see as he flees the scene. They never suspect anything. 

It’s 582 of the Second Era

Initiate Kovan is 27.

The guards did not witness his act, but Sithis did.

He wielded the blade in the name of the Dread Father, as the Night Mother demanded.

And as the war and the Daedric Crisis spilled blood all over Tamriel, so did he. A promising assassin, that he was. The contracts kept coming, the streets were painted crimson.

In the Sanctuary he found his family. A new one to fill the hole left by his exile. He helped Hildegard with her lycanthropy. Drank with Kor and Cimbar. Trained with Tanek. Heard Mirabelle and Green-Venom-Tongue’s stories. 

Until Cimbar was dead on a torture table.

Until Mirabelle was killed by the Black Dragon

Until Green-Venom-Tongue succumbed to his wounds.

He was young, and foolish, and none the wiser.

He couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched the memories. As Lyra betrayed the Dark Brotherhood to become the Black Dragon. Kovan understood the pain of losing his family, but the Dread Father ordered the purification, and Sithis’ word was law. 

They survived. His hands were stained with Lyra’s blood, but what remained of his family was alive. 

Until the Daedric Crisis finally caught up to him, and with a dagger to the chest, Kovan found himself in Coldharbour.

It’s 433 of the Third Era.

Kovan thinks he is about 800 years old.

He isn’t sure.

Time passes differently in Oblivion.

The first days out of Coldharbour are the hardest. His skin is still returning to its normal dunmer gray. Instead of dead, soulless gray. Eyes are still sunken, but now they are red again, though a bit dull. His hair never went back to being black.

He looks old. He feels old.

Martin understands him. Martin sees him. He can never tell Martin of what he has done through his life, but Martin is aware enough to sympathize with his dark past.

Mehunes Dagon looms over the horizon, haunting every second of their days. Kovan won’t be a hero, but he can help. 

In Martin’s arms, Kovan finds his redemption.

In his embrace, he finds peace.

In his quest, he finds purpose.

On his death, Kovan’s world crumbles.

The portals are gone. Dagon has been defeated. The statue of a dragon stands in the temple.

Five days later, they find him again. 

They track him, disturb his sleep, give him the same blade he wielded before.

In the Dark Brotherhood, Kovan finds purpose again.

In the Blade of Woe, he finds the extension of his very being.

In the Sanctuary, he once more finds family.

In the words of the Night Mother, he finds solace.

It’s 434 of the Third Era

Silencer Kovan no longer cares about how old he is.

The blood of his family drenches his clothes. Their bodies lay cold on the floor. Dead. Every single one.

The Black Hand is no more. Their lives taken by him.

Lucien hangs from the ceiling of Applewatch.

The whispers of the Night Mother echo inside his head. She knew. She recognized him. She called for his soul to work by her side once more.

With negligence and deceit, she recalled the only living person who saw what Lyra went through. She allowed a rat to infiltrate the Brotherhood. She allowed for Kovan’s hand to wield the blade that wiped most of the Brotherhood off the map of Cyrodiil.

It was all planned, of course. 

Everything went as she wanted.

Kovan screamed into the void that was the night sky. The tears ran down his face, his throat hurt, his voice stopped. 

With disgust, he held the Blade of Woe in the same hand he used to kill.

With hate, he threw the blade into the sea.

It’s 201 of the Fourth Era.

Sheogorath walks through the forest that surrounds Falkreath. The mist is dense, the air is heavy.

He approaches the door, runs a scarred hand over the skull that decorates the door.

The whisper is clear inside his mind.

What is the music of life ?

“Silence, my brother.” The Daedric Prince answers.

#tesfest23 #oblivion #elder scrolls online #skyrim #sheogorath #oc: kovan #dark brotherhood #prompt: mortal #prompt: sanctuary #fanfic #elder scrolls

[aladaylessecondblog]

Next chapter of Faal Hah Wuld

Summary:

The trip is silent until the first stop; Torovan is inquisitive and some arguing happens.

Follower

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

15th of First Seed, @@@@@@@ 4E202, Afternoon(?)

The journey so far is relatively quiet, though I could do without seeing that one piercing eye of Torovan's when I look back to check he's still there. It's not the eye itself, it's just...the stare. I feel there's a lot behind it, but again...no questions asked or answered. He could be anyone for all I know. Whatever is going on, I'm getting paid for the job--and THAT is what matters.

We've stopped just inside Alftand, to warm up and to have something to eat before continuing on down into Blackrockreach. The chill is getting to both of us, but at least it makes things simple. I can't be concerned with anything and everything when it's so damned cold out.

Weather, like @@@ battles, is simple for me.

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

Torovan took the bottle the instant Sadrith had it out of her fur robe, and then moved to the other side of the fire. He didn't speak a word until he'd eaten--she attempted to eat something as well. But her appetite was still stone dead from the skooma, so all she managed was a slice of bread and a small slice of cheese.

It wasn't until she happened to look in his direction that she realized he was watching her, and when she pulled out a book she glanced up a time or two to find he was still doing it. Through some of the lower bandages she could see a slight sneer.

"Did I drop something?"

"Words of Clan Mother Ahnissi to her Favored Daughter?" Torovan asked, gesturing, "Forgive me, I thought you were a Dunmer, not some cat."

"I grew up in a Khajiit caravan," Sadrith huffed, "It was like...a bedtime storybook for me. Comforting."

She looked back at the book in an attempt to distract herself from the weight of his stare.

And they gave birth to S'rendarr, the Runt. "S'rendarr, we give you mercy...

"We're not stopping now."

"I know." She didn't look up. "I didn't say I meant to."

The bottle in his hand was set back on the floor. "Yet you seem to be getting comfortable enough to do so. Are you not worried about the Falmer? The chaurus? Bandits, perhaps?"

"I would hear them coming long before they had a chance to see me," Sadrith replied. This time, with no small amount of annoyance, she did look up from the book for a brief moment. "I might LOOK like I'm not paying attention, but I am."

"You wouldn't last a minute in Morrowind."

Back to the book. This time she refused to look back up at him. Escort mission or not, she would not be mocked.

"I've lasted plenty, I just haven't been back recently."

Note to self, write mother a letter when we get to Riften...

There was a brief pause, and for that silence she hoped enough had been said that he'd be satisfied.

And the Heart of Lorkhaj was filled with the Great Darkness. And when he was born, the Great Darkness knew its name...

"Which of the Houses do you hail from?" he asked, "Clearly not Dres, if you're consuming that sort of literature."

"None of them. My mother comes of the Urshilaku tribe."

"And your father?"

"She never told me," Sadrith shrugged, flipping over another page, "She said he was an arrogant ass and I was better off not knowing him. At her age, she didn't expect to have...nevermind. Either way, I never knew him."

"He was probably a Telvanni," Torovan made a sound in his throat almost like a laugh. "That sounds rather like them."

The children of Fadomai tore out the Heart of Lorkhaj and hid it deep within Nirni. And they said, "We curse you, noisy Lorkhaj, to walk Nirni for many phases."

"And you?" she asked.

"What about me?"

"Are YOU a Telvanni?"

"I believe Sigurd told you not to ask any questions," Torovan replied flatly.

(Still, that stare persisted. It was not one of interest, she could see that much. But it felt like he was studying her, like she was a specimen under glass.)

"You were asking questions about me, it seemed only fair that I ask one in return."

"YOU are the one being paid here, therefore I will be the one asking questions about your background."

"I'm the dragonborn, what other background do you really need?" she shrugged. "I go all over Skyrim doing things any sellsword would do, and they get done because I have the dragon tongue."

She looked down at the pages, noting with an increasing irritation that she was reading the same one for a third time and yet still wasn't making progress on it.

...as is proper for Nirni's secret defenders.

Torovan didn't reply to her statement with anything more than a huff, but he soon added, "Let's keep moving. I'd prefer to cover as much ground as possible, to avoid running into too many of those Falmer."

"We're going to hit them regardless," Sadrith said, "And I imagine you'd welcome the opportunity for something to drink...to conserve the bottles, I mean. Blood is blood. And if you're worried about the danger..."

"Blood is not all the same, and I am not worried about being in any danger, only the inconvenience."

She tucked away the book as he kept talking; his complaints were in a similar vein. When she finally had her bags arranged again she stood. "If you needed to be done within a certain period of time, you ought to have told me that."

Torovan bristled slightly. "I shouldn't have to tell you--"

"Sigurd told me he wanted you kept hidden, he didn't say anything about doing it in a hurry. Haste and stealth do not pair well together. Even with Nocturnal's--"

Sadrith stopped the instant the word was out--but it was too late.

Torovan looked in her direction, and though she could not see the raised eyebrow, she was sure she could feel it in the way his head was tilted slightly.

Deep breath. Deep breath. It's not that big a matter. It'll be helpful. ...Gods, I should've guessed this would happen, it's past noon. The skooma sometimes wears off early...you should've KNOWN this would happen. ...but if I'd taken another sip, I wouldn't eat until tomorrow, either.

Her spiraling thoughts were broken by Torovan's question.

"You serve Nocturnal, then?"

tk tk tk

(A dwemer construct in the distance, she thought, the sound wasn't so loud)

"And if I do?" She took a deep, only slightly shaky breath. "I am a master at staying hidden when I wish to do so. Why do you think the Archmage chose me?"

"He told me you were discreet," Torovan replied with only a slight glare. "But I suppose it's only natural you should have the Mistress of Shadows as a patron. And your service--will it interfere with the trip to Riften?"

"No," Sadrith replied, "Not unless something goes terribly wrong."

TK TK TK TK TK

"Spider," she said suddenly, and when Torovan looked at her with slight confusion she added, "A dwemer spider's getting close by...maybe more than one, I can't quite tell. I'll go and handle it, just sit here for a minute."

Torovan's head tilted, and then he seemed to hear it too.

"As many times as I've been down here, they never seem to run out," she grumbled, and reached for Chillrend. "They don't usually come this far up, though...that I remember."

"I am perfectly capable of defending myself," he replied suddenly, "I'm not sure what Sigurd wrote in that letter but I am NOT going to be treated like some sort of invalid."

"Then get your things together, or the soul gems will be all mine."

She smirked.

Torovan huffed, and turned away to grab his bags.

#voryn is a grumpy old man #she doesnt know this is dagoth ur #gonna get real awkward #dagoth ur #fanfiction #dragonborn #tes #tesblr #skyrim #elder scrolls #nerevarine #morrowind #dunmer #khajiit

[mazurah]

Fear and Loneliness in Seyda Neen

Seyda Neen reminded Ma’zurah a little bit of home. The tall trees, the smell of water and vegetation, the guar--gods, Ma’zurah had not seen guar since she left Elsweyr--it all conspired to be both painful and comforting.

