timeskip - THE SKY FORGE2024-03-29T10:59:13Zhttps://TheSkyForge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/feed/tag/timeskipA c0da to Live By, Part 2 (Daria in Morrowind, Episode 32.5 [Finale])https://TheSkyForge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/a-c0da-to-live-by-part-2-daria-in-morrowind-episode-32-5-finale2021-05-17T20:07:08.000Z2021-05-17T20:07:08.000ZWellTemperedClavierhttps://TheSkyForge.ning.com/members/WellTemperedClavier<div><p><img class="align-full" src="{{#staticFileLink}}8939629884,RESIZE_710x{{/staticFileLink}}" alt="8939629884?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="710" /></p><p><strong>Ashkhan Tedannupal (and Briltasi Vadras, nee Talori)</strong></p><p><strong>22<sup>nd</sup> of Second Seed, 4E 103 – Balmora, Morrowind, Great House Sadras</strong></p><p>Loose ash swirled around Tedannupal, Ashkhan of the Odaishannabab, as he and his entourage rode their beetles down to Balmora. At his right, Shunaibal, who wrestled nix hounds to the ground. At his left, Bannuzashinar, whose spears plucked musk flies out of the air.</p><p>The new town did not look much like the old. Or, more properly, it did look like the much older town from the days of Tedannupal’s father and grandfather and great-grandfather: a rude collection of adobe huts and a ramshackle temple atop a hill and surrounded by a low adobe wall.</p><p>The vivid and alien metropolis of Tedannupal’s youth, with its faces and voices and goods from all over the world, was buried under the ash. Part of him regretted not spending more time there, but doing so would have probably made him soft.</p><p>He’d heard that Daria had left before Red Year, and that put him at ease.</p><p>A few townsfolk greeted them as they rode in, tones respectful but not fearful. Balmora and the Odaishannabab had common cause so long as beasts, and Mer with the hearts of beasts, still threatened. Tedannupal’s men protected the farms, and in return, they received weapons, tools, and extra food.</p><p>Tedannupal had gotten the idea for the arrangement from an old outlander book he’d retrieved from the city’s ruins. It was called “mutualism”, and struck him as worth exploring. And it had been.</p><p>But he didn’t know for how much longer. Fresh green shoots now poked their way up out of the ash. The town grew a bit bigger every few years. Monsters no longer roamed as much, and Great House Sadras ran a small office near the temple.</p><p>Sooner or later, Sadras would send in more guards, which meant less work for the Odaishannabab. He knew that Ashlanders would never win against the House Dunmer, not in the long run.</p><p>Tedannupal revered his ancestors, but he also understood that they’d made errors. He’d honor them by learning from their mistakes.</p><p>He chatted a bit with the townsfolk, asked about the things they concerned themselves with, and he’d read enough to at least sort of understand crop yields and the strange interpersonal interactions that arose when too many Dunmer were locked into too small a place for much too long. It was fascinating from a… either a psychological or sociological perspective. He wasn’t quite sure which term applied.</p><p>Finally, he reached the shabby little temple in the center of town. Someone had told him it used to be called the Hlaalu Council Manor, but no one had spoken of the Hlaalu in many decades.</p><p>His daughter, Yansurnabba, waited at the front. With her was Menezcherib, Shunaibal’s son and fellow student. He’d been sent to protect little Yan, since the House Dunmer did not always welcome Ashlanders. But Yansurnabba never reported any trouble.</p><p>“Daughter of Odaishannabab!” he greeted in the formal way (like he always did in front of townsfolk, since that’s what they expected), though he smiled to let her know how happy he was to see her. He rode closer, so his weakening eyes could get a better look. By the ancestors, how she’d grown over the past three months!</p><p>“Honored father,” she said, knowing the script.</p><p>“Have you learned much from the temple school?”</p><p>“I have honored my elders and heeded their words. And I asked a lot of questions, as you told me to.” She then reached into her bag and took out a book’s worth of notes, and Tedannupal’s heart soared. He’d learn so much from her!</p><p>“Good! I’m sure you’ll have much to teach us back at camp.”</p><p>He wanted to run out and hug her, lift her up and put her on the back of his mount. But not with the townsfolk watching. So he rode closer to her and let her mount up on her own. Nearby, Shunaibal did the same with his son.</p><p>“See you in the fall, Yansurnabba!” called out a voice from the temple doorway.</p><p>It was Briltasi, one of his daughter’s teachers, standing there and waving. The second of the two teachers at the school was stern like he’d expected, but Briltasi almost seemed like a girl herself and he worried she’d be too easy on his daughter. Because Yansurnabba and Menezcherib needed to learn, because the towns would grow bigger, and herding would get harder.</p><p>The Odaishannabab could either prepare and adapt, or again be left behind to dwindle. Both were types of death. But as a wise Redguard (or Imperial?) had once written, death was not an ending, it was only a change.</p><p>They waved to Briltasi before riding off, Yansurnabba promising to come back. Tedannupal would make sure of it.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Jeval</strong></p><p><strong>17<sup>th</sup> of Sun’s Height, 4E 119 – the western Topal Sea, Pelletine, the Third Aldmeri Dominion</strong></p><p> It was one of those summer days where it felt like the whole ocean had turned into steam. Drenched in sweat as he stood at the prow of <em>The Fashion Club</em>, Jeval looked out across the warm waters of the Topal Sea, not able to shake the sensation that something watched him.</p><p>He raised his spyglass to his eye and confirmed his suspicion. In the distance but getting nearer, propelled by magic that pushed it against the day’s paltry winds, came an Aldmeri interdiction vessel with its membranous sails spread wide like the wings of an insect.</p><p>“Crap,” he said. He looked over to his first mate, Treads-on-Ferns, who’d already heard his utterance.</p><p>“I had a feeling this would happen,” Treads said. “I’ll go prep.”</p><p>Treads ran down to the hold while Jeval gathered the crew. A good bunch, mostly Imperials and Orcs. Jeval had their backs, so they had his.</p><p>“The Aldmeri are on their way, and they’ll inspect us. Follow your orders, let Treads do his magic, and we’ll all be getting drinks in Leyawiin in a few days.”</p><p>He hoped. But they’d known the risks coming aboard. No point in second-guessing now.</p><p>The Aldmeri vessel soon ran alongside <em>The Fashion Club</em>, gleaming in red and gold, the hull gliding a little too smoothly over the water. Jeval got ready to play the part of the Simple Bosmer, too dumb to be any kind of danger and only wanting an Altmer to pat him on the head for being a good little tribesman. He <em>hated </em>it.</p><p>Black-clad Thalmor agents stood at the railing, their golden skins smooth and without so much as a bead of sweat. Had to be illusion magic. He’d known plenty of regular Altmer, and they sweat like anyone else.</p><p>“Trading vessel will submit to inspection!” one of the Thalmor declared, in a shrill voice that stabbed into Jeval’s ears.</p><p>“Please, honored ones,” Jeval said, bending to one knee. “My ship is yours.”</p><p>Shimmering strands extended from its hull and attached themselves like suckers to <em>The Fashion Club’s </em>deck. Agents ran single file down the strands and soon crowded the deck. The crew all fell to their knees as they’d been instructed to, hands behind their heads. Treads was there too, already done with his cover-up work.</p><p>“I wanted to say, you guys are amazing,” Jeval said, his eyes still reverently on the plain floor. “What you’ve done with the Aldmeri Dominion. It's truly our greatest hope.”</p><p>“You say that, yet your vessel is registered with the Empire.”</p><p>Jeval cringed, as if ashamed. “Forgive me, sir. But I must feed my family.”</p><p>The Thalmor snorted. “Hunger is a small price to pay for purity. We shall search the hold,” he said, gesturing to a trio of agents, who nodded and wrenched open the cargo door.</p><p>Jeval licked his lips. Showtime, he thought, and hoped Treads’s magic worked. It should, unless the Thalmor had one of those math wizards with them. Mirror logicians, Treads called them, but they were basically math wizards. Those guys were usually too important to inspect random ships.</p><p>Still kneeling, his neck blistering under the sun, Jeval waited. Minutes passed. What was taking so long? The Thalmor used magic to scan cargo holds, which shouldn’t take more than a few seconds.</p><p>Unless they found something.</p><p>If they did, he’d blow the whistle hanging from a twine cord around his neck, giving the signal for his men to take out their knives and go down fighting. Better to die on deck than fall into Thalmor hands alive. The Thalmor never killed their captives quickly.</p><p>“No contraband is present!” came a thin voice.</p><p>Jeval let himself look up at the agent, whose eyes seethed like liquid gold.</p><p>“I’m always honored to be of assistance, sir.”</p><p>“Continue on your way,” the agent ordered.</p><p>No one relaxed until the Aldmeri ship was well out of sight. Jeval clambered down below decks to check on his cargo as evening swept across the sea.</p><p>Treads had let them out of the hiding spaces beneath floorboards inscribed with enchantments of warding, and they stood or sat among the legitimate cargo. Two-dozen dissidents: mostly Khajiit and Bosmer, with a few Altmer among them, all seeking sanctuary in the Empire.</p><p>“You guys did good,” he said. “We'll be in Empire waters by tomorrow morning, so we don’t have to worry much longer.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said an Altmer woman, whose hair shone like silver in the candlelight. “We owe you—”</p><p>“You’ve already been paid for. You don’t owe me any further. Siit tight and stay below decks until I give you the all-clear.”</p><p>Back up on deck, he leaned over the starboard rail and looked out across the endless waters. The planks beneath his feet shifted slightly, and he sensed Treads’s presence.</p><p>“Looks like we did our good deed for the day,” Jeval said.</p><p>“Seems so," Treads said. "Don’t know how much longer we can get away with it. I have to tell you: these voyages aren’t as easy as they used to be.”</p><p>Argonians lived longer than humans but not as long as Mer. Treads was getting old. Sometimes he talked about spending more time helping his daughter run the little teashop he’d founded a century ago. Jeval didn’t want to get in the way of that. Treads had earned some peace.</p><p>“You don’t have to stay. You’ve already given more than most. And you taught me a ton,” Jeval said.</p><p>Treads had spent decades smuggling Argonians from dissident tribes out of Black Marsh by canoe, by worm, and by foot. He’d said it wasn’t too hard to apply some of the same principles to seagoing vessels.</p><p>Treads nodded. “You can still get people to help. I know a few who can do what I do. Not as well, of course, but better than nothing.”</p><p>“Great. But <em>The Fashion Club</em> just won’t be what it is without you,” Jeval said. “Both now, and back in Balmora.”</p><p>Treads chuckled. “Hey, remember when we first planned this? And you said we should name the ship after Quinn?”</p><p>Jeval blushed. “Dude, that was the rice wine talking.”</p><p>Treads gave that croaking laugh that always made Jeval feel like everything would work out. “I don't know, you sounded pretty serious. Maybe your wife should know about this.”</p><p>Jeval laughed. “Some bro you are!”</p><p>“My silence can always be bought,” Treads said with a shrug.</p><p>“Then I guess drinks are on me when we get back,” Jeval said.</p><p>They looked out onto the moonlit sea for a few moments.</p><p>“Quinn was pretty amazing, though,” Treads-on-Ferns said.</p><p>Jeval nodded. “She was.”</p><p>He sadly wondered how many people still remembered her.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Satheri Lowendral, nee Roweni</strong></p><p><strong>20<sup>th</sup> of Last Seed, 4E 174 – outside the Imperial City, Cyrodiil Province, the Third Empire (under Aldmeri occupation)</strong></p><p> It wasn’t the first time Satheri had fled.</p><p>She’d done it when the Argonians came, their spears sharp and their teeth bloody. She’d gotten lucky, she knew: ALMSIVI—or rather, the Divines—had helped her and her son find their way to Cyrodiil. Her husband hadn’t been lucky.</p><p>Now, she did it again in the opposite direction as smoke filled the sky and the greatest city in the world burned to ash.</p><p>“Uravan,” she said to her grandson, only seven years old, “we’ll be in Cephoriad soon, okay? Your mom and dad are there. And they’ll be so happy to see us!”