All of Morrowind seemed to be silent the day Vivec emerged from the Clockword City with the bodies of his fellow Tribunes.

The Living God walked in a dignified stride in front of the few Buoyant Armigers who had accompanied hir. Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil draped lifeless over the arms of the two uncomfortable mer stationed behind Vivec. Holding the corpse of your deity was not ideal to the soldiers, but they had little choice but obey when Vivec told them to carry them. Crowds of nobles and peasants alike parted to allow the procession to pass through on their way to pyre where the Tribunes would be honorably cremated. Young children hid behind legs, while their mothers stared wide-eyed. Men looked to the ground with lumps in their throat as older, thoroughly religious women quietly wailed into the arms of their sons. 

The Dunmer were terrified. The Blight, though over, still weighed heavy on their souls. When the news that not one, but two of their gods had perished, chaos ensued. The Great Houses, Indoril especially, panicked. What did this mean? House Dunmer culture was rooted in their faith, how would this affect politics? Day to day life? Would the citizens turn their back on the Temple? Morrowind would surely perish without the Tribunes protection and wisdom. 

Their Lord Vivec’s expression was unreadable as ze took his god-siblings and placed them on the pyre. Deep inside hir, ze felt hir supposedly lost mortality flare in anger at the sight of the Nerevarine solemnly standing with her head bowed. But hir composure was kept as ze turned to face the fearful crowd. Hir speech was swift and short, unlike the usual beguiling words his people expected from hir. An uncomfortable grief had made itself home in hir, now was not the time to use metaphors and a magical tongue to confuse and reassure hir subjects. Ze allowed the Nerevarine to tell the story of the Tribunes’ demise- how a powerful sorceress had murdered the Clockwork God and released his mechanisms into Almalexia’s beloved city to lure her in and drive a sword through her heart. Ignoring the people’s bewildered expressions(how had one woman defeated two gods?), Vivec sent a subtle nod of thanks to the Nerevarine for her deception, for ze knew her words were fabricated without having been told. “Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil were once heroes, let them be remembered as such,” the Hortator would later tell hir. The irony of those words being spoken by Nerevar-reborn was not lost on hir.

Vivec saw how hir subjects looked towards hir for guidance. The Nerevarine was their hero of legend, and her presence was of great significance, but Vivec was their God. Ze was meant to be their guidance in trying times, to lead them to the next great chapter of Morrowind’s story. Ze had been there through terrible wars and occupations. Hir sharp tongue blessed them with laughter and hope and hir riddles gave them motivation to love and care for their homeland more than any race on Tamriel (even at the expense of others). Today, ze offered them nothing.

The Living God was weary, and hir weariness was continuing to grow into exhaustion. Divine power being drained out of you like a cosmic vacuum was not a pleasant nor an easy experience. Hir empire, once greater than the warriors of Yokuda, was dying. Hir Divine Brother and Sister (who he once called his friends, long ago) had fallen. Everything they’d built from the ashes of a troubled land had perished. 

And ze’d known the day would come. Ze was a god, after all. Ze knew everything and nothing all at once. What ze didn’t know was the grief that would follow. The aching sensation of a long forgotten feeling, deep in hir body, squeezing hir lungs and pounding on hir stomach. What was ze meant to do now? How could ze console an entire province, keep an entire race stable when ze can’t even predict hir own reaction to an event ze’d already foreseen? 

The Nerevarine followed hir with a watchful eye as ze retreated from the ceremony prematurely, dismissing the Armigers who attempted to follow hir. The crowd of Dunmer now hardly noticed hir absence in their mourning. She felt what ze was feeling, to an extent. Someone inside of her, someone she didn’t know but was a part of her, felt the same sadness; the same longing for a different time. A happier time. 

The Great Temple meant to house the remains of Mother Morrowind and Clockwork God took four months to build, from Rain’s Hand to Last Seed. Located in the heart of Necrom, it was a great temple of lava rock and stone, crafted by the finest materials Morrowind had to offer, guarded by the fiercest Dunmeri warriors. The magister’s of House Telvanni assisted in the construction, as the magic used to build this holy place could only be done by those adept in ancient Dunmeri practices, of course. House Indoril nobles bickered over schematics and design, and even House Hlaalu offered their finest craftsmen for the construction. All the while, Vivec stayed holed in hir chambers for most of this time, only accepting the occasional pilgrim. Ze never dared visit the temporary temple the Tribune’s ashes were being held during the construction. Did ze even dare visit the Great Temple after it’s construction?

Ze did. After a long while, of laying in piles of crumpled up parchment with failed poetry, ze made the trek to Necrom to visit hir friends. The temple was grandeur, far from hir own humble beginnings. The inside was littered with candles and offerings of all sorts; flowers and fruit and clockwork gears and unlit incense. Large, intricate statues of the ALMSIVI reached the ceiling. In the center sat the ash pit of Almalexia, Mother Morrowind, the heart of the Dunmer. To the left, Sotha Sil, and to the right, at Vivec’s request, an empty ashpit, meant for hir. 

“How sad of a sight this is, old friend,” Vivec spoke to Sotha Sil as if he were there, pouring a part of hir bottle of flin in the ash and settling hirself on the stone floor. “We’d spoken of this moment. What the other would have wanted of the temple. You, Ayem,” A memory of a smile ghosted across hir face and ze turned to Almalexia’s statue. “What a handful you are. You sent the Houses in circles trying their best to fulfill your wishes. But you deserve nothing less, my queen.” 

Silence, again. Such a quiet and cold room for them to rest in. Their souls were too bright for this. 

