Chapter Text
What he puts his hand to, that shall be done.
The ship creaks around you, keeping time to a song like a lullaby your father once sang for you. It’s soothing, peaceful, calm. Steady, the way nothing’s been since the day you crossed the wrong man too deep in the Imperial heartland.
A shame it does nothing at all for the seasickness.
You bury yourself in the corner of the hold and pretend you’re not so miserable as the storm pitches the little ship up and down the backs of waves you cannot see. Jiub took pity on you some days ago; the bucket he got his hands on offers at least a little reassurance that won't be sick everywhere. The ship pitches and the world tilts in all the wrong ways again and you groan, hiding your head in the rough sack of… whatever it is you’re trying to use as a pillow.
You manage a daze, if not real sleep, your eyes screwed shut until the black before them fades to blue, the blue of night lit by pale Secunda and veiled by rain. The rain falls like whispers, hissing against leaves and splashing in puddles, and in the roll of it you can nearly make out a voice. A flash- lightning, it must be- and the rain is red as blood, the sky is red as if alight, your sight is red as if through ruby. There’s smoke that becomes a shadow, the shape of a mountain massive and proud, even its silhouette stained red.
Doom, it cries to you, doom and endings and stilled hearts, and you try to back away but your feet are mired in something thick and sucking and the whisper of rain has grown to a roar like the clash of armies, and in the cries of the dead and dying you hear overlapping taken from the Imperial- to the east- many- fear not, for I am watchful- many fall, but one remains-
“Wake up. We’re here.”
And it all goes up in smoke.
You open your eyes to find Jiub crouched above you, his good eye darkened with concern. “You’re shaking- are you okay?”
“I’m-?” You are, your hands trembling and your heart pounding in your chest, your pulse so fierce in your temple you nearly don’t notice the lingering nausea. You stand, wobbly, and Jiub takes you by the upper arms to steady you.
“Stand up… there you go. We’ve reached Morrowind- you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m okay,” you say, and your voice comes out even enough to just about prove it. “Just… just dreams or something.”
There’s noise in the hold outside your little cell. Time to go- but only for you.
“Farewell,” you say to Jiub. “I… I hope we meet again one day.” You hope it doesn’t press on sore points. That he doesn’t resent too much that only you, apparently, will see the sky today. He has a fearsome look, a scarred Dunmer with a bad eye, but he’s been kind enough to you.
“You’d better do what they say,” he says.
He’s a mer of the world. He must know even better than you that you don’t know yet if this is a blessing or not.
You go up on deck, not quite so unsteady on a moored ship as one in storm, and debark, and don’t vomit all over any of the Imperial guards’ shiny boots. And then they make you do paperwork, and you’re still too sick to your stomach to even enjoy making up false answers. Why do they need to know what sign you were born under? Useless information. Atronach, you write. You always liked that one.
And then you are loose in Vvardenfell with eighty-odd septims to your name and a prisoner’s clothes. You would be free, if alone in a place you don’t know, but for the package under your arm, the one you were so firmly instructed not to open.
Take her, they said, when they came to your cell. Emperor’s orders. You were put on the ship- Emperor’s orders- and sailed all the way to the swamps of Morrowind- Emperor’s orders- and released. Emperor’s orders. Why the Emperor has ordered you here is beyond you- you surely never met the man, and no one’s bothered to explain a damn thing to you. You were given enough coin for a meal and a cloak and a ride to the city, though, so you climb aboard the oversized swamp insect and wonder just who you pissed off.
You come to Balmora on the river Odai in the midst of storm, nauseous again from the silt-strider’s swaying. Carved out of the innards of giant insects, they tell you. Piloted by manipulating their nervous systems. Incredible. A little gross, if you think about it too long, but still incredible.
You tromp through the mud until you find South Wall- and only make it after walking the length of the districts on the wrong side of the river- and everyone inside is as grouchy as you.
Almost as grouchy as you. You’re sent right back out in the rain to find the man you’re told will be your new superior. The owner who’s given you directions gives you an odd look when you turn about without even staying for a drink, but you want this over and done with.
You arrive dripping and cold at the house of Caius Cosades, who tells you he’s just an old man but still lets you sit by the fire to dry out and makes easy talk, entirely ignoring anything you say about reporting to him.
“So, your eyes are fresh. What are your impressions of Vvardenfell thus far?” he asks eventually, studying you with something sharper in his eyes than you saw there before.
“I’ve been here for less than a day,” you reply.
“Yes, the best time for forming first impressions. Go on- what have you noticed?”
“The rain, mostly.” When his expression doesn’t change, you shrug, scratching at the back of your neck. How did you even get mud there. “Everyone says they don’t like strangers here, but no one has been any more unpleasant than the weather can account for. Yet. Lots of insects I’ve never seen elsewhere. Lots of Dunmer, even in more Imperial areas.” You chew your lip for a moment. “I suppose that makes sense though, doesn’t it? They come from Morrowind originally, right?”
“Ask a historian or two about that one,” Caius says with a chuckle. “Or a theologian. Broadly speaking though, yes. What else?” You hesitate. “The people,” Caius prompts. “Who holds power here, what factions are there, how do they interact?”