Her first few steps of freedom after completing the paperwork they made her sign for her release revealed that there was not actually all that much to the town. She could easily see from one end to the other. There were the docks, bordered by the Census and Excise office and a few small warehouses, with a handful of other houses and buildings beyond that. They looked new. Beyond the docks and warehouses on the shore, nestled into the edge of town stood a cluster of older wooden shacks that looked out of place next to the stone and thatch of the new Imperial buildings, like a fishing village that had gotten lost.

Scanning the surrounding area, Ma'zurah saw trees and swamp in one direction, and the sea in the other. She spotted a lighthouse perched at the end of a small peninsula past the last wooden shack; not exactly part of town, but not far enough away to be isolated either. Across a stretch of water, down the uneven coast, Ma'zurah thought she could see something floating like a small moon on the horizon, with buildings standing beneath, but they were much too far to make out any detail.

A cursory search for someplace resembling a shop or an inn revealed the tradehouse, located halfway between the new and old parts of town. Her attempts at conversation resulted in an informative exchange with a Redguard scout who was happy to give her an overview of the local geography.

It was approaching evening by the time Ma'zurah reluctantly turned her mind to what to do next. The tradehouse had no rooms available, and she had her orders: go to Balmora, deliver a package, and receive her next set of instructions. She had been given enough money to afford a fare on the strange, tall insect whose echoing call reverberated like something that should by all rights have been underwater. The ride was exciting, like riding a walking tree while the sun set in fabulous shades of pink and red around her. It was long past dark by the time the insect brought her to her destination.

Balmora did not remind Ma’zurah of home, and she was not sure if she should be disappointed or relieved that not all of this new strange land plucked at her emotions the same way the swamp did. Though the hour was late, there were still people about, mostly Dark Elves who gave her sidelong looks that she did not know how to interpret. She moved past them quickly, too aware of how visible her white fur was in the dark.

Finding Caius Cosades proved more difficult than she had anticipated, and sent her through parts of town she would otherwise have avoided, especially at night. She found him in what had to be the smallest house in the dirtiest alleyway in Balmora. He opened the door bleary-eyed and shirtless, and Ma’zurah immediately smelled moon sugar. It would have been a welcome scent if she had been in Elsweyr, if he had not been Imperial. Instead, it irked her. She had seen what happened to non-Khajiit who used the stuff in the Imperial City, and she did not like it. There was a good reason it was sacred to the Khajiit but denied to all else.

Tight-lipped, she proffered the package. Cosades read the label. His gaze sharpened and he waved her inside, all hint of the effects of the sugar gone from his stance as soon as the door was shut. He bolted it behind him, and Ma'zurah's heart sped up. Her fingers felt the familiar, comforting gestures of an invisibility spell, but she did not put any magicka into it. This man was supposed to be her "superior and patron" in Morrowind? The tip of her tail twitched in nervousness as Cosades read in silence.

Her waiting was rewarded with something that might have resembled an explanation if it had not been so absurd. The Emperor wanted her to become a Blade.

She dismissed the "Emperor" part immediately. She could safely assume he did not mean the literal Emperor. That was how these official types liked to talk; any action taken on behalf of the Empire was always the work of the Emperor. She knew about the Blades of course; they were supposed to be the Emperor's spies and personal guard. She was not exactly sure how she was expected to go directly from imprisonment to becoming a Blade entrusted with state secrets and the Emperor's life, but it seemed suspect at best.

"There must be some mistake," she told him.

He gave her a piercing stare, looked pointedly at the document he was holding, and asked, "You are Ma'zurah, correct? No surname, formerly of the state of Pellitine?"

Ma'zurah nodded mutely.

"No mistake. You are to become a Novice in the Blades, and that means you'll be following my orders. Are you prepared to follow my orders, Ma'zurah?"

Her fingers itched for the invisibility spell, but he was standing between her and the door, which was locked. "What happens if Ma'zurah says no?" she asked weakly.

"Then I will have to put you back on a boat for the mainland and return you to prison." His tone was dismissive, but Ma'zurah could tell he was watching her closely.

There was a long pause as Ma'zurah digested this information.

"Indefinitely," he added as the silence stretched.

The fur on the back of her neck stood up, and she felt a flash of anger for a brief moment before her anxiety subsumed it. She could not afford to lash out. She had to consider her options rationally.

She could probably get past him if she really tried, but if he really was a high ranking member of the Blades, and she could not see any way that he was not, then he would probably just put out a warrant for her arrest. In a strange province with no friends, or clan, or even allies, no real knowledge of the land, and with her distinctive appearance, it was doubtful she would be able to hide for long.

No friends or clan; she had not realized how vulnerable that made her. She was all alone. Her anxiety curdled suddenly into an icy spike of true fear. This had to be illegal, right? This was coercion. But there was no authority she could appeal to that would be willing to stand up to the Blades. Would anyone even believe her?

No running then. Maybe it would not be so bad. It was not her ideal job, and she had no loyalty to the Empire, but maybe she could get something out of it--some money and a place to sleep at the very least--even if the whole thing still rubbed her fur the wrong way.

"May Ma'zurah ask why she has been chosen for this honor?" she finally asked, her tone careful.

The man raised one brow at her. "No, Ma'zurah may not. Now will you take the oath, or am I going to have to send you back to Cyrodiil?"

Ma'zurah took the oath.

The next few days were a whirl of instructions and introductions. She did indeed get some money, and was told to get her bearings in Balmora, and get some equipment and training. To that end, Cosades sent her to three Blades agents in Balmora who would be able to provide the necessary training--for a fee, of course--and assistance in an emergency. When she had returned from introducing herself to them, three small gifts and much advice richer, Cosades gave her the names and locations of four more around Vvardenfell she should introduce herself to at some point. He suggested she start with the Redguard scout in Seyda Neen. Elone would be able to help her get the lay of the land, he said. Ma'zurah did not know how to feel when she realized she had probably met the woman already.

Finally, Cosades told her to establish a cover identity, and instructed her to check in with him next month to discuss its progress. "I don't care what it is, so long as it doesn't point back to us," he told her. "Go back to prostitution for all I care. The point is to establish a history for yourself here."

Ma'zurah scowled and went to sign up with the local Mages Guild instead. When she asked for work, she received an assignment from a distracted, but friendly Suthay alchemist to gather mushrooms from the swamp.

Happy to have such a solid excuse to return to the swamp that reminded her even a little of the jungles of her homeland, Ma'zurah procured a herbalist's bag and a book of local plants in a language she could actually read, and set off the next day, walking instead of riding, taking in the landscape at her own pace. It was beautiful, but lonely. She wished she had someone to share it with.

At least she had direction. She was not sure what she would have done with herself without direction. She had a task, and it distracted her minutely from the horrible anxiety of being so completely alone in a foreign land full of strangers who did not care about her. She wished she had a friend. Just one person who cared would be enough. Maybe then she would not feel as though she was climbing a narrow tree branch over the head of a hungry tiger. She had no one to steady her if she started to lose her balance. The utter lack of social connection was a new experience for her, and not one she liked. She felt vulnerable.

She missed her friends back in the Imperial City. She had not felt so alone since she had found out she would never be allowed to return to Elsweyr, and even then she had still had Dra'nassa. She had gone from a tribe of many to a tribe of two in a single day--a day she had previously considered to be the worst in her life. It had been hard building up connections after that, to replace the support of the tribe she had grown up in with one of her own making, but she had done it. When Dra'nassa had died, she had made enough friends to see her through her grief without despair.

This was worse. Now she had no one. Cosades had made it clear she could not go back to her old life. She would have to start over from nothing again, this time without Dra'nassa's help.

It was enough to make her want to cry. She saw a mushroom and distracted herself with the task at hand. If the fur of her cheeks was wet, the mushrooms certainly did not care.

She had already filled the bag halfway by the time she got back to Seyda Neen. She presented herself to the scout Elone--again--and tried not to feel horrible and ridiculous when she introduced herself as the Blades' newest novice.

The woman seemed friendly enough, and gave her a copy of "Guide to Vvardenfell" with accompanying maps. Ma'zurah was grateful. Maps were expensive. Ma'zurah asked if there was anything she could do to help her in return. Elone pursed her lips and sent her to check on a friend of hers who lived a short way outside of town.

"She was supposed to come see me after she got back from her scouting," Elone told her. "She's late. I'd check on her myself, but I have work I have to finish. It's probably nothing, Jasmine can take care of herself, but it's not like her to stay out for so long. Just check at her house and tell me if she's there. She might just be sick or something."

Ma'zurah agreed and went to check.

The house was locked and appeared empty. There was no answer to her knock, so Ma’zurah peeked through the window, and saw no lights lit. Frowning, she checked the muddy path for tracks, trying to determine if Elone's friend had been home recently enough to leave evidence. Ma'zurah was not the greatest tracker, but she knew enough to hunt animals in deep jungle, and enough to discover a faint set of prints leading up to the house, and another of the same size heading down the path in the direction of the town. Perhaps she had just missed the woman? But no, neither set seemed fresh enough.

She followed the path and the footprints back in the direction of Seyda Neen, resolving to tell Elone of her discovery. She was most of the way back to town when she came across several more sets of footprints--at least three, all overlapping--intercepting the first set of footprints. The trail became smudged and some of the prints scattered and came back, and the next trail Ma’zurah could find led into the underbrush at an angle, away from town. Whoever they were, they had taken Elone's friend with them for reasons inscrutable to Ma'zurah. Kidnapping was not typical behavior for bandits, and surely if the woman had come across friends on the path, they would not have trampled the ground quite so much. Each subsequent scenario Ma'zurah thought of was more worrying than the last.

She followed the tracks to a cave, thanking Azurah for the wet ground. Trampled plants stuck to the mud, making the trail easy to follow all the way to the stone of the cave mouth. It was hidden against a hillside at the edge of the swamp, behind a set of boulders that blocked line of sight from the path. Ma’zurah cautiously poked her head inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and saw the glow of a fire.

She followed the cave a few paces deeper into the hillside until she found the source of the light: a campfire, with a Dark Elf woman tending it. An overturned rowboat had been pulled into the shelter of the cave as well, and the back wall was blocked off by a fence. There was something wrong here, something obvious Ma'zurah was missing, but she could not pinpoint what.

And she would not find out what was going on by standing here like a lump.

"Hello?" Ma'zurah called.

The woman by the fire whirled, knife drawn. Ma'zurah gasped and cast invisibility on herself and dove for the shadows.

"Ku’or havag?" the woman called, stalking toward the cave entrance.

Ma'zurah could have kicked herself. Why would a woman sitting in a cave at the edge of a swamp respond positively to an unexpected stranger, no matter what reason she had for being there? She should have predicted this kind of a reaction instead of calling out and making it that much harder to sneak past an alert person. And of course a Dark Elf would be speaking the Dark Elven language in Morrowind. Somehow, Ma'zurah had not yet run into the language barrier in any significant way. She was going to have to learn the language.

"Ku’or edur diru?" The woman passed Ma'zurah's hidden form and stared out into the swamp, frowning.

