For those who may not know (which is likely most everyone), I wrote a couple of stories about Morrowind some time ago. They were called "The Story of Trey" and "Trey in Mournhold". What follows is the first part of the sequel to those stories. It can be read on its own, but a knowledge of some of the players can be found in the previous tales. I thought about reposting them, but given that they run 287 and 173 pages respectively, I decided that might be considered spamming. In any event, for those who are interested, the earlier stories can be found at Chorrol.com (thanks Alexander). One other note, in spite of my usual strictness about the lore, this story assumes that the events of Oblivion either do not take place or perhaps take place later than canon. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new adventure.

Prologue

"But sir, if you would only give me a little more time, I am certain you would be interested in my proposition."

"The answer is still 'No', Mr. Beauchamp. I have no desire to listen to anything you have to say. You may leave now."

"If I gave offense by my earlier remarks, I apologize. It is simply that one sometimes hears things?. I know that financial remuneration is not important to you, but I thought that perhaps the spirit of adventure might be enough to entice you."


"Mr. Beauchamp, I have everything I need right here. My family is here, my home is here, my life is here. I have no interest in the 'spirit of adventure'. I have found that 'adventure' is simply another way of saying 'a desperate attempt to survive the situation in which one has stupidly placed oneself'. You will leave now. That is not a request."

I heard the front door open and close with a finality that punctuated those last words. Then another voice spoke up:

"Weren't you perhaps a bit hard on him, dear?"

The response was a growl:

"You heard what he said as well as I did- '?your well-known talent for getting into and out of tight places?.' He called me a thief, is what he did."

"Well, yes, but after all, you were a thief, you know. And he did come to you directly, not lurking behind some intermediary."

"Perhaps I used to be a thief, but I hoped I had put all that behind me. And besides, he came to me arrogantly and rudely, just is if he were a bloody Imperial, instead of a fellow Breton."

"A 'bloody Imperial?' " I could envision the raised eyebrow that accompanied that innocent question.

The voices moved away to another part of the house, and I could not make out the muttered words that I was sure were an apology. But that wasn't important; I had already heard everything I needed to know. I had a name now and a goal. Louis Beauchamp- and Solstheim!

Leaving home is rarely easy, or at least so I have heard. But I felt as if I had to, as if I was slowly smothering. If I was going to do the things I wanted to do, I must get away. There were places I wanted to explore- places he had never been. How typical of him to disparage the idea of adventure- after he had lived the kind of life others only dreamed of! And then to just?stop. As if he could pretend that none of it had ever happened if he did not speak of it. But others spoke of it- oh yes. Louis Beauchamp certainly had that right- one did “hear things”. It was easy enough to tell others that the meat was no good when you had eaten your fill. I had tasted nothing but the scraps of someone else's greatness for my whole life and I could stand it no longer. I would leave that very night- but not for Solstheim, at least not yet. It would not do to arrive in that far place as a penniless beggar. Although we were comfortable, and never wanted for the necessities, money was not given to me in any quantity. And though I knew the location of the family treasury well enough, I would not steal. I would not be named a thief, no matter who my father was.

Once the house had quieted, I gathered a small pack of clothing, the few coins that were my own, and a well-worn quarterstaff. How I longed for a bright blade to hang at my side! How could a ready fellow such as I set off on a grand adventure without a trusty sword? But of course I had never been trained in the use of swords, and I recalled the answer when I asked:

"Violence is the result of a mistake. If you avoid mistakes, you can avoid fights. A good walking stick will serve you better. Anything that cannot be dealt with by a sharp rap on the snout is best avoided."

As if I had never seen the scars that marked his body, never heard the stories that everyone knew by heart, never gazed at the virtual armory hidden throughout the house.

Most of the hidden weapons appeared to be no more than well-used examples of the crafter's art?. But some of them seemed to? whisper among themselves and to move of their own volition. I know it sounds foolish, the overheated imagining of a child, but I swear it is true. He had never gotten those swords or those scars sitting in front of the fire, reading books. And yet, when he went to the cornerclub for a solitary drink, and the other men related their exploits, he said nothing. Instead, he simply sat in the shadows with a glass of wine. Even so, if ever a stranger came through and became too loud or boastful, someone would nod toward the quiet figure in the corner and whisper a few words. And then the braggart would fall silent, perhaps even turn a bit pale.

All of these thoughts and more tumbled through my head as I waited in the pre-dawn darkness for the silt-strider to arrive. Perhaps it was foolish to use such a public means of transport, but I wanted distance. And going to Balmora first would help throw off any pursuit. In any event, I doubted that there would be much concern, at least not for several days. When the strider driver saw me waiting, he grinned and said,

"Going on a trip are ye, young sir? I'll have you in Balmora before you know it. Just sit back and relax."

He waved away my offered fare with a jovial snort.

"Oh, no charge for you, young sir. Get yourself on up and we'll be on our way."

I took his generosity with bad grace, because I knew that it was not for my own sake that I did not have to pay my passage. I was nobody, nothing- just another who stood in the great man's shadow. He was the hero of the age- everyone said so. Books and ballads had been written about him. And why not? After all, he was Trey of High Rock, Nerevar Reborn, savior of Vvardenfell. And I was his son.

I've read them, this is a nice continuation

I've read both of your works and I enjoyed both of them. I'm looking forward to this new story, and the continuation(in a way) of Trey the flower thief!

Interlude 1

From a broadsheet posted throughout the Vvardenfell District, late in the 3E.

Dagoth Ur may be dead, but there is still work to be done. If you are a young individual in reasonably good health and with a clean record, the Imperial Legion would like to speak with you! We offer good pay, plenty of food, free equipment, and the best training available anywhere in the Empire.

People looking for a quiet life need not apply! We are engaged in the vigorous suppression of bandits, smugglers, and cultists all over the island. You will work hard, but you can proudly call yourself a member of an elite fighting force. The Emperor and all true citizens of the Empire will appreciate your dedication and commitment. And of course everyone knows how the ladies feel about a man in uniform!

For additional information, speak to any Legion officer. Preferment and rapid advancement are available to those of Imperial heritage.

DO NOT WAIT! SIGN UP TODAY AND START THE LAST JOB YOU WILL EVER NEED!

Text of a private notice circulated to tradehouses, cornerclubs, and taverns of Vvardenfell:

Reward! Seeking information on the whereabouts of Athlain, former resident of Bal Isra. He is not to be harmed or hindered, but a generous reward will be paid for reliable information on his whereabouts. Athlain is 19 years old, with Imperial features. He is tall and slender, with brown hair and blue eyes. He has no scars or other distinguishing marks. He may seek training in the use of armor and weapons. He is an accomplished alchemist, a persuasive speaker, and writes a fair hand. Please report any sightings or additional information to Indarys Manor or to the Ald Skar Inn at Ald'ruhn. To repeat- allow him to go his way without hindrance. Payment guaranteed for reliable information!

Chapter 1

As always, Balmora was a welcome relief after the dusty heat of Ald'ruhn and Bal Isra. Even though the Blight was over 20 years in the past, the reclamation of Vvardenfell progressed slowly, measured in inches rather than acres. As I listened to the cheerful sound of the Odai River running through the town, I recalled the few occasions I had asked why we did not live in Balmora. The answer had depended on Father's mood: when he was in the midst of one of his black depressions, he simply scowled and spat out one word- "Hlaalu"- as if it was the vilest curse he knew. If he was feeling more talkative, his answer was almost as obscure. He would wave a hand at the walls of Indarys Manor and say, "My honor built this house, my honor and my blood. I earned this place, and here I will stay." Whenever he spoke that way, Mother would simply shake her head and say, "Redoran" with a smile. And though we lived amongst the arid ridges and gray ravines of ash and stone, she continued to paint the green trees and blue waters of her home in Cyrodiil. And she made no complaint about the ash and the wind, just tended her garden with that same mysterious smile. When I plaintively asked her how she could live in such a place, she again answered with a single word- "love". It made no sense to me and I wondered if everyone who had lived through the Blight was infected with some form of madness.

My unsatisfactory thoughts carried me to the Eight Plates, where I had a light meal of scrib and kwama eggs. I had been thankfully left alone, although I had felt the eyes of the other patrons upon me throughout the meal. The illusion of anonymity was completely shattered when I reached for my purse to pay and the proprietress glared at me with an offended sniff. She placed her hands on her hips and drew herself up.

"As if I would take a penny from Trey's son. Why I recall the time he sang for his supper in this very room, before he became famous and all! Didn't have such a bad voice, though it cracked a bit on some of the notes, he was that young."

She smiled then, gazing at a memory only she could see. And the meal sat in my belly like a greasy lump of ash. I felt my face flush and my teeth grind at the sound of those never-sufficiently-to-be-damned syllables- "Trey's son," spoken as if they were a single word. As if that was my name and all of my name. As if I had no existence independent of him, as if my sole function was to remind people of his greatness. How I longed to scream at her: "I have a name! I am Athlain! I have a name!" But I did nothing, simply sat and endured her addled maundering about a man I did not know. At last, she left me to take care of her other customers and I was able to slip away.

