So, some of you may recognise this. I first started writing this story back in 2003, and finally posted it to http://www.gamesas.com/bgsforums/index.php?showtopic=110838 thread in the lore section in 2005. That topic is long-dead, but I learnt so much from it, and made a great deal of friends that I have unforgiveably lost touch with. I recently spoke to a couple, and it inspired me to take up this abandoned baby again. It's posted at fanfiction.net, but the ES forums have been a big part of my online life for quite a few years, and now we finally have a fanfiction section, I would quite like to make use of it.

This story picks up on a couple of characters who I fell in love with in Daggerfall - the protagonist being Morgiah, daughter of Barenziah, one-time Queen of Wayrest and latterly Queen Mother of Morrowind. Her brother, King Helseth, also features prominently, as does a certain other king who is rather more mysterious. Those of you who have played Daggerfall will remember having to take a note from Morgiah to the leader of the Necromancers, the King of Worms. The contents of these letters were cryptic:



The King's response:



This exchange was not explained further, although from the lore it's clear that whatever bargain they made, it was carried out successfuly; Morgiah does become Queen of Firsthold some years later. In the Daggerfall Chronicles, there is a note which reads: "This sets up part of the story for the sequel to Daggerfall. Therefore, no more will be said of it."

Unfortunately, however, this plotline did not end up making it past Daggerfall.

So I decided to do it for them, with a splash of TESIII and IV thrown in for good measure. This story begins in the year 3E 429, two years after the events of Morrowind, and three before Oblivion.

Enjoy. x


*


The King and I

Preface


Sun’s Dawn 3E429

In a tower in the Azura Coast region, the heart of Telvanni country, a man is standing overlooking his life’s work. His name is Divath Fyr, and in ten minutes he is going to die.

The tower itself is typical of the Telvanni style in that it is isolated and organic, grown by magic and alive in its own right. Telvanni mages like isolation. They run their household and their land by their own rules, away from the eyes and ears of others.

Divath Fyr’s life work is the Corprusarium in the lowest level of his home. He is not quite a scientist, or a healer, or an alchemist, but perhaps a strange mix of the three. Occasionally rumours of his connexions with the Psijic Order circulate. That he is an accomplished practitioner of magic there is no doubt, but although many people know of his experiments, few know of the Corprusarium. It is even rarer knowledge that Divath Fyr has actually created a cure (of sorts) for the Corprus disease; in fact at this point in time only four people in all Tamriel know of his discovery and its implications. One, of course, is Divath himself. The second and third are an Imperial Spymaster of the Blades and his young charge, both sworn to secrecy. The fourth is a Dwarf, a well-kept secret himself.

Divath Fyr has not used his creation to cure the diseased wretches in the Corprusarium. He has distributed it twice, and found it successful. But that was a year and a half ago now, and since then Dagoth Ur has been defeated and his blighted realm purged. There is no longer any threat of Corprus from Red Mountain. Victims of the disease are no longer plentiful and disposable to Ser Divath; they have become an endangered species, a dying breed. To cure them would be to eradicate them, and make his long years of toil meaningless. And so in the past year he has extended the vaults below Tel Fyr and collected every last remaining Corprus victim on Vvardenfell – almost a hundred, and each as precious to him as a diamond.

During the last four months, Divath Fyr has achieved another milestone in his experimentation. He has known, of course, for a long time now that not all the symptoms of Corprus are a hindrance. Greatly advanced strength, speed and endurance, for example; immunity to all other diseases. Two days ago he created an elixir that infects the drinker with Corprus; a refined Corprus that contains only the benefits of the disease, without the unnatural growth of the body and the pain it causes. Two days ago he turned Corprus into a blessing instead of a curse, and now he has decided to test it.

He has upwards of twenty samples of the elixir. He decides he will run a trial on one of his Corprus victims, and if all goes well, drink the elixir himself.

He is surprised, therefore, that upon reaching his cabinet, every single one of the sample phials is missing.

“Master?”

He turns to find his daughter standing in the doorway.

“Delte, have you or any of the other girls tampered with my cabinet?”

She looks puzzled. “No, we know not to go near your experiments. Master, has your visitor been and gone already?”

He pauses. “Visitor?”

“The man in the black robe. The slaves let him in a few minutes ago. He said he wished to speak to you.”

He tears his eyes away from the empty space in the cabinet slowly. “I have had no visitor…”

Both father and daughter heard the tinkle of a sample-phial and the drawing of a dagger too late.

As no-one knew about the Dwarf in the Corprusarium, no-one knew that he vanished later the same day. Fishermen and travellers who noticed an unusual lack of activity around Tel Fyr, or perhaps a faint wisp of red smoke drifting from its highest tower, left well alone. As explained, Telvanni mages like isolation.


*


Three hundred leagues away, in the easternmost province of High Rock, an imposing castle thrusts its crumbling arms into the wilderness. No animals come close to the formidable structure. Fetid lichen hangs limply from the battlements, like broken wrists. The castle extends for many more miles underground than it does above, but the most interesting thing resides in the audience chamber only yards beyond the entrance: Nulfaga.