There was a moment's pause, and Ma'zurah huddled against the wall of the cave, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

The woman turned abruptly on her heel and approached the wooden fence set into the back of the cave, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath.

Ma'zurah followed as closely behind her as she dared, practically holding her breath. Her heart was pounding. There was definitely something wrong here. She was sure of it now, even if she could not say why. It was a subtle thing, told in the set of the woman's jaw, or the hardness of her expression. It made the fur on the back of Ma'zurah's neck stand up.

If she could only figure out what was going on, or even just confirm that Elone's friend was here, she would not have to report back to Elone with so little news. She wished she had asked Elone for a description of her friend Jasmine.

The Dark Elf opened the gate and Ma'zurah slipped in behind her. Beyond the gate, the cave split into two paths, the leftmost branch leading up to another fence with a gate in it, and the rightmost branch leading down a slope and out of sight. Ma'zurah thought she could hear running water somewhere below.

The Dark Elf woman took the rickety wooden ramp down the uneven stone slope to the right. Ma'zurah started to follow when the woman called something ahead of herself. Two more Dark Elves appeared at the bottom of the ramp, and the woman spoke urgently to them. Their faces turned grim, and both stalked toward Ma'zurah's position.

Ma'zurah nearly panicked, trying to scramble out of their way without making any noise. She darted up the ramp to the left until she was almost backed up against the fence at the top. Oblivious to Ma'zurah's presence, the two Elves exited toward the mouth of the cave, leaving the woman at the bottom to retreat further down and out of Ma'zurah's sight.

Heart racing, Ma'zurah slumped against the fence, and the invisibility spell broke.

"Hey," a low feminine voice hissed urgently through the fence behind her, making Ma'zurah jump. "Do you have the key?"

Ma'zurah's fingers froze in the process of reapplying her invisibility spell as she registered the words. She peered between the slats of the fence and discovered a brown oval face with wide dark eyes and long black hair.

"Are you Jasmine?" Ma'zurah whispered back.

The face hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Please, you have to get us out of here." There was the faintest edge of desperation in her whispered tones. Ma'zurah's hackles rose again.

"Us?" Ma'zurah asked numbly.

Jasmine stepped back, allowing Ma'zurah to see through the narrow gaps in the fence. Huddled at the back of the small enclosure were two Argonians and a Suthay-raht, all wearing only the barest scraps of clothing. The Argonians both had a greenish tint to their scales, but one of them was shorter with a long row of spikes protruding from forehead to back of the neck, while the other had a pair of spikes on either side of the head. The Khajiit was orange-furred, with black markings around his eyes and nose, and had long mustaches which hung down on either side of his mouth. He was also topless, Ma'zurah observed, feeling faintly scandalized by the display of torso fur. And she could see his ribs beneath his fur, she realized with a different kind of shock. She did not know much about Argonian anatomy, but they did not look too good either.

The pieces slotted into place suddenly, along with the memory of half-heard rumors from Cyrodiil. This was slavery. Those Dark Elves out there meant to sell these people. She had heard the Dark Elves kept slaves, but she had not realized what that meant before. Sudden tears of horror and sympathy pricked at her eyes.

"What should Ma’zurah do?" she asked Jasmine urgently. Jasmine was, she noticed, by far the healthiest looking of the group. "She can… She can run and get help?"

"There's no time,” Jasmine whispered back. “I overheard them say they were going to move us. We have to get out of here before that happens or you'll never be able to find us again. You've got to get the key to the gate, and maybe the keys to our shackles. If I had a weapon, I could fight, but I don't think the others could."

Ma'zurah nodded firmly. "Ma'zurah will be back."

She stalked invisibly down into the depths of the cave, past a branch of tunnel filled with water, and up a wooden deck covered with crates. Fury had eclipsed her fear. Her hands shook with how angry she felt. It was not right. How could anyone hold people captive like this and disregard their suffering? How could they use people's suffering for profit? How could they live with themselves?

The Dark Elf woman was not in sight, so Ma'zurah began searching crates. She had searched two, finding nothing but alcohol and cheap imported clothing before her head caught up to her and she cast a spell, willing her magicka to show her keys.

She saw the glow of something small atop a crate when her time ran out, and the Dark Elf woman walked into view.

Ma'zurah panicked, but instead of fleeing again, she dove for the woman, claws extended, spurred on by the anger that mixed oddly with her fear. The woman only had time to shriek "N'wah!" before Ma'zurah's hands wrapped around her throat, claws tearing.

The next thing she knew, the woman was motionless on the ground, and Ma'zurah's hands were slick with blood. She felt like she could not breathe properly, like someone had punched her in the gut. She had never hurt anyone before in her life, and now…

She scooped up the key and the woman's dagger and retreated up the ramp to free the others before her thoughts could catch up with her and render her useless. Her hands shook as she fitted the key in the lock, and the key nearly slipped between her blood-slick fingers.

The door came open, and Ma'zurah thrust the dagger into Jasmine's hands. "Here. Ma'zurah did not find the shackle keys. Can we leave without them?"

"Keep looking," one of the Argonians advised in a half-cracked voice. "We will not find many willing to remove slave bracers. We will draw too much attention wearing them."

"There are at least two more people around here," Ma'zurah warned, mentally beating her emotions into submission. Her hands were still shaking. "We will have to hurry before they come back."

They filed down into the lower recesses of the cave, Ma’zurah at the front, Jasmine bringing up the rear with the knife. The Suthay-raht looked sidelong at the body of the fallen Dark Elf as they passed, eyes flicking from the claw gouges on her neck to Ma’zurah’s bloody hands. There was something like approval in his eyes.

Ma’zurah cast the spell of finding again, looking for something that might unlock the magic suppressing bracers on the wrists of her companions. The spell revealed another key on the body of the Elf, but it was too big to fit into any of the shackles.

They proceeded further into the cave, uncovering more crates, more clothing, more alcohol, a small stack of coins, and a pile of pillows with what Ma'zurah's nose told her was moon sugar smuggled inside. She dumped one out, frowning at the little purple vials that fell along with the paper envelopes of white crystals. Confused, she sniffed one of the vials and got the overpowering scent of moon sugar and alchemy for her trouble.

"Skooma," the Suthay-raht rasped behind her in explanation.

Ma'zurah dropped the thing hastily. The Clan Mothers always taught that moon sugar was a blessing from Azurah, but skooma was a perversion created by Imperials.

It was also not a key. She searched the crates again for the telltale glow of the spell, but found nothing.

"There are no keys here," she told the group. They would have to keep moving.

They twisted around a narrow gap at the back of the cavern, only to find another wooden fence, and beyond it, a flooded tunnel descending down even further.

"We could dive for it," one of the Argonians offered, and distractedly Ma’zurah realized from her voice that the Argonian was probably female, though Ma'zurah was hardly in a position to judge someone's gender based on their physical attributes.

"I doubt they hid the keys underwater though," the second Argonian concluded.

There was a sudden shout from back the way they had come and Ma’zurah’s breath caught in her throat. The overwhelming emotions she had been suppressing threatened to overtake her again. In her peripheral vision, she saw Jasmine raise her knife and start back toward the noise, and Ma'zurah realized she had also committed herself to protecting these people. She frantically tried to remember everything she had learned about Destruction magic at the Arcane University and ran past Jasmine, readying a blast of frost.

She had just enough time to register that the two Dark Elves who had left had returned with three others in tow, and that they had just stumbled on the dead body of their compatriot, before she loosed the spell in her hands with as much force as she could muster.

There was a reverberating crack and a hair-raising rumble as the telekinetic blast propelling her spell forward connected not just with her foes, but with the far wall of the cave and a low hanging portion of the ceiling. Stone cracked, the ground shook, and before anyone had time to do anything more than scream, the roof caved in, burying the group of Dark Elves and the exit.

A deafening silence followed. Nobody moved.

“Well,” Jasmine began, lowering her dagger.

The mountainous pile of rock and gravel that covered the exit shifted slightly, and a scattering of scree clattered down the heap. One of the torches illuminating the cave flickered and died.

Ma’zurah sat down on the ground and promptly burst into tears.

“Oh no…” moaned the Suthay-raht. “Oh nooo…”

“Let’s not panic,” Jasmine said, with a kind of calm Ma’zurah could not imagine she actually felt. They were stuck here, and it was all Ma’zurah’s fault. She felt herself begin to hyperventilate.

“Be right back,” one of the Argonians said in a matter-of-fact tone. There was the sound of retreating footsteps, then a ripple of water and a splash.

A flicker of hope cut through Ma'zurah's panic at the sound. There might be another way out! She scrubbed at her face with her hands, trying to quiet her emotions. The scent of blood assaulted her nose like a warhammer and she recoiled, trying not to begin hyperventilating again for a different reason.

“Alright,” a deep reptilian voice said from just behind Ma’zurah, and Ma’zurah felt hands under her armpits, lifting her to her feet. “Come on, get up.”

The remaining Argonian clasped his hand around her upper arm and led her through the back of the cave to the flooded tunnel. He stopped at the water’s edge. “Clean yourself up a bit. You'll feel better.”

Ma’zurah nodded gratefully and knelt to wash her hands and face.

“Sorry,” she said guiltily once she had finished scrubbing. The cold water had grounded her flying emotions into a hard but manageable lump, and her newly regained clear-headedness brought with it an awful awareness. These people had been literal slaves, and here she was the only one crying like a newborn kitten.

The Argonian looked at her with an indecipherable expression. Heat blossomed in her face despite the chilly dampness of her fur. Her emotions still felt like a tangle, and she could not find the words to adequately explain why she was apologizing. “Thanks,” she finally said instead.

The Argonian turned his head away. “Don’t mention it.”

Jasmine appeared behind her with the Suthay-raht just as the water rippled and the other Argonian surfaced.

“It’s a bit of a climb,” she told them in her odd rasping accent, “but it looks like there is a way out.

Jasmine nodded firmly. “Alright, gather what you want to take from here, and let’s go.”

Ma’zurah simply sat at the water’s edge and waited for the others. The roiling tangle of emotion in her gut made the prospect of looting the remaining crates totally unappealing, and besides, the others probably needed the things more. They could get new clothes at least.

The Argonian was right. It was a bit of a climb. Once they surfaced on the other side of the flooded tunnel, they had to climb a tall bank to get out of the water, and then up a steep tunnel that opened suddenly behind a cluster of stalactites into the cavern wall above and to the right of the fence that led to the freed slaves’ erstwhile cell. Once they made the drop down, they had only to walk over and open the gate that led to the cave entrance.

“Wait,” Ma’zurah said suddenly, remembering. “Your shackles--”

“We know,” said Jasmine quietly.

“The keys were probably buried,” one of the Argonians explained. Guilt shot through Ma'zurah. No one had cast any blame, but she still felt it.

“We’ll figure something out once we get out of here.” Jasmine gestured them through the gate. “We can go to my house. It’s not far.”