I found a quiet corner of the wall and wrote a brief note which I sealed and addressed to:

Louis Beauchamp
Ald Skar Inn
Ald'ruhn

The contents were simple and (I hoped) enough to keep the fretful Breton from engaging anyone else for the moment. The note said:

"Do nothing until you hear from me. Plans in support of your enterprise are under way. The sign by which you will know me is 'airship.'

A Friend"

I dropped the note, along with a half-septim, at the bar of the South Wall Club. They would see that the message traveled with the silt-strider back to the Redoran village while I went a different way. Up until now, I had been using the striders myself, as much for the speed of travel as the comfort. But now I would go on foot. The idea would be that, for all anyone knew, I came to Balmora and dropped off the face of Nirn. There were a number of trails out of town, and I doubted that anyone would remember one more cloaked figure disappearing during the darkness of early evening. It would have been pleasant to sleep in a bed, but I was used to camping, and did not want anyone else refusing my money while they told me how wonderful my father was. The trail I took followed the Odai River and took me all the way to the coast. Once there, I turned south and east, toward the sleepy fishing village of Seyda Neen.

The several days I spent on the trail to Seyda Neen were remarkably pleasant. I could have made the journey in a single day without difficulty, but I savored the solitude. I also spent the time productively, gathering various plants and preparing potions. Even though the activities and odors of alchemy reminded me of Father, the memories were calming rather than annoying. He had always encouraged my efforts with remarkable patience and never raised his voice, even when I accidentally brewed concoctions whose noxious vapors drove us all out of the house. But my work on the trip to the coast had a more serious purpose than mere nostalgia- I wanted to earn some money- for myself?and for other reasons. I tried to focus my efforts on those potions that would find a ready market in a fishing village, so I prepared water-walking mixtures, along with some that restored fatigue. The time alone seemed all too short, but I knew that Vvardenfell was not so large that I could afford to loiter in one place for very long. Civilization, or at least Seyda Neen, called to me, with the prospect of a fresh start and the possibility of making a name for myself through my own efforts.

Seyda Neen may seem a peculiar choice for someone who hoped to lose himself, but I knew that it was still the main port of entry to Vvardenfell. Unlike most of the other coast towns, it was controlled by the Empire, rather than by a Great House. That being so, one more anonymously cloaked Imperial seeking information and supplies would not cause any comment. I hoped. What I most needed to know about was Solstheim and how to get there. If possible, I hoped to have some sort of employment or sponsorship before I reached the northern island, as that would provide official standing and a source of income. And income was going to be a major issue for me sooner rather than later. Upon reaching the fishing village, I realized that there was another reason for haste, one I had not counted on- if I did not leave soon, the fetid stench of the place would likely bring me to my knees. Thus the cloth I held to my nose was as much to protect me from the fishy air as to conceal my features.

But another odor, that of potent Dunmer beverages (and the sound of enthusiastic if off-key singing), led me to the tradehouse, the most promising source of information. The bartender was an Argonian, who showed his pointed teeth in a most unnerving smile. His voice was a pleasant rumble though, as he inquired,

"How may I help, Cyrodiil?"

I laid one of my few coins on the bar and ordered a mug of matze. When he placed the drink before me and reached for the gold piece, I added a second and asked,

"What have you heard about Solstheim?"

He paused for a long moment, giving me a peculiar sidelong stare from his reptilian eyes. It was almost as if he recognized me- or planned to be sure he could do so in the future. But then he responded to my question and I focused my concentration on his answer and put my paranoia aside.

"It is a cold place, with water that never melts. How can one swim in water that never melts? I prefer the Bitter Coast, with its wonderful heat and humidity."

He blinked slowly, then continued,

"There are two ways to make money there- well, two legal ways. Young sir could join the East Empire Company- if he has influence with the Duke?.?

When I made no response, he shrugged elaborately and concluded,

"There is always the Legion. They constantly seek recruits and do not ask too many questions. Fort Darius is the place to go; at least so one hears."

He pushed forward a broadsheet that had obviously been used as a place mat- but I could still make out phrases regarding "good pay" and "free equipment." This was an opportunity that merited some serious thought. I could not help but recall another of Father's "lessons in reality." I had made the mistake of speaking admiringly of group of free adventurers who had stopped in at Ald'ruhn for a brief visit. Father shook his head and assumed his "explaining this for your own good" tone.

He said, "The problem with the life of a 'free adventurer' is that you soon discover there is very little about it that is truly free. I know you have heard and read a great many stories, but let me warn you: once you separate out the wildly impossible, the highly unlikely, and the graphically obscene; what it boils down to is this- adventuring costs money. To make a go of it out in the wilderness requires food, armor, and weapons- not to mention the potions for the times when the armor and weapons aren't enough?."

He went on for some time in that vein, and I nodded every so often, just as if I was really paying attention.

Supposing that there was some truth to what he was saying, and that it wasn't all purposely skewed to "keep little Athlain safe at home," joining the Legion would neatly counter all of those arguments. They provided armor and weapons. Better still, they would train me in the use of those things. And then there was the added bonus of Father's reaction when he heard that I had joined the Legion. It would almost be worth going home to tell him myself?.

One of my purposes in the town had been accomplished- I had learned that the most likely route to Solstheim was through enlistment in the Imperial Legion. The prospect of service in the Empire's military was attractive to me; despite my father's prejudice, I had known at least one person who had risen to high rank in the Legion. I could envision myself in the silver cuirass and red cape of an officer- and surely I would be able to achieve that status fairly quickly. But before I took that first step, I needed to make some preparations. Louis Beauchamp had almost certainly received my note by now, and I would have to follow up soon. The fact that he had been desperate enough to risk Father's anger told me that the Breton speculator was hard-pressed indeed. Therefore, I made my way down the steps of the tradehouse to see what I could get for my potions.

My ability to make friends easily and my knowledge of the value of trade goods served me well- I was able to amass a reasonable stack of coins with little effort. They made a pleasant sight on the counter, but I knew that the money was only a means to an end. I left them standing while I looked over the stock. The only swords available were iron, and rusty iron at that- the salty coastal air was not kind to that particular material. Even my untrained eye could tell that those weapons were little better than scrap- more suited to bludgeoning an opponent than actual fencing. I lingered longer over the chitin armor, but again let it pass. Though I rather liked the look of the smooth, cream-colored material, I knew that a relatively complete set would have considerable weight, not to mention the cost. I had almost given up when a dull gleam amongst the rusty relics caught my eye. I reached in with a hand that almost shook with anticipation, not daring to believe my good fortune. But when my fingers grasped the richly engraved surface, I knew that I had been right. What I drew out of the trash was a silver quarter staff, marked with runes of protection and abjuration. The weapon did not have any magical properties beyond those inherent in the silver plating, but that was enough. To my delight, the head of the staff was cast into the likeness of a dragon, symbol of the Septim dynasty and the Empire. I took that as a sign that at least someone looked upon my endeavors with favor.

After some intense negotiations, I turned over most of my earnings from alchemy and walked out with the silver staff. The weapon was a necessity if I was going to implement the next part of my plan. I still needed to amass a substantial amount of money, and alchemy was too slow and uncertain a way to do that. Instead, I was going to enter some of the numerous caves and tombs scattered all along the Bitter Coast. I would do my best to avoid the smugglers and bandits themselves, but I would appropriate their loot and turn it in for whatever bounty I could command. In a way, I would be working for the Legion before I even enlisted, at least as far as the outlaw dens were concerned. The part of my scheme that required the silver staff, the tombs, was a bit more problematic. I had mixed feelings about entering the ancient burial places, but not because of any superstitious fear of the dead. My problem was a moral one. I knew that people often left valuable items in tombs- as offerings, as memorials, and sometimes simply to take advantage of the protection offered by the eldritch guardians. And if I took something from a tomb, it seemed as if I would be robbing the dead- a dishonorable act and not the sort of behavior a true knight would engage in. On the other hand, the ghosts and skeleton guardians that infested the tombs were products of necromancy, a foul practice that was surely an even more serious trespass against the dead than merely taking items from the graves. In fact, I would be doing the tormented spirits a favor by releasing them from their unnatural bonds of servitude and allowing them to rest at last. And, even though grave dust and bonemeal had alchemical properties, I would be sure not to disturb the remains of those interred in the tombs. At that point in my reverie, a crescendo in the singing from the tavern above, followed by a gust of laughter, broke my train of thought and sent my mind down another path. The laughter reminded me of a happier time, a time when I knew that my father was a giant who strode the Mundus.

It was a party. My party. It was my birthday and I was seven years old. A number of my friends were there, some who were elf children and others who were not. We made no distinctions based on race, but divided more along lines of gender. When you are a seven-year-old boy, you are certain that girls are from an alien species and probably carry horrible diseases. A great many advlts had come too- my "aunts and uncles" as we called them, even though none were blood relations. But these were people whose ties were closer than family, for they had all come through the dark times of Dagoth Ur and the Blight. Children in Vvardenfell were still a miracle, and a birthday party was a first-rate excuse to get together and celebrate. Athyn Sarethi, for whom I had been named, was there, as was Serene. Other Redoran councilors and House members also made courtesy calls. Others came too, from farther away. Most startling were the Urshilaku, wearing feathered capes and bone necklaces. They were a solemn people who spoke little, but bowed low to my father and looked long upon me and the other children. But I paid little attention to the advlts, not really knowing the difference between a Councilor and a steward, and caring even less.