“We spoke of it often,” Ze continued. “However, we never considered that one, but not three, that two, but not all of us would go. What else am I to do now? How am I to look over our people without the other halves of me? I am unwhole.”

Vivec sighed. A sound that carried through the whole temple. A mouse in the corner scurried into its hide. 

“They still love us, they still follow our teachings, but how long will that last? Time changes culture and tradition quickly and you are not here to help me guide it,” Ze whispered the next part quietly. “How long will Ilast?”

Somewhere, in a land unknown by anyone but herself, the Nerevarine woke with a start. An unbearable sadness settled through her and tears welled in her eyes. 

“There is nothing left for me in Morrowind, my dearest friends. I must leave.”

Vivec was standing now, slowly making hir way to the temple door. Hir legs ached and hir eyes were sunken. Ze was sickly. 

“Don’t be mistaken, this is not the end of us. We will not die out to history.”

The Nerevarine held her head in her hands, breathing harsh and fast. 

“The ending of the words is stillALMSIVI.”

Mother Morrowind

Done in Photoshop

ennndris:

Vvardenfell sketches

“Delivering Mail By Cliff Racer, or: How To Make Your Enemies Suffer” by Anonymous

-

I shall make no disclaimer trying to dissuade you. If you have come far enough to obtain this book, I trust there is little anyone could do to deter you. That said, the art of sending letters and packages via cliff racer is a dangerous one to the uninitiated. This book aims to initiate you, and warn you how best to handle the challenges ahead. I recommend you read to the end of this tome, as I shall attach as postscript a list of materials you will need or want in order to accomplish this feat. Note that either sufficient magical prowess or access to adequate scrolls will be absolutely necessary for this task. It is simply impossible without the aid of wizardry.

-

The origins of this spiteful tradition lie in time immemorial, in the first days of the Great Houses, as proud Chimer rose from the ash to the height of glory. Those first days were no less fraught with House warfare than any other. But of course, sometimes you have foes who are of a middling nature, worth not challenge nor writ, but nonetheless repugnant and aggravating. For the worst of these, simple insults would not do. My ancestors (and now yours, dear reader) devised a system of assaulting nemeses with messages delivered by vicious cliff racers. No great masters of the art remain but I, and so I share its practice with you.

I shall say this only once, but it is paramount: You will not be taming a cliff racer. Their rage can be no less assuaged than can yours, dear reader. Your goal is only to direct it towards your enemies.

The first and most crucial step is to acquire a cliff racer suitably placated or subdued. There are many methods. My preference is a spell my mother’s mother devised, that can at range paralyze a target. But, of course, were that the entirety of the process, the racer would simply crash to the ground and perish. The genius of the spell I use is that it also applies a gentle buoyancy effect, allowing the racer’s limp body to gracefully descend to the ground.

Such a spell may be difficult to replicate without the aid of a talented spellwright, so a simpler option may be to cast both effects separately, either by scroll or your own power. Of course, if you are of poor aim, it may be difficult to land the spells upon such a moving aerial target, and ascertaining where the racer might land in the craggy hills they frequent might also be troublesome. Therefore, you may wish to attract its attention so that it shall come closer before you cast. But do not wait until the last minute; while a cliff racer may at first seem to descend leisurely, it can suddenly swoop to attack as it nears its target.

Of note are other alternatives, such as a calming or tranquilizing spell, but it is recommended you avoid both. For us to give the cliff racer its target, it is best it stay awake while subdued. As for using Calm, you would struggle to get the cliff racer to the ground, as it would be no doubt content to stay high in the sky. Furthermore, it is very likely that when you cast Fury to give the racer its target, it might immediately shake off your Calm spell, putting you in grave danger. 

Additionally, the very brave and very magically talented may attempt to do their business in midair, placing a levitation effect on their placating spell, and using their own Rising Force to climb to its place in suspension. This is difficult and magically draining, but no doubt impressive. Be very sure that you properly calculate the timing of both spells, so that neither you nor the racer fall to your deaths. Also be wary of dropping anything.

When you have finally subdued your fierce letter-carrier, you are ready to give it your letters or packages. This is not difficult to do, as there is ample space on the cliff racer’s body where you can tie your items, or glue them with resin. Try to avoid attaching anything to the wings, as it can adversely affect the racer’s ability to fly. 

You may also wish, if you truly despise your recipient, to force the racer to consume your items, preferably in a container resistant to its gizzards and digestive juices, so that they will need to carve into the cliff racer to obtain your message. Your container should be made to glow or make sound even through the racer’s flesh, so as to attract the recipient’s curiosity. The former can be done cheaply enough by slathering the container with the pulp of Luminous Russula mushrooms or Coda Flower blooms. The latter is usually best done magically. When using this method, do be wary that the cliff racer may attempt to regurgitate the items before it reaches its victim. It may, however, vomit your contents at your target’s feet. It is not unprecedented, and also very humorous, that it may vomit your message directly upon your target as it prepares to attack.

The next stage of the process involves assigning our recipient to the cliff racer. The cliff racer’s power of scent is legendary, and were they less cantankerous, they would make excellent trackers. Therefore, you must somehow discretely acquire an item bearing the foul scent of your enemy. This must be introduced to the racer’s nose while you cast another spell, commonly known as “Fury.” While this spell usually makes its target susceptible to attacking any nearby creature or individual, our application of a particular smell will focus the beast’s rage solely upon that smell’s owner. 

Note that while you still possess said odorous artifact, you might easily be identified by the cliff racer’s potent olfactory sense as the source of the smell. It is recommended you douse yourself and the item thoroughly with Telvanni Bug Musk after you finish, but before the cliff racer snaps out of its daze or paralysis. Do not think simply discarding the item will do the trick, as while cliff racers are perceptive, they are not very intelligent, and may simply savagely attack the item instead of your target.