</p><p>Uravan had been so brave. He’d barely made a fuss when Satheri took him by the hand, through back streets and catacombs and canals, to the far shores of Lake Rumare. He’d been silent when they hid beneath ferns and palm leaves, the shining Aldmeri warriors marching past, as cruel as the An-Xileel but for far less reason.</p><p>“I’m tired,” Uravan whimpered.</p><p>“I know, sweetie,” Satheri said, with a catch in her voice.</p><p>Satheri wanted to cry. She wanted to hide back in her room and hug the picture of her late husband like she usually did when things got scary. To think of happy things: baby guars and bright flowers and the day she’d gotten married to the most wonderful man who’d ever lived and the ten perfect years they’d spent together...</p><p>But Uravan needed her.</p><p>Satheri thought back to Muthsera Morgendorffer. She’d marched through the Balmora Tax Revolt as if it were nothing, like Tiber Septim but as a girl with (probably) better fashion sense. She’d made it seem almost fun, like they’d have a great time once they got somewhere safe, they only had to march a little farther. That made it seem less scary.</p><p>“You’ll get to see a bunch of legion soldiers in Cephoriad,” she said. “I heard that the emperor moved there to strike back. All those Aldmeri going into the Imperial City? They’re only trapping themselves.”</p><p>She didn’t know this. She’d heard some rumors, sure, but she didn’t <em>know</em>. Satheri only needed to keep Uravan believing for a little bit longer.</p><p>“Maybe I can join them,” Uravan said.</p><p>The words pierced her heart, and she started to tear up. No, no, no, she’d already given up too much to war, she couldn’t give up Uravan, too. But she smiled, and swallowed the tears.</p><p>“You’re too young right now. But I’ll bet they’ll be impressed when they found out you escaped the city and marched through the jungle. They might make you an officer when you, uh, get older!”</p><p>Don’t make him an officer, she prayed. Keep him safe. But she knew what he wanted to hear, and if that kept him walking and breathing a few more days…</p><p>Uravan’s expression turned serious, and he nodded. “Okay.”</p><p>Satheri drew herself up, trying to be as much like Muthsera Morgendorffer as she could. Like she was a queen, and the whole world was going to do her bidding, but just didn’t know it yet.</p><p>“Let’s pretend I’m your commanding officer. Trooper Uravan!”</p><p>He saluted with a wavering little hand, and the sight of that hurt Satheri in ways she’d never been hurt before, but she didn’t show it. She acted like an officer. Impressed, but not too impressed.</p><p>“We’re on a mission to, uh, reinforce our boys in Cephoriad. Once we do, we’ll prepare to retake the Imperial City!”</p><p>She barked out each word like some mean drill sergeant and hated how much he loved it.</p><p>“I can’t wait, sir!” Uravan bellowed.</p><p>Please, please don’t let the Aldmeri hear our loud voices. “We need to be sneaky though,” Satheri said, in a whisper. “Tactical stealth. The enemy is everywhere, but we’re smarter than them.”</p><p>She imagined Muthsera Morgendorffer saying that, and for a moment, she believed it.</p><p>“Yes sir!” Uravan responded, still in a whisper.</p><p>“Follow my lead, trooper!”</p><p>They marched through the soft and leafy canopy tunnel of the Blue Road, the ruins of the Empire behind them and all the monsters and spirits of the Serican Jungle ahead. Satheri walked with fear in her heart but certainty on her face as she pretended like she knew what she was doing.</p><p>They marched together through darkness and rain and steam. Until at last they found soldiers of all races in battered legion armor, who took them in and brought them to safety.</p><p>Satheri hugged Uravan, and told him what a good soldier he’d been, and prayed to Mara and all the Divines that he’d never actually <em>be</em> one.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Link</strong></p><p><strong>7<sup>th</sup> of Rain’s Hand, 4E 179 – [REDACTED], Summerset Isle, the Aldmeri Dominion</strong></p><p> </p><p>Amidst the endless halls of varicolored glass and crystal, in a place where the light never dimmed, Link labored alone.</p><p>Seated at his desk, surrounded by arcane charts and graphs, he put the finishing touches on his work. Ink swirled beneath the twisting movements of his thin fingers, coalescing on paper into equations of perfect simplicity.</p><p>“It is time, hulkynd,” the magistrate said.</p><p>Link didn’t know the magistrate’s name. He knew only that a black mask covered her face, so that she would not have to see a hulkynd—a deformed Altmer—like him. Her lowborn black-clad guards did not possess the same privilege. They had no choice but to see him, and their golden eyes roiled with fear and disgust.</p><p>He relished that sight.</p><p>“Of course, your grace,” he said, bending down on one knee as he handed his latest collection of weaponized mathematics to the guard.</p><p>“Remember, Link,” the magistrate said, “the Dominion has use for all. Our campaign has only now begun, and there is much work to be done.”</p><p>The guards guided her away, leaving Link alone in his rainbow-hued prison.</p><p>The Aldmeri Dominion was not that different from Great House Telvanni. Yes, they guised their machinations under the ideal of perfection, but they were as venal as the wizard lords Link had once served. Johanna had not survived the machinations of her peers, which grew somehow more vicious after Red Year, but he’d learned from her mistakes.</p><p>In the end, only power mattered.</p><p>As a hulkynd, as a slave, he had little. But as an expert, he had so very much. Even the finest mirror logicians acknowledged the perfection of his equations, the elegance with which he analyzed the world. Surely with formulae like these, the Dominion could soon end the Empire.</p><p>Except for one little detail. Link had learned a trick from Johanna, one unknown to his masters. How, with a few clever spells, the numbers he wrote would change: ones transformed into twos or zeroes, decimal points moved to the right or the left. But the alterations wouldn’t happen until later, well after his work had been approved.</p><p>They’d only change under the eyes of the soldiers and engineers who’d use the now-altered formulae. In so doing, the armies and fleets of the Dominion would cripple their own magicks and vessels.</p><p>The resistance against the Dominion knew of Link. Occasionally, they even communicated with him. But he only worked as a silent partner. He cared little for their campaign.</p><p>Sooner or later, the Dominion would catch him. When they did, he would smile as they shrieked their hatred, as they wept for the plans undone by a wretch like him.</p><p>Perhaps the resistance would save him. More likely, they would not. Either way, the Dominion would finally understand the foolishness of their pride.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Trent Llayn</strong></p><p><strong>9<sup>th</sup> of Rain’s Hand, 4E 180 – Skaal Village, Morrowind (Solstheim Special Region), Great House Redoran</strong></p><p>Trent had been in a few mead halls and great halls before, but the one in Skaal Village had a different vibe. Not messy and booze-soaked, but bright and clean. Kind of folksy.</p><p>He thought it was pretty cool.</p><p>Sitting next to the big fireplace, its light dancing on her wrinkled face and making her white hair brighter, Lundra Winter’s Voice eyed Trent like she didn’t totally trust him. Trent didn’t blame her. Dunmer—outsiders in general—didn’t usually mean good news for the Skaal, who looked like Nords but were their own people. Their own people on a very small island.</p><p>A few of the other Skaal sat nearby, making candles and carving bones. They pretended like they weren’t watching him, but he knew they were. He was okay with that, though.</p><p>“You don’t have to sing it, Lundra,” Trent said.</p><p>Lundra frowned. “It is not merely a song. It’s a hymn to the All-Maker. The whole world is his temple, but it may only be sung here in Solstheim.”</p><p>Trent raised his hand. “I’m not here to steal your songs. Heh, you’ve heard me sing. I don’t have the pipes to pull off your guys’ songs anyway.”</p><p>“I still do not understand why you want to hear.”</p><p>Trent scratched his head. “I guess it is kind of weird. I’m working for some, uh, smart guys down in the Imperial City. What’s left of it, anyway. Sages, I guess you could call them. A lot of music is disappearing. Like all the kings and big chiefs want things sung their way. We want to keep a lot of the older music so it won’t be forgotten. If we write it down, at least people can get an idea of what you sound like, even if they can’t hear you.”</p><p>Lundra didn’t say anything, getting it all figured out. Finally, she shook her head.</p><p>“No. I’m sorry. This song is only for the All-Maker. If my people’s song is forgotten, then so be it.”</p><p>Trent nodded. “That’s okay. I respect that.”</p><p>And in a way, he was kind of glad she hadn’t sung it, though he wanted to hear it. Something kind of cool about sticking to your convictions like that.</p><p>“We have many other songs, though. Songs for hearth and hunt,” she said. “Those I will sing for you.”</p><p>“That sounds very cool.”</p><p>She opened her lips and pure music came out, clear and bright as a bell. Trent put his hands down on the big bearskin rug and closed his eyes, letting this old woman’s song take him. Didn’t sound like a Nord song at all, completely its own thing.</p><p>Trent’s life hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. But working for a bunch of university geeks wasn’t bad. The job didn’t pay great, but Janey still had a lot of money and she liked what he was doing, so she helped him out when he needed.</p><p>The world had so many songs. Each year, it felt like a few more of them disappeared. Sort of like how the world kept getting smaller and more controlled. Used to be you could just be you. Now, you had to be whatever an Empire or a Dominion or an An-Xileel told you to be.</p><p>But sitting here at the edge of the world, on a little island that was half ash and half snow, listening to a song that had been sung for thousands of years no matter what all the jarldoms, empires, companies, and great houses that ruled Solstheim had tried to do, Trent started to think things would be okay.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Baroness Jane Duvyn, nee Quastius, nee Llayn</strong></p><p><strong>7<sup>th</sup> of First Seed, 4E 200 – the Imperial City, Cyrodiil Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)</strong></p><p> A voluminous hood around her head, Jane walked across the gray flagstones of Titus Square. She remembered how it used to be called Katariah Square. Funny how history kept changing. Being a Mer meant she lived long enough to get a front row seat to each little adjustment, and then watch humans forget it had ever been different.</p><p>It was like the old saying went: a Mer lifespan sounds like a great deal until you have to live it.</p><p>She passed a town crier shouting the news to the late morning crowd.</p><p>“… Lord Sloan of the Elder Council’s White Chorus has announced that he will be using his personal funds to continue restoration efforts in the southern islands…”</p><p>Jane smiled. She hadn’t been that impressed with Tomal when they first met, centuries ago in Balmora, but he’d turned out to be a pretty good guy who used his wealth to help as best he could. They sometimes ran into each other in the garden party circuit. </p><p>Part of her still didn’t like them calling Tomal a lord. Serjo seemed more natural for him.</p><p>Not like she could complain. She was a baroness herself thanks to her too-short marriage to Baron Terato Quastius, her first husband. The thought of him made her a little sad. Humans never lived long enough, and that fact hurt more the older she got.</p><p>The crier kept going. “…Lord Sloan has pledged this effort to the honor of our glorious emperor, Titus Mede II, long may he rule, and to show that the Empire’s many Elf citizens are loyal and steadfast!”</p><p>A few snorts from the crowd at that last bit, so she quickened her pace. Jane hated being called an Elf. What was so tough about saying Mer? Both were single-syllable words. But hardly anyone used Mer any longer, maybe because there weren’t as many of them in the Empire under the Medes. So Dunmer became Dark Elf, and the local Mer seemed okay with it if they’d been born in the past century.</p><p>Some of the other rich Mer in the city hired bodyguards for when they went out in public. She hadn’t, not yet. The idea of some armored goon hovering around her didn’t exactly make her feel safe, and people knew better than to mess with minor nobility. She could always hire one if things got worse.</p><p>She walked into a bookstore, breathing in the smell of dust and old papers. The merchant, a young Orc in a black silk shirt and a vivid blue sarong, looked up from his accounts as she entered, his eyes widening.