They went to Jasmine’s house. She retrieved a key from a flower pot and let them inside, and the five of them collapsed onto the plush rug in the middle of Jasmine’s floor, relieved and emotionally drained after their ordeal. There was a long moment of silence.

Jasmine got up abruptly and rummaged through her cupboards. She returned with half a loaf of bread and a knife, and served each of them slices.

Ma’zurah chewed hers in silence. As soon as Jasmine’s door had closed between her and the outside world, she had felt her grasp on her emotions slipping. She could feel the tears coming. She could not let the others see her cry again. She did not know what would be worse, having them ignore her or try to comfort her.

She stood up. “Ma’zurah needs to-- Ma’zurah has got to-- Be back.” She fled out the front door and into the little outhouse at the side of Jasmine’s house. She closed the door behind her and took one shaky breath before the tears came in full force and she was sobbing and shuddering. She sat down on the wooden outhouse seat, still in her damp clothing, and rode the wave of her emotions.

She felt bad. And once she felt bad about one thing, more reasons to feel bad flooded her. She could have died! She had not cast invisibility, and instead she had fought, and she could have died. She had never hurt anyone before, but this time she had fought and killed someone. Several someones, actually, but the rest were not nearly as personal as the first someone. They could have killed her, but instead she had their blood on her hands, figuratively and literally, though she did not think she felt nearly as bad about them being dead as she did about having to be the one to commit the act. That also made her feel bad. What was wrong with her that she was more upset about having clawed a woman’s throat out than about the woman being dead? She was no stranger to blood, but killing animals was nothing like killing people. And still, she felt less upset about having dropped a cave on top of a group of people than she did about the memory of warm blood beneath her claws. She should not feel like this!

And then there was the slavery. She had not thought about what slavery was really like before. It had always been an abstract concept that was far away and never affected her personally. To be confronted by the reality of it so suddenly was a shock, though she probably should have seen it coming. She just had not connected the Morrowind of Imperial rumor and speculation with the Morrowind she had been sent to. Was she in danger of being captured and sold? She supposed she was, especially since that seemed to be what had happened to Jasmine, and Jasmine was not even Khajiit! This province was dangerous. She did not feel safe!

Why had they sent her here? She did not want to be here! She did not know anything about this place. She did not even speak the language! She wanted to be back in the Imperial City studying magic and laughing with her friends. She was alone here. She did not have any friends in this strange land--no clan, not even the self-made clan she had gathered around herself after she had been exiled from Elsweyr, and after Dra’nassa had died. She had never been so alone in her life. It was terrifying.

The tears came harder. She felt so bad! The mental refrain felt like a wail.

And she could not leave! She could not leave after swearing an oath to the Blades, or she would be branded a traitor and hunted down and imprisoned for the rest of her life! It was a kind of slavery itself, whether she stayed or tried to leave. She had not done anything to deserve this kind of treatment! Whoever had picked her to join the Blades obviously did not know anything about her. She was the worst pick for that kind of job. They should have asked instead of forcing her to join. She did not want it! She just wanted to leave. But she could not, because they were coercing her, and she was scared. She was scared of being branded a traitor and hunted, she was scared of the Blades, and she was scared of Caius Cosades. Caius Cosades was not a nice man. She wished she never had to speak to him again. She wished she never had to speak to any of the Blades again, even Elone, who seemed nice, but could not be trusted because she was a Blade, and the Blades were not nice people.

She felt so bad. She felt so bad! She was alone in this province, no friends, no clan, no one who cared if she felt bad, and she could not leave, and she was angry and scared, and she felt so bad!

There was a knock on the outhouse door. “Ma’zurah?” Jasmine’s voice was muffled, but recognizable.

Ma’zurah sniffled and scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand. The fur of her cheeks, already damp from the swim through the flooded tunnel, was soaked again. “Sorry, Ma’zurah will be out soon,” she managed to croak out. Her nose was stuffed up, and her eyes were sore and puffy.

“I brought you a change of clothes. I thought you might want something dry.”

Ma’zurah opened the door. Jasmine’s face fell at the sight of her. “Oh dear…”

Ma’zurah shook her head violently. “No no, Ma’zurah does not want to hear it. Jasmine has been through much worse.”

Jasmine drew her brows together. “It’s not a competition. What's wrong?"

Ma'zurah shook her head mutely. There was no way she was going to lay her troubles on someone who still wore the shackles of slavery. The Clan Mothers had not raised her to be a burden.

Jasmine clicked her tongue. "Well, it looks like a change of clothes isn't going to be enough. Come inside and I'll get you a towel. Baadargo is using my washtub right now, but you're welcome to bathe after him."

With guilt, Ma'zurah realized she had not asked for the names of any of the others. How self absorbed was she? Her emotions felt like they had been scraped raw, and tears welled in her eyes again.

Jasmine's eyes went wide. "Whoa, hey, it's alright! You're alright, okay?" Her hands fluttered around Ma'zurah's shoulders, but did not quite touch her.

Ma'zurah nodded agreement, but the tears would not go away. She contemplated retreating into the outhouse again, but she had already alarmed Jasmine enough. She needed a distraction.

"Tell Ma'zurah--" Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat and tried again. "Tell Ma'zurah how Jasmine got in that cave?"

Jasmine's shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. Alarmed at her suddenly morose expression, Ma'zurah made a placating gesture. "You do not have to--"

"No, it's-- You deserve to hear it after everything you did for me. Actually, I was meaning to thank you. If you hadn't come along…" Jasmine paused, eyes distant. "I was just trying not to think about it yet."

"Ma'zurah is sorry--"

Jasmine shook her head. "You have nothing to be sorry about." Her shoulders straightened again. "In any case, there's no point standing around out here when we could be sitting inside. I'll find you a towel, and then I'll tell you the whole thing if you want."

Ma'zurah followed Jasmine inside, reluctant to show her face to the others, but unwilling to be rude to the woman who was trying to be nice to her.

As soon as they got inside, the pair of Argonians approached them. Ma'zurah tried to hide behind Jasmine without looking like she was doing so.

"You have been a most generous to host us," the deeper-voiced of the Argonians told Jasmine, making a complicated hand gesture.

“And a kind rescuer,” the second interjected, pointedly looking at Ma’zurah and making the same gesture. Ma'zurah's face felt too warm.

“And we wish to show our gratitude."

The pair of them exchanged glances, and the second one took up where the first had left off. "We have nothing we could offer as thanks, so we were thinking--"

The first one made eye contact with Jasmine. "If you are willing to lend us the use of your cooking fire--"

"And you are willing to wait for us to catch the fish before we cook them…" The second Argonian shoved an admonishing hand against the first's shoulder with a look that might have contained amusement, though Ma'zurah was no expert at reading Argonian expressions.

Jasmine blinked at the pair. "By all means, feel free," she told them, sounding surprised.

"Then we will be back with a feast!" the first Argonian declared, and the pair of them exited the house.

"At least they're happy," Jasmine said with a shake of her head. She crossed the room and searched her cabinets for a towel.

Ma’zurah stood in the doorway and took in the room for the first time. The house was small, probably only two rooms large; modest by Imperial standards, but clean. The room she was in held a kitchen in the Imperial style, a table, a fireplace, a writing desk, and a large bookshelf, but no bed, and no washtub. Ma’zurah could hear the sounds of splashing from the next room. She could even hear the Suthay-raht, Baadargo singing muffled snatches of song in what must have been the Dark Elf language, because it certainly was not Ta'agra. With a pang of loneliness, Ma’zurah realized she had not heard anyone speak Ta’agra since she got to Morrowind. She hugged her arms around her chest.

Jasmine returned with a fluffy towel, which she draped gently across Ma'zurah's shoulders, and led her out of the doorway. Ma’zurah followed her with a painful hope in her chest. Jasmine was being nice, friendly even, and Ma’zurah had been so alone. She desperately needed a friend. She felt like they had the spark of connection; maybe Jasmine could be the friend she needed.

Once Ma’zurah was dry and clothed in Jasmine's loaned dress, she found herself sitting next to Jasmine at the table as the woman began the story of how she had gotten caught.

"I've been working with my friend Elone to track the activity of smugglers along this section of the Bitter Coast--"

Ma'zurah had to interrupt. "Is Jasmine a Blade too?" she blurted out, dreading the answer. Blades could not be trusted, no matter how nice they were. She cringed, realizing what she had just said.

Jasmine gave her a puzzled and vaguely alarmed look. "No, I'm technically an independent contractor. Elone commissions me to help her when she gets assignments too big for one person or she's too busy to go out herself. But now I'd like to know how you know Elone is a Blade. Not many people know that."

Ma'zurah bit her lip. She had probably given away too much already. She had been raised by the Clan Mothers; she was supposed to know the value of keeping secrets. She knew it was expected of her as a Blade, but she just was not cut out for weaving the kind of elaborate subterfuge required of a spy. They should have asked her before dragging her into this mess. She felt bitter about the whole thing, and not a little rebellious. She was tired and lonely. She wanted to tell Jasmine. Besides, if Jasmine knew the truth about Elone, Cosades probably would not punish her for telling the truth about herself as well. Especially if he never found out.

"Ma'zurah is a Blade too now," she mumbled. She felt absurdly like she was telling a dirty secret, though she was not sure she could articulate why.

Jasmine opened her mouth, stopped, and closed it again. "I see," she said finally. Something in her expression became ever so slightly more closed off, as though she was watching her words in a way she had not been before. Maybe she was worried about getting Elone in trouble, or maybe she did not trust the Blades either. Maybe she thought Ma'zurah was like Cosades. The thought made Ma'zurah feel as though she could not breathe. She was filled with the sudden, desperate need to tell Jasmine the whole story; to distance herself from the Blades and prove she was not one of them, not really. She wanted to regain that small measure of trust that she had just lost. She was already so isolated, she did not want to lose this connection. She needed a friend so badly.

"You asked why Ma'zurah was upset," she began urgently, leaning closer to Jasmine.

"Yes?" Jasmine looked surprised at the change of subject.

"It is related."

The story came torrenting out: the illegal prostitution charges, the prison sentence, the inexplicable deportation, the package for Caius Cosades, the extortion. She told her about how she did not want to be a Blade, how she did not feel safe in Morrowind, and how she could not leave. She started crying again in the middle of it, and Jasmine put a hand on her knee. Ma'zurah hid her face in her damp towel, but kept talking until she got it all out.

"I'm sorry, that sounds awful," was Jasmine's quietly horrified response. Ma'zurah's gaze flicked to the magic suppressing slave bracer still locked around Jasmine's wrist and remembered her resolution not to be a burden. She could not bring herself to regret telling Jasmine though, because there was genuine sympathy in her eyes now instead of that quiet wariness. And Ma’zurah would not be a burden if this was a mutual exchange.

"Your turn," she said, sniffling. "You just got captured by slavers. Do you want to talk about it?"