Somehow, Father had managed to find a small, tame guar and had crafted a saddle and bridle for it. With a grin he picked me up and said,

"If we can't have horses here, we'll just make our own. Give him a go, son."

Despite Mother's doubtful look, he placed me carefully in the saddle and stepped back. The guar took no notice of my additional weight, but instead munched contentedly on the branches of a scathecraw growing in the yard. That was a tricky business, as the plant was more thorns than anything else. The young guar suddenly discovered that fact, as one of the wicked barbs pierced his sensitive purple tongue. With a bellow of surprise, he began to leap about, shaking his head violently in an attempt to dislodge the thorn. Considering that I had never ridden anything more lively than a silt-strider, I managed to hold on for an impressive few seconds. However, the beast gave a sideways jump, followed by an attempt to duck his head between his hind legs which sent me sailing. I knew that a bad fall onto the hard ground was coming. But then, two strong hands plucked me out of the air and held me close. Somehow, my father had seen what was happening and stayed close enough to catch me. He hugged me to his chest and murmured,

"It's all right, Athlain. I've got you."

He then let go with one hand and laid it on the guar, calming it instantly. I felt a flow of healing magic jump from him to the creature, which made a happy sound and butted him playfully. In that moment, I knew that my father could do anything.

I already commented at Chorrol. Good stuff, man...

Yes, my father could do anything- or so it seemed. But as I grew older, doubt began to creep in. It appeared that he actually did? nothing. Other parents were warriors or priests, explorers or councilors. They sailed the seas or traveled to distant lands. My father mostly stayed at home, only venturing as far as Ald'ruhn or perhaps Balmora. When each of my sisters was born, he disappeared for several days, gone to Tel Fyr, so my mother said. When I was small, it was a blessing that he was always there to read to me or to call for my assistance with his alchemy. But he didn't seem to do anything, except read books or scratch away in his journal. Even the alchemy became tiresome after a time, for he simply gave the resultant potions away- often to visiting Ashlanders. We had many visitors, who greeted Father with respect and often affection. Many of them were clearly warriors or perhaps even rogues- their faces were maps of adventure. They would stay for an hour or a day and then disappear back into the wider world, leaving me with a colored stone or a carving or a mechanical toy of a sort never seen before in Vvardenfell. And Father would wish them well and return to his books. Although we had many visitors, strangers were not welcome at Indarys Manor. In fact, on more than one occasion, I saw my father's hand reach for a sword that no longer hung at his side. He never said anything to me about those moments, but would go into a dark silence that might last for days at a time. He would look off toward the southeast at something only he could see. Mother's quiet words generally brought him around, but sometimes it took a visit from Serene or Uncle Athyn to restore Father's good humor.

As fascinating as those memories were, they brought me no closer to my purpose. Therefore, I cleared my head of those melancholy thoughts and made my way out of Seyda Neen, going north along the coast. Not far from town, I came upon a curious sight, one that made me wonder. A monument in the Imperial style had been erected on a lonely spit of land that was otherwise indistinguishable from the rest of the Bitter Coast. Unfortunately, it had been vandalized to the point that it was impossible to tell what hero or event it commemorated. I could only make out the words "Processus" and "?gave his life?." The monument and even the vandalism appeared to be at least ten or a dozen years old; but it was clear that at least one person still cared- fresh coda flowers adorned the stone.

The neglected memorial preoccupied me, but not so much that I passed up the opportunity to bash a few mudcrabs and extract the meat. When raw, it has an unpleasant taste, but it can be cooked with draggle-tail or bittergreen to make a tasty stew. I took care to stay out of the water, for I frequently saw the razor-sharp fins and sinuous bodies of slaughter fish in the shallows. Fortunately, no larger beasts appeared, and I soon saw the shape of a Velothi arch that indicated the presence of a tomb. Part of my schooling had included a study of Aldmeris, and so I was able to determine that this was the Samarys burial. The name itself meant nothing to me- if the family had once been prominent, they had since disappeared into the mists of time. And, to be honest, I was indifferent to their status. What interested me was a chance to test my skills against the guardian spirits and perhaps acquire some saleable items. I did take note that there were no footprints of either men or elves in the mud around the entry, and that was encouraging. Although I was willing to confront smugglers or other outlaws, I would prefer to avoid them, at least until I had better training and equipment.
I looked at the tomb entry uncertainly. Beyond the mudcrabs and a few kwama foragers, I had never actually fought anything before. Certainly not anything that had real potential to harm me. I dried my damp palms on my shirt and grasped the staff firmly, then opened the door. All I saw was a hallway sloping downward to a second, dimly-lighted door. I drew a shaky breath and moved down the passage. As I neared the door, I seemed to hear the sound of bone scraping across the stone floor and perhaps some sort of labored breathing. That was silly- undead creatures had no lungs, nor any need to breathe. The asthmatic wheezing sound was probably just the movement of air around an ill-fitting door. Probably. The hair on the back of my neck bristled and I suddenly wished that my birth sign had been the Ritual instead of the Lady. Having the power to drive undead away would have been rather... comforting. But that would probably have required something else I lacked- faith in the gods. Better far to trust in my wits, my weapons, and the strength of my muscles than the chancy attention of indifferent deities. With my scorn for the gods as a shield, I pushed open the door.

A spectral figure appeared at the far end of the burial chamber, bearing the aspect of a skeletal being in tattered funeral vestments. At the same moment that it sensed my presence, I recognized it as an ancestor ghost. I was glad of the silver staff I held, for ordinary weapons would have passed harmlessly through the insubstantial ghost. A quick thrust, followed by a backward step, blunted the spirit's initial rush, and I braced for the counter attack. Clawed hands reached for my throat and I swatted away one- but not the other. A terrible chill wracked my body as the claws scored my neck. I swept the staff back and forth in front of me as if I was batting away spider webs. The resultant blows were weak, but the silver seemed to burn the ghost and it recoiled. After a few more thrusts and overhand smashes, the ghost dissolved into a pile of dust. As I rested from the fight, I surveyed the chamber. A few burial urns stood on funeral plinths, and a scroll that glittered with enchantment lay upon the floor. The only other items of interest were a few alchemy ingredients. I collected those and the scroll, which I decided to examine later, in safer surroundings. The passage made a turn, leading to another small chamber, complete with a shrine to St. Veloth, more urns and a second magical scroll. There was also a door leading deeper into the tomb.

Despite my worries, no more ghosts waited beyond the door. I did find a rather weak Fortify Health potion and more urns, including one that actually carried an inscription. The markings indicated that the remains were those of one "Lord Brinne," but, true to my values, I left them undisturbed. That decision was made somewhat easier by the fact that I detected a magical trap on the container. Of more interest to me was a rough wooden chest, which bore similar markings to the urn. The fact that the chest was locked further convinced me that it probably contained the valuable goods of the deceased lord. I had no qualms about looting the chest, but I also had no hope of being able to force the lock. However, I had anticipated such a need and had therefore purchased a scroll with Ondusi's Unhinging from the tradehouse in Seyda Neen. The scroll worked as advertised- the lock opened with a satisfying "click" and I opened the lid to find- dust and cobwebs. My frustration quite overcame any pleasure I had taken in defeating the ghost- I had spent nearly 80 septims on that scroll and had nothing to show for it. So far, my money-making scheme was not going well at all. I had used one scroll in order to gain two, plus a cheap potion that I could have concocted myself. As I left the tomb in a foul humor, I seemed to hear an all-too-familiar voice going on and on about the "realities of being a free adventurer."

Frustration at my lack of success propelled me out of the tomb- propelled me a little too quickly, in fact. I had forgotten that the sea was just outside the entry, and splashed into it up to my knees. My ignominious dive was immediately remarked by a couple of slaughterfish, which greeted me with painful bites. As I flailed at the piscine vermin, I heard an ugly "crack" and my treasured silver staff broke in two. No wonder the trader had let it go so cheaply- it had probably been held together by no more than spit and spider webs. Clutching the pieces, I dashed back onto dry land with the fish snapping at my heels. I was in an ugly state of mind as I returned to Seyda Neen. The tiny fishing village was like quicksand- I seemed unable to break free from its grip. At first, I was determined to tear into the trader, but by the time I reached the tradehouse, better sense had prevailed. I knew it would be unwise to berate the only trader in the town- if I annoyed him sufficiently, he would refuse to deal with me. And there was no one else. Also, I had examined the pieces of the staff and realized that it was not a matter of sharp dealing, but rather the nature of the staff itself. To save weight (and expense), it was not solid silver, but rather a thin layer of the metal laid over a wooden shaft. It really wasn't designed for being slammed repeatedly into things with wild abandon. Besides all that, I did not want to make a scene that might cause me to be noticed.

When I inquired about the possibility of repairs, I received more bad news. The trader folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe and said,

"I am sorry, young sir, but there is no one in Seyda Neen who can craft or repair arms and armor. The nearest smith is in Pelegiad. Or you might take the silt strider to Balmora?."