“I’ve been here for a day,” you protest. “And most of that I spent inside a giant bug.”
“Yes, and what have you learned in that time?”
“What is this, some sort of audition? Are you supposed to be my boss or my inquisitor?”
“Oh, if it’s inquisition you want, head down to Vivec and start mouthing off.” He smiles, and you find it’s not a pleasant one. “Most things in life are some sort of audition or another, especially for us.”
“Who’s us?”
“Finish your audition and you’ll find out.” You mutter mutinous curses and Caius Cosades laughs. “Old Nordic, isn’t it? Haven’t heard that much lately. Do you know any more of it, or just swear words?” You grit your teeth and bite your tongue. “Hm, not much more, then? Ah well. We have other work to be doing, anyway. Now: the people here.”
You cross your arms and glare into the fire, but Caius only waits, patient as oncoming winter. “There’s nobles,” you mutter. “Same as everywhere else. Lalu or something is in charge in this town.”
“Hlaalu,” Caius corrects absently. “But yes. What else?”
“There’s… guilds,” you say, rather lamely. “Fighters, mages- Imperial standards. The Theives’ Guild might be called the Camonna Tong, or that might be something else. They don’t really advertise.”
“Not the same. Not friends, either.”
“The owner at the South Wall knew right where to find you, and didn’t seem worried about sending a stranger to your door. Are you close?”
“Professional acquaintances,” he says. “Hmm… not terrible for your first day. Tell you what-” he digs around in a chest of drawers across the room and returns with a jingling bag. “It’s late. Find somewhere to stay the night, and in the morning see about joining up with a guild or something. Lots of choices here- the Temple, the Legion, the Imperial cult, one of the Great Houses.” He looks you over. “Maybe get yourself some half decent equipment too, yeah? Come find me again tomorrow evening and we’ll talk.”
“Why?” you ask, cautious, accepting the small pouch of coin.
“There’s good work for freelance adventurers around here. At best, it will make a good cover. At worst, it’ll still give you some coin to live off. Oh,” he adds, as you turn to go, “see what people have to say about the Blades while you’re at it.”
“The Blades…?” But Caius has already shut the door in your face.
At least it’s mostly stopped raining, and you’re mostly dry. You trudge away to find somewhere to sleep.
The Blades, huh? Everyone in the Empire knows what they are- everyone in the older Imperial lands where you grew up, anyway. There’s a few that everyone knows, important people, famous ones, but they say most of them are unknown. That they’re spies- maybe even assassins- in direct service to the Emperor. That anyone could be one of them.
You roll yourself into scratchy blankets in a tiny room, listening to the resurgent rain pound against the roof, and wish it didn’t feel like everything on this island wanted to suck you into something deeper and vaster than you can see.
At least you don’t dream.
“Why are you so sure I’ll do as I’m told and not just vanish into the wilderness?” you ask the next evening. Your new Fighters’ Guild token is cold in your pocket. Your thin shoes still smell like rat dung.
“Oh, I’m not,” Caius says. He waggles the papers you brought him. “The Emperor is sure enough, though. You know what the Blades are. You’re a smart one; you can do that math. And besides, you already came to me, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t have much alternative, did I?”
“That doesn’t always stop people when they get the chance to run. You didn’t- that speaks well of you.”
“It speaks well of me that I was too afraid to run?” you say, doubtful.
“That you had the sense not to run,” Caius corrects. “You’d certainly be no use to me if you were stupid enough to try.”
“Useful as a Blade?”
He smiles. “Indeed. Now, you’re guilded or the like?”
“I am.”
“Well, which one?”
“Fighters’ Guild.”
“Fighters? Really?” He looks you over again, scrutinizing, measuring.
“I can fight,” you say defensively. Your father’s Altmer friend taught you a bit of the blade. You even found an acceptable longsword you could get with the coin Caius provided. You wore it here; he barely gave it a second glance.
“I hope so. This will be a short-lived venture otherwise. Now-” he gestures you to one of the two rickety chairs at his small table. “The Emperor wants me to make you a novice of the Blades. We are his eyes and ears in the provinces- and in Vvardenfell I am the ranking agent. You report to me and follow my orders. Any problems with this?”
“No,” you say, because you rather doubt any other answer is acceptable.
“Good.” He pulls out the other chair and nods to your bag. “You have a journal or something in there? You may need it. You’ll need to know some of the basic landscape here before I send you off on any real assignments. To start with: three Dunmer Great Houses…”
You amble towards a ruin with your head stuffed full of local politics and older history and more names than you’ve ever had to remember in the span of two hours. There was a Dwemer cult or- no, Dwemer ruins, Nevrine cult. Neverine. You sigh and dig your journal from your bag. Nerevarine.
You wonder why Caius had to send you to ask his questions rather than doing it himself. The drillmaster clearly knew him. You squint at the sky and try to judge if it will rain. Maybe he just didn’t want to make this trip himself. You couldn’t really blame him for that. You barely want to make this trip- and it doesn’t even seem like it’s going to pay. None of the jobs Eydis Fire-eye would give you were glamourous, but they still earned you a few drakes. As Caius has reminded you more than once already, he’s your superior, not your employer.