Jasmine closed her eyes. "No, but I should."

She told Ma’zurah about how she had been scouting, and been caught snooping too close to the smugglers' cave. She had made a hasty retreat, and thought she had avoided being pursued, so she had gone home. She was on her way into town to report to Elone when she had been ambushed. She could have fought them off if one of them had not snuck up on her from behind.

"I was so scared…" Jasmine's voice was so small it was nearly a whisper. “They were going to sell me. Who knows what would have happened to me after that. They said I would be… valuable. Because of my looks. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Not even when--not ever.” She closed her eyes, and the tears that had been slowly welling in them finally spilled over. She swiped at them with her fingertips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“It is fine." Ma'zurah put a hand on Jasmine's knee. "It seems like a reasonable reaction.”

Jasmine shook her head and covered her face with her hands.

Baadargo chose that moment to open the door to the next room. He looked much better. His orange fur had been combed, and he was dressed in more than just rags. He took in the scene and his eyes gained a quality similar to those of a frozen deer. Ma’zurah tried to offer him a tremulous smile, but he retreated, closing the door behind him quietly.

“Sorry,” Jasmine repeated once her shoulders stopped shaking. She tried to wipe her face with her hands, and Ma’zurah offered a corner of her towel. Jasmine looked at it skeptically, and went to retrieve a washcloth instead.

“In the cave,” Jasmine continued after she had wiped her face and steadied her breath, “you asked me if I was Jasmine. How did you know who I was, and where to find me?”

“Elone asked Ma’zurah to check at Jasmine’s house to see if she was there. Ma’zurah found footprints leading from Jasmine’s house, and she followed them.”

“I see. Thank you. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn’t done that.”

Ma’zurah nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but Jasmine had closed her eyes and was sitting very still. She looked like she was waiting, Ma’zurah thought, or listening.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s over.”

“It is,” Ma’zurah assured her. “They cannot sell you, or anyone now.”

Jasmine just shook her head. "The thought of going back out, scouting the Bitter Coast like before…" Jasmine took a shuddering breath. "I don't think I can do it. Not--not yet. Not for a while, maybe, and not by myself."

Ma'zurah nodded sympathetically.

"What are you doing after this?" Jasmine asked, turning her focus back to Ma'zurah with a suddenness that startled her.

"Er, Ma'zurah is doing jobs for the Balmora Mages Guild, she thinks. Why?"

"Do you think--" She stopped and tried a new tack. "You seem like you can take care of yourself."

Ma'zurah nodded slowly. She usually took care of herself by turning invisible when things became dangerous, but she supposed today's events proved she could take care of herself in other ways too. She was not sure where Jasmine was going with this.

"Do you think I could… travel with you for a while? Help you with jobs?" Jasmine's voice sounded hopeful, and her words tumbled out in a rush. "Only if you want the company. I wouldn't be a burden. I have a strong sword arm, and I'm good with a bow. I couldn't ask Elone for something like this, she can't leave the Bitter Coast right now, and I don't know anyone else well enough to be able to ask--"

"Yes!" Ma'zurah felt like she would burst. She would not be alone anymore! She threw her arms around Jasmine's shoulders. "Yes, of course! Ma'zurah would be glad to have your company."

Jasmine stiffened in surprise, then released a breath and returned Ma'zurah's embrace, smiling ruefully. "It will be good to get back on the road again."

Ma'zurah sat back and beamed at her.

"First things first. We have to take care of these." Jasmine tapped the bracer on her wrist. "I don't think it would be safe to ask a blacksmith or a locksmith for help, but I was thinking maybe we could get some scrolls. They might be expensive, but maybe Elone knows someone who--"

"Hold on." Ma'zurah's brow furrowed. The idea of scrolls pinged something in her recollection. "Ma'zurah has a thought. In theory, Ma'zurah knows a spell. She has never used it, but before Jasmine speaks of buying expensive scrolls, perhaps she would like Ma'zurah to try."

"Is it dangerous?"

Ma'zurah pursed her lips. "Not really. Definitely not if it is cast correctly."

Jasmine gave her a searching look and hesitantly proffered her arm.

It took two tries. The first time it failed outright, and Ma'zurah wished she had access to her notes far away at the Arcane University. The second time the lock came open with a muffled click.

“Thank you,” Jasmine breathed, rubbing her wrist and sounding supremely relieved. “I should--we should let the others know.” She rose and knocked on the door to the next room. “Baadargo?”

There was no answer.

Frowning, Jasmine opened the door.

The orange Khajiit was asleep on the floor, curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room.

He peeked an eye open at their approach. “This one can come out now?”

"Why are you on the floor?" Jasmine asked, bemused.

"Where else should this one be?"

"The bed?"

Baadargo looked over at the bed and Ma'zurah followed his gaze. It was a nice bed, with soft, clean blankets smoothed over the top, and not a wrinkle in sight.

"That is the bed of muthsera Jasmine, not Baadargo." The Khajiit's voice was plaintive. "This one did not want to mess it up."

Jasmine tisked, but let it drop.

“Show Ma’zurah Baadargo’s bracer please?” Ma'zurah asked, helping the Suthay-raht to his feet.

He held out his wrist and Ma’zurah opened the lock.

“Fantastic! Can this one learn to do such things?” Baadargo’s tone was wondering, as though Ma'zurah had handed him a precious gift and he could hardly believe it.

Jasmine laughed along with the joy on the Suthay-raht's face, but Ma’zurah gave his question serious consideration. “Does Baadargo have a talent for magic?”

Baadargo’s face fell slightly, though the joy remained. “This one does not know. This one has never had the bracer off long enough to find out before.”

“Never?” Jasmine asked, horrified.

“This one was born with it.”

Ma’zurah gaped at the Suthay-raht. Her mind boggled at the thought of being born into slavery. She could not imagine a life like that.

A look of concern had affixed itself to Jasmine’s face. “If you've never been free, do you have anywhere to go? Or anywhere you want to go?”

Baadargo nodded. “This one has heard rumors. They say the scaled ones in Ebonheart will help those who want to leave. Baadargo was going there.”

“Alright.” Jasmine glanced at Ma’zurah. “I guess that will be our first stop.”

Ma’zurah nodded.

Jasmine spent the next hour packing and preparing her house for her imminent absence. Ma’zurah laid the things in her bag out to dry, lamenting the water damage to her new maps, and then proceeded to sit at the kitchen table and attempt to teach Baadargo how to access his own well of magicka.

At some point the pair of Argonians returned with three large fish and a mudcrab, which they gleefully cooked. Ma’zurah demonstrated again the spell of opening, which prompted the Argonians to speak animatedly of their plans to return to the marshes of their homeland. Jasmine suggested they travel with Baadargo to look for assistance first, and to that end, the five of them hired two fishing boats from the outskirts of Seyda Neen to take them to Ebonheart directly, avoiding the main roads. Jasmine and Ma’zurah stopped to assure Elone that Jasmine was fine before they departed.

When they arrived at the fort, Jasmine had only to ask for “the Argonians” to be directed to the Argonian Embassy. They had barely taken two steps inside before they encountered a tall Argonian in an elegant robe, who quickly divined the situation and whisked the three former slaves away to a safe place.

Then it was just Ma’zurah and Jasmine. Ma’zurah gave Jasmine the details of her job for the Balmora Mages Guild, and the pair of them set off in the direction of Balmora. There was a lightness to Ma’zurah’s step that she had not felt since before she had been imprisoned in Cyrodiil.

Ma’zurah looked over at the Redguard walking beside her. She still missed the life she had lost, the life she could not go back to, but at least now she was not completely alone. Now she had a friend.

#TES #Morrowind #My Writing #Fanfiction #Ma'zurah the Khajiit #Jasmine Companion Mod #Caius Cosades #Rated T

[nightingaletrash]

Hello, I always love checking your tumblr ☺️, you influenced me to play Morrowind, Hogwart's Mystery and Masquerade Bloodlines and I had great time (your OCs are becoming like a real people by now to me) . Are you taking prompts with kissing now? If so, then could you do 2 or/and 11 with Velyne and Julan? Have a nice day 😉

Okay so first off, thank you???? It makes me so happy to know that people actually pay attention to my rambling and that it’s helping to allow other people to experience some excellent games :D And I’m glad you enjoy my OCs!! Some times I just feel like I’m annoying people when I rant about them ._.”

Anyways, here’s the drabble, I hope you enjoy ^^

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

It was late. Secunda and Messer were high in the sky, and Velyne was double-checking her pack, ensuring she had everything she would need. There was no saying how long she would be away, but the supplies she had ought to last a while before they needed to be replenished. 

She heard the rustling of the yurt’s flap and knew immediately who it was, though she didn’t look up. Looking at him, hearing his voice, even meeting his gaze would make this harder than it already was. But she had to do this, and this time it would have to be alone. The Ahemussa needed its Ashkhan and its Gulakhan now more than ever; she couldn’t ask either of them to accompany her on what was a very personal mission.

This curse had begun with a Telvanni. It seemed fitting that it end with one too.

“Vel,” Julan called softly.

She wanted to reply, but there were no words she could think of that would make things any simpler and any that dig spring to mind stuck in her throat. They had already argued, had shouted themselves hoarse over the issue, and the facts remained the same. She was going and he was staying, and that was final.

So she carried on arranging supplies that were already neatly stowed away, and toyed with straps that were already adjusted.

“Vel.” He was closer now. “Can’t it wait til morning. Ayrea will-”

“Will be fine,” she cut over coarsely. “She has the whole clan to look after her.”

“She won’t want the clan. She’ll want her mother,” he said sternly, now standing directly behind her. “Would you really take away her chance to say goodbye?”

“If it means that I can’t change my mind? Then yes.”

The words were harsh, but she knew that the moment that those big pink eyes looked up at her, sparkling with tears and accompanied by a trembling lip, her resolve would crumble and she would be unable to bring herself to do what must be done. She needed a cure, a proper one. For this damnable disease to be expunged from her, once and for all. And while it brought her no pleasure to turn to a Telvanni - especially one such as Neloth - a Telvanni might be the only one who could do something about it.

Finally she straightened up, shouldering her pack. She checked the straps, still looking for excuses to not face her own husband.

He didn’t give her one. 

Instead he stepped around to her side, turned her to face him, and began to adjust the straps himself. Velyne winced. He wasn’t looking at her face, just focusing solely on the task of ensuring the straps were tight enough and that the weight was even across her shoulders.

“There,” he murmured, hands settling on her shoulders as he finally met her eyes. He was smiling sadly, his eyes glistening. “You’re all set.”

For a long few seconds, neither of them said a word or moved an inch. A thousand words passed between them, silent but heard, and Velyne took the chance to memorise his face.