</p><p>“My lady!” he said, hurrying to genuflect. “It’s not often that a member of the nobility graces my store!”</p><p>The poor guy was probably wondering why she hadn’t sent a servant to buy a book. The simple answer being she sometimes missed doing things on her own.</p><p>“What would you like? If you want a book that’s not among my wares, my lady, I will be happy to contact some of my associates. I’m sure we can dig it up.”</p><p>“Actually, I’d like to browse for a little bit.”</p><p>The Orc nodded. “The store is yours.”</p><p>Jane walked past the cramped store’s two little shelves. The place was smaller than the old bookstore in Balmora. Not as many books made any longer, at least not the kinds people read for fun. The seller probably earned most of his money getting rare tomes for clients.</p><p>A small green book on the edge of the shelf caught her attention somehow, maybe because of how bright it looked against the worn shelving. The binding was brand new, or close to it, and the paper still crisp. She opened the book up, and almost dropped it when she saw the title page.</p><p><em>Outlanders: A Mostly Fictional Novel, by Daria Morgendorffer</em></p><p>Jane rushed to the seller with the book in her hands. “Hey, when was this printed?” she asked.</p><p>The bookseller leaned in to get a look. “Oh, that’s pretty recent.”</p><p>“I haven’t seen anyone read this book in a while,” Jane said. Though she remembered a time, more than 150 years ago, when it seemed like every bookish and disaffected young person in the Empire had read <em>Outlanders</em> at least once.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Outlanders</em> is a classic,” he said with a chuckle. “Never the most popular, but always with enough fans to prompt scriveners to periodically make new copies. I must confess, I’ve never read it myself.”</p><p>“The writer was my best friend,” Jane said, putting the book under her arm and reaching for her purse.</p><p>“Impressive! You can have it for free, my lady.”</p><p>“Please,” Jane said, reaching in and fishing for some coins. “Believe it or not, I used to work for a living. How much?”</p><p>“Oh, well if you wish… 60 septims.”</p><p>“Sure thing,” she said, handing over that amount. Was that overpriced? Whatever, she had money to burn. “I’ll tell some of my peers to shop here. I know what a big difference a noble client or two can make.”</p><p>The seller gaped at her words and bowed again. “Thank you! I always feel so awkward asking for that.”</p><p>“Today, you don’t need to!”</p><p>Jane went out the door with the book in her purse. She felt strangely giddy as she walked home, already smelling the smoky air and sour kwama of the city she’d grown up in, imagining the little rooftop studio where she and Daria had relaxed and snarked about the ridiculous world around them, two girls who felt so smart and sure of everything.</p><p>She reached her home, a narrow three-story house made of white stone. It was another inheritance, this time from her second (and, at this point, probably final) husband, Sadresus Durvyn, a Cyrodiilic Dunmer who’d earned his wealth through the perfume trade.</p><p>Sadresus had died fighting the Aldmeri during the Sack of the Imperial City, which at least meant they never got the opportunity to torture him. It was a small mercy, but Jane had been around for enough terrible things to be grateful even for those.</p><p>Jane removed her hood once she stepped into the foyer. Rotellia, the middle-aged Imperial woman who worked as her servant, came up with a smile on her face and a rolled-up scroll in her hands.</p><p>“My lady,” Rotellia said, bowing.</p><p>Once upon a time, when Jane first moved into the home of her first husband, she’d told all the servants to call her Jane. “Lady” set her teeth on edge. But after a while, she’d realized that servants didn’t like calling her by her first name. It made them feel like they were doing something wrong. No matter how casually Jane acted, there was still a world’s difference between their stations. So Jane dropped her insistence and accepted that always being out of touch was simply the price of nobility.</p><p>She still didn’t like it, though.</p><p>“Hi, Rotellia,” she said. “Everything go okay today?”</p><p>“Yes! I dusted the tapestries on the third floor, as per the cleaning schedule, and replanted the violets on the balcony garden. The kwama meat arrived as ordered. Does my lady still wish to cook it herself?”</p><p>“Yup!”</p><p>“Excellent! A letter has arrived from your son, Lord Augustian Quastius,” she said, handing Jane the scroll, which she took. “Also, young Lady Tacita attended the First Planting festivities at the Temple of Kynareth, as directed. I fear she returned in a gloomy mood.”</p><p>Jane sighed. Not too surprising. She’d known Tacita hadn’t wanted to go to First Planting. Finding a reward for Tacita was why Jane had gone to the bookstore in the first place. Stumbling across <em>Outlanders</em> was an unexpected bit of luck.</p><p>“Got it. She’s in the library?”</p><p>Rotellia nodded.</p><p>Jane thanked her. She took a quick look at Augustian’s letter, which offered a routine update on the Quastius vineyard estate just south of Brina Cross on the Gold Coast. The Aldmeri had burned the vineyards during the invasion, but the soil stayed rich and Augustian had rebuilt the place in the years since. She still saw so much of his father in him: the same drive, love of order, and care for those under and around him.</p><p>Augustian was doing fine, in other words. Perennia, her daughter from her second marriage, was off having adventures way up north in Solitude, where she was probably safe. Jane still worried, what with how rarely she wrote back and the worsening political situation in Skyrim. Which only left Tacita.</p><p>Little wispy-blonde Tacita was one of Quinn’s descendants. Both of Tacita’s parents had died in a river crossing accident some years back. Jane, who’d been a presence for eight generations of the line, as a babysitter, confidant, friend, employer, protector, and occasionally stepmother, made a logical guardian for the girl.</p><p>It bothered Jane how much she struggled to recollect most of those descendants. Lives, even the ones near and dear to her, had a way of blurring together over the years. Daria and Quinn stayed clear in her mind, of course, likewise Quinn’s daughters, Helena and Vesta. It was kind of touch and go after them, except for Frumentus, whom she’d adopted and raised to adulthood over a century ago.</p><p>That’s how she knew she’d remember Tacita. Jane had been with the girl every step of the way, from infancy to the awkward early adolescence she currently inhabited. Twelve wasn’t a fun age, for either Mer or Men.</p><p>Tacita reminded Jane of Daria in some ways. She had the same knack for reading, of tearing through a book cover to cover and somehow remembering each little detail. The knowledge didn’t gather dust in her brain either; she thought about it, turned it over, sometimes asked questions. When she did, Jane saw her friend’s calm, analytical face in Tacita’s solemn expression.</p><p>There were differences, too. Daria had always loved the gritty and the macabre. The bloodier the better, whether that was for fiction or nonfiction. Almost like she was trying to inoculate herself against the real darkness just over the horizon, a darkness she’d sensed and predicted. But Tacita only wanted to escape. She read storybooks and romances to hide away from the world. Jane got it. Tacita was quiet and shy, lonely no matter what she did and without Daria’s strange confidence.</p><p>Truth to tell, she hadn’t seen much of Daria or Quinn in their descendants for a while. There was bound to be some drift over that many generations. Kind of put the whole concept of nobility into question, now that she thought about it.</p><p>Jane passed by a few of her paintings as she walked to the stairs. She only painted for herself and a few close friends (which included Tomal). Proper Cyrodiilic nobles didn't pursue careers. More to the point, Jane didn't want to take work away from commoner artists. Having been one herself, she knew how much she'd have hated aristocratic competition.</p><p>She came to the library they kept on the second floor. Wasn’t that big, but held a neat and eclectic collection. Tacita didn’t only read the flighty stuff—sometimes she hunkered down with some big book on the War of the Camoran Usurper or the reign of Uriel Septim VII.</p><p>That day, Tacita sat at the reading table. Light from the window fell on the open pages as her eyes went back and forth, back and forth, regular as clockwork. Jane bet she was reading <em>The Princess of Shalawyn</em> again. That was her go-to when she was feeling bad, a fun story about a Breton princess who befriended unicorns and palavered with dragons and defeated evil knights.</p><p>“Hey. <em>The Princess of Shalawyn</em>?” Jane asked, speaking quietly.</p><p>Tacita didn’t look up. Just like Daria, the book came first, and Jane sort of loved that. “<em>The Adventure of the Far Shores</em>, actually,” Tacita replied.</p><p>Part of Jane was pleased to have guessed wrong. Plus, she’d always thought <em>Far Shores</em> was a better novel, an adventure about Redguard explorers who were good and righteous and all that, but not boringly squeaky-clean like Shalawyn.</p><p>“Ooh, are you at the part where they find the Daedric temple?” She was a little more than halfway through, by the looks of it, so she probably was.</p><p>“Almost!” Tacita looked up and smiled, her hair like gold in the sunlight.</p><p>Jane knelt before the desk and looked fondly at the girl. “Good job on going to the First Planting festival. I know you didn’t want to.”</p><p>Her face turned solemn. “It was okay. I don’t like being around so many people.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know. I don’t either. But sometimes we have to.”</p><p>“Why did I have to, Aunt Jane?”</p><p>Jane thought about that a bit. “Because it’s expected. And if you don’t go, that’ll make it harder to make friends later.”</p><p>She cringed at her own words. Gods, she sounded worse than the old boosters in Balmora. But that was the way of things. You didn’t get far without allies.</p><p>Jane probably still had around fifty, seventy... maybe a hundred years of life left to her. Enough to shelter Tacita for a while. But who knew what might happen? Civil war brewing in Skyrim, the Aldmeri almost definitely planning another war, the risk of random accidents… Tacita needed to make connections of her own.</p><p>Though part of Jane wanted <em>one</em> of her human stepkids to outlive her. Watching Frumentus go from apple-cheeked boy to feeble old man over seventy-five short years... she didn't want to go through that, not again.</p><p>“I’m not sure I need friends, not really,” Tacita said. “Not when I have books. And you and Uncle Trent.”</p><p>“Yeah, I get that. But a good friend outside the family can do a lot for you, too. Which reminds me, I got something for you.”</p><p>Jane put <em>Outlanders </em>on the table. Tacita gave a little gasp that made Jane’s heart soar as she picked it up.</p><p>“It’s written by one of your ancestors. Your great-great-great-great-great-great grandaunt, Daria Morgendorffer.”</p><p>Jane was pretty sure she’d gotten the right number of greats in there.</p><p>“Oh, thank you so much! She was your best friend, right?”</p><p>“Best I ever had!” Which, more than two centuries later, was still true in a lot of ways.</p><p>Tacita’s look turned cautious. “Do I have to read it now?”</p><p>“Nah, wait until you finish rereading <em>Far Shores</em>. I wouldn’t want to interrupt you, not right when you’re about to get to the Daedric temple part.”</p><p>She smiled and relaxed. “What’s it about?”</p><p>“Well, when Daria was a little older than you, she moved from Cyrodiil to Morrowind. Back then, they were both the same country, sort of. <em>Outlanders</em> is about her years in the city of Balmora. She was a lot like you: liked books more than people, was smarter than most everyone around her.”</p><p>Jane teared up a little bit thinking of those long-ago days.</p><p>“That’s where she met you!” Tacita said.</p><p>“Exactly. And, in a way, how I got here.”</p><p>“So, it’s like a memoir?” Tacita asked.</p><p>“Kind of. It reads like a novel. Daria changed everyone’s name, embellished a few things, sometimes put them in a different order. But most everything in this book actually happened.”</p><p>“You must be in it, then.”</p><p>“Sure am! Though she changed my name to Livia Hlandren and made me a bit more social than I actually was. Livia's totally me, though.”</p><p>Tacita giggled.</p><p>“I have an autographed first edition back at the estate,” Jane continued. “You were too young for the book last time we were there. I think you’re the right age for it now, though.”