As the final part of your mission, after the payload is armed and aimed, you must do one more thing: run away very quickly, and pray to your preferred saint. It is critical that your spell of Paralyze or Calm must be long enough for you to do what is needed, and then some, so that you can put a great distance between yourself and the cliff racer before the effect wears off. Be wary to also ensure your Fury spell is long enough for the cliff racer to find its target. This depends, of course, on how far it must travel to reach them; as such, long distance deliveries are often impractical due to the inherent cost of such a lengthy spell. But you may be surprised how fast a cliff racer can fly when it is on a specific rampage.

-

P.S. As promised, I shall provide a specific checklist of required materials here:

1. 1 spell of either Calm or Paralysis, at range (and to timing specifications described above)
2. 1 spell of Feather, to carefully land a paralyzed or sedated cliff racer at range
3. 1 spell of Fury, on touch (and to timing specifications described above)
4. 1 article bearing the scent of your target, discretely acquired
5. 1 vial of Telvanni Bug Musk
6. Your message(s) or package(s)
7. Rope or resin to fasten your message or package to the cliff racer
8. 1 wild cliff racer
9. An intense animosity for your target
10. The will to see the task through.

Malacath stands at the almost perfectly circular coast of the crater, and the sea struggles not to become steam. The air smells of sulfur and char, choked with fire and ash from the mountain, shaken to violence. It has been thousands of years since he has been here, but no amount of time could lessen the shock of the change. He stands near the only landmark he can decipher, a twisted, molten mockery of a dragon, once decor to Castle Ebonheart. All the rest of the Ascadian Isles are either obscured by ash and steam, or they are gone. 

As always, many fall, but one remains. She is on her knees by Malacath’s feet, and the blackened stone beneath is covered in discarded faces. She peels each one away, tearing at her features with thirty fingers, trying to remember from behind all the masks how to cry. 

Malacath says nothing for a while, and does Mephala the courtesy of not looking at her. But finally he asks, “What happened?”

Mephala has given up, and every one of her muscles, usually so tightly-strung, hang limp from her bones as she stares blankly at the wreckage. Her lips cannot form the words sharply enough. “The fools. Ruined the machine. Vile admits no fault. I believe him. For once.” Mephala’s loose form slumps over, leaning against Malacath’s legs. “It is always the children who fail. Shortsighted. Stupid.”

Malacath sighs. He places his hand softly on Mephala’s head, the seams red and tender from the tearing. “I know,” he says.

Mephala’s claws suddenly grasp at the flesh of Malacath’s hip, pulling herself up. “I tried! I tried to fix this!” Her crimson eyes stretch themselves so wide, almost to bleeding. “I saw this coming and I should have been able to…” Her nails dig into Malacath. “Blast that damned s’wit! Playing at our games! ‘Hang over their heads’ … ze understood nothing, nothing at all!”

Malacath tries to scrape the black hands off his skin, but they latch on again, desperate. He manages to wrest his leg free and steps back.  “Have you never lost before, Mephala?”

“Of course I have!” Mephala jumps to her feet, her six arms splaying out like a threat display. “More than you or anyone knows! But there is always a plan bedt, a plan cess, a plan doht, through every damn mortal alphabet!” Her hands move as if independent entities, some clutching her head, one gripping her throat, the others wringing the air. “There are failsafes upon failsafes! This does not happen! I do not allow it!”

Malacath says nothing, but turns back to look at the steaming crater.

“Shut up!” Mephala screeches, and launches herself onto Malacath’s head, latching every limb around him and scratching, sending them both to the ground.

Malacath tries to detach her, and shouts to object, but fingers attack his open mouth. He bites them and rolls over onto Mephala, headbutting her into the stone to loosen her grip. The Webspinner spits and kicks but Malacath manages to wedge a hand between them, pinning her to the ground. “Stop!” he yells as Mephala scratches at his wrist. He points with his free hand towards the center of the crater. “Look.”

Mephala glances quickly in that direction, not giving up her assault just yet. But then she whips her head back in a double take. There, in the very center of the bay, shimmering in steam, was the shadow of a figure, standing on some rock that was spared obliteration. 

She screams again and pulls on Malacath’s wrist, swinging him over her head, sending him crashing into the stone behind. And then she crawls like a demon on eight limbs, her rage burning the waters so quickly underfoot that she seems to run on water. Even the steam makes way, clearing a path for her rampage, and whips up an opening around the island, a peak of ash rising from the waters.

And it is Vivec. Ze stands barefoot in the ash, hir head turned to see the Daedra Lord approach. Hir head is bald of flame, and the gold in hir skin is fading grey. If ze is afraid of Mephala in her most horrifying aspect towering over hir, ze does not betray it.

“I came because I felt it,” Vivec said unprompted, turning hir head away from the gasping Prince. “I am sure you know what that is like.” Ze rotates, surveying the rim of the crater. “It was not just a symbol of my body; it was my body. And it has been destroyed.”

“Youdare to come here, after what you have done?” Mephala skitters closer to Vivec’s exposed back in a blink. “To feign innocence? Paint yourself a victim?”

“Oh. This was the High Fane,” Vivec says without answering. Ze picks up one of hir feet and examines the ash clumping between hir toes. “Ground zero, of course.”

“Do not ignore me!” Six black hands reach from behind and spin hir around to face Mephala. Tears streak down hir grave face.

“I cannot,” Vivec says, placing a hand on one of Mephala’s. “I never could. You have always been a part of me. I tried to make you a part of me, in times of weakness, so that I would know the way. But I could never admit it.”