The years had aged him significantly from the young, brash Ashlander she’d fallen in love with. The lines were deeper, crow’s feet crinkled the corners of his eyes, his hair was longer and accompanied by a beard, and both were peppered with tiny wisps of silver. He wore piercings in his ears and on the bridge of his nose - courtesy of Velyne herself - and now he wore the garb of an Ashkhan rather than the leathers he’d adopted back when they faced down Dagoth Ur. 

The last two centuries showed on him, and it was why her condition frustrated her. Her skin was still smooth, untouched by the ravages of time, and her hair was still a pure, silky black. So many lamented that they did not share her unaging beauty; they would natter on and on of their envy of her, wishing that they could look half so young at such an age. Even Shani ribbed her about it from time to time, prodding Velyne to share her ‘secrets’ with everyone else. 

Not one of them understood what it was like. Not one of them could understand why she wanted her curse gone. Why she would leave her husband, her child, and her clan behind to rid herself of eternal youth and beauty.

No one. Except Julan.

Slowly, his hands raised to the sides of her head, cupping her cheeks, and she knew he was analysing her face as she had analysed his own. A little security if the worst came to pass. If anything happened and if this was the last time they ever saw one another again…

It was as if the thought had crossed from her mind to his, as he pressed his lips hard against her’s, silencing it before it could take root in either of them.

Velyne grabbed his waist and kissed back hard, ignoring - or perhaps oblivious to - the tears prickling at her eyes. 

Julan was warm, as he always was, but somehow it was more intense than ever before. Like she was experiencing that enveloping warmth for the first time, and found herself not wanting to leave. He represented so many things to her. Warmth, safety, love… Home. Julan had given her a home, a family, a place to belong where she was more than just some thief. And she was leaving it all behind in the hopes of a cure that might not even exist.

Suddenly he broke the kiss.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have-”

She yanked him back in, silencing him before he could pull away, before he retracted that feeling of safety.

Maybe she shouldn’t have. It made leaving harder. But was it so wrong to take another minute of comfort when she knew it could be months or years before she experienced it again? A stolen moment wouldn’t hurt that badly…

Or maybe it would. Right now she didn’t really care. She just kissed hard until the need to breathe forced them apart once more, breathing hard and cheeks flushed a dark purple.

“I love you,” he whispered after a moment of extended silence.

“I love you too,” she replied, running a hand over his cheek. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too. Just…” He paused, his gaze intense. “Make sure you come back alive.”

“I’ll do my best, but you know what these Telvanni are like,” she joked weakly. “For all I know, I’ll end up with tentacles for eyes.”

His face softened, and he couldn’t quite stop himself as he chuckled and shook his head.

“And I’ll love you still, tentacles and all.”

#iustine #morrowind #velyne drals #julan kaushibale #velyne/julan

[boethiahsboytoy]

Akaviri anon: She and Miraak have a scar on their chest that looks like an eye from both being pierced. They are left with Mora's curse. While back in Nirn, they both are left with a lingering paranoia of just eyes on them constantly. But with the information she obtained, she makes her way back to Solitude to her family. She's trying to get to Akavir for more answers. Miraak's "I have no choice in this" ass is stuck with her. MORA WANTS MORE INFO ON AKAVIR LBR BECAUSE IN GAME LORE IS LACKING

Akaviri anon: Her parents were not keen on the dragon priest and her want/need to find out why Akavir, specifically Tsaesci decided to take a diplomatic route. She was willing to risk it all to go to Akavir. As much as Miraak kept suggesting to just ride dragons, it turned into a "You killed my mans Sahrotaar stfu" convo. Her sister softened the blow for her parents. She is a dunmer and their parents took her to Morrowind to answer questions of her origin so why not Akavir?

Shout out to me for not checking my inbox??? God damn I’m sorry for making u wait AGAIN hhhh;;

@ Mora leave them alone fuckin flying spaghetti monster wannabe ! Although I Also give Jo’safiir and Miraak a great deal of trauma surrounding their escape from Apocrypha so I can’t really yell that much lmao;; But their scars looking like eyes is a really cool detail!! For “my (?)” Miraak I have his scar being in a sort of tentacle-ish pattern branching out from it (with similar markings all over his body just from being corrupted by Mora/Apocrypha).

Oof, shout out to her sister for backing her up though!! Though I would Also be wary if my kid suddenly showed up with a mysterious Dragon Priest so, I can understand that bit lmao. Does she ever find out about...anything, really? And if so what (also do u have any headcanons to fill in the gaps in lore? I always love hearing peples’ headcanons for...Literally Anything please hmu :3)

ALSo, if you have screenshots or other ref images for her could I,,,perhaps draw her? I’m invested in her n her story ;u;

#akaviri anon #i just. love other peoples' OCs so m u c h #oc chat #anon #ask

[askdusty]

I Can’t Forget It

It all begins with a knock on the door.

Dust answers, though frankly she’d much rather stay downstairs in the basement, out of the blasted heat. Who would have known Skyrim, of all places, could have such boiling summers? But leaving Haelga with the bottling, she heads upstairs and opens the door, offering a polite smile she’s offered a thousand times before.

It’s a strange sensation, a mingling of confusing memories that don’t quite fit up. Knowing this fear, this anger, and yet knowing it doesn’t fit in this time and yet it does – but her body knows, at least. Stiffening, eyes wide, then narrowing at the gleam of armour under midday sun. Hate uncurling in her chest like a snake at the amulet of a horn dangling around his neck.

“Good day, ma’am.” He doesn’t know, of course. His companion leans her weight on him, panting, her face red and tight, almost hissing heat. “My sister – we were patrolling, and she collapsed. I suspect heat stroke, but – “

“How dare you.”

A blink. “Excuse me?”

“How dare you come to my doorstep, seeking my help, after what you did. As though these people haven’t suffered enough – “

The woman just looks exhausted. The man makes a face, slowly shaking his head as sweat trickles down his brow. “Please, I don’t understand – “

“Diatribes on the Mercy of Stendarr, trying to convert the desperate, the grieving!” In the blistering air her words come out like shards of ice, crackling up her throat. Yes, she knows this anger, knows this righteous hatred even if it doesn’t quite make sense, but she has to protect these people. They came in droves from Morrowind in the Red Year, crossing the border into Cheydinhal and she has so little she can give, so many cases of Ash Lung to treat and yet – “Investigating for ‘heretic paraphernalia’, telling them Stendarr’s mercy doesn’t extend to Daedra worshippers – “

And they both look alarmed now, alarmed and confused as though they don’t remember what they did. Her shop, her home had been – is? - host to many of the sickest refugees in the crisis – so many hardly able to breathe, leaving her holding her own breath as though it is somehow offensive. Helpless, harmless, hopeless and yet the Vigil had come, promising aid if only those who might worship Daedra as they had in the old days, Azura and Boethia and Mephala, would denounce and repent…

She’s ranting, she knows it. But they deserve it. They deserve her rage, it’s all been too much, sleepless night after night and this is the very last offense she can take –

“Dust! What in Mara’s name are you raving about!?”

“These hypocrites, these fucking manipulative snakes – “ It’s only when Dust turns snarling, nearly shrieking, that she at last meets Haelga’s eyes.

Her apprentice. Her apprentice, here in Ivarstead, where she lives.

Not her home in Cheydinhal. Not the Red Year, when her shop was filled with homeless families coughing and gasping for air through the ash in their lungs.

Not then but now, two hundred years later and as tired as she was then.

She feels herself shrink, wither, feels all the anger drain out of her and leave her an empty husk. A glance to the Vigilants, exhausted now, but already Haelga’s bustling her way past, pushing her gently aside.

“I’m so sorry, please – my, eh, she’s not as young as she used t’be, gets things a little confused and this heat – “ A pointed look to Dust and Haelga ushers the pair in, getting them sat at the table. “Get all that armour off and I’ll get you a nice, cold drink, something t’take…”

Dust moves downstairs in a near trance, leaning her weight on the heavy cauldron she cleaned out last night. She waits until the noise upstairs, the quiet chatter and shuffles of movement, end with the slam of a door. Haelga’s heavy footfalls – she knows exactly when she’s at the bottom step, the familiar groan it gives

She knows. She knows this home, every nook and cranny knows it like she knows her own body, how could she forget?

She can hear Haelga’s anger behind her, the spitting fire to the ice she’d held in her chest, thawed now, empty now. “Y’want t’tell me what made you fly off on the Vigilants, of all people?”

Her hands squeeze the edge of the cauldron. She wants to sink into it, melt, vanish, cease.

“You’ve been acting like a fucking maniac! A – a madwoman! Forgetting everything, screaming at people, snapping at me like I’m a stranger when y’aren’t just sleeping the days away – Dust, this is more than just your age.” Half pleading, half scolding, Haelga’s voice twists harsh. “You need to stop being so gods-damned stubborn. We need to take you to a healer.”

But there’s no healer who can help her, is there? Her head swims, enough she would puke into the cauldron if she had anything to bring up. Instead she clings tighter still, white-knuckled under her gloves. No healer can see her, she can’t risk it. No healer could understand what she is, that maybe, just maybe…

She’s finally falling apart.

But what if it isn’t that?

These blank spots, the confusion and lapses in memory, it all brings her back years ago. In Markarth, in that little cell, seeing the faces of her father, her friends, her lovers, trapped and twisted and that man buried in their graveyard, the one the Thalmor killed, what if they’ve come back for her at last –

The fear grips her heart so acutely it shatters, splits her, her keen echoing in the cauldron as she sobs, as her shoulders tremble. Behind her Haelga goes still, breath caught. A step closer, then a whisper.

“Dust – oh, Dust, please, come here, don’t – “

She’s in the solidity of her arms now, weeping like a child into her bosom as she holds her and soothes her.

She wants to leave. Tired, so tired. She aches all over, stings in her scars, her hip aches as though the Vigilant’s warhammer met it not centuries ago but mere years, years she’d had no right to and wouldn’t it just be easier…

She feels trapped in this shell, fighting it, feeling her spirit struggle for freedom, but the closest she comes for now is a dead faint, slumping into her apprentice’s arms.

                                                             ***

She’s slept the entire day. That much, she’s sure of. No way to tell in her basement bedroom, but it’s dark and cool and there’s a lit candle in the corner, shuddering with movement. Dust pulls herself up in the bed, sore and groggy, squinting until the silhouette in the corner becomes clear. Haelga’s looking up from her book, intense, but neutral.

“Hey.”

It takes a moment for her to dredge up enough spit to speak, mouth dry, tongue thick and stupid. “… Haelga.” The lack of a throb in her head is an almost piercing relief. She pulls the sheet up to her chest to cover herself as she sits up, feeling still half-dreamlike. “… I’m sorry.”

“S’alright. So am I.”

“I…” Only then does it sink in why she’s holding up the sheet at all, a trickle of cold realization. She’s been changed. It’s not modesty but fear that takes hold, breath sharp, eyes wide. “You – “

“You got sick on yourself – I doubt y’remember it. And you felt like you were running a fever, for a while. Then you got cold again.” She says it all softly, matter-of-factly. “Thought it best just t’get you clean and in bed.”