</p><p>Tacita had already opened the book, her tiny fingers pressed against the flimsy white paper. “Wow, back in the Septim Dynasty. Were things actually better back then?”</p><p>“You know, it’s funny you said that. Reminds me of a conversation I had with Daria not long after she published <em>Outlanders</em>…”</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Daria Morgendorffer</strong></p><p><strong>3<sup>rd</sup> of Midyear, 4E 15 – Anvil, Cyrodiil Province, claimed by Titus Mede I in opposition to the Thules Regime</strong></p><p> Daria sometimes found it funny that she’d crossed an entire continent in her adolescence only to cross it again in her adulthood and end up not that far from the little island where she’d been born.</p><p>Anvil certainly had more to offer than Stirk, its gleaming sun-kissed plazas home to bustling markets and a clamoring intellectual life that, on occasion, Daria found tolerable enough to engage in. But like before, she usually found herself to be the best company. The city's airy white streets and swaying palms, bathed in what felt like the light of an eternal summer afternoon, suited her solitary life surprisingly well.</p><p>Seated at a small dockside café in view of the harbor's turquoise-blue waters, Daria sipped her muddy black coffee and leaned back in her chair. Her work in the College of Whispers kept her in touch with most of the interesting arcane and Dwemer research (what little that hadn’t been completely derailed by the war, at least) and was prestigious enough that no one seriously pestered her about being a comfortably childless spinster at age 41.</p><p>She glanced back down at her papers, another dense dissertation on alteration magic written for the sake of being written and of no real use to anyone. A pretty typical student thesis, in other words. For all its talk of streamlining the half of the Mages Guild it had inherited, the College of Whispers was actually more cumbersome when it came to paperwork, an aspect not helped by the pompous secrecy embraced by so many of the highest-ranking members.</p><p>Daria read through a few more pages as a salt-tinged breeze ruffled her hair, her coffee slowly cooling in its little porcelain cup. She occasionally dipped her quill into the inkwell she’d brought with her to cross out a word or write a note in the margin. Age had not made her any more merciful to errors.</p><p>The hour grew late. The sun still glowed bright above the western horizon, but its light bore a ruddy tinge that told her sunset was not far off. Finishing her now-cold coffee, Daria waited a bit for the ink on her notes to dry, and then put her writing implements and the deadly-dull thesis in her pack, grabbed her cane, and began the walk home.</p><p>She stopped and grimaced at the sudden surge of pain in her right leg. It was a memento of the venomous skyrender sting she'd suffered in the Deshaan salt flats almost twenty years ago. She was lucky to still have her limb after such a wound. It didn’t hurt most days but sometimes flared back up if she’d been sitting still for too long, and lengthy bouts of sitting tended to come with working in the College of Whispers.</p><p>Daria ignored the pain and hobbled back to her home, a bright and breezy second-floor apartment that she’d turned into a sanctuary for herself and the tiny handful of people she invited inside.</p><p>Judging by the rugged wooden carriage, complete with a driver, two horses, and a lightly armored footman, one of those people had arrived.</p><p>The door to the carriage opened and Jane—Baroness Jane Quastius, now—stepped out, resplendent in a moth-silk gown of red and black, her hair in its usual functional bob. It didn’t bother Daria that Jane, the same age as her, still looked like a girl of 25, but it drove Quinn batty, which Daria did appreciate.</p><p>“What’s this?” Daria said, raising her eyebrows. “Judging by the apparent age of the person standing outside my door, I’m guessing she's some bratty college kid here to complain about her marks.”</p><p>Jane sauntered ahead, hands on her hips. “The kind of bratty college kid with aristocratic connections.”</p><p>“Please. I chew up and spit out the spoiled scions of minor aristocracy on a daily basis, and only get mildly reprimanded by my superiors who’ll then apologize and undo everything I did.”</p><p>“Good old Tamriel,” Jane remarked.</p><p>A moment later they embraced. Daria wasn’t big on hugs, still, but she didn’t mind for Jane. With the moment of contact came a sudden sense of lightness and relief. For the next week or so, things would be fine.</p><p>Jane’s footman, an agreeable Breton, carried the noblewoman’s things up to Daria’s apartment, while Daria took her guest to the small balcony that let her glimpse over the bright red-shingle roofs to the tranquil seas beyond.</p><p>“Oh, got something for you,” Jane said. She hurried over to one of the bags the footman had brought, reached in, and took out a big clay jug.</p><p>Daria’s heart almost stopped, barely daring to hope what it might be. Then Jane smiled and shook the jug a bit. Liquid sloshed inside.</p><p>“It’s mazte!” Jane said.</p><p>“How in the world did you get that?” Anything from Morrowind was in short supply these days, and probably would be for the rest of Daria’s life.</p><p>Jane took on a conspiratorial expression. “Still had some connections in the Thieves Guild. Just had to drop the right word to the right people…”</p><p>Daria watched and waited.</p><p>“Nah, kidding. I asked my husband, and he bought it from some traders. But the Thieves Guild sounds so much cooler.”</p><p>A few minutes later and they both sat at the small balcony table, Jane filling a pair of porcelain cups with the foamy bittersweet drink Daria never thought she’d taste again. Once it was ready, Daria raised the cup to her lips and closed her eyes, drinking deep. The mazte’s flavor and texture, so steeped in the ash-strewn fields and mountains of a land lost to her, brought back all the memories of youth.</p><p>But reminiscing never truly made things better, so she didn’t dwell on it. Instead, she and Jane jumped right back into the conversation that had started back in Ondryn’s classroom, one rainy day in Balmora decades ago, and had paused a few times but never truly ended.</p><p>“You know, I never thought I’d want kids,” Jane said.</p><p>It was evening, the stars jewel-bright in a velvet sky. They’d finished a simple dinner of roasted mackerel, grilled leeks, and thick bread that Jane’s footman had purchased and brought up to them. Not wanting to blow through all the mazte at once, they’d switched to some red grape wine produced on the Quastius estate. The wine was a touch too sweet for Daria’s liking, but she didn’t make an issue of it.</p><p>“I gotta say,” Jane continued, “being around Terato changed my mind on that.”</p><p>“I’m sure the pressure of a noble line to produce an heir had nothing to do with it,” Daria said.</p><p>Jane shrugged. “Hey, Terato said we could adopt if I wanted to. But I think I’m okay with having one of my own.”</p><p>“Given that your child would be raised by the most grounded and sane parents in the entire Cyrodiilic aristocracy, I’d say that’s probably a good move.”</p><p>Daria wasn’t exactly crazy about Terato Quastius, same as she hadn’t been crazy about any of Jane’s boyfriends over the years. But, like most of those boyfriends, Terato was basically a good guy, though not someone Daria would personally want to spend much time with.</p><p>“I am a little worried about the war,” Jane admitted. “Terato could be called up to serve if things bog down in the east.”</p><p>“The odds strongly favor Titus Mede. The Elder Council likes Emperor Thules, but nobody else does, which shows how badly out-of-touch the council’s become.”</p><p>“How’s the College of Whispers handling all this?” Jane asked.</p><p>Daria rolled her eyes. “With their usual obscurantism and obfuscation. The local chapters kept feeding Titus some nonsense about ‘the vagaries of the arcane’ being a reason they can't get involved. Titus finally said he’d leave us alone as long as we don’t help Thules, which we didn’t want to do anyway. Of course, we could have told him that in the first place”</p><p>“Sounds awkward,” Jane said.</p><p>“Amelia was telling me the Synod had to go through the same rigmarole. I was sent to Stros M’kai this spring to do some work on the Dwemer ruins there, and stayed with her family.”</p><p>“Don’t the Synod and the College of Whispers hate each other?” Jane asked.</p><p>“Officially, yes. Unofficially, most of us old-timers think the division is stupid and still stay in touch. But the newer members are keen on the division, so the two factions might genuinely hate each other in a generation’s time.”</p><p>“Right, I guess the new guys weren’t around for the Mages Guild. How’s Amelia doing?”</p><p>“Quite well. She recently gave birth to a third kid, a daughter this time. My ship also stopped at Rihad on the way back, so I got to say hi to Jolda. Political life agrees with her, though I don’t think King Doondana listens to her as much as he should.”</p><p>“Since when do kings listen to good advisors, right?” Jane remarked. “Any idea what happened to Maiko?”</p><p>Daria shook her head. “Afraid not. Jolda told me that they broke up not long after I left for mainland Morrowind, and that he got transferred to Cyrodiil soon after."</p><p>Jane looked disappointed. “Guess I’m not surprised. Too bad, I always thought they made a cute couple.”</p><p>“Jolda’s husband seems tolerable.”</p><p>Jane snapped her fingers. “Oh, yeah, speaking of old times: did they get your book ready?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Right over there. That copy is yours, by the way,” Daria said, pointing to a small green book on her desk. She moved to get it, but Jane motioned for her to stay seated, and walked over to save her friend the trip. Coming back to the table, her eyes alight, she sat down.</p><p>“All the embarrassments and mishaps of our teenage years saved for posterity,” Jane said, adopting a solemn voice.</p><p>“I did change the names, and you said you were okay with what I wrote.” Jane, of course, had read the manuscript before Daria had made any attempt at publication.</p><p>“Hey, saving that embarrassment is a good thing! Nobles get too full of themselves. Now, I just have to crack this open and be reminded that I’m not all that great.”</p><p>“You come off looking better than I do,” Daria said.</p><p>Jane flipped through the book, absolutely pleased with it, and Daria felt a smile come to her lips. She didn’t let it linger long.</p><p>“So, how are you spreading the word?” Jane asked.</p><p>“I’m not,” Daria said. “You know how much I hate advertising myself. I’m hoping it’ll spread through word-of-mouth.”</p><p>“What if it doesn’t?” Jane asked.</p><p>“Then so be it. Obscurity suits me pretty well.”</p><p>Jane put the book down and thought it over. “I can see the logic in that. I bet people will like it, though.”</p><p>“Please don’t give me some spiel about me being more likable than I think of myself as being.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m not going to puncture your illusions. But I mean, what the book’s about. There’s a lot of longing for the old days out there. Back when all of Tamriel was under one empire and it didn’t seem like anything that bad could happen.”</p><p>The Septims still haunted the world. Most didn’t say it aloud, but nearly everyone Daria knew hoped, on some level, that Titus Mede would set things back the way they were. Quinn certainly hoped so, and was raring to help him out.</p><p>“I’m a little surprised to hear you say that,” Daria said. “You didn’t exactly have an easy life back then.”</p><p>“Oh, sure. But it’d probably be harder for people in that position now. And with Morrowind ruined…”</p><p>Most times, Daria could think about Red Year without feeling much. This wasn’t one of those times. She felt it all at once: the deaths of her parents—the deaths of <em>so many</em>—and the world she’d lived in now buried under ash and molten rock.</p><p>She took a big enough gulp of wine to make her dizzy, put down the cup, and took a few breaths before speaking. “Granted. But I’m not certain that the Empire being great is necessarily the lesson we should be taking from all this.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“What people need to realize is that a lot of the problems we face today are outgrowths of the problems we had back then: the corruption on all levels, the deepening inequity, the racism and xenophobia we glossed over and pretended didn’t exist. In fact, one of the reasons I wrote <em>Outlanders</em> was to show it <em>wasn’t</em> all that great.”</p><p>“Yeah, you didn’t skimp on all the crap we had to put up with. Still, it’s hard to say that things weren’t better.”</p><p>“They absolutely were,” Daria agreed. “But no one tried to solve the problems that were there. The Empire never addressed corruption. It never figured out a good succession system, which is a big part of what made the Oblivion Crisis so awful.”