Mephala stares at hir wet face, and at the hand on hers. And then she flips over her hand underneath and crushes hir hand within. Vivec screams and falls to hir knees, clutching hir wrist and hir shattered right hand. 

“You insolent fetcher,” Mephala screams, looking down at hir, “Imadeyou! Did you really think yourself so clever, all this time? That all your successes were anything more than convenient outcomes for me? Inflated like a netch, this whole time.” She grabs hir broken fingers and pulls hir up by them, making hir howl louder, hir tears turned blubbering. “Ever since you and the Sotha had the ‘idea’ to use the tools anyway, despite your oath. I even let you play at this game with the rock in the sky, even after the first time it almost fell. I assumed you would one day deal with it proper.” She throws Vivec back down to the ash. “That was my mistake. Now I make it right.”

Mephala reaches out to grab Vivec by the skull, but a hand grabs her arm from behind. Vivec blinks repeatedly and then stammers, “M…Malacath?”

The Prince ignores hir. “Stop, Mephala.”

Mephala spins around to confront him. “Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I destroy hir? This is vengeance, Malacath.”

“No, it is not.” 

Malacath stares into Vivec’s eyes, which widen as ze understands. “No. Wait. Let her finish it. This is vengeance. This is right.”

“Your masks are usually so foolproof, warrior-poet. But perhaps this one is your last, because it is showing cracks.”

Mephala turns back towards Vivec. “What?”

“The heart may be gone,” Malacath says, stepping forward, “but you know Vivec is not this weak. Ze could easily put up a fight … if ze wanted to.” Mephala begins to understand.

“Shut up, shit prince! Let her - ” 

Hir voice is cut off by a black hand around hir throat. Mephala sniffs around hir. “I see…You don’t ignore your guilt. You reek of it.”

“Just kill me already! I’ll find more ways to ruin them if you don’t. I enjoy it! Every life lost today, I relish it, their pain and misery, all by my hand - ”

The hand tightens, and a smile stretches across Mephala’s face. “You used to be such a good liar, scamp. It’s so sad seeing how desperate you must be…carrying all this mortal pain. Ran out of all the justifications that make it easier on your conscience?”

“Please,” mouths Vivec, hir voice unable to escape hir throat.

“You aren’t a god. And you never really were. All you are is disappointingly…mortal.” Mephala relinquishes hir throat, dropping hir in the ash. “If you want to die so badly, do it yourself. I won’t do it for you.”

Vivec heaves on hir hands and knees. “If you’ll excuse me,” Mephala says, turning to leave, “I have to go take care of cleaning up your mess…and go help my people.” She taps Malacath on the shoulder. “You’ll come help, won’t you dear? Could use the muscle.”

Malacath looks into Mephala’s face and sees it is fresh, a mask whose eyes glisten with plots anew. He nods silently, and she begins to walk across the waters towards the mountain.

Vivec sits on hir knees, weeping quietly, clutching the wrist of hir broken hand. Malacath approaches until he is standing right above hir. But ze does seem to acknowledge his presence.

“‘The one-handed king finds no remedy,’” quotes Malacath. This causes Vivec to lift hir face, hir eyes wide and brow furrowed. “Yes,” answers the Prince, “I read your books. Waste of time.” And then he walks away to follow Mephala.

The researchers were guided to the ruins by a Redoran they had hired, not only for his knowledge of the landscape, but also for protection from the wildlife of Vvardenfell. They were three rather scrawny individuals who had devoted their lives to academia rather than any practical pursuits: Ogash, who despite being an orc was short and frail; Caromascius, a portly imperial whose sagging arm betrayed his innocence with the sword they’d been given as protection (but the grip on his flask of Daggerfall wine betrayed anything but innocence); and Falion, their Aldmeri “friend,” which actually meant “supervisor,” whose mastery of magic was mostly limited to spells of convenience and comfort rather than defense. 

The Redoran’s name was Samhreth. Falion had immediately whispered to his two companions once out of the dunmer’s earshot, “What a horrid dunmeri name.” 

“I’ve heard worse,” said Caromascius, after a swift swig from his flask. “I’m just going to call him Sam. You know, like from Samuel. You elf fellas have ‘Samuel,’ right?”

“No,” Falion said, his voice dripping with the usual contempt, “us ‘elf fellows’ do not use such a hideous half-mer name.” He paused for a moment, then conceded, “But it is preferable to ‘Sanhereth,’ or whatever the savage called himself.”

Ogash did not need bother wonder what Falion and Caromascius thought of his own orcish name. Falion had remarked upon it as soon as they were introduced. Caromascius had feigned sympathy for Ogash, but laughed at Falion’s comment regardless, saying with a pat on the orc’s back, “He’s not wrong, you know.”

Ogash did not know, but had learned long ago to not bother arguing the point.

- - - - -

They had almost arrived at the tunnel entrance supposedly leading to the ancient dwemeri citadel Kherakah. According to the first era maps, it was once located here, in the shadow of Red Mountain, but in the years since the eruption of 1E668 it could not be found. But it was Ogash who suggested that the more recent eruptions of Red Mountain may have revealed a network of old flow tubes in the volcanic stone that could lead to the fabled city. He supported these claims with evidence from recent geological surveys as well as explorations of the subterranean networks by returning dunmer exiled by the Red Year, and took them to the Board of the Imperial Historical Society. It had taken some convincing, supported by his colleague Caromascius, as well as his own slowly developing powers of persuasion, but the Board eventually granted his request to send an exploratory mission to the site.

On one condition: Ogash and Caromascius will be the ones to go, overseen by one of the Society’s Dominion watchdogs.