The meeting with the trader was not completely fruitless, however. I persuaded him to sell me an iron mace and to teach me a fireball spell for a small amount of gold. The mace was an ugly thing, but it had the virtue of being extremely durable. And even though destructive magic was not my greatest proficiency, having the fire spell available would allow me to strike from a distance.

When I left the tradehouse, I did not immediately rush off to another tomb or cave. Instead, I sat on the dock and studied the waves as if they might have the answers I needed. Although I had a couple of goals in mind, so far I had simply been darting about in the brainless manner of a young cliff-racer. It was past time that I put my supposedly superior intelligence to work and made some definite plans. First, Seyda Neen was not a satisfactory base. Beyond the fact that it stank of fish, the village was so isolated that there were no real services. It was the sort of place that most people simply passed through on the way to anywhere else. Reluctantly, I decided that I must return to Balmora. That city had several advantages, including the fact that it was the seat of Hlaalu power. While I had no intention of asking for anything as dubious as Hlaalu protection, the tensions between that House and Redoran would prevent anything as overt as Father sending some Redoran guards to "escort" me home. Better still, Balmora had a Mages Guild house. At Mother's urging, I had joined the Mages Guild some years previously- my greatest skills were in the schools of magic. That being so, it was odd that my heart's desire was to be a swordsman rather than a battlemage. But, when I thought of the future, I imagined myself in the silvered armor of a Legion knight rather than the robes of a mage. Regardless of logic, regardless of my father's wishes, that was what I wanted. But in the interim, the Mages could provide me with supplies and even training. Another advantage was that most of the guild members would be too deeply involved in their own research to even notice me. Therefore, it was unlikely that they would report my presence back to Indarys Manor. As long as I did not use the Guild Guides for transport, things would probably be fine.

Rather than walk back to Balmora, I rode in comfort on the silt strider. It was a luxury, but one that I could afford- at least for now. Upon arrival, I went immediately to Meldor the armorer. I had heard that the Bosmer craftsman knew more about repairing wood than anyone else. What I hoped was that he would do more than simply repair the silver staff- I hoped that he would show me the way of it. Perhaps a true knight would have a squire to maintain his equipment, but for now, all I had was myself. When I presented the broken weapon and explained my need, the wood elf was doubtful.

"I don't know, Cyrodiil. Patching a staff is a tricky business. There will always be some weakness at the point of the repair. I suppose we could strip the silver off the original wood and plate a new staff??"

I shook my head.

"No, Meldor. If we do that, the power of the staff over undead and summoned creatures will be ruined. If you can show me how to keep the staff from breaking again, I would rather put it back together."

The Bosmer sighed and admitted that I was correct about the undead. He then produced a number of strips of wood, which he wound around the staff. Then he took me to the back of his shop, where a cauldron of peculiar liquid bubbled over a low fire. He looked at me closely and then said,

"This is the real secret of chitin and bonemold armor. I make a resin from certain plants and animals, which I then apply to the armor. It makes it strong but flexible. We are going to coat the wood strips on the staff with this same resin. It will take several days to dry, but the result should be all you ask for. I will also sell you some jars of resin you can use to maintain the repair. Actually, once the resin soaks in, the mended wood will be stronger than the rest."

I paid the smith and walked down the street to the Mages Guild. Although I did not know it at the time, a pair of very interested eyes followed my progress.

YES! A new story by Treydog! WOOHOO!

I've been waiting for this for a loooooong time. Good to see it finally up. I'll get to reading this pronto.

Thanks, Treydog!

The Balmora Mage's Guild was a pleasant diversion. They provided everything I needed to live- food, a bed, even stimulating classes in the schools of magic. I was able to pay my way by trading simple potions for lessons. It was odd- the mages could mix potions as easily as I, but they hated to take the time away from their "important research" -research that never seemed to actually yield any tangible results. But, since their intellectual snobbery was to my benefit, I made no complaint. And yet? it was just a diversion, a side path from the direction I wished to go. At the end of two weeks, I was ready to move on, to take the first decisive step in achieving my goal. Thus it was that, on a rainy Fredas morning, I walked out the south gate and up the hill to Fort Moonmoth.

Legion troops were much in evidence, and I felt stirrings of both pride and jealousy at the sight of their Imperial uniforms.

"Soon," I promised myself, "soon?."

The first officer I located explained that the only garrison that was recruiting was the Death's Head Legion at Fort Darius in Gnisis. He also mumbled something about "?smelly Orcs," but I was too anxious to embark on my new career to worry about that. Without delay, I boarded the silt-strider and reached the small outpost on the Samsi River in the early afternoon.

The crab-shell buildings of the town caused an unexpected twinge of homesickness- they reminded me strongly of Ald'ruhn and my home. But I ruthlessly suppressed the traitorous melancholy and examined the other structures. Besides the strider-port, there was a Dunmer Temple, a few homes and businesses, and the Velothi tower of Baladas Demnevanni. I had heard many stories of that rogue Telvanni, and vowed to stay far away from him. Although he had no reason to bear me or my family any ill will, the Telvanni rarely needed reasons for their actions. If anyone had the temerity to ask a Telvanni why he or she had done something, the only explanation likely to be forthcoming was,

"Because I felt like it."

Of course, that assumed that the response was not the even more probable fireball.

When I asked the strider driver about joining the Legion, he grunted and pointed toward the Madach Tradehouse. Then he elaborated in a rude tone,

"The General prefers to keep to himself, rather than mix with the troops. And he prefers to stay close to his 'supplies,' as well."

That last was accompanied by a crude gesture of someone swilling liquor. I thought to lecture the fellow on showing proper respect for his Imperial protectors, but decided that some folk were too ignorant to be educated. I satisfied myself with giving him the bare minimum gratuity for his services and gathered my belongings. I did not find it all that surprising that the commander of the Legion garrison would take quarters outside the barracks- after all, most high-ranking officers were nobles, and thus accustomed to better accommodations. And the "fort" was actually little more than a customs and inspection point for traffic along the road. It was somewhat disappointing not to be able to go to the Imperial City itself, but I supposed my career had to start somewhere.

The proprietor of the tradehouse directed me to the private rooms on the lower floor, and I was pleased to note that he did so without any slurs upon the commander's character. When I reached the basemant, I was a bit startled to encounter an Orc in Legion garb, but I drew myself up into what I imagined was the posture called "attention" and spoke:

"Sir, I would like to join the Imperial Legion and be of service to the Emperor."

The Orc gave me a disinterested look and growled,

"Yeah? And what's that to me, sonny? Does yer mother know yer out this late?"

I flushed red and began to stammer an explanation, which was cut short by a quiet voice from an interior room.

"Enough, Nash. There's no need to be rude to potential recruits."

I turned at the sound of the voice and beheld a man who was unmistakably a Legion officer. It was as much a matter of his bearing and steely gaze as the gold-washed armor that he wore. When I imagined a knight of the Imperial Legion, this man was just what I had pictured, right down to the graying hair at his temples. While I was examining him, he was doing the same to me. If he was favorably impressed, he concealed the fact without effort. His expression gave nothing away. Then, just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he asked,

"And what skills do you bring to the Legion? What are your talents?"

I desperately wanted to impress the general, but I knew better than to exaggerate. Therefore I admitted that my martial skills were limited, and that I was more conversant with magic than with weapons. Summoning all of my persuasiveness, I added,

"But I can learn, sir. Give me a chance and you won't be disappointed."

He continued his silent scrutiny of me and then spoke the words I had hoped to hear-

"Very well. I am General Darius, commander of this garrison. The Legion selects for endurance, the soldierly virtue; and personality, the citizen's virtue; for service in the Legion is the model for the duties of Imperial citizenship. As a trooper or knight, you must master the long blade, spear, and blunt weapons. You must block whatever blows you can, and take unblocked blows upon your heavy armor. The Legion recruit must also be athletic to evade, maneuver, and charge on the field of battle. You have potential that we should be able to develop."
He scribbled a note and handed it to me.

"Take this draft to the barracks to be sworn in and to draw your gear. After that, locate Senior Trooper Carbo. He will see to your training. Dismissed."

At last, I had achieved my dream. I was a member of the Imperial Legion.

Here Ends Chapter 1

Interlude the Second

Contents of a note delivered from an undisclosed location in Vvardenfell to the city of Mournhold:

The fledgling has left the nest. Resided in Balmora and now Gnisis. Awaiting further instructions.

Contents of a letter delivered to the Dark Brotherhood:

You and your subordinates will do NOTHING in regards to a certain recent Imperial Legion recruit. If this order is unclear, I will gladly direct my operatives to explain it to you- or your replacement.

H.

From the rolls of the Imperial Legion Garrison at Gnisis, Vvardenfell District:

Enrolled on this Sixth day of Sun's Height in the Death's Head Legion, Knight Protector Darius commanding- Athlain ap BariaTreyson.