</p><p>A younger her would have then blamed the Tribunal Temple for Red Year, because it had completely been their fault. They’d let that rock float above Vivec City for centuries as a sign of the city’s namesake god. If they’d chipped it to rubble or used magic to sink it beneath the sea, it’d have never fallen and triggered Red Mountain's eruption. Tens of thousands—including mom and dad—would still be alive.</p><p>But she didn’t say anything. Red Year had hurt Jane in more ways than it could have ever hurt Daria. She didn’t want to reawaken that. Pain could be useful if it fixed something, but with the Tribunal long-gone and Morrowind devastated, mentioning the temple’s complicity would be pain for the sake of pain at this point.</p><p>“I guess you’re right,” Jane agreed. “Folks aren’t going to see that, though.”</p><p>“How do you mean?”</p><p>“They’re going to read it, follow the adventures of two smart young ladies in an interesting city and a more-or-less functioning Empire, and think of how great it used to be.”</p><p>“Probably,” Daria admitted. “In the end, none of us has much control over our stories. Maybe that’s a good thing. I can’t claim any immunity to nostalgia. Part of me does wish I could go back in time and take Tamriel, circa 3E 426, and keep it safe.”</p><p>“That might be an interesting project for the College of Whispers.”</p><p>“As if. You’d need...”</p><p>Daria had almost said CHIM, but stopped herself at the last moment. She didn’t want to explain that and wasn’t at all sure she believed it, anyway.</p><p>“...more powerful magic than they’ll ever have to do something like that. Writing <em>Outlanders</em> is probably the closest I can come to saving that world. But even then, I want to save it so that people today can learn from it. Looking backward can make things hurt less, but it doesn’t make things better. The only way to do that is to honestly assess the mistakes we made and take measures to correct them.”</p><p>Jane nodded. “Well said, muthsera.” She smiled. “Think you could sign my copy?”</p><p>“I guess, but don’t tell anyone I signed it,” Daria said.</p><p>Jane got up and walked across the room to take a quill and inkwell from Daria’s desk. “Don’t worry, this one will be a Quastius heirloom,” she said, as she returned it to the balcony table.</p><p>Making a show of reluctance, Daria opened the book to the title page, dipped her quill, and then wrote:</p><p> </p><p><em>To Baroness Jane Quastius (formerly Llayn) –</em></p><p> </p><p><em>You made my teenage years intermittently tolerable. So yeah, thanks.</em></p><p> </p><p><em>- Daria Morgendorffer</em></p><p> </p><p>“How does this look?” Daria asked, as she passed the open book over to Jane.</p><p>Jane looked at it and smiled. “Perfect.”</p><p>Satisfied with her friend’s reaction, Daria drank some more wine and looked out to the stars, wondering how much and in what ways her book would really help.</p><p><strong>The End</strong></p><p><a href="https://theskyforge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/a-c0da-to-live-by-part-1-daria-in-morrowind-episode-32" target="_blank">Episode 32: A c0da to Live By, Part 1</a> | <a href="https://theskyforge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/daria-in-morrowind-table-of-contents?edited=1" target="_blank">Table of Contents</a></p></div>A c0da to Live By, Part 1 (Daria in Morrowind: Episode 32)https://TheSkyForge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/a-c0da-to-live-by-part-1-daria-in-morrowind-episode-322021-05-17T20:04:23.000Z2021-05-17T20:04:23.000ZWellTemperedClavierhttps://TheSkyForge.ning.com/members/WellTemperedClavier<div><p><a href="{{#staticFileLink}}8939619663,RESIZE_1200x{{/staticFileLink}}"><img class="align-full" src="{{#staticFileLink}}8939619663,RESIZE_710x{{/staticFileLink}}" alt="8939619663?profile=RESIZE_710x" width="710" /></a></p><p><strong>Sera Andril Golthyn (formerly Dimartani)</strong></p><p><strong>17<sup>th</sup> of First Seed, 3E 429 – East of Ald’ruhn, Morrowind Province, the Third Empire</strong></p><p>Andril Golthyn, once Dimartani, lived to serve.</p><p>They said that the evil within Red Mountain was no more. Yet Andril watched all the same. Alone in the Ashlands, within a bug-shell outpost owned by Clan Dlera in service of Honorable Serjo Llendu, he stood guard against a fallen enemy.</p><p>There was a satisfying irony that an outlander Nerevarine was the one to fell the Dunmer’s ancient foe. That thought consoled him through the long gray nights and days.</p><p>Vanu emerged from the outpost. She was little more than a girl, but already fierce, her bald head marked with scars.</p><p>“Sera Golthyn,” she said. “Before I return to Ald’ruhn, there is a question I must ask you. A sensitive one that I cannot ask our honorable hetman.”</p><p>Vanu was an outlander, a Dunmer born in Skyrim and orphaned soon after. A knife had been her doll and spilt blood her mother’s milk. Some in Clan Dlera doubted her. An outlander, they said. Too foreign to our ways. So they gave her errands, like collecting reports from Andril and other watchers.</p><p>Andril did not doubt her.</p><p>“Ask,” he said.</p><p>“Is it true that the Nerevarine slew the Tribunal?”</p><p>Andril didn’t flinch, but the question struck him like a physical blow. The temple said otherwise—but the fearful faces of the priests, the fact that no one had seen the Tribunal for over a year—fed the rumors.</p><p>“I tell you TRULY, that I do not know,” Andril replied.</p><p>“What are we to do, though? If it is true? I did not grow up with gods, but I know the Dunmer here adore them.”</p><p>“We are Redoran, Vanu. Our WAY is to serve. Gods or no gods, that will never change. We will always do what is right, EVEN if we suffer for it.”</p><p>It was not much of an answer. But it was all he could give.</p><p>“Thank you, Sera Golthyn,” she said.</p><p>Vanu bowed slightly and set off on the long journey back to Ald’ruhn, her silhouette growing smaller and smaller in the overwhelming gray until she vanished from sight.</p><p>Andril waited outside a little longer, listening to the bitter winds howl and bluster around him. His life was a hard one, but it was one he’d earned. In the wastes, accompanied by books and weapons and the young warriors who came to him for counsel, knowing he would listen, he was at peace.</p><p> </p><p><strong>J’dash</strong></p><p><strong>12<sup>th</sup> of Evening Star, 3E 432 – Balmora, Morrowind Province, the Third Empire</strong></p><p>No longer cold beneath his fur, his belly full of the tea Jane had brewed that night on one of her visits back to a shop he only opened every other day, J’dash closed his eyes and dreamed.</p><p>And his dreams took him back on little paws to the white sands of a forever summer in Elsweyr, where the gleaming dunes always held the heat of the day, and a Khajiit’s bones never grew cold. J’dash ran beneath stars that glittered like sugar crystals against the night’s black fur, laughing with arms stretched out in a darkness that was never dark.</p><p>And all his family joined him, and J’dash saw them again as if many years had passed but he’d been with them for all those years, that no whips had ever torn his flesh and no harsh bracers had ever rubbed the fur off his arms. His wife Kisisanda grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close, her golden eyes with moons in them shining from a face furred like snow, her body whole.</p><p>All their cubs played as cubs must. Little Z’havirr who leapt lithe and perfect like the hunter he would’ve been, only to clutch his paws around a coconut shell and roll in the bright sand, his eyes asking what it was he held. Curious Tsira who opened baskets and peered inside to see what was tasty, the brown and white fur of her fingers now only stained with juice. Clever Hravirra who looked like a Mer save for the leopard spots on her neck and calves, alive and reading and talking about what she read.</p><p>Boundless and free they played and hugged and laughed in a land that never grew cold, the beat of the world’s heart in tune with theirs, their blood hot and their souls aflame.</p><p>J’dash knew the dream. He knew how the nightmares so often snuck in, the gray bodies and red eyes, the jagged spears, the clank of chains and the years of pain that never ended and never could end.</p><p>But that night he only saw one pair of red eyes, those of Jane, his newest child sitting atop a dune and painting all she saw. And she had <em>always</em> been there, because J’dash had <em>never</em> left Elsweyr. All he loved lay within that land so Jane was there too, drawing things that were not but felt more real than things that were.</p><p>All one blood, all together, all dancing beneath the moons to the beat of the world.</p><p>J’dash never woke up.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Jolda at-Armand</strong></p><p><strong>10<sup>th</sup> of Frostfall, 3E 433 – Rihad, Hammerfell Province, the Third Empire</strong></p><p>Jolda always thought that the gilded dome of Rihad’s palace made a perfect metaphor for high-level politics: glamorous, superficial, and ominously heavy.</p><p>In the brazier-lit throne room beneath the dome, she watched as her liege, King Doondana ap-Blubamka al-Rihad, studied a map of Hammerfell. His advisors (of whom Jolda was by far the youngest) stood at attention as he, only a year into his kingship, tried to steer Rihad through the worst crisis Tamriel had seen in over a century.</p><p>“My king?”</p><p>That was Radam, an advisor carried over from the previous court. He always seemed to be smiling behind his bushy peppercorn beard, but not in a way that Jolda liked.</p><p>“Speak,” King Doondana ordered.</p><p>“As no emperor sits on the throne—and this Martin Septim may be a pretender—Rihad must see to its own needs. The Crown cities of the north are like daggers pointed at our back, ready to plunge and end us once and for all. We should join with the other Forebear cities and take the war to them. I am sure the Empire will be pleased, if it survives. The Crowns are troublesome to them, as well.”</p><p>“You’re talking civil war!” Hooda exclaimed, crossing her arms. Her white dreadlocks shone in the dim light.</p><p>“I am speaking of survival!” Radam protested. “Cyrodiil is in chaos. And who is to say that Martin Septim is not just another Daedric doppelganger? All three of his legitimate brothers were exposed as Daedra!”</p><p>Hooda rolled her eyes. “According to the angry mobs who killed them, yes, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”</p><p>Fueled by the three cups of coffee she’d had that afternoon, Jolda’s mind busily worked the different angles. Radam was a Forebear from northern Hammerfell with a continent-sized chip on his shoulder over how the Crowns had treated his family. Ironically, he acted like a Crown in a lot of ways. Hooda, on the other hand, had spent her life going between Hammerfell and Cyrodiil and was a true believer in the Empire.</p><p>“Martin’s no demon,” King Doondana said, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t be fighting the Daedra if he were!”</p><p>Radam stepped back, knowing he’d made a mistake. “Your majesty is wise. But who can say Martin will reclaim the Ruby Throne, much less keep it? The Elder Council is as treacherous as the Daedra!”</p><p>“They aren’t that bad, no worse than politicians anywhere else,” Hooda said. “If we send troops to support Martin Septim and help him win, it’ll be more reason for the Elder Council to get behind him.”</p><p>“With respect,” Jolda said, “I think both of my esteemed colleagues are overlooking the situation at home.”</p><p>King Doondana looked up from the map and turned to Jolda. He smiled. Jolda knew he favored boldness and informality, and she tailored her arguments that way.</p><p>Jolda continued. “Rihad’s loyalty must always be to the Empire, but we’d be better off focusing on keeping our people safe, strong, and prosperous. When an emperor does return to the throne, we’ll be there for him. We shouldn’t get too involved in Cyrodiilic politics until then.”</p><p>“Yes!” Radam thrust his fist into the air.</p><p>“On the other hand, attacking the Crown cities would be a disaster in the making.”</p><p>Radam growled.</p><p>Jolda ignored him. “The last thing the Empire wants is a civil war in Hammerfell. Starting one, even with some justification, ventures on treason. What’s more, it’s not at all clear we’d win. Sending troops north would leave us completely unprotected from bandits and Daedric incursions, which aren't limited to Cyrodiil anymore.”</p><p>“A sharp analysis,” King Doondana said, stroking his black beard. “But what should we do? In your opinion.”</p><p>“Rihad should focus on protecting its primary concern: trade. We’d best be served by keeping our soldiers in the area, though we can also send some to protect the trade lanes to our key partners on Cyrodiil’s Gold Coast. Just be sure to coordinate with the Imperial Legion so there aren’t any misunderstandings. This will ensure a steady stream of income and demonstrate that Rihad is a viable partner for post-crisis reconstruction in the west.