On the trip from the mainland to Vvardenfell, Caromascius whispered to Ogash between heaving over the side of the ship, that the Board likely thought it a suicide mission. “They’re probably just tired of us - you - asking for all this dwarf nonsense. They expect us to find nothing and die while we’re here.”

“But why send Falion with us?” Ogash tried to look away from Caromascius, himself fairly seasick. “They must have some faith in us, to send us with a Dominion agent.” 

“They probably expect me to die, too,” groaned the altmer from behind them. “I think they want to replace me, anyway. They refuse to admit my value.” He pushed Caromascius out of the way and leaned over the edge of the ship himself. Ogash sat down with his back against the railing and shut his eyes tightly, trying to drown out the commotion of the ship and its crew, as well as the anxiety - and eager anticipation - that grew as they drew closer to Red Mountain on the horizon.

- - - - -

“Here,” growls Samhreth in his ash-choked voice, typical of the dunmer of the island. He points his three charges towards a slightly sunken part of a nearby ashmound. “Wizard. Blow away the ash.”

Falion, obviously miffed at being bossed around, steps forward to cast a spell. He stiffly recites some incantation and gestures with his hand, directing the wind to pick up the intrusive ash and uncover the hole beneath. It works, but then the wind returns to its natural direction, throwing all the ash on Samhreth, Ogash, and Caromascius. Samhreth merely covers his eyes with his forearm, not unfamiliar with ashstorms. Ogash and Caromascius, on the other hand, both had their mouths open, panting from the long journey uphill through the uneven footing of the ashlands. They both set to hacking and coughing. Falion turns back and for a moment almost looks like he might apologize. But he simply says to everyone, “There.”

Once the orc and imperial have mostly evacuated the ash from their throats, they step forward to appraise the unearthed opening. “Looks tight,” Caromascius remarks. He glances down at his rotundity. “I don’t think I could make it.”

“I refuse to crawl through a dirty hole in the ground,” Falion says, covering his face with his ornate Summerset silk scarf.

“Fine,” Samhreth says. He turns to Ogash. “Orc. You will fit. I will lead the way through the tunnels, and you follow.” He reaches into his pack to retrieve something. “Altmer. Human. Come.”

Falion and Caromascius approach Samhreth. “Hold out your hands,” he says, something hidden in his palms. The two comply, but yank back their hands after Samhreth quickly pricks their fingers. 

“‘Talos, Sam!” cries Caromascius. “What in Oblivion was that for?”

Falion casts Caromascius a scathing look. The imperial realizes his mistake and shrugs, smiling meekly. “A joke, of course, I was caught off guard is all.” But Falion has already forgotten in favor of sucking on his bleeding finger.

Samhreth slaps Falion’s hand from his face. “Stop. Need that.” He produces a stack of sixteen scrolls. “This is why I charge so much. Telvanni charge a fortune for these.”

Falion squints his eyes to divine what the daedric on the scrolls implies. But Ogash has already figured it out. “Mark and Recall?” Samhreth nods.

Falion’s face contorts in shock again. “Those magics are outlawed, by the Levitation Act -”

“- by the Mage’s Guild,” Ogash interrupts, “over two hundred years ago. They’re not around to enforce it anymore.”

The Redoran has already begun to stamp scrolls with blood, taking drops from himself and Ogash as well. “There,” Samhreth says after he’s done distributing them appropriately. “We use the first Mark now.” The three oblige, Falion begrudgingly so. 

To Caromascius and Falion, the dunmer continues, “Use the second - not the first - Recall after about ten minutes, once we get inside and use your second Marks. The scroll won’t work at all if we haven’t used the Mark yet, so just try again a few minutes later.” Samhreth gets down to begin crawling inside the tunnel. “We’ll use the first Recall to leave when you are all done. Understood?” The three nod, and Ogash matches Samhreth’s movement, ready to follow him. “Good. See you on the other side.”

- - - - -

The tunnel is dark, but the two manage it well enough, most mer having eyes that adjust well to darkness. Yet another reason Caromascius likely could not have followed, even if he could have fit in the hole to begin with.

After what Ogash feels must have been hours, but knew was only a few minutes, of scraping his knees and elbows on the rough porous rocks that line these veins of the mountain, he sees a faint light peeking from in front of Samhreth, growing as they continue forward. Finally they climb out of a wall into an ancient room.

It is dimly lit by the strange tubes of light the dwemer used for illumination. The walls are carved from stone, banded with brass braces decorated with what Ogash recognized as the dwemeris script. The room hums with the strange steam power of the dwarves, singing from the pipes and machines that litter the room. Not all seem to be functioning, and some pipes look burst, but whatever system they see seems to have been cleverly designed with redundancies and failsafes, keeping parts of the mechanism running even despite these flaws.

As soon as they plant their feet on the plate metal floor, both Ogash and Samhreth set to coughing from the dust kicked up. 

“Worse than the” - cough - “Three-damned” - cough - “ash,” Samhreth says.

Once they compose themselves, Ogash responds, “This dust hasn’t been disturbed in thousands of years - likely not since the dwemer vanished.” He slowly approaches and places a hand on some thrumming floor-to-ceiling machine, before jerking his head back towards Samhreth. “That means there’s no automatons here.”

“That’s a relief,” the dunmer responds, having just finished using Farion and Caromascius’s other Marks and stepping away. “Tell the truth, not sure I could have protected you from a centurion or spider.” He gestures at his sword. “Useless on a metal beast, you know.”

Before Ogash could properly express his dissatisfaction with the comment, Caromascius appeared in the room with a pop. He immediately empties his stomach on the floor.

“Oh, for the love of …” Ogash looks away from the mess but gestures vaguely at Caromascius. “All over everything?”