Silence reigns. She feels her scars prickle and sting, unable to cover them all at once – her neck and chest, her arms, the backs of her hands, not without diving back under the blankets which is becoming more and more tempting –

“I understand why you won’t go to a healer, now.”

A tight swallow. “Haelga…”

“It’s alright.” She puts the book down and stands with a groan, moving to instead sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks, sinking with her weight. “You don’t have t’explain. I’ve always thought there was something different about you, but it doesn’t matter.”

When Haelga reaches for her hand, she lets her have it. Strange – it’s been so long since she’s seen her bare hand curled in another’s like that. The scars seem irritated, red at the edges, her fist so small in the other woman’s palm. She meets her gaze again, trying to pull herself together as she feels like she’s fraying at the edges.

“… You said yourself, once. I have a lot of secrets to keep.”

“They’re not my business. You’re my employer.” Haelga’s stern, blocky face softens, eyes gentle. “… And my friend, Dust.”

“I’m terrified.” It comes out unbidden, leaving her blinking back hot tears of embarrassment. In an instant she’s being held, pulled close. Another sob chokes out of her strangled throat, shoulders quaking.

Haelga, wise beyond her years, doesn’t offer empty words of comfort. No ‘it’ll be alright’, or ‘it will pass.’ They’ve both healed too long, seen too many wither away to offer such platitudes.

They both know better than to hope. Her trapped in glimpses of the past, she unable to face the future, they cling to each other and the moment they’re in, as long as they can.

#the title is a reference to My Friends by Oh Wonder which I listened to over and over writing this #writing

[talldarkandroguesome]

22nd of Second Seed, Middas

I was given the word in the evening of who would be joining our party.

I went to Speaks-Too-Soon first, hoping that I would have her infectious laughter and brute strength along for the journey. She told me that, as much fun as she has had traveling with me and taking my coin, she is ready to go in her own direction. I do not know what has changed, but it was sad to hear that she would soon be departing. I hope to meet her in the world and share a bottle and a hookah once more.

Feeling a pang of sadness at her loss, I went to the Undaunted Enclave to speak with those who had shown interest.

The Orsimer mage, Luz, whose brother Gorgrolg, I had seen drinking in the local taverns with others of the Undaunted, agreed that he should like to try his hand at something other than daedra infested ruins and bear infested caverns.

We were also given a confirmation from Heathre, the Undaunted’s bard, who wished to see her people’s homeland. She said she was raised in Morrowind and has not yet had the chance to see were her people came from.

I came back, glad to report on the new members, when I ran into Watches-By-Day. She told me that she was honored by the request, but that she still had much to catch up on with her household duties and that it would not be prudent for her to take off again so soon.

I thanked her for her forwardness and foresight and asked that she search her staff for members that were competent and loyal. She told me that she had a couple of people in mind, but she should like to present the reality of what was asked herself beforehand. I gave her leave to do so and thanked her for all she does to serve this house.

As I was checking the list of supplies, Avon came to me in my study and asked that I bring Tel and join him. When I asked what I should prepare for, he informed me that Farseer Bodani had arrived with mother. I immediately went to Tel’s room and asked them to come with me. They followed, asking where we were going, to which I told them that it pertained to our souls. That made them eager enough to follow.

When we reached the parlour, Avon opened the hidden door into the secret meeting room. I went inside to find Mother and Farseer Bodani seated upon the cushions, sharing the pipe of a hookah. The familiar blend of Ashland herbs and the Farseer’s incense bringing a sense of nostalgia to me.

I turned back and saw Tel’s face, realizing there was some degree of confusion. I poked my head back out and told them that they should only speak if spoken to and to listen carefully to all the Farseer has to say.

Then I went and took a place round the hookah, taking the pipe when offered and inhaling the familiar cool smoke, enjoying the way it felt and it flowed through my lungs and down towards my stomach. I let the smoke flow slowly out of my nose, before thanking the Farseer for her generosity, the last curling white tendrils spilling from my lips.

I held it out for Tel, who was taking their seat while Avon secured the door behind us, before taking his seat to Tel’s other side.

I was happy to see that Tel took it without complaint or question. They passed the hookah along to Avon, who took it and smoked it before passing it along to Mother.

In fact, they were quiet as the Farseer purified us with oil and incense and then ground the ceremonial paint and painted our faces. I was shocked to see them listen so obediently after the way they usually act, all questions at each turn.

The Farseer bid me to lay down upon another mat and she lit candles around me, the flames starting off as normal, then getting their pale blue glow as she invoked the ancient spells. I could feel something , like fingers, no, hands, wrapping around me. As though I were being lifted by a group of people and set in water, gently rocking along as I floated.

Then there was a sudden cold, almost piercing. I could hear something around me, voices. Speaking in Daedric, but as though through an ocean, distorted and muffled. I could not quite make out the words, though I could hear the pattern of speech.

Then I felt myself settle, the cold dissipate, and the hands release. The Farseer told me I could sit up.

I went back to my seat and the Farseer considered for a moment before she sent her prayers to the Three for guidance. She invoked wisdom with how to proceed with the knowledge she acquired.

After a long while, she turned to Tel, asking them to lay where I had laid down. I realized something was not working. I still felt that emptiness. And she had asked for guidance.

I only hoped that with Tel undergoing the same spell, perhaps one of the Three would be able to give us direction on how to get back our souls.

I watched as Tel laid down, the spell begun, and the candle’s flame glowing a faint blue. Then, too, did the marks painted upon Tel’s face.

I watched closely as the spell seemed to lift Tel slightly off of the ground. Then a thin blue thread emerged from the center of their body, going off into the air. My eyes widened. Was this the tether that had been spoken of? Was I looking at the last connection Tel had with their soul?

Tel’s body gently came back to the mat and the Farseer asked for Tel to sit up.

When the Farseer finished her invocations, she turned to Mother, Avon, and I. She told us in Velothis that this was different than last time, this was not a small nudge, no bump from the body, the soul was in another plane. When Mother asked about the tether being a means to searching for the soul, the Farseer said she had tried as much.

Then suddenly, she looked to Tel and apologized about having slipped into Velothi. She said that she had tried to follow the soul’s tether to its source, but since it was not a tether she had created, and because it was in another plane, it was far more difficult to find. She said that perhaps, if the gem containing the soul were directly on the other side of a dark anchor, she could pull it back to the body. She warned that, even should we perform the ritual at every dark anchor on Nirn, there was a high probability we could still not retrieve it. Only by going to the plane it was on, and seeking out the area near the gem, could she be able to return our souls.

I was not even shocked. I think some part of me feared the worse, knew it was likely to be the case.

Mother asked about any other options. The Farseer replied that she had consulted with the Three and that the only option was to retrieve the gems. If she had the gems with our souls, she would almost certainly be able to return them to our bodies.

Mother and Avon discussed the possibility of ways to get to the soul more easily. Shad Astula seems to feel that the ways they could connect us are far too dangerous. Avon told us that he had spoken with his acquaintance in the Mage’s Guild about the issue and learned that there are others like us that the Guild is attempting to learn how to help. They are currently studying the cause and a solution to the issue of souless mortals that escaped from Coldharbor. They fear with more and more dark anchors opening and the Worm Cult growing bold enough to continue sacrificing more and more to their master, the chances that more people will come to this same condition increase.

The Farseer apologized that she had little she could do. She then blessed us and wished us all the luck of the Three. She says she will pray for our souls and our safety.

Mother left with her. Avon began to clean up after the ritual, cleaning and packing each item into a guar leather box, a ritual kit that was given to mother by the Farseer decades ago. It feels like so long since I last saw it.

Tel began to talk about how we needed to find someone to get us into Coldharbor. I agreed, though I was not pleased to say so. Avon asked if we would be fine with their acquaintance in the Mage’s Guild traveling with us, as a way to monitor and study our condition to prevent more people suffering in this way, as well as provide us information and a way to communicate with family back home.

Tel readily agreed, but I was more slow to do so, only agreeing when I saw the look on Avon’s face. So pained, yet hopeful. I recall how hard he said it was to actually be unable to check that I had not been killed. Especially when the guar returned without any of us. He had thought our lives may have been forfeit.

Tel spoke of the Prophet, the old mage that helped us escape Coldharbor, at which point Avon quickly excused himself and said he would return later that night.

Tel and I left the meeting room and closed and sealed it away. I went upstairs and found Sildras. He and Khes were playing with Qau-dar nearby. I quietly interrupted and apologized. I reminded Qau-dar that we would be leaving the next day and  I asked Sildras to let me know when he was about to go to sleep, so I could spend a last bit of time with him. Then left the three and went to my chambers. It was too painful to see the way Qau-dar’s body language has shifted, the way he tenses when I address Khes.

I finalized my official statement of our travel party, minus the name of the mage Avon was sending us, and laid it on the desk of my study for finalizing in the morning.

Sildras came about an hour later and I read him a story and then carried him to his bed when he fell asleep. I stayed with him until Avon returned.

Avon told me he would finalize the document in the morning, providing his contact’s name and credentials for the House’s records.

We talked long into the night. I told Avon that I simply could not leave my son behind. Not this time. I would not make him go through the same pain over and over. Avon tried to convince me that it was a fool’s plan, a way to bring Uncle’s wrath against me once more. I told Avon that Almalexia had pardoned me and asked for a stop to be put to everything. Besides, she had said I could bring whom I choose.

Avon argued that, not only would the Council never allow it, he would be left to a mountain of complaints and missives to deal with. Perhaps even a reduction of his liberties for allowing Sildras out of his care.

I told him, fine, then join me. I could use the assistance and there were few as qualified for such a task. Before I had two members of House Indoril under my charge, why not now?

We went back and forth for a long while before I decided to go for a low blow, I appealed to his emotions. Avon told me it was rotten of me to do so, I agreed, but told him that if he loved me, he would still come. Avon told me that I was the worst influence on him in his whole life.

I smiled and kissed him and told him that it was finally time for him to just stop worrying about consequences, that the journey may end in any sort of death of me. That I might have my soul gem spent and all this be for naught. Not to mention the interference of the Telvanni. We needed, just this once, to enjoy our family doing what it does.

Avon told me to shut up and he would consider it. I told him to give me an answer come morning. Now I wait to see if we will have Avon come or not.

#ESO #TES #Dunmer #Undaunted #RP #Elder Scrolls Online #The Elder Scrolls

[ansu-gurleht]

Ku-vastei was tired of the harsh, rocky terrain that blew constant gusts of ash in her gills, so she decided to vacation in the Bitter Coast, for a while. Pick alchemical ingredients from the weeds and mushrooms, practice her skill with her short sword on mudcrabs, maybe raid a tomb or slaughter some slavers. But most important was just absorbing the swamp into her soul: its humidity, its heat, the flies so stupid they must have wanted to be snacked on.