</p><p>“As for Martin Septim, I think a token gesture of support is reasonable, but shouldn’t go farther than that until we have a better idea as to what he’s all about.”</p><p>King Doondana nodded. “All right. Looks like I got three interesting arguments here. I’ll think on it tonight. You are dismissed.”</p><p>Jolda followed her two bickering colleagues for a bit before going off on her own. She walked up stairways and along airy galleries before reaching a balcony that looked out across Rihad, a city of leafy rooftop gardens and sandstone houses the color of sunset.</p><p>Jolda had spent most of her life in Morrowind, which meant she’d always have a bit of an outsider’s perspective when it came to Hammerfell. But maybe that wasn’t bad. She’d already fallen in love with the city and its people after a mere three years. A life spent strengthening Rihad would be a life well-spent.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Amelia Maurard</strong></p><p><strong>9<sup>th</sup> of Sun’s Height, 4E 3 – Stros M’Kai, Hammerfell Province, the Ocato Potentate</strong></p><p>Getting mad (almost) never solved anything.</p><p>But darn it, sometimes it was hard not to!</p><p>Amelia took a deep breath, counted to five, and then let it out before opening her eyes. The rest of the management team for the Stros M’Kai branch of the Synod still sat in the meeting room, none of them looking all that sure of what they were doing.</p><p>“Okay,” Amelia said, “so the Alchemical Symposium is refusing to honor our invoice because it can’t legally do business with the Mages Guild. Even though we officially stopped being the guild two years ago, and everyone knows it.”</p><p>Which, in turn, meant that half of the Synod’s local research had skidded to a halt. With the annual review only a few weeks away.</p><p>“We could send someone else to the mainland to ask,” Shurgoz, an elderly Orc enchanting specialist, suggested.</p><p>Amelia glanced at the window. It was a beautiful summer day outside, and she’d rather be enjoying the beach with her husband and son than be cooped up in here. But the Synod needed to prove itself to fill the shoes of the Mages Guild, even if it was basically the guild under a new name.</p><p>She shook her head. “That’ll take too long.” An idea came to her. “Who filled out the invoice?”</p><p>“Pentius did,” Dramrys said. Dramrys was Dunmer, but she’d been born in Cyrodiil. When they'd first met, Dramrys had had a million questions about Morrowind that Amelia couldn’t do much to answer since she’d never seen much of the place beyond Caldera and Balmora. She kind of regretted that. One day, she told herself, she'd go back to really see Morrowind.</p><p>“Okay, let me talk with Pentius,” she said.</p><p>Amelia walked over to Pentius’s desk, near the front of the Synod office. Pentius was an Imperial a few years younger than her, with messy blond hair that seemed to get messier the more he tried to comb it. He looked up at her when she arrived.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Hey, could I see the form you sent to the Alchemical Symposium?”</p><p>“But I already delivered it.”</p><p>“I know, show me the form you used.”</p><p>He leaned to the side and burrowed into his desk, opening and closing drawers, before finally taking out a paper and handing it to Amelia. She figured out what had gone wrong right away: the invoice’s letterhead still read: Guild of Mages.</p><p>Amelia sighed. “Pentius, you know that we aren’t the Guild of Mages anymore. Why did you fill out an invoice that still has the old name?”</p><p>He gulped. “Steward Rennik said he wanted this done quickly. We have a ton of paperwork with the old name. Seriously, we practically have a warehouse’s worth of the stuff. He doesn’t want to order new paperwork.”</p><p>“Okay,” Amelia admitted, “but we can’t use the old forms, either. We can’t legally operate under that name. Here, how about this?”</p><p>Amelia put the paper down at the edge of his desk, grabbed his quill pen, and crossed out the letterhead, blocking away as much as she could. Then, above it, she wrote: The Synod.</p><p>“I’m going to talk to Steward Rennik,” Amelia said. “I’m not a big fan of using the old forms at all, but maybe it’s the best way to avoid wastage and expense. The symposium should accept invoices as long as they're labeled as being from <em>us</em>, not from the guild.”</p><p>“Aren’t we basically the same?”</p><p>Amelia nodded. “Minus the conjuration and necromancy studies, and all the branches that got rebranded as the College of Whispers, yeah. We may not have a proper emperor but this is still the Empire, so paperwork matters.”</p><p>It always felt good to solve a problem, even if it was kind of a stupid problem. They wouldn’t have finished research by the time of the review, but that was okay. The important thing was for them to be working.</p><p>And if Amelia hurried up with her work, she might have a little bit of time for the beach with hubby and baby later that day.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Helen and Jake Morgendorffer</strong></p><p><strong>18th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 5 (RED YEAR) – Balmora, Morrowind Province, the Ocato Potentate</strong></p><p>Helen hated to admit it, but she’d been lucky in many ways.</p><p>Not that she hadn’t worked for every inch of what she’d earned, whether studying obscure tomes by candlelight until her eyes gave out or forging her own legal dominion in Morrowind. Yet she’d done it in the context of an empire that, for all its elephantine sprawl and deep corruption, gave avenues for the common to excel.</p><p>The Septim Dynasty had died with the sacrifice of Martin Septim. But, with any luck, the transition to the next dynasty would be smooth, and perhaps they’d fix some of the problems that had always dogged the Septims.</p><p>“Are you sure the girls are going to be okay over in Whiterun?” Jake asked.</p><p>She and her husband sat on the balcony of the Balmora home where they’d built so many memories: some good, some bad, but nearly all made rosy by the passage of time. It was late afternoon, the sky clear from the recent spring rains, and she could still imagine Daria and Quinin coming in through the door after a day in Drenlyn Academy the way they used to, twelve long years ago.</p><p>“They’ll be fine, Jake,” Helen said. “Skyrim will be a bit of a culture shock, but Whiterun's a cosmopolitan city that offers fantastic career opportunities for them both.”</p><p>“But who knows what could happen next? I’m not so sure about this Ocato guy. The Empire needs an emperor, dammit!”</p><p>“Which is exactly what Chancellor Ocato is trying to arrange.”</p><p>Jake frowned. “I guess. But it feels like everything’s up in the air. And what’s with—”</p><p>Best to cut him off now. “Oh, Jake, any new recipes?”</p><p>Jake brightened up all at once. “Oh boy!” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “So, you know how much I love this kwama stuff, but I keep thinking it’d go great with some good old-fashioned fish sauce like what they used to ship here from the west. I found out the other day that some guy in Gnisis…”</p><p>Helen smiled and nodded, paying more attention to the comforting sound of her husband’s voice than the specifics of what he said. Jake had aged well. He’d worked less and less as Helen’s firm grew, which she’d thought would be a problem. But somehow it wasn’t. Jake constantly pursued new projects—amateur carpentry, cooking, even alchemy—and he tackled them with a young man’s guileless enthusiasm. The house was always spotless and something delicious was always on the table. Seeing him that way made Helen feel young again.</p><p>Which had other benefits, as well.</p><p>Jake was telling her what herbs he’d use when a colossal boom sounded out from beyond the southern hills. A shockwave hit a moment later, a trembling in the earth and air that made the entire city fall silent and take notice.</p><p>“What was that?” Jake wondered.</p><p>Helen grabbed Jake’s hand.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Treads-on-Ferns</strong></p><p><strong>5<sup>th</sup> of Midyear, 4E 7 – Leyawiin, Cyrodiil Province, the Ocato Potentate</strong></p><p>Monsoon rains lashed Leyawiin that morning, the skies above as black as a starless night. Treads-on-Ferns wanted to go out. His scales itched to let the rain fall on them, but he knew better. Ash particulate from Red Mountain still tainted each drop, two long years after its eruption. He’d seen the effects on the careless: rashes on skin, bare patches on scales or fur.</p><p>He remembered the cheers that went up from Leyawiin’s Argonian neighborhoods the minute they heard about Red Mountain blowing its top. Who cared that the eruption caused earthquakes, tidal waves, and droughts across all of Tamriel? What mattered is that it had killed a lot of Dunmer (and a lot of Argonians, and Khajiit, and Bretons, and others).</p><p>Treads got it. Great House Hlaalu belatedly ending slavery in their territories didn’t make up for a thousand years of cruelty. Nothing could. Red Year was a form of justice. Treads accepted it with a bit of grim satisfaction, but he couldn't celebrate it.</p><p>He rolled out of bed and walked downstairs to get the teashop ready for the day. The tea came first, as always. He lugged his two iron cauldrons out to the little enclosure, protected by a stout roof of lashed-together bamboo poles and a fence of the same. He used the spigot to fill buckets with clean-enough water from plumbing that (mercy upon mercies) still worked. After filling the cauldrons, he set fires in the little charcoal pits beneath them. Not a lot of heat, but enough that the tea would be steaming by the time the customers came in.</p><p>Treads paused from his labors and looked out past the little fence. The jungle had overtaken the abandoned houses across the street, gutted during the Oblivion Crisis and never repaired. Running a teashop at the edge of the habitable parts of Leyawiin ran a lot of risk, but was cheap.</p><p>Worse came to worst, he owned a spear and knew how to use it. He’d only ever had to brandish it once.</p><p>“Hope you’re alive, Jeval. Quinn. Tiphannia. And you too, Satheri,” he said.</p><p>At least he knew for a fact that Jeval and Tiphannia had both left Morrowind well before Red Year, one going west to find his own path (he’d talked about commercial shipping in Hammerfell), the other east to find her family in Cathnoquey. Quinn and Satheri had both gone to the mainland, so they'd probably escaped the eruption.</p><p>But not necessarily Treads’s fellow Argonians, who’d boiled across the border to repay the atrocities inflicted on them by the Dunmer. Atrocities that the Empire had ignored for centuries.</p><p>That too was justice, of sorts. But Treads wouldn’t celebrate the deaths of friends.</p><p>Customers filtered in soon enough, along with his assistant, Swims-Like-Fish. Treads’s mood improved as conversation and the sweet smell of a dozen different spices filled the bare little parlor. Everyone was welcome at the teahouse so long as they let everyone else be welcome. It was a simple rule.</p><p>The rain slackened toward the end of the day. Treads sometimes chatted with patrons but never overmuch. They came to hang out with each other, not with him. The old days were gone, but their joys didn’t have to be.</p><p>Night fell, though it was hard to tell the difference with the cloud cover. Folks came and went. Treads was about to close up when an Argonian hurried inside. She wore a drab Western-style cloak that brought out the vivid magenta of her shades. Quinin would have had all kinds of fashion recs for a woman like her.</p><p>“Hey!” she said, jogging up to the counter with a small wooden box in her hands. “Glad I got here. So, you want to help our kindred in the fight, yes?”</p><p>“Be more specific,” Treads said. "There are a lot of fights these days."</p><p>Her irises narrowed in annoyance. “Come, you know what I mean! When they told me you weren’t part of the cause, I couldn’t believe it. An Argonian like you, who’s been to Black Marsh, who drank the Hist sap—”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Treads said. “You want me to put that little box on my counter with a sign telling people to donate money to the An-Xileel.”</p><p>Not too different from what he used to do for the Argonian Mission as a kid. Except the Argonian Mission had been run by Cyrodiilic Argonians like him and his parents, and the An-Xileel hated anything that smacked of the Empire. He didn’t blame them for their hatred.</p><p>“We are all People of the Root,” she said. “That means we have to stand together. The An-Xileel are liberating our cousins in Morrowind as we speak—"</p><p>“It’s been a long-time coming. Though it’s a bit peculiar to see you trying to raise money in Cyrodiil. My understanding is that the An-Xileel aren’t too forgiving to Argonians associated with the Empire. Or perceived as being associated. I’ve talked to some of the refugees.”