Caromascius pants as he wipes his mouth. “Wait until it’s your turn. You’ll do the same. Damn teleportation.”

“Wait, where’s Falion?”

“Oh, haha. The idiot.” Caromascius takes a big glug from his flask. “Used the wrong Recall. Just teleported a few feet away.”

“Stupid n’wah. Good thing he didn’t use the other one, then,” Samhreth says. “Would’ve been stuck down here.”

Caromascius comes up for air from another pull of wine and tugs at his shirt. “Just me, Sam, or is it real hot in here?”

“We’re pretty deep in the volcano, Caro,” Ogash says.

“Yeah, I guess.” He wipes some sweat from his forehead. “Well, let’s get this over with. Lead the way, Oggy.”

- - - - - 

After about an hour of exploring, they enter the next room in their exploration, but by the time Ogash reaches up to cover his eyes, it was too late. “Shit.” One of those tubes of dim yellow light was flickering fast and rhythmically, casting the room into darkness and then light over and over again every second. He could feel it in his head, sucking the weight from his bones and placing it all behind his eyes. Even in the darkness behind his eyelids the world spins like a top.

He knows it’s too late, but he tries to run away from it and this damn room anyway. 

“Ogg! Where you going?” Caromascius calls after him.

“Gotta … go,” Ogash says, but his lips feel so soft he’s sure nobody heard him.

He’s out of the room now, so he opens his eyes. But the darkness lingers a moment before evaporating too slowly to the edges of his vision, not quite going completely away. The open-eyed blackness scares him and he screams. He hears the footsteps behind him, the Redoran and Caromascius, he supposes. 

It’s coming and he’s running through this ancient maze of pipes and machines but there’s nothing he can do, and he is afraid. He tries to hold his eyes open as wide as he can, but the darkness is closing in and not stopping. He trips on something he can’t see, and on his way down he catches a glimpse of something coming alive in the corner. But then his head hits the floor with a thunk and he is gone.

- - - - -

He opens his eyes and he sees a corpse.

He stares, unknowing, for a moment. But then he becomes Someone again, and he recoils from the sight. It is Samhreth, covered in blood, his sword in his hand, useless in the end.

He sits up and backs away from the body. Every muscle in his body screams to him but he is too shocked to listen. His chest rises and falls erratically, and a forbidden thought reminds him that breathing is a luxury not afforded to all, and he wishes he didn’t have it.

He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches his head. He feels warm wetness and pulls his hand down to peek. It is shiny with blood, blood like Samhreth’s, but his own. He gently probes his own head and finds the wound near the back. His eyes accidentally catch the small patch of blood on the metal floor near where he woke, and he begins to remember.

Ogash’s body groans with pain, and forces his throat to do the same. But the moan becomes a whimper as his eyes catch a glimpse of Samhreth again. Suddenly he can barely see again and almost panics before realizing it is not the blackness - it is tears. 

Then he hears the clacking of metal on metal in a six-footed gait and covers his mouth, smearing blood on his face. The tears roll down his cheeks and mingle with the blood as he tries so hard to still his breathing, even his heartbeat. The bloodstained brass spider strolls through the room, neatly stepping over Samhreth’s corpse, and moving on without noticing Ogash.

When he feels safe, he finally inhales a broken sob. He weeps for a moment, his entire body shaking, before the ache suffusing his bones brings him back to his mind. 

Why didn’t it kill me earlier, when it killed Samhreth? he thinks. The only answer he can come up with is that it didn’t see a need to kill such a frail thing convulsing on the floor.

It was the best answer he could come up with, so his mind shifted to the task at hand. I need to get out of here. He forces himself to crawl over to Samhreth and search for the Recall scrolls. He tries to not look at the killing wounds, but he sees them anyway and nearly loses his fortitude again. 

He finds the scrolls, but they are soaked in blood. Unusable. Useless, just like that sword. 

He didn’t fancy his odds trying to find his way back through the tunnels by himself. Without the scroll, he was trapped here, with that murderous mechanical spider. He collapses over top of the dead dunmer, sobbing.

Then he remembers: Caromascius. Where is he?

Ogash pushes himself away from Samhreth and tries to stand. He almost falls over in his first attempt, but manages to rise to his feet, despite his sore, shaky legs. He starts to shamble towards the door opposite where the spider went, which he recognizes now as the way he came in during his mad dash to escape his seizure. Caromascius has to be that way. Maybe he made it out.

(Ogash wanted to believe that was possible, but he knew it couldn’t be.)

He slowly makes his way from chamber to chamber, clutching his throbbing head, and wanting to clutch his entire body to make the extensive pain go away. On the bright side, his head has finally finished clearing up. On the dark side, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Caromascius.

He is lying there, his head propped up against the wall, his hands clamped over his stomach. Ogash thinks he is dead, but as he approaches Caromascius opens his eyes. “Ogash,” he sputters, “you’re … alive. How? Where is …” He goes into a coughing fit. Ogash kneels down next to his friend. “The elf?”

Ogash tries to speak but his throat is tight and dry, his tongue fluttering in vain. Instead he just shakes his head at Caromascius.

“I … told you. Suicide … mission.” He smiles faintly, but blood drips from his lips and sets him to coughing again. 

Ogash shuts his eyes for a moment. He massages his throat as he tries to speak. “Pack?” he rasps.

“What?” Caromascius manages to get the word out before continuing to cough. He answers by shifting his eyes to his left. Ogash looks in that direction and spots it, unbloodied, sitting next to the sword Caromascius had brought with them. He crawls towards it and rummages through it. All the notes and recovered dwemer documents are here, right where they should be. 