You wonder too what you could possibly have done to merit getting shipped to Vvardenfell to be a spy. You weren’t always on the most legal side of things back in Anvil, but you never made yourself noticeable. Part of that was your father’s insistence, distanced as he was from the local guilds. Part of it was your own caution, after losing more than one of your friends to too much notice. It didn’t keep you out of cells all the time, but even the last time shouldn’t have gotten you moved to the heart of the Imperial City, much less all this.
At least this part seems like a standard adventurer’s task. You know a bit of swordwork, a bit of magic- a little healing, a little protection, a little spark. Enough to make your way, enough to be useful. This shouldn’t be so difficult.
You trudge back to Balmora bruised and bleeding like you haven’t been since you were fourteen and trying to prove to your friends who was the toughest- since ever, maybe, because in your alley fights you were mostly interested in scaring the other guy off, but every person in Arkngthand had wanted you dead. You didn’t let them have their way, of course, and it’s hardly the first time you’ve killed, but this was… total, in a way such things usually aren’t. Usually, once one or two drop, the rest clear out- but those are city rules, and for a place far from here.
You study the puzzle box you claimed from the ruins. It’s a weird little thing. You wonder what it’s really worth, beyond the metal it’s made of and the price of information. At least you picked up some other scrap you can sell for spare change once you find the right people; you’re wearing the cheapest armor money can buy and getting hit hurts.
Secret cults and ancient history- and smuggling mixed in somehow, which is far more familiar territory than all this about reincarnating saints and age-old treachery.
“Nerevar is one of the Tribunal’s saints,” you comment idly, finishing a last note in your journal. “Why do they want to suppress a following of his so badly?”
“Why indeed,” Caius murmurs, still deep in Hasphat Antabolis’s notes. They seem more like an essay to you. “The Nerevarine cult isn’t friendly to the Temple or their gods- think they sold Morrowind out to the Empire.” You nod along. Hasphat had mentioned as much. “The Temple doesn’t care for anyone questioning their doctrine, but their focus on the Nerevarines in particular is curious.”
“Why do we care so much about the Nerevarines?”
Caius gives you a crooked smile. “They aren’t friends of the Emperor, novice. That makes them our concern for as long as they might pose a threat.”
“But these prophecies are all old Ashlander superstitions,” you object. “How seriously should you really take them?”
“That’s what most people think,” Caius agrees. “But most people are idiots. The Emperor at least takes this seriously enough, which means we will, too.” He frowns, lowering Hasphat’s notes. “In the end, it doesn’t really matter if they’re true or not. Eventually this cult will find someone to rally behind as their Nerevarine, and then they’ll really be our problem. Better to know the extent of these things now.
“We need a little more about the Nerevarines still,” he says, looking over the notes one last time. “Hasphat had plenty to say about the Sixth House, but that’s history and not current religious talk for the most part. He suggested Sharn gra-Muzgob? Yes, she’ll do. She’s over at the Mages’ Guild. Make that your project in the next few days.”
You wonder if you should look into renting a place of your own in Balmora if you’re going to be living and working here from now on. You can bunk in the guildhall, but you prefer a door you can close and a window you can leave through if you must. South Wall has rooms, but you get a few looks when you barely drink.
You don’t drink- at least, you don’t drink with strangers in a land just as strange. They say the local liquors are quite good, though.
“Another time,” you say with a smile, and find your room.
You dream.
You hear again the constant clamour of Arkngthand, clanky and restless in undeath, the beating heart of the Dwemer steamworks still clinging to life in the walls. It’s familiar, the gold-bronze machinery, tarnished by the centuries until you can almost see a pattern in the patina. A face-
A gold mask. Tall, imposing. They take your hand and draw you into a crowd. There are people- the dead, the dream supplies for you- on all sides, arrayed as if in celebration. As if at a wedding. The masked one is the only one who moves, drawing you in and speaking to the dead ones as if making introductions. Laughing. Answering. There are voices all about, but you can’t understand them and nothing moves- not even you, when you try to draw breath, the only movement allowed to you being forward as the masked one wills. Their mask is gold and the mist is gold and the fire in the massive hearth is gold and all the hall is gold-
And you awake.
Sharn gra-Muzgob is fun. She’s opinionated and knowledgeable and definitely not a necromancer, because that would get her killed here, and she shoves scrolls and a blade that burns into your hands before sending you out to find some skull or another.
“This is technically grave-robbing,” you say, arms full of her offerings. “It would be illegal even in Cyrodiil.”
“Yes, well, don’t get caught,” she says. “And don’t tell anyone. Caius didn’t send me an idiot, did he?” In a mutter scarcely any quieter she adds: “I told him what would happen if he did that again.”
“Not at all,” you say, and ask what happened to the last idiot, and laugh, delighted, when she looks rather pointedly at a nearby crystal of the kind used to trap souls. It should be intimidating, really, even if you’re fairly certain she’s having you on about the gem, but you find the whole thing delightful. You should come learn a little from her when you have the time.
Anyway. Off to find a skull.