Chapter 2

Although I had given my oath to General Darius, I would not formally become a recruit of the Imperial Legion until I had signed the roll. I hastened to the barracks to complete the process- and found that all was not as I had imagined. There was a huge contrast between the general and the trooper who enrolled me. He was a scruffy, unshaven individual, who constantly worked a wad of hackle-lo leaf from one jaw to the other. Some of the juice had dribbled into the whiskers on his chin. When I saluted, he waved a vague hand at me and then proffered the Legion register with a mumbled,

"Make yer mark, kid. 'Less yer havin' second thoughts?"

When I reached for the quill, he snickered,

"It's yer funeral, Bub."

Amongst the illegible scrawls and shaky "X's" I wrote my full name:

Athlain ap Baria Treyson

The trooper stared at the neat writing with bemusemant and then called over another rumpled Legionnaire. He pointed a grimy finger at my signature and said,

"Looka here, Troop. We got us officer material here. Look how pretty he writes! Is that right, boy? You figger yer officer material?"

This last was addressed to me, but I knew better than to respond. I could have told the lout that the Legion register was an official Imperial document and that it required my full name. I could have explained that I was named for Athyn Sarethi, for my mother and for my father. And I could have pointed out that the explosion of births following the passing of the Blight had necessitated schools- schools that my artist mother and writer/scholar/ warrior father had insisted I attend. But I did not. Some battles cannot be won- only endured. So I said nothing until they tired of their sport and directed me to the quartermaster to be outfitted.

That worthy proved to be a heavyset Breton with a face that had seen it all and liked none of it. He sized me up with a practiced eye and began pulling equipment from various racks and bins, all the while with a running commentary:

"Cuirass, chain mail, medium, slightly used, one each. Bloodstains will come out when you polish it. Greaves, steel, right and left, one each. Those go on your legs, right greave on the right leg, left greave on the left. Helmet, steel, one each. That's to preserve what few brains you may have left. Boots, steel, right and left, one each. You'll figure out which is which eventually. Spear, iron, one each. The pointy end goes toward the enemy; try not to put your eye out. Have a nice day."

I staggered to my bunk under the weight of the assorted iron and steel, feeling uncomfortably like an overloaded tinker's wagon. I consoled myself with the thought that the weight would feel less once I put everything on. Probably. I laid out all the rusty metal, noting that it bore little resemblance to the shining uniform of a Knight of the Legion. I poked a finger into the rents in the chain cuirass, rents that looked uncommonly like the marks of large, sharp teeth. Before I could pursue that line of thought further, a voice bellowed from behind me:

"Is the sun down, recruit? Did anyone tell you to go to bed? Did they tell you to put all this worthless junk on one of my nice, clean bunks? Well, did they?"

I whipped around to see a red-faced Imperial trooper glaring at me. As I tried to decide which question to answer first, he rolled his eyes skyward and intoned, as if to an uncaring god:

"Why do I always get the idiots? What have I done to get on General Darius' list?"

He brought his eyes back to focus on me. With a couple of quick movements, he dumped the armor and spear onto the floor. Then he glared at me again. In a low growl, he said,

"That is the bunk of an Imperial trooper. You are NOT an Imperial trooper. You are a recruit. You are lower than the stuff I wipe off my boots after walking in the guar pen. You have not earned a bunk. You will be an Imperial trooper when I decide that you are ready, however doubtful that outcome may be. Now grab that pile of junk and follow me, recruit."

:rofl: Man, that SO reminds me of Navy Boot Camp! You nailed the Drill Instructor part spot on there, Treydog. Good job. :goodjob:

Once we got outside the barracks, the angry Legionnaire continued to shout at me. As I juggled helmet, cuirass, greaves, and so on, he paced back and forth bellowing.

"Let's start out easy. Pull the chain mail cuirass over your head and put one arm through each arm hole. Try not to get lost inside of the armor. Now, put the helmet on your head. You can do that, I hope?"

When I managed that feat, he adopted a mockingly prayerful attitude and intoned,

"Oh, thank you, great Talos, for sending me a recruit who can locate his own head without needing both hands and a torch. I am truly grateful. Strap the greaves onto your legs and place your feet inside the boots."

Once the armor was secured to his satisfaction, he had me stand straight, with my chin tucked into my chest, while he walked slowly around me. At last he gave a heavy sigh and said,

"Well, you don't look completely like a sack of dung, so I guess that'll do. If you have not guessed yet, I am Trooper Carbo. The General, in his infinite wisdom, has placed you in my tender care. You will call me 'Trooper Carbo.' I will call you whatever it pleases me to call you."

He picked up the long iron spear and slapped it into my hands. He then resumed his pacing, shouting all the while:

"If you are fortunate, and manage not to do yourself a grievous injury in the following weeks, you may achieve the rank of Spearman. As you are a lowly recruit, and therefore too stupid to pour water out of a bucket with the instructions printed on the bottom, I will explain what that means. It means you will learn to use that spear. You will learn to love that spear. You will sleep with that spear, eat with that spear, and take it to the latrine with you. If I ever catch you without that spear, you will discover depths of misery you have never imagined. Do I make myself clear?"

I was so shocked that I just stood there, hands white-knuckled on the haft of the weapon.

Trooper Carbo leaned into my face and shouted,

"What, recruit? Are you mute? Or just stupid? I asked you a question- do I make myself clear?"

I squeaked, "Yes, Trooper Carbo," and he stepped back with another heavy sigh.

"According to the General, you have never worn armor, never used a spear or sword, and never been in a fight. I can see why the Legion was so anxious to acquire your talents. This is apparently a test of my ability to train someone who is completely useless. But perhaps it is barely possible that you can run. We are about to find out. You will step out on your left foot- you do know which one is the left? Wonderful. You will step out on your left foot and begin running up to the eggmine. I will count cadence. Don't worry- you will be able to hear me, because I will be running with you."

I had considered myself moderately strong, even though I had inherited my father's slender build. But once I was strapped into the fifty pounds of rusted, smelly ironmongery, I was unsure if I could walk, let alone run. But I had a feeling that if I did not try, Trooper Carbo would surely find a way to make me sorry. Therefore I began a lumbering waddle, being certain to start with my left foot. Between the tremendous weight, the chafing of the straps, and the helmet that kept slipping down to bang against the bridge of my nose, I thought that my misery was complete. But that was before we reached the uphill section of the path that led to the mine. Even worse was the fact that a man who was twice my weight and at least twice my age was able to carry the same armor and run backwards- all the while hurling terrible abuse at me. I decided that, if there were any gods, they were sadists of remarkable depravity.

After we had run for what seemed like hours, Carbo called a halt and took up a spear that leaned against the barracks wall. He waited impatiently for me to stop gasping for breath and then stepped back several paces. Holding his spear in a guard position, he continued his lecture:

"You have some experience with a staff and that will help. It's barely possible that you will manage to learn enough to keep from getting yourself killed."

With that, he demonstrated a series of basic thrusts, parries, and blocks, counting out the sequence as he went. Then he drilled me on those same moves, adjusting my grip and stance occasionally. At last, as still more sweat poured of off me, he called a halt and said,

"It's all about footwork, recruit. That's true of the spear, the sword, the axe, and even the bow. You have to have a solid base to use any weapon properly. If you overbalance or trip over your own feet, all the fancy swings in the world won't save you."

He sponged off with a wet towel and then put his helmet back on, and allowed me to do the same. Then he brought his spear back to the guard position and challenged me:

"Very well, recruit. You know the moves. Now try to stick that spear in old Carbo."

When I hesitated, he sneered at me.

"What's the matter? Scared to use a real weapon? Or would you rather sneak up on your opponent from behind- like a thief? Like your precious daddy?"

He saw from my reaction that that last barb had struck home and continued,

"Oh yeah, I know all about the great thief of Vvardenfell. Supposed to have bumped off Dagoth Ur in a fair fight, when whole armies had tried and failed. Only thing is, nobody else was there. So maybe Dagoth Ur is dead, and maybe he isn't. And maybe that fight- if there was a fight- didn't go exactly the way your sneaking Breton daddy says it did."

Goaded to unreasoning fury by his taunts, I lowered the point of my spear and launched myself at the smirking Legionnaire. And then a number of things seemed to happen all at the same time and I found myself sailing through the air. My flight came to a sudden and painful stop against a stone wall and darkness closed over me.

Oh man, this is just hilarious. :rofl:

It's even more funny because I can relate to Athlain during this period. You've nailed the Drill Instructor part down perfectly, Treydog, and it brings up memories from my own time in Boot Camp for the Navy.

"Did you ride the short bus in school, Recruit? Well, did you?"

"No, Petty Officer!"

"THEN WHY CAN'T YOU [censored] MARCH IN STEP! EVEN MY 2-YEAR OLD KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HER RIGHT AND LEFT FOOT! DROP!"

Keep 'em coming, Treydog. :goodjob:

When I awakened, it was to behold a circle of nightmarish, tusked green faces looming over me. I cried out and tried to raise my hands to ward them off, but my arms were bound to my chest. Still, most of the frightening visages moved back, leaving only one, which contorted into an expression that I realized signified concern. The remaining Orc, which I now recognized the green-skinned creatures to be, gruffly warned me:

"Be still. You've got a broken collarbone at the least, and maybe some other damage, not to mention how hard you hit your head against that wall. We don't have a healer; we strapped everything up as best we could, but it won't help if you move around too much. I am Uloth gra-Ushar.""