Caromascius says, “We didn’t bring any … potions. Remember?”

Ogash looks back to Caromascius. “Yes. I know.” He stands, his weakened body buckling under the weight of the bag. In one hand he grasps a scroll. In the other, the sword.

“Oggy?” Caromascius says, his eyes closed. “The scrolls. Falion could … maybe heal us.”

Ogash stands over Caromascius. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You couldn’t have made it.”

The imperial opens his eyes and only sees the sword as it slides into his throat. His hands reach up, grasping for air, letting blood from his stomach gush up. He convulses for a minute before falling still, his eyes empty.

- - - - -

Ogash returns to the surface with a pop, his knees and stomach giving out, the latter emptying into the ash. Whether it was because of the seizure, a reaction to the gore he had seen, or simply from teleporting, he did not know, or think important to know.

“Ogash! Ogash?” It occurred to Ogash, once he finished, that Falion must have been speaking to him the entire time. “What happened? You’re covered in blood! Where’s Caromascius and the dunmer?”

“Dead,” Ogash says after wiping his mouth. “Automaton killed them. I barely got out with my life.”

“By Auri-el’s beard …” Falion tentatively reaches out to Ogash to help him up, but Ogash waves him off. 

“Just. Give me a minute.” He tries to erase the sight of Samhreth’s body and all of Caromascius’ blood from his mind, but he can’t make it go away.

Eventually Ogash lets Falion carry the pack as they make their way in the direction of the closest settlement. Falion even has the decency to not ask too many prying questions about what happened under the mountain.

Ogash knows he will have to explain everything to the Board once they get back to the Imperial City. But he will have time to come up with the story while they travel home. 

The sailing from Vvardenfell to the mainland is so quiet. Despite himself, Ogash appreciates it.

Ku-vastei wearily steps inside from the rain, slamming the round metal door behind her. She begins to wring out her robes, swearing to every god and saint she knows under her breath.

A heavily-armored man draws his sword and points it towards her. “What are you doing here, slave?”

Too tired to speak, Ku simply glares at the cyrod as she continues to dry herself off.

“How did you get up here?” pursues the warrior, stepping closer. “These are Master Aryon’s private -”

Before he can take another step, a daedric spearpoint materializes in xanthous light at his throat, freezing him in place. “Come no closer, n’wah,” Ku declares, her tired voice deep and rumbling, “if you value your neck.” 

“Turedas? What’s all this commotion about?” calls a silvery voice from upstairs. A dunmer descends the spiral staircase, hiking up his robe so he doesn’t trip. He spies Ku-vastei with her conjured weapon pressed against his bodyguard’s gorget and his face lights up. “Ah, Turedas, settle down. This is the guest I told you to expect.”

The cyrod carefully sheathes his weapon, and Ku follows suit, the spear dissipating into tiny flecks of yellow floating to the ceiling and beyond. “I did not expect you meant to meet with a slave, Councilor,” says Turedas, his eyes still carefully trained on Ku.

“She is no slave of mine or anyone else,” replies Master Aryon, patting the warrior on the back. Ku-vastei notices he lacks the coarse Vvardenfell accent. “She is like Smokeskin-killer, a free argonian. We do not keep slaves in Tel Vos.” He smiles at Ku-vastei. “My apologies for the confusion. My man here once worked at the slave market in Sadrith Mora. Despite his Cyrodiilic origins, his heart was hardened to the abuses there.”

Ku-vastei grunts and goes back to wringing out her robes. “No, no,” interjects Aryon, taking a careless step closer. “Here. Allow me. You’ll feel warmer for a moment.”

Ku narrows her eyes but allows him. With a wave of his hand, vaporous orange light encircles her, pulling the moisture from her clothing and suffusing her body with a pleasant warmth. Her tail pulls itself taut with a cozy shiver. “Thank you,” she offers in return.

“Think nothing of it, muthsera. Come upstairs with me, I was just about to sit down for dinner.” He waves her towards the stairs with a practiced bow and flourish of his hands. “Turedas, if you would, please mop up the entryway.”

Turedas groans but nods in deference to his master. Ku follows Aryon up the fungal stairs, her tail “accidentally” slapping Turedas on her way past. As they climb, she begs the question, “See, you know what stairs are. No levitation necessary to go from one floor to the other. Then why do you require it to access this tower at all?”

“It is a longstanding tradition of the Telvanni,” answers Master Aryon. “We are a House steeped in wizardry, of course. So to reach our finest, you must prove yourself capable of such an essential spell, or at least resourceful enough to buy or brew a potion. This way it is impossible for lesser men to waste our often valuable time.” He pauses, then adds, “…Or so the tradition goes.”

“So you hesitate before tradition?” Ku observes.

“In its most outdated forms, yes.”

“Yet you keep the common folk of Vos a mile away from you. Very faithful adherence.”

The magister turns to look at Ku-vastei for a moment, then smiles. “…Some traditions die harder than others. Some must be followed so that others may be changed. It is a sacrifice. You are very observant, Ku-vastei, and that shall do you well in House Telvanni.”

They arrive at the second floor of the fungiform tower, where a table ladened with food awaits. “Be my honored guest, muthsera, and have a seat,” Master Aryon proclaims, throwing his arms wide with entreaty.

As Ku-vastei sets aside her pack and cautiously tucks her tail to sit at the table, she admires with salivating tongue the grand feast laid out before her: gleaming slaughterfish sashimi with an inky dipping sauce; an entire leg of mudcrab, plump and stuffed with golden meat; perfectly molded saltrice balls, neatly tucked into hackle-lo leaves; a bowl of bright blue roasted dovah-flies; and a large cup of mulled shein, steaming with an intoxicating aroma. She lifts it to her nose with both hands, inhaling deeply. The weather must have clogged her sinuses, because the blast of spices clears them right back out, like a fire removing a colony of its congestive kwama.