</p><p>Her gills fluttered. “The Empire brutalized our people!”</p><p>“I don’t disagree.”</p><p>“So you will help?”</p><p>“I know that you can’t change society by being nice to the people who have their foot on your neck,” Treads said. “The Empire was awful, and should never have been in Black Marsh, or probably anywhere outside of Cyrodiil. Most of this mess is their fault.</p><p>“But I also know that, if I’d been in Black Marsh when the An-Xileel took over, I’d have been a target. Someone to be burned or flayed alive. My family would have met the same fate. And that’s why I’m not going to help you. I understand why you do what you do. But I won’t aid a group that kills people like me.”</p><p>“The Argonians who tell you that are liars. They only want your coin, so they tell these sad stories—”</p><p>Treads shook his head. “No. I’ve seen their scars. I know why the An-Xileel do what they do. But the lines were already drawn, long before we were born, and I’m on this side. So, you take care of your people. I’ll take care of mine.”</p><p>She drew back. “That’s very small of you,” she said, her nostrils flaring.</p><p>“Doesn’t bother me.”</p><p>She huffed and left, leaving Treads in peace. He looked up once she stepped out the door to make sure she hadn’t brought any An-Xileel bullyboys. But he was alone. Not surprising. The Potentate still ruled. The An-Xileel didn't have much say in Cyrodiil.</p><p>And if worse came to worst, Treads still had that spear.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Serjo Tomal Sloan</strong></p><p><strong>28<sup>th</sup> of Second Seed, 4E 16 – the Sloan Estate (east of Cheydinhal), Cyrodiil Province, the Thules Regime</strong></p><p> Over two-thousand lives hinged on Serjo Tomal Sloan’s next decision.</p><p>It wasn’t the kind of decision he’d ever expected to make as a youth. But he supposed adulthood had surprised nearly everyone in his generation. Maybe adulthood always came as a surprise, regardless of generation.</p><p>He stood on the balcony of his adobe manse, built in the traditional Hlaalu style, and observed his domain. Miles of rice paddies and fruit orchards gleamed beneath the tropical sun, life positively bursting from the damp black earth fed by the waters of Lake Arrius. At the edges huddled the adobe huts and tents that housed the Sloan family’s workers. His father had purchased this land decades ago from a wastrel Nibenese noble, and had used it to earn wealth for himself and for the Hlaalu Council Company.</p><p>Tomal used it for sanctuary.</p><p>Exactly 2,117 people, mostly Dunmer with some outlanders, now called the Sloan Estate home. They came fleeing Morrowind, fleeing the Red Year and the Argonian Invasion and the collapse of Great House Hlaalu. Tomal built homes for them when he could, and kept doing that until he could shelter no more.</p><p>Those loyal to the Sloans got first priority. Second to them, longtime followers of Great House Hlaalu. Beyond that, mostly a matter of first come, first serve. The Sloan name no longer carried as much weight, or as much wealth, as it once did. He took on some families at a loss. Good thing his dad had put more investments in Cyrodiil than in Morrowind.</p><p>Keeping them safe in an increasingly hostile land posed an altogether thornier problem.</p><p>Tomal looked down at his drink, a silver cup half-full of fiery brandy.</p><p>He was still a bit light-headed from his drinking the previous night.</p><p>“Mentally impairing beverages and high-stakes negotiations,” Andrava said. “What could possibly go wrong?”</p><p>Andrava Nesryn, the eldest (and only surviving) child of a noble family from Andothren, had fled with Tomal and assumed the duties of a seneschal within the Sloan Estate. She did it well.</p><p>Tomal shrugged. “Hey, there’s a reason we have the phrase ‘drunk as lords’.”</p><p>“And a reason that a lot of lords don’t live to finish their careers.”</p><p>“Point taken,” Tomal said, putting down the cup. He turned to Andrava. “How do I look?”</p><p>He’d tried to dress as Colovian as he could for this meeting, complete with a stiff jacket of blue wool that was slowly cooking him alive in the jungle heat.</p><p>She eyed him doubtfully. “Like a provincial Colovian noble from twenty years ago.”</p><p>“Well, retro’s always in. We’re sure that Titus is the only rebel leader with any chance of beating Thules?”</p><p>“Yes. He’s defeated or rallied all of the other notable warlords. The Jarl of Eastmarch was the only serious rival, and he's dead. His son’s still insisting he was murdered, but he’s not standing in Titus’s way. The odds favor Titus, but this doesn’t mean that Emperor Thules is out of the picture,” Andrava said.</p><p>Plenty of Thules’s rust-splotched troops had ridden by the Sloan Estate, demanding to know why so many Dunmer lived on human lands, and so close to the moldering ruins of the Summer Palace, at that. Tenants had been harassed, a few killed, before Tomal could smooth things over. Citizenship didn’t mean as much as it used to, and as times got harder, Tomal suspected it’d mean even less.</p><p>Likewise, plenty of nobles loyal to Thules took advantage of the man’s erratic mental state to nab lands from less popular rivals. A fiefdom owned and run by Dunmer, without any real support from Morrowind, made a tempting target.</p><p>“He certainly is not,” Tomal agreed. “Have the other Dunmer in eastern Cyrodiil said anything?”</p><p>“No. They’re probably waiting on you. You’re the highest-ranking Hlaalu here.”</p><p>“Don’t remind me. We know Thules will eventually give my land to one of his cronies, which means the people here will be killed or sent back into Morrowind. If we help Titus take over, then there’s a chance we’ll have a place in the new regime.”</p><p>“But if we help Titus, and Titus loses…”</p><p>“Then we start looking for relatively painless suicide methods,” Tomal said.</p><p>“As astute as always, Serjo Sloan.”</p><p>By ALMSIVI, he wanted another drink. But no, he needed a clear head for this negotiation.</p><p>“Okay, let’s go downstairs and meet the emissary. We’ll pledge our support, and I’ll don the old bonemold and sally forth if I have to.”</p><p>Andrava’s eyelids fluttered, and she looked down. “If you’ll pardon my saying, I hope you don’t have to.”</p><p>“Is that concern I hear in my flinty seneschal’s voice?” he asked, trying to make light of it.</p><p>She didn’t say anything. Some things shouldn’t be joked about, he supposed.</p><p>“It probably won’t come to that,” Tomal said. “No one thinks of me as soldier material anyway. But Great House Hlaalu of Cyrodiil will stand with Titus Mede. Because we can’t stand anywhere else.”</p><p>“I know, serjo. I know.”</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Quinn Antano, nee Morgendorffer</strong></p><p><strong>21st of Hearthfire, 4E 18 – the Imperial City, Cyrodiil Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)</strong></p><p> Okay, Quinn told herself as she walked down another gloomy, damp hallway that went on forever. It’s been a tough couple of decades, so yeah, some of that’s going to show in the Imperial Palace. They’re fixing it. Slowly.</p><p>The disappointment still hit her though. This place was supposed to be <em>the </em>place, the one where you found the best the Empire had to offer. All she saw were unshaven soldiers and bureaucrats with bags under their eyes shuffling down galleries that no one had cleaned in forever.</p><p>The palace was exactly what Daria had warned her it would be.</p><p>But maybe, someday, things would be better.</p><p>Quinn found the office right where the directions had said, two doors past the broken statue of Emperor What’s-his-name but before the big stairway. She knocked on the door and smoothed her pink moth-silk gown and touched her still mostly red hair. Hair dye cost a lot, these days.</p><p><em>Everything</em> cost a lot because of so many trade routes collapsing. Not that it mattered so much, but the little things made the big tragedies easier to bear.</p><p>“Come in,” ordered the voice.</p><p>Quinn opened the door and stepped into the office of General Antabius Corello. He didn’t look like a general to her, paunchy and soft, and with an oily black mustache that she wanted to shave off for his own good. But she’d listened to palace chatter, and knew he handled a lot of Emperor Titus's spies and propaganda.</p><p>“Your lordship,” she said, bowing.</p><p>He acknowledged her with a curt nod. “You’ve come highly recommended, citizen.”</p><p>She smiled, like she felt lucky to get that kind of praise. Actually, she hated how much cringing everyone had to do these days. Used to be you could brag about stuff a little as long as you didn’t go overboard, but now humility was in.</p><p>“I am honored that you have heard, your lordship.”</p><p>“Your sartorial and cosmetic guidance has made stars out of obscure families like the Secunias and the Ajenois, and in very meager circumstances, too.”</p><p>“I only brought out the beauty they already had within, your lordship.”</p><p>He tented his fingers, which looked like little sausages, and leaned back in his chair. “I, however, want to test your mettle in a different way.”</p><p>“I live to serve the emperor, your lordship.”</p><p>“His imperial majesty is creating a new diplomatic corps. He wants a uniform that is both visually impressive and tied with Cyrodiilic culture. That is our core, after all. Is that something you can do?”</p><p>“Of course!” she said, already getting all kinds of ideas. “Your lordship,” she added.</p><p>“The false emperor Thules was Nibenese, and we want to advertise the true emperor’s soldierly Colovian credentials, so favor Colovian styles. We’ve let the Nibenese bureaucrats run things for too long, anyway. You will have access to as many assistants as you might need. They’ll supply you with fabrics, dyes, and can test out your designs. You’ll have a budget of five-thousand septims.”</p><p>“I promise that the Empire will be known as much for style, as for justice.”</p><p>“Hm, yes. Your office is waiting in the east wing. My servant,” he paused to ring a bell, “will show you the way.”</p><p>Quinn bowed again. A page who couldn’t have been older than fifteen showed up at the door, and the general told her to follow. Back out to the dreary halls.</p><p>It wasn’t the Fashion Guild, but it was the closest she’d get. The whole guild system was history anyway. Nobles and government offices handled most of that stuff now, and people like Quinn had to go along.</p><p>She’d had an argument with Daria about this. Not one of those arguments that turned into a fight and left everyone with hurt feelings that they never got over, but it had still been pretty intense. Daria didn’t think the new dynasty would make things better.</p><p>But what was the alternative? Quinn wanted her daughters to grow up in a world like the one she’d grown up in. Where there was always food on the table, the soldiers were usually good guys who protected you, and you could worry about things like fabrics and hairstyles because all the important stuff was taken care of already.</p><p>She sniffed, thinking of her daughters: Helena and Vesta. Mom and dad would’ve been crazy about them, too, and not a day went by that she didn’t wish she could bring her girls to them. But all Quinn could do was light the candles in the temple and tell her daughters how much grandma and grandpa would’ve loved them, and…</p><p>Quinn stifled her sob.</p><p>Maybe the Medes could fix the world. Maybe they couldn’t. Daria didn’t have kids and, at this point, probably never would. It was easy for her to talk about things not working out because she didn’t have any real skin in the game. All Quinn could do was try. Try and make an empire that lived up to the Septims, and maybe turned out a little better.</p><p>She loved Daria and she always would. But there were some things her sister would never understand.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Maiko Maccaneus</strong></p><p><strong>7th of First Seed, 4E 22 – Andothren, Morrowind, Great House Sadras</strong></p><p> “Relax your stance a little bit. Hang loose.”</p><p>A sheen of sweat shone on Vedas’s face as the young Dunmer noble nodded, his muscles unclenching. Maiko walked around his student, observing from all angles and happy with the result. Vedas was a good kid. He didn’t object to Maiko not being Dunmer, and was willing to listen (though not always eager).</p><p>“That’s good. Hold that for a bit. Remember: you need to move fast in a sword fight. Be like water.”</p><p>“Yes, sera.”</p><p>The first thing a rookie needed to learn was how to stand. Then how to move. Fighting came later. That’s how Maiko learned it in the legion, and that’s what he taught his students, whether they were Serjo Dravaal’s security or Serjo Dravaal’s kids.