I tried to speak in response, but only managed a raspy croak. She held a mug of water to my lips, and I sipped carefully. Trying to drink from a mug without the use of my hands was no treat- still, I managed to get most of the water inside me rather than outside. Somewhat refreshed, I tried again,

"What about healing potions?"

Uloth shrugged and shook her head.

"Same problem as the healer. We don't have any. Well, only a few, and they're for the most serious injuries. We aren't exactly at the top of the list for supplies out here. You'll just have to heal the old-fashioned way."

This was intolerable. I did not have time to lie in bed for the weeks or even months it would take my body to repair itself. Louis Beauchamp certainly would not wait that long; worse yet, Mother might convince the Legion to release me from my enlistment. With the supply situation this critical, it would be hard for General Darius to justify feeding and tending a useless invalid. But that was a problem I could prevent. As Uloth turned to leave the room, I called her back,

"Fetch my traveling bag. There are plenty of restorative potions in there. Give me enough to heal this damage and I will donate the rest to the Legion. Beyond that, once I have use of my hands again, I know some healing magic."

She disappeared in a rush, as if I had just imparted a shattering revelation.

Uloth did not return for some time. In fact, I had dropped into a troubled sleep when I heard the sound of someone clearing their throat beside the bed. I looked up to see General Darius staring down at me with a peculiar expression- something between a frown and a grin. When I struggled to sit upright, he reached out to assist me. And then, as if embarrassed by his solicitude, he did not speak for several uncomfortable minutes. The silence grated upon my nerves and I finally blurted out,

"It was my fault, sir. Trooper Carbo was trying to show me how to use the spear and I? I guess I tripped? or something. Please don't send me back?."

I ran down to a stop as his expression finally resolved itself into a beaming smile.

"Send you back? Why would I want to do that? We need you and your talents here. I was just trying to figure out how to convince you to stay. I am a bit surprised you didn't join the Imperial Cult, but we are glad to have you in the Legion. Carbo told me what happened- took full responsibility, so don't worry about that. On his recommendation, I hereby promote you to Spearman."

He held one of my healing potions to my lips and said kindly,

"Drink that down. When you feel ready, go find Carbo to continue your training."

After giving the potion time to work, he untied the bindings on my arms and turned to leave. As he went out the door, I heard him laugh and say to himself,

"'Tripped or something!' As if I had never heard that before!"

I swallowed one more potion and began to feel as if I would live. I swung my legs off the bed, but before I could begin to get back into uniform, Trooper Carbo came and stood in the doorway. He watched me carefully and then spoke.

"Look, kid, what happened was my fault. I intended for you to rush me- I just didn't realize how quick you are. I was just going to deflect the spear and let you run past me. Instead, I had to really throw you. I wanted to get you mad, but I had no idea that you would blow up like that."

He stopped to see how I was taking it, then went on:

"The General said you told him it was an accident and I appreciate that. But?don't ever lie to Darius. He can spot a lie a mile off. The only reason he didn't tear a strip off of you was because you were trying to protect somebody else."

He came into the room and I finally saw something besides an apparently over-weight, aging soldier. A keen intelligence gleamed from his brown eyes and he moved with a confidence that had been won in hundreds of battles. I realized then that he was a professional, a man who had gained his skills the hard way. My mind raced as I tried to think of a way to become worthy in his eyes, a way to get him to accept me, to teach me. A long-ago conversation with my father came back to me then, a bit of advice that I had ignored, like so much else he had tried to tell me:

"When you need something from someone, don't just march up and demand it as if it is your right. Treat people with the respect that they are due. And sometimes, especially in a place like this, with people from so many backgrounds, part of that respect includes speaking their language?"

Therefore, I drew myself up, saluted, and shouted,

"Spearman Treyson reporting himself fit for duty!"

Carbo laughed and then returned the salute, saying: "You'll do, kid."

The work of training continued to be brutal, despite the fact that Carbo and I seemed to have reached an understanding. He pushed me physically and mentally, forcing me to develop a toughness of mind and body. However, he was never again able to goad me into losing my temper, and I think he was secretly pleased. In addition to the running, the work with weapons, and the maintenance of my equipment, I was now the healer for the fort. No matter how weary I might be, I was awakened to treat all kinds of injuries- some minor, and others more serious. Even though the Empire was not at war with any other nation, the Legions were stretched thin. The outposts on Vvardenfell were lightly manned and infrequently supplied. No courier ever brought definitive word of why this was so, but rumors abounded. Uriel Septim was dying- was already dead- had been replaced by a doppelganger. The Death's Head Legion would be ordered to Cyrodiil- would be disbanded- had been left to fend for itself. On and on the stories went, growing with every telling. Through all the storm of gossip, General Darius remained calm and aloof, seemingly untroubled. Trooper Carbo also ignored the swirling rumors, gruffly saying,

"My job is to follow orders?and so is yours."

And so my endless days of training continued, learning new skills and then honing them to razor sharpness.

Some five weeks after I had broken my bones and earned my place in the Legion, a trooper came to me in the barracks with orders to "attend General Darius at your earliest convenience." I had been with the Legion long enough to know that the last part of that message meant "right now," so I gave my armor a quick buff and hastened to the Madach Tradehouse. Trooper Carbo was waiting along with the General, his face a mask of inscrutability. Darius ignored me for several long minutes, seemingly engrossed in some paperwork on his desk. I managed not to fidget or blurt out any questions, but I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my spine. My vivid imagination was a curse in this situation, for I kept envisioning unhappy reasons for this summons. The General had not spoken to me since he had discovered my talent for healing. That was not unusual- he was the commander and I was a lowly spearman. All of which meant that, in the normal course of events, a "request" to speak to Darius was not a good omen. Had something happened to my parents- my sisters? Had I somehow transgressed some unknown rule- transgressed it so badly that I faced official Legion discipline? Though I managed to keep my body still, my mind was racing, reviewing every bad deed I had ever committed. And still the minutes dragged by, unmarked by any sound other than the scratching of Darius' pen on the papers before him. Just as my catalog of criminality had reached the time when, at the age of nine, I had dipped a little girl's pigtails in the inkwell at school, the General looked up at me.

His intense scrutiny raised my heart-rate by another several beats per minute. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, frowning at me over them.

"One of my responsibilities as commander of the Death's Head Legion is to make decisions about personnel. That is a burden I take seriously, because a bad choice on my part can get people killed."

He paused, giving the import of his words time to sink in. When he seemed satisfied that I understood, Darius continued,

"For a number of reasons, I have closely followed your training. First, because we do not get many Imperial recruits here on Vvardenfell. In fact, we don't get many recruits of any sort. That problem affects all of the Legions, and that means that every member must contribute, must do the work of two or three men."

He again paused to fix me with that piercing gaze and then glanced at Trooper Carbo, who had stood silently behind his right shoulder the entire time.

"So, I have spoken with your trainer and considered the needs of the Legion. Athlain Treyson, please turn in your spear and Imperial chain mail. You are no longer a spearman of the Imperial Legion."

The words fell upon my ears like a hammer blow- "? no longer a spearman of the Imperial Legion." After all the effort of training, after I had begun to believe that I had made a place for myself?. Numbly, I began to loosen the straps of my armor. Trooper Carbo moved to help me, and I stared at him in mute appeal. His face remained stony, giving away nothing of his thoughts. And, though my soul longed to cry out in protest, I would show these men that I had at least learned discipline. When I at last stood in padded tunic and leggings, Carbo initialed the quartermaster's log, signifying the return of my equipment. That formality accomplished, I stood straight, waiting for the words that would forever release me from my oath to the Legion. Darius watched me closely, as if waiting for some word or sign. When I did not waver or speak, he nodded his head once and said,

"Well. It seems that I owe Trooper Carbo a septim."

Then the general stood and Carbo disappeared behind me as I faced my commander. Darius picked up a scroll from his desk and began reading:

"Attention to orders. Due to his actions and accomplishments, it gives me great pleasure to promote Athlain Treyson to the rank of Trooper in the Imperial Legion."

As my mind struggled to grasp the words I had just heard, Darius continued,

"As a Trooper, you will carry an Imperial steel broadsword and wear Imperial steel armor. Bear them proudly- you've earned them."

His face broke into a smile and he clapped both hands upon my shoulders. Dazed, I allowed him to turn me around to face a grinning Carbo, who held my new equipment. The briastplate was a thing of beauty- more precious to me than any gemstone. The steel was covered with black leather and embossed with the silver and bronze horses of the Legion. Even more wonderful to my eyes was the Imperial broadsword. I drew the gleaming length of steel from its scabbard, and it seemed to have been made for my hand and no other. Although the new armor was even heavier than the chain mail I had previously carried, I did not feel its weight. Once I had finished adjusting the fit, Darius seated himself again and assumed a serious expression.