“Feel free to help yourself,” Aryon says, taking his own seat and separating his corkbulb chopsticks. “I prepared enough for the both of us.”

Ku takes a mighty swig of the shein before setting it back down. She forgoes her own pair of chopsticks and begins popping dovah-flies into her mouth with gusto, each one carefully pinched between her claws. Aryon watches attentively as he slowly dips a piece of sashimi into the black sauce.

“You knew -” Ku says between bite-swallows, “- that I would be coming.”

Aryon ignores this observation, instead making one of his own. “You approach this meal with proud carelessness. Who is to say I haven’t poisoned the dovah-flies?”

Ku laughs, picking up the massive crab leg. “A man of your status should know we argonians are immune to the poisons of men and mer.”

“Yes,” Aryon replies with a chuckle of his own. “Of men and mer, yes. But I know of at least three brewed in the dark depths of your homeland that are immune to your immunity.”

The leg cracks open violently, mudcrab meat scattering across the table. 

“But you needn’t worry,” entreats Aryon. He moves his chopsticks in a single calculated motion to pick up a dovah-fly and pops it into his mouth, savoring the crunch before continuing. “Such poisons have no antidotes. We are here as allies, Ku-vastei. We serve the same purpose. In serving me, you serve yourself.” He pauses to fish a piece of misplaced crab meat out of the murky depths of the sauce. “My Mouth told me you were coming.” He taps on a lavender-stoned ring on his finger as he chews.

“…Telepathic ring?” Ku asks, her pupils dilating slightly as she examines it. She gently takes a saltrice ball and nibbles on it, a bit more cautiously now, despite Aryon’s assurances.

“Close,” Aryon says after swallowing. “Teleportation. I prefer to meet face to face. I had Galos take the long way back to Sadrith Mora.” He rolls the ring under his fingers across the table towards Ku-vastei. “This is yours now, as I’m making you my new Mouth.”

“I’m not standing around in Sadrith Mora all day.” Ku’s hunger gets the best of her, and she finishes off the ball quickly. But the words have an effect - she takes her own pair of chopsticks and awkwardly fiddles with them to pick up a piece of sashimi. She does not touch the ring just yet.

Aryon laughs. “No, no, I won’t expect that of you. Galos will still take care of the minor clerical duties of the position.” He watches Ku’s attempts with a frown. “Look. See how I hold them? Like this,” he says, rotating his hand towards Ku-vastei. He deftly picks up a dovah-fly and pops it into his mouth.

Ku adjusts her grip and tries to pick up a dovah-fly herself. She manages to lift it a few inches from the bowl before twisting it out of the sticks, sending it rolling off the table. “Xuth,” she exclaims under her breath.

“Much better. You’re a quick learner.” He sets down his chopsticks and leans back in his chair. “I suppose they didn’t teach you proper etiquette at the Savethi Plantation, did they?”

Ku-vastei’s nostrils flare slightly. “You’re very well researched,” she remarks, biding her temper.

“Yes,” Master Aryon says. “I’m well aware of your past prior to arriving on Vvardenfell. Your role in the Arnesian War is particularly impressive. You’re quite the impactful character, Ku-vastei.”

“What’s your point?” Ku lays down her own chopsticks.

“You know, unlike most of my fellows in the House, I’m quite sympathetic to your plight, and that of your people.”

Ku presses a palm firmly on the surface of the table. “You know nothing of ‘our plight,’ n’wah. You live just the same privileged life as the rest of you house-folk.”

Aryon clears his throat and leans in. “I may not have ever been a slave, Ku-vastei, but I am fond of progress. The business of slavery is an ancient tradition, and ancient traditions must be abolished for a new society to blossom. Are you familiar with the teachings of Vivec?”

“No,” Ku-vastei lies. She’s read some of his sermons, but admitting familiarity feels treacherous.

“Ah, nevermind then. But as I said, in order for our society to flourish, it must be destroyed and made anew. This goes especially for our Great House Telvanni. You will find me just as progressive as the staunchest abolitionist.”

He lifts his cup of shein to his nose, inhaling the aroma of the spices. “I’m aware how your name translates from Jel to Aldmeris. ‘Catalyst for necessary change.’ It served you well in rebellion, and I think it can serve us well here. Working with me, you can once again be that catalyst, and forever change the face of Great House Telvanni.” With his offer pitched, he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of the wine.

Ku-vastei mulls it over for a bit. In order to advance within the house, it seems she has little choice. And perhaps he truly will end up a valuable ally. She picks up the ring and inspects it briefly before sliding it onto her middle finger. The magical ring glows in reaction to its new wearer, expanding and tightening to fit comfortably. “One condition,” she says. “Build some damn stairs to this place.”

“Well,” Aryon interjects, “with the ring, you won’t need-”

“I don’t care. Build some stairs.”

Aryon narrows his eyes briefly but smiles. He extends his hand over the feast. “Deal.”

Ku takes his soft hand and shakes it firmly, saying nothing. 

-

After feasting further and conversing about House politics and magical theory, Ku-vastei makes ready to leave. On her way out she meets Turedas again. 

“Good evening, sera,” he says, hissing the honorific.

“I’m Master Aryon’s Mouth now, n’wah.”

The color falls from the cyrod’s face. “Yes, serjo. Of course.”

Ku-vastei turns swiftly towards the door, slapping Turedas with her tail again as she does, before quickly marching out into the clear night.