</p><p>They finished up for the day, Vedas giving Maiko a respectful nod before he left to the main hall, where Maiko already smelled a dinner of comberry-braised ornada and spiced saltrice being prepped. Which made him realize he was getting pretty hungry, and that it was time to head home.</p><p>It was a clear early evening, a band of stars shining faintly in the east as the sun sank low in the west. The roar of the big cliffside waterfalls, Andothren’s claim to fame, filled the air. The place reminded Maiko of Balmora in a lot of ways: same blocky adobe buildings, same marketplace buzz.</p><p>He’d heard that Red Year had fried Andothren, even though it was on the mainland. Great House Sadras had fixed it up. Sadras wasn't much different from Hlaalu; knew how to throw money around for a show. And a show was all it was. There was nothing but miles of ashen devastation once you got past the city and the farms surrounding it. Air was still bad too, and Maiko didn’t like to think what it might be doing to his lungs, or to his family’s.</p><p>One big difference from Balmora: a lot of times, Maiko was the only outlander in sight. Dunmer stared at him as he passed, and only the Great House Sadras badge on his shirt kept them from saying what they actually thought about him.</p><p>But home and dinner awaited. No point in sulking.</p><p>“I’m home!” he said, once he arrived.</p><p>Marcus, eight years old, four feet tall, and full of energy, bounded up and hugged him. Maiko grabbed him under the arms and lifted him up, gave him a little spin (not as much as he used to, Marcus was too big), and then put him down.</p><p>“Good timing, dinner’s almost ready!”</p><p>The voice of Caelia, his wife, came from the kitchen along with all the right smells: steamed saltrice and grilled fish. Better than he’d ever eaten in the legion.</p><p>At dinner, in a cramped little adobe room barely big enough for the three of them, Maiko could forget all his troubles.</p><p>The troubles came back later, though, as he lay in bed with Caelia.</p><p>“Marcus wants to go to Cyrodiil someday,” she said.</p><p>Maiko nodded in the darkness and stretched his arms back against the wall. “Maybe he can. I don’t think anyone there still cares about me.”</p><p>“What if they do still care?” her voice was completely level, like it always was when she was scared of something.</p><p>He didn’t say anything for a bit. “Serjo Dravaal’s a good man. He can find a place for Marcus here in Morrowind.”</p><p>“I know. It’s lonely for him here.”</p><p>“It’s lonely for all of us.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I chose wrong, Caelia, I—”</p><p>“No, don’t say sorry. You couldn’t have known. I thought the same thing too, so I’m just as much at fault.”</p><p>When Emperor Thules had called the legions to defend the Imperial City against the rebel Titus Mede, Maiko had readied his unit and marched.</p><p>But the rebels won.</p><p>Maiko knew Thules wasn’t any good as an emperor, but an officer didn’t disobey orders. Besides, Cyrodiil already had too many crackpot warlords running around and causing trouble. No reason to think Titus was any better.</p><p>When it was over, Maiko had fled to Morrowind with Caelia and Marcus. They were safe enough with the Dunmer. Emperor Titus Mede had purged everyone too close to Thules. Had Maiko been close? Not really, he’d only been a captain. But he didn’t want to take that chance, not when his family needed him.</p><p>“I’ve heard there are some other veterans in Kragenmoor,” he said. “Guys like me who served under Thules. Maybe they can give me the lay of the land back in Cyrodiil.”</p><p>“I guess. We can always stay in Morrowind.”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Maiko said. “Absolutely.”</p><p>He hoped his son would feel the same way in ten years.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Andra Golden-handed (and Kavon)</strong></p><p><strong>27<sup>th</sup> of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 33 – Haimtir Village, Skyrim Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)</strong></p><p> Andra, sometimes called Golden-handed, used to hate rainy days. Rain meant rats fleeing drains, and the trash of Labor Town stinking worse than it usually did.</p><p>Out here on the Druadach Highlands, tucked away in southwestern Skyrim, it was a different story. Rain meant life. As the clouds emptied their contents onto the gray-green grass, she could smell the seeds breaking open in the thin soil and sending out little green shoots that’d help ensure another year for Haimtir.</p><p>It was hard to tell the ground from the sky on days like this where cloud and water, gray and green all tumbled together. She looked out at it a little while longer before going back into the conical, straw-roofed common hut. Warmth flowed through her aged bones the moment she did, and she walked across the dirt floor to take a seat by the fire where her ledger for the year so far—a scroll of wormmouth hide weighed down by a few rocks—awaited her. Other villagers, usually on the older side, labored at their own crafts: woodworking, mending, and others.</p><p>Andra had never been much of a thief, really. But she knew numbers and organization, and so the Thieves Guild had found her useful. So too did Haimtir. Most folk were Reachmen like her, but they’d survived by being open, counting Redguards, Nords, Bretons, and others among their number. Anyone who worked was welcome.</p><p>Andra worked. She kept close track of the tribe’s resources—food and hides and ever-meager coin—and made the most of what little they had. And so it was that as jarls raged and the Empire trembled, little Haimtir survived. Not easily, and not without sacrifice. But survival was never easy.</p><p>She squinted her eyes as she compared this month’s earnings to the last. Glasses, like the ones Daria had worn (she idly wondered if Daria had escaped Red Year), would be useful. But such things did not exist on the lonely mesas of Druadach.</p><p>It was mid-afternoon, still gray and pleasantly dreary, when new voices entered the smoky room. Some light and lively, those of children. The other heavier and with an unmistakable Dunmer rasp, but somehow still child-like.</p><p>Andra glanced up to see Kavon step inside, his daughter Dragheda (whose fine features and slightly grayish skin showed her mixed heritage), and a few of her friends following close behind, all soaked but with bright smiles on their grubby faces.</p><p>“Hey, Andra! So, uh, Dragheda’s done all her chores and she wanted to hear that story about how we escaped from the jail that one time.”</p><p>Andra smiled. Balmora had always been too complicated a place for someone like Kavon. Haimtir suited him better. In fact, he suited Haimtir. Kavon was a formidable fighter so long as he had good leadership, a fact he’d proven more than a few times in the bloody decades after Red Year.</p><p>Haimtir was peaceful. But it couldn’t afford to be weak.</p><p>“Come on, Dragheda,” Andra said. “Don’t you want to let your dad tell the story for once? He’s the warrior.”</p><p>Dragheda shrugged. “But you’re the storyteller.”</p><p>The rest of the kids murmured their assent.</p><p>“Yeah, I always get the details mixed up. You’re way better at this kind of thing,” Kavon said, sitting down cross-legged before her, his eyes wide and smile guileless.</p><p>Sometimes Andra felt a bit guilty. She’d tricked Kavon during a heist, years and years ago, costing him his job. They’d ended up in the same cell not long after and, upon breaking free, made the long journey west across a dying Empire together. It hadn’t been an easy experience for either of them.</p><p>But he’d have likely died in Red Year if he’d stayed. Best case scenario, he’d live long enough for one great house or another to use him up and cast him aside. In Haimtir, he had friends. He’d started a family. His kids would be Reachmen, not Dunmer, but nobody—Kavon least of all—was bothered by that fact.</p><p>“Okay. Andra leaned in close so that her pale, wrinkled face would fill their vision. “There we were: me, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, and Kavon, the only guard in all Balmora with a hero’s heart. And what did they do with us? They put us in a dank dirty cell, one so foul that not even a rat would go inside!”</p><p>“Wait,” Kavon said. I’m pretty sure I saw a few rats in there—”</p><p>“Hush!” Andra ordered.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong>Synda Larethor, nee Grilvayn</strong></p><p><strong>11<sup>th</sup> of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 50 – Camlorn, High Rock Province, the Third Empire (Mede Dynasty)</strong></p><p>Synda used to hate snow.</p><p>She still didn’t love it. The stuff turned black and dirty soon after falling between the dagger-roofed shops and houses of old Camlorn. But there was always that moment when it first fell from the gray skies, the white flakes dancing on the Eltheric Ocean’s icy winds, that made this bleak and alien land feel like a place of enchantment.</p><p>Wrapped up in purple cloak and a high-necked blue dress of coarse wool, Synda walked along the city’s icy streets with her hands in her sleeves, her steps swift and sure. With her walked her son, Revyn, nine years of age and the most perfect Mer she’d ever seen, clearly Dunmer but his gray skin possessing the everlasting glow of Aelcaro, his Cyrodiil-raised Altmer father.</p><p>The father to whom they were paying their respects that day, three years after he’d drowned trying to save a neighbor from the same fate. He’d left them enough to support themselves. Synda’s general goods store did a tidy business even if it did not exactly thrive.</p><p>They reached the graveyard soon enough, the markers like grim sentinels on the frozen ground. She wanted to grab Revyn’s hand, but she let him walk on his own as a boy his age ought.</p><p>A simple stone stood above her husband’s grave. It fit his style, simple and direct, like the humans with whom he’d spent so much time. She’d never found the grave worthy of him, but it was too late to criticize.</p><p>Bending down, she placed the lilies she’d purchased from Oudrienne, the flower-seller, upon the cold earth. Lilies were not suitable flowers for him. They were garish and overdone, like so much in High Rock. He’d be better honored by coda flowers and black roses, but those were out of her reach.</p><p>She did not allow herself to cry as she imagined taking Aelcaro by his golden hand to see the beauty of her homeland in its prime, that vast garden grown from ash and salt by the bloodied hands of her ancestors. There they’d raise Revyn up high on their shoulders so he could see his heritage and know the strength within him, and honor the three gods whom she <em>knew</em> still reigned, no matter what the New Temple said.</p><p>So much of that now buried under the same ash from which it had grown.</p><p>Synda had confessed her shame to Aelcaro. He forgave her since he did not understand the gravity of her sins, and she loved him for that. With him gone, and her parents likely dead, she was truly free.</p><p>“I miss dad,” Revyn said.</p><p>“As do I.”</p><p>Revyn sniffled, and Synda glanced down at her son. “He would want you to be strong,” she said.</p><p>In truth, Aelcaro had always indulged Revyn with his ready smile and silver laugh. He left it to Synda to be stern, for that came naturally. But Revyn needed to be strong, and it’d be easier for him if he believed that’s what his father had wanted.</p><p>Revyn cried often. Such a trait promised a grim future for a Dunmer boy in a city of humans.</p><p>“Control yourself,” she warned, and hating herself for being so harsh.</p><p>“Why did he have to—”</p><p>“I don’t know,” she said. “The world is a cruel place.”</p><p>And it was. She’d seen it over and over again, in Morrowind, in Skyrim, in Cyrodiil, and in High Rock. Aelcaro had been the exception, not the rule.</p><p>“I wish it wasn’t,” he said.</p><p>She refused to let her tears flow.</p><p>“As do I.” She knelt down next to him, wanting to hold him close but fearing that’d ruin her lesson. “I promise I’ll never be cruel to you, no matter what. But please be strong, for my sake and yours.”</p><p>“I’ll do my best,” he vowed in a trembling voice.</p><p>She knew he’d fail. Because <em>no one</em> was ready for the world’s cruelty.</p><p>But she’d be there for Revyn when he stumbled.</p><p><a href="https://theskyforge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/bad-day-in-balmora-part-2-daria-in-morrowind-episode-31-5" target="_blank">Episode 31: Bad Day in Balmora, Part 2</a> | <a href="https://theskyforge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/daria-in-morrowind-table-of-contents?edited=1" target="_blank">Table of Contents</a> | <a href="https://theskyforge.ning.com/groups/the-story-corner/general-forum/a-c0da-to-live-by-part-2-daria-in-morrowind-episode-32-5-finale" target="_blank">Episode 32: A c0da to Live By, Part 2</a></p></div>