"I said earlier that I had watched you closely for a number of reasons, but I only mentioned one- the one that least concerned you personally. There is no delicate way to say this, so I will be blunt. Your presence is politically significant, but not because of you. Your father commands more power sitting quietly in Indarys Manor than do all the Legion forts on this island. It is said that, 'If Trey sneezes, Vvardenfell catches cold.' He defeated Dagoth Ur, ended the Blight, rose to power in the Houses and the tribes, and could have broken the Tribunal Temple if he wished?. And then he simply hung up his sword and settled down. Even now, so many years later, people wait to see what he will do next. They find it hard to believe that he has no interest in the uses of power. Which brings us back to you. Your father has never made any secret of his feelings about the Empire- or its military. The fact that his only son is now a member of the Legion has caused much discussion. People wonder if this is part of some deeply subtle move by Trey- or if there is a rift between you. And they wonder if that rift can be exploited. My own concerns are less complex- I serve the Emperor and look after the welfare of my troops. Your healing skills are a great help to me in that regard. And, whatever disruption your presence may cause, you also serve as an indirect form of protection. Those who might seek to harm me or my Legion will hesitate, fearful lest they appear to be attacking you. Your father is a dangerous and, above all, persistent adversary. So you see, I too am playing a deep game. I tell you this because I believe that loyalty goes both ways and should be rewarded with honesty. Oh, and one last thing- it would be a good thing if you wrote to your mother, letting her know how you are. I would consider it a personal favor."

With that, he shook my hand and turned me over to Trooper Carbo, who escorted me out of the tradehouse.

As we walked through Gnisis, Carbo glanced at the sword I still clutched in both hands and grumbled,

"Well, mister, looks like we're going to have to teach you how use that blade- and a shield."

He gave me the crooked grin that meant hard work, and then changed the subject- somewhat.

"In a way, sword work is the easiest thing I need to teach you. You're a trooper now, and that's supposed to mean something. First, you need to be smarter than that piece of steel in your hands. It isn't just a matter of knowing how to use a sword- you have to know when to use it- and when to keep it sheathed. The best way to win a fight is to avoid it."

My dismay at hearing the veteran Legionnaire echo my father's words must have been plain on my face, for Carbo's grin reappeared.

"That surprises you, does it? To hear old Carbo advise you to stay out of fights? Well, you'd better hear this loud and clear, if I don't teach you anything else. We fight because we have to, because it's our job. We don't do it for fun or for glory. And another thing- when you wear that uniform, you are the Empire. So it's not just Athlain pulling his sword on a man or elf, it's the Legion 'oppressing the downtrodden.' Plenty of people already have plenty of reasons to hate the Legion- try not to give them any more."

Our slow walk- that method of progress Carbo referred to as "proceeding," brought us to a low wall overlooking the Samsi River. We sat and Carbo stared at the moving water in silence for some minutes, apparently content to simply watch the play of light on the ripples. At last he spoke in a meditative tone:

"I've been a trooper for over fifteen years, and it suits me. The General tried to promote me a time or two, but I told him 'no' flat out. Seems to me that 'Agent' is a stupid rank for a soldier, anyway. 'Fore I ran off to join the Legion, I was a farmer- well, a farmer's son, at least. I've got no desire to be a knight or an officer. That would fit me about like trousers on a guar."

He turned to look me over carefully and continued,

"Now you could be an officer- if you don't get your fool self killed first. You have the brains and the skill with people. Most new recruits have a rough time around here, what with the Orcs and their odd sense of humor. But you haven't had any fights, and that's none of my doing. They like you and they trust you. I saw how you calmed down Dul gro-Dush when he tangled with that kwama warrior and got his leg torn up. He was roaring and thrashing around, likely to stab anybody that came near, and you just put a hand on him and spoke, and he quieted right down. That's a gift.."

He looked back toward the barracks and the fort.

"Now for some of these characters, the only way they can face combat is to get drunk- or mad. I don't have to tell you that a bellyful of sujamma doesn't make somebody a soldier- it just makes him dangerous, especially to himself. But counting on anger to carry you is just as bad. You already found out what happens when you lose your temper in a fight. Of course, you're still here 'cause I wasn't trying to kill you. The next fellow may not have my charitable nature. I'm not saying it's easy- some folks are good soldiers right up to the point that they have to kill another person. You haven't faced that test yet. When you get to that place, you need to have a clear head."

He turned back to the river, but his eyes were on some place much farther away, in time as well as distance. Speaking so softly that I had to strain to hear, he added,

"Gods willing, you won't ever get used to it- but you will get to where you can go on?."

For just an instant, his brown eyes bore the same haunted look that I had sometimes surprised in my father's blue ones.

I often turn off when I see 'The Nerevarine' or 'the Champion of' or whatever because I have my own heroes. But I feel this tale is moving nicely along - really it is not about the PC's experiences, more about a former player's experience and feel for Vvardenfell = good read.

At first, the only thing that my new rank changed was the focus of my training. Where I had previously learned the spear, Carbo now ran me through drills with sword and shield. The other troopers congratulated me, but mostly continued to treat me to their rough humor and good-natured chafing. That suited me- it meant I was accepted for myself. Less satisfying was my work with the sword. I wish I could say that the Imperial broadsword became a part of me, an extension of my arm?but it was not so. Much as I loved the gleaming steel blade, much as I lavished care and attention upon it, just so much did it seem to fight against me, twisting in my grip and going awry. The problem was so severe that I began to wonder if the sword was cursed. Unfortunately, trials with other blades proved that such was not the case. Under Carbo's watchful eye, I tried the saber, short sword, katana, and even a huge claymore that was taller than I. The damages to the training room from that last experiment were extensive; such a massive blade is hard to guide. Surveying the wreckage and the other Legionnaires coming out of hiding, Carbo summed it up in his usual direct manner:

"You will never be a swordsman, kid. If we're lucky, we can get to the place where you at least won't do yourself an injury handling a blade. Some people are born to it, some can learn it?and some never will."

Seeing my crestfallen expression, he added,

"It's late anyway. Why don't you sponge off in the river and we'll talk about this tomorrow."

I followed his advice and then sought my bunk. Despite my tired muscles, sleep did not come. I worried at my problem like a dog with a bone. Fragments of conversations from the past played back in my mind:

"Trey?perhaps one of the five greatest swordsmen in Morrowind. Or he used to be?"

"?bested that giant Redguard fighter of Helseth's?and became his friend."

"He swore that he would never use a sword again?and that was 20 years ago."

That last kept coming back- even General Darius had referred to it- how my father had been one of the deadliest men in the Empire, and had put his sword away. I knew that words had power, especially an oath taken by someone to whom even the gods paid attention. If my father had truly sworn such an oath, perhaps the curse was not upon the weapons, but rather upon the very blood that flowed in my veins. As soon as the seed of that thought was planted, it began to grow. He was a Breton, a race well-known for their innate magical ability. What if he had unknowingly made it such that none of his lineage could wield a sword? The gods were famous for their peculiar ideas of humor, and for twisting the words of mortals. Or- worse thought- what if it had not been an accident? That last I dismissed- though his rules were stifling, even I had to admit that he was always scrupulously fair- at least by his definition of "fair." It was not a restful night.

The next day, Carbo called me to the training ground and helped me into my armor, including the shield. I felt absurdly pleased by that- it meant that I was not going to have to go back to the spear. However, when I reached toward the rack of practice swords, he shook his head and said,

"Not those. I think we've seen enough of your sword work to last a while. Follow me."

With that, Carbo guided me to a different part of the field and racks filled with hammers, maces, and axes.

He took up the posture that I recognized as his "classroom stance" and began to lecture:

"Some people consider these to be 'peasant weapons' because they are simple- simple to make, simple to use, and generally without ornamentation. While it's true that the axes and hammers are based on laborer's tools, that doesn't make them any less effective. The Legion doesn't train duelists- it trains fighters. The point of a fight is to win. You win by hurting or killing your opponent. The Nords understand that, which is why so many of them use these weapons. Of course, they also use them because there's nothing scarier than seeing a Nord warrior drunk on sujamma, charging at you with an axe or a 'big freakin' hammer' in either hand. Armor can turn or even break a sword; these weapons aren't designed to penetrate, they're made to hack and crush. You've gotten stronger- strong enough to use these. We'll concentrate on the one-handed types; that'll allow you to use a shield with your off hand. And you had better learn fast, because the general has a job for us."

Here Ends Chapter 2

Interlude 3

A letter posted from Fort Darius, Gnisis, Vvardenfell District (a portion):

Mother:

I hope this letter finds you well. I am in excellent health and my training is progressing. Please give my love to my sisters and remind them to STAY OUT OF MY ROOM! Also, give my respect and affection to Father.

Your son,

Athlain

A letter posted from Indarys Manor, Vvardenfell District (a portion):

?What would "find me well" would be for you to stop this foolishness and come home. However, your father has informed me that this Legion nonsense is "something you need to do." I still think it is just male pig-headedness and Athynae agrees with me. You remember Athynae, don't you? She was asking about you just the other day?. Actually, what she said was, "What has that idiot Athlain gone and gotten himself into now?" A wonderfully intelligent girl, I think. Not that it will do any good, what with my only son determined to get himself killed or horribly maimed. I do hope you are at least remembering to wear fresh undergarments.

* * *
Love,

Mother

Report of a patrol conducted by Senior Trooper Carbo and Trooper Treyson on or about 17 Last Seed 451 3E.