The lands of southern Morrowind, her Naheesh had said, were not quite like Black Marsh. But it was all Ku ever knew, and to be in this little pocket of Vvardenfell felt like home.

But home was slavery, which made Ku angry. She began to itch for slaver blood to moisten her scales. She followed the coast northwest from Seyda Neen, hoping to find a smuggler’s hideout to ambush.

Eventually, when she came across the mouth of the Odai, she found a target. On the far side two dark elves were bombarding a small shack with arrow after arrow, while a Nord pounded on the door with the pommel of his claymore. Without thinking, before she knew the situation, Ku conjured her spear with a wave of her claw and dove into the waters.

She suddenly jumped from the river onto the rickety patio of the hut, causing the Nord to back up against the door in surprise. She cut off his holler with a Daedric spearhead through his heart.

One of the archers came running, using the hut for cover. He turned the corner, bow drawn, and loosed a steel arrow towards where he had hoped the sudden assailant would be. But Ku was crouched low, and the arrow flew off into the distance. She leveraged the strength of her tail and legs into a powerful upward strike, piercing the dark elf’s head from chin to crown. She couldn’t help but grin as blood sprayed from his mouth onto her face.

The last elf decided it best to keep his distance. As Ku turned the corner, he began to shoot at her from ten yards away. The first arrow Ku narrowly dodged, and then continued marching towards the archer. The second arrow hit her in the chest, unable to pierce the Orcish mail she wore under her robes, but delivered a strong blunt blow. The last arrow the elf would ever loose was feebly drawn, and Ku swatted it aside with an effortless sweep of her spear.

She lingered for a moment among the dead, satisfied with her work. The terror-mask of the last victim gave her strange peace.

Finally, she rose from her knees and went back to the shack’s door. She retrieved her spear from Oblivion and gently knocked with its butt. “Hello?” Silence. She knocked again. “They’re gone now. I killed them.” Still, no response.

Maybe one of those arrows got to them, she considered. She tried the knob and sighed. She leaned her spear against the doorframe and created a glowing magical key from her fingertips. The key fit the lock perfectly. She slowly opened the door, spearhead first.

The room was dark and empty, save for a dark elf crouched behind an overturned table. He stood with both hands raised and empty. “Ah, Argonian,” he said, “it is too late.” He nodded towards the floor.

Ku quickly waved her hand in front of her face, enhancing her vision. In the magical brightness, she saw a Khajiit and dark elf lying dead on the floor. Both wore slave bracers.

She pointed the spear across the room, the tip placed against the living elf’s throat. He did not react.

“I was trying to save them,” he whispered, through a gravelly Vvardenfell accent. “I’m with the Twin Lamps, serjo.”

“Twin Lamps?” Ku did not yet remove the pressure on the elf’s neck.

“We’re an abolitionist group.” He looked to the ceiling of the shack. “You can kill me if you want. I couldn’t even break the law successfully, it seems.”

The dust shaken from the planks by the barrage of arrows settled on everything in room, including the slaves’ corpses. Ku dematerialized her spear.

“I was a slave, once,” she said, lifting the Khajiit’s bracer-bound wrist idly, not looking up at the abolitionist. “Then I was … an abolitionist, of a sort.”

“Was?” The dark elf sat down next to the Khajiit’s body, leaning back against the wall.

“Started a revolt. Everyone I loved died. Went to prison.” She dropped the bracer with a loud thud on the floor. She stared at the bead of blood she had apparently drawn from the abolitionist’s neck. “Your kind are too cruel. You take us from our homes. Us root-kin, and the hajhiit too. Even your own kind. You abuse us for your profit. Now you seek some kind of redemption?”

The abolitionist’s eyes roamed the room.

“All you get is people killed. Innocent people. You dark elves will never give up your ‘birthright’. The Empire will even help you enforce it. You’re a fool to walk that river’s edge. It is too strong and filled with foul waters. And you really think you can do anything to stop it? ”

The dark elf locked eyes with Ku. “Then why are you here? Why did you kill those slave hunters?”

Ku-vastei flared her nostrils and widened her pupils at him, but could say nothing. They sat in silence, among the dead - innocent and guilty.

Finally, the abolitionist stood to leave. “I should return to Stendarr’s Retreat to let them know.” He stopped at the door and looked back at Ku, who still knelt by the Khajiit. “You should visit sometime. It’s just north of Vivec. If someone asks you, ‘Have you seen the Twin Lamps?’, say ‘The light the way to freedom.’ That’s how they’ll know you’re a friend.

“I hope to see you there, muthsera.”

In smell of sea, dust, and blood, Ku-vastei remained in the shack as the morning ran into evening.

- - -

this is sort of a prologue story to another story i plan to write, about rabinna the khajiit from hla oad. that scenario may be familiar to people who have played morrowind, as i’m writing down ku’s particular experience with that quest.

the scenario in this story, however, might not be. i’ve written it based on ku’s experience at a location added by juniper’s twin lamps mod, which i haven’t played much of yet, but seems really promising!

#tes #tesblr #teslore #oc: ku-vastei #argonian #khajiit #dunmer #dark elf #morrowind #vvardenfell #bitter coast #vivec #hla oad #seyda neen #nord #argonians #dark elves #nords #mudcrab #mudcrabs #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls #skyrim #oblivion #elder scrolls online #eso #nerevarine

[dinosrpg]

Nerevarine - Vivec’s True Trial

A short followup of this non-canon roleplay.  Held after the events of Morrowind, Tribunal, and Bloodmoon, I recommend reading the link before this.

CONTENT WARNING: BLOOD, GORE, VIOLENCE

Sheev-La stood at the foot of Vivec's temple.  Clad in her battle raiment, the Nerevarine walked the stairs leading to the last of the Tribunal.  They gripped the key they had received from the high priest; they had kept it all this time, knowing one day they would have to pass judgment on the Warrior Poet for his crimes.  Who best to lay judgment than them?

Images of Vivec's farce of a trial flashed in their memory.  Held in place by powerful magics beyond their ken, they watched in horror as Azura was summoned to weigh in as a character witness.  And then... Vivec bound and destroyed her.  Her body was obliterated in a blast of pure force, godsblood raining on the witnesses.  As clever and as brutal as he'd been, Vivec's pride ensured his ill-begotten vengeance would be short-lived.  He hadn't even gone into hiding, as though challenging Nerevar to initiate what was inevitable.

The Nerevarine pushed the key into place.  The lock was the same, a twist of the wrist opening it as smoothly as it had the first time.  The door swung open, the Argonian gripping the hilts of Keening and Trueflame.  Wraithguard thrummed upon contact with the crystalline dagger, shielding Azura's champion from its deadly aura.

Vivec, as defiant and confident as ever, levitated over his "throne", eyes boring through the Nerevarine.

"We both knew this day would come," he said, uncrossing his legs and standing proper.

"What good is a trial if you simply twist it to your own ends?!" the Argonian demanded, biting back fouler words they had every right to hurl at the failing god.  "Have you no interest in how the people will see this?!  You spit on our traditions, mock due process, and walk away as though you've done no wrong!"

"No one else will know," Vivec coldly replied.  He crossed his arms, gold over the ashen.  "The two of us are the only ones who will remember.  So as I've willed it, so it shall be.  You, of all who could, deserve to know the truth."

Sheev-La drew her weapons.  Trueflame's namesake gurgled and fluttered as she assumed her fighting stance.  "Then allow me to pass judgment, in the name of the Dunmer and as Azura's champion," she snarled, her eye burning with fury.

"Don't do this, Nerevar."

"Sheev-La.  You murdered Nerevar.  In my absence, you've committed fouler crimes, and now deicide is among them."

"You speak to me of deicide," Vivec scoffed, waving her off.

"Almalexia murdered Sotha Sil and intended to frame me after killing me.  I am through with your twisted words, 'poet'.  Stand to trial by combat and die with honor and perhaps I will mourn your loss," she hissed, gripping her blades tightly.  Wraithguard's vambrace shifted, producing a shield about her right arm of pure, tonal force.

"Then you cannot be dissuaded?  You know that if you do kill me, you will never be able to return, yes?  I know your heart.  Guilt weighs on you heavier than the rest of us."

"No.  Though you had good intentions, you've done terrible things," Sheev-La seethed, inching toward Vivec.  "Oathbreaker!  Kinslayer!  Tyrant!  God-slayer!  I accuse you, Vehk of ALMSIVI!"

"So be it."

In a flash, Vivec produced his spear, the infamous Muatra.  Sheev-La lunged for him, Trueflame drawing the deadly bone spear away as she sought to plunge Kagrenac's dagger in his heart.  He leaned, her strike severing the wind of his movement.  Vivec twisted the spear, moving to strike his assailant with its blunted end, but Sheev-La kicked it away, slicing at him with the flaming blade.  Once-divine flesh was carved into and seared, the cursed, false god snarling monstrously in pain as he reeled and stepped away to regain his distance.  The Argonian stepped in closer, giving him no respite to collect himself as she spun in graceful slashes.  More of Vivec's blood spilled onto the floor as he resorted to magic, his ashen hand wreathed in raw, elemental power.  He reached out, planting his hand on the hide tunic of Hircine, and watched as fire, ice, and electricity wreaked havoc on the Argonian's body.  The worst of his magic was averted and she had been through worse, but the pain made her falter.  She was vulnerable.  Vivec hopped back a step, intending to recreate his foul murder with a powerful thrust of Muatra.  Her armor did little to stop the spear, its head carving into her gut and piercing through with alarming ease.  White-hot pain seared through her.  With Muatra firmly lodged within her, Sheev-La drew the crystalline Keening across Vivec's belly in a short, brutal cut.  Blood and gore spilled forth, the falling god grunting and meeting her gaze as though to implore her not to follow through.  With Trueflame poised to deliver the final strike, Vivec's gaze was diverted to a ring on her left hand.  It glimmered as she barked a command word, a ball of energy slamming into his chest.  It did little to damage him, but Sheev-La brought Trueflame down into his neck.  The life drained from his eyes, his mortal body failing him as his stolen divinity had.

Vivec whimpered his last breath, realizing the cruel irony of it all in his final moments.  His tainted soul was drawn into Azura's Star.  The jewel thrummed mightily with his struggling, but ultimately Azura would have the last laugh.  Muatra vanished as quickly as it had been drawn, leaving Sheev-La gravely injured and standing tall over the former god she'd laid low.  Shakily, she produced a pair of elixers, downing their contents to begin healing her wounds.

"You brought this upon yourselves," she panted, eye twitching as she watched Vivec's body fade to ash.  And in that moment, the Nerevarine knew she could tell no one.  No one would believe she had been the Tribunal's end, as warped as the story of Nerevar had become.  No one believed her when she told them of Almalexia's demise.

She had to leave.

#Nerevarine #Elder Scrolls #Morrowind #cw: violence #cw: blood #cw: gore