Pursuant to information provided to the Imperial Legion garrison (see Appendix A, Confidential Informant statement) stationed at Fort Darius Gnisis Vvardenfell_ the above-named Legion personnel proceeded to Ashinabi________ to investigate possible criminal activity in contravention of the laws of the Empire. Legion personnel effected entrance to said location and were immediately confronted by _5__ (insert number here; please note that "many", "lots", and/or "scads" are not acceptable substitutes for actual numbers).

(circle all that apply) Altmer/Argonian/Bosmer/Breton/Dunmer/Imperial/Khajiit/Nord/Orc
suspected miscreant(s). Senior Trooper Carbo_____ immediately called upon said suspects to cease and desist all unlawful activity and informed him/her/them (circle as appropriate) that he/she/they (circle as appropriate) was/were under arrest. Suspect(s) reacted violently, attacking the Legionnaires with _swords, bows______________ (describe weapons here). Senior Trooper Carbo__and Trooper Treyson responded with deadly force. Despite the miscreants' superior numbers, the arms of the Imperial Legion prevailed. Long live his Imperial Majesty, Uriel Septim.

Casualty Report:

Your Name(s) Here _Carbo________________ received minor/major/fatal (circle all that apply) wounds to the (circle all that apply) head/torso/limbs.

(Medical Officer's Report, Appendix B)

Criminal casualties comprised _5__ dead 0 wounded _0 captured (Identities of Criminals, Appendix C).

Value of Recovered Goods:

Goods, foodstuffs, arms, and armor equaling an approximate value of _2000___ septims were recovered and turned over to the Fort Darius Quartermaster. (Quartermaster's Report, Appendix D).

Respectfully submitted: _S.T. Carbo, Trooper Treyson________________________

Your Name(s) Here

Here is the continuation- for both of my readers. :read:

Chapter 3

I cannot relate the events that took place in Ashinabi, even though I was there. Mark that- I do not say that I "will not," but that I cannot. To this day, I have no memory of that cavern or of the smugglers who died there, most of them at my hands. I know what the official report says, and what Carbo told me afterward- how we entered and were ambushed, with him taking an arrow to the shoulder that largely kept him out of the fight. Yet, when I asked him what happened next, he did not speak of my actions in any detail, saying instead,

"You did fine. Obviously, because we're still breathing and they aren't. Now sign the report."

When I had signed my name, he looked at me for a time and then said,

"Look, kid, it's like this. We do the job. It's dangerous, bloody, and rotten- but we're all there is. The Houses look out for themselves- even Redoran. The priests have their heads in the clouds. So we're out here at the sharp end and it comes down to us to maintain order. I know there's a lot of loose talk about the Empire bailing out of Vvardenfell or maybe even all of Morrowind. And maybe that's going to happen. But until it does, I follow orders. I guard my patch of ground and I don't let any son-of-a-guar smuggler or bandit crap on it. Some people call me a killer and I won't deny it. But I never killed anybody that didn't have a weapon in his hand or that I didn't give a chance to surrender. And neither have you. So you see to your equipment and then get to bed. Because tomorrow or the next day, we'll have to do it all again."

What I did not know until some time later was that Carbo had another conversation that day, a private talk with General Darius.

The veteran Legionnaire removed his helmet and slumped into the chair his commander indicated. He mopped his brow and then spoke slowly:

"General, in all my time in the Legion, I've never seen the like. I'm thinking there may be some truth to those stories about Trey having Skyrim blood in him."

Darius poured them both a drink and looked at Carbo sharply:

"Skyrim blood? You mean Athlain fell into battle-madness? Berserk?"

Carbo shook his head, frowning thoughtfully.

"No, or at least not exactly. It was almost the opposite?like he became supernaturally focused. He didn't rave or flail about wildly- he just-- took them apart. It was like watching a grown man going against children. And the last one, the Redguard?. Sir, he stalked him. Like a big cat or a wolf. And?," he hesitated a long moment before continuing, staring into the mug in his hands.

"And his eyes?. I know they're brown; I've looked at them enough. But I would swear they turned yellow when he was hunting down that smuggler."

He threw back his drink in one quick swallow and then said,

"What was almost more frightening was what happened after. Before the Redguard even hit the ground, Athlain had turned to me and was healing my shoulder, as if nothing had happened. He says he doesn't remember. And I believe him."

Darius considered Carbo's words and then gave vent to a loud sigh.

"Well, that complicates things, at least for Athlain. He's due for some leave- a bit of time at home will do him good. And then?. Orders are orders. I will be sorry to lose him, though."

The next day came early, with Carbo banging his fist on the footboard of my bunk. He grinned at me and said,

"Time to scrub off the top layer and get into your kit, boy. You need to clean up as pretty as you can."

As I scrambled for my armor, I asked blearily,

"What is it? Inspection? Visiting nobles?"

Still with that maddening grin, Carbo shook his head.

"Oh no, kid. It's a lot more serious than that. Something I can't help you with. You just got 3 days home leave. You have to face your mother."

The prospect of going home filled me with mixed emotions. It would be wonderful to see my family again; the long separation had made clear how much they meant to me. At the same time, I was somewhat fearful over seeing Father again- the letters I had received from Mother seemed to indicate that he understood my actions, even if he did not approve?. And perhaps that was the problem. I had always had his understanding, but what I desperately wanted was his approval. That rare moment of introspection passed quickly as I considered another reason it would be good to get away from my duties for a few days. Almost all of my Legion pay had gone to finance Louis Beauchamp, and he had sent encouraging reports of his progress. He had somehow procured complete plans for a Dwemer airship, a device that could navigate the skies just as a regular ship sailed the seas. I had been taken with the notion as soon as he explained it, and had eagerly agreed to back him. True, he had been somewhat vague about his ultimate reason for building the device, but I was not overly concerned. It had been some weeks since the fabrication of the ship was completed and a crew was hired; in fact, the ship had actually been launched successfully. So much I knew. Thereafter, Beauchamp's letters had ceased. I knew he had not planned to travel upon the airship himself; he should therefore still be in Ald'ruhn. If he was, I would find the Breton speculator and have serious talk with him.

Following Carbo's advice, I gave myself and my armor a good cleaning, then packed a travel bag and went to the silt-strider landing. As always, I enjoyed the sensation of gliding high above the landscape, moving with incredible speed while wrapped in a warm robe. I did not pause in Ald'ruhn, but immediately set out for Bal Isra and home. Although ash still swirled on the breeze and crunched underfoot, vegetation was taking hold in many places. Perhaps Mother's hope for a garden was not so foolish, after all. Legion conditioning and a desire to see my home again made for a rapid journey, and the domes of Indarys Manor soon came into view, gleaming in the afternoon sun. I strode up the path to the house and gestured the family retainers to silence with a smile. They nodded their understanding that I wanted my arrival to be a surprise and smiled back as they opened the front door. I entered and set my travel bag and weapons aside before making my way down the passage to Mother's studio. I knew that she would be there; she always said the light of early morning and late afternoon was best for painting. Sure enough, I came to the open doorway and saw her seated at her easel, head tilted to one side as she considered her latest painting. The sight of that beloved figure so filled my heart that a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob escaped me. She whirled about, paintbrush in hand. For several seconds, we simply stared at one another, then she leapt from her chair and rushed toward me.

As I started to smile a greeting, she brought her right hand around and gave me a resounding slap.

"That's for leaving home without telling me," she cried.

As my head rang from the blow, she used her left hand to slap me on the other cheek.

"And that's for making me worry!"

Her green eyes flashed fire as she added,

"And I owe you another for not telling me you were coming home! But I've run out of hands, and it wouldn't be lady-like to kick you!"

Then she threw her arms around me in an embrace that made my ribs creak, even through my armor. Tears quenched the fire in her eyes as she stepped back to look at me.

She took in my uniform and armor and shook her head with a smile.

"Much as it pains me to admit it, you look so dashing?you're just going to break all the girls' hearts. And I suppose the uniform also means you aren't home for good- how long do you have?"

Before I could answer, she rushed on:

"We'll have to have a party, of course. We'll invite the Sarethis and the Morvayns and?. Oh dear. Your father?."

The flow of words abruptly stopped. Able to at last get in a word, I asked,

"What about Father? Is he hurt?"

An icy spike of fear pierced my chest. I thought back on General Darius' words, about how much power my father had, and how there were those who would wish him harm. Seeing my stricken expression, Mother held up her hands.

"Oh no, it's nothing like that. It's just that he isn't here. He received a note from Divayth Fyr asking him to come to Tel Fyr for a consultation. Considering that Lord Fyr rarely receives visitors, Trey felt he had to go. And there is a bond between them, what with everything that happened before. Of course, if he had known you were coming home, he would have delayed the trip for a few days. As it is, he should be back in a week or so," she added hopefully.

It hurt me to disappoint her, but I also felt a guilty relief as I explained that I only had three days. I rationalized my relief with the thought that another furlough would come soon enough, another chance to see my father and hear his words. At the time, I did not realize how long it would be before we met again, nor under what bizarre circumstances. Mother recovered her good spirits quickly; she was always inclined to look to the sunlight rather than the rain. Taking my hand, she led me into the parlor, calling to the servants for tea.