There was a time when the name of Nulfaga was familiar to everyone in High Rock, from the humblest of peasants to the three Royal Families. But time has passed, and Nulfaga is decrepit now, older than any Breton of her time, and her part in the history of the Illiac Bay is all but forgotten. As her senility grows her immense power becomes wayward, unchecked, unfocused. She now neither wants nor has the means to receive news of the outside world, retreating instead into her own thoughts, which are themselves unruly and haphazard.

So when the black-robed visitors arrived, saying they had come to take care of her, she did not object or send them away, thinking that King Gothryd must have finally remembered his grandmother and lavished some affection on her. The robed strangers were quiet and helpful, bringing her food, helping her out of her filthy rags and into clothes of good craftsmanship, keeping her company, easing her loneliness. They were her guardians and companions. In turn, she taught them secrets that ten years ago she would have died rather than revealed – but these strangers were so kind, and their curiosity so simple and innocent, that she found it a joy to teach them all she knew. As their curiosity grew she divulged her magical art with willingness and affection...

Not ever noticing the impenetrable seal that appeared on the castle door.

Or the increasingly dark nature of the knowledge her helpers sought of her.

She did not register the particular interest they had in Aetherius; the magic-plane, the twin of Oblivion, the external field of existence over which Nulfaga had almost complete knowledge and control. And as time went on and she came to rely more and more heavily on her helpers, their influence over Aetherius grew as did their influence over her.

Nulfaga saw none of this. Her loneliness was no longer. She was the happiest she had ever been in her life.


*


Back on Vvardenfell and a far cry from Shedungent in the Wrothgarian Mountains, the Tribunal god Vivec was in deep contemplation.

It was rare not to find Vivec in contemplation these days. Since the Heart of Lorkhan – the source of the Tribunal’s godhood – had been wantonly destroyed by the Nerevarine a year ago, his power was slowly but surely waning. How, it is difficult to say, for as no Dunmer but the Tribunal have ever become gods, naturally none of them could say what it would be like to stop being one.

It is impossible for a mortal to peruse the consciousness of an immortal. A mortal’s mind is not built for such a thing, and would instantly deteriorate. Some say this is how Nulfaga’s madness began to grow. But few Dunmer have ever heard of Nulfaga, and their interest lies only with their own gods. Certainly it was for this reason that the once-benevolent Almalexia fell to insanity, and for her subsequent tragic demise.

Vivec’s power would surely wane as time went on without the Heart. Would this mean that his mind would slowly again become mortal? If so, the inability to contain his remaining immortality would surely crumble his psyche. Perhaps it has already begun. Perhaps that was why, when the messengers arrived, he co-operated with them with less suspicion than he once would have. Vivec’s ability in magicka was no less potent since the destruction of the Heart, but his judgement of people was.

The black-robed figures stood quietly in the High Temple, silently watching the god. His huge liquid eyes were open, but he made no move to acknowledge them; in fact he made no move at all. The robed figures were patient. They waited.

Time passed. Something in the eyes of the god seemed to change – a subtle shift of consciousness, a flicker of recognition. Gradually, his head moved. He looked from one robed figure to another as one who has come out of a long sleep, disorientated.

He spoke slowly. “I did not summon you.”

The middle figure stood forward. “My Lord, we have been sent by the Archcanon Saryoni.”

There was no reply, only that wide, soft, golden-eyed gaze.

The middle figure continued. “We have dire need of the power and wisdom of our god. Your people are in grave peril. An enemy has come upon us.”

The god had almost slipped away from the conversation, they could tell, but he came back little by little at the last words of the robed figure.

“An… enemy?”

“Your people call you, my Lord. They have need of your skill. Will you come with us, and aid them in their hour of greatest need?”

A spark glinted in the god’s eyes. If nothing else, he had always been devoted to the welfare of those in his beloved city.

“Their hour of greatest need… Yes. Yes, I shall come. You will tell me the nature of this enemy on our way.”

The robed figures bowed low.

The Archcanon Saryoni himself discovered the absence of the god the following week. Confused and desperate, and possessing the rare knowledge that two of the Tribunal had already met untimely ends, he kept the disappearance to himself. He debated what to do by day, and drank large amounts of sujamma by night.


*
*

The King And I

Chapter One - The Lady In Red


In the waning light of the 5th of First Seed 3E429, someone in Mournhold brought a glass of wine to her lips, deep in thought.

The wine was good; a heavy, fragrant red. The Dunmer had plenty of native drinks ? beer brewed from fermented saltrice, or the potent bitter sujamma ? but the Royal Princess Morgiah had taken to red wine during her abidance in Wayrest, and her appreciation of it hadn't lessened since she arrived in Morrowind.

The room Morgiah was occupying was more a study than anything else. Bookshelves lined the walls. A comfortable chair flanked an ornately carved desk piled high with documents, correspondence and publishing, at the top of which was the latest issue of Mournhold's controversial political newspaper, the Common Tongue. The headline emblazoned, "IMPERIAL VISITOR TULIUS CICERO MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH ? CITIZENS SUSPECT FOUL PLAY!"

The Common Tongue was notoriously melodramatic.

Another issue could be seen, one corner poking out from beneath the pile. The visible words read, 'Helseth? most subtle poisoner? by all accounts, King Llethlan died a natural death?' This particular issue was not usually available for common viewing, having been banned and every copy burned a year before. But no guard would ever dream of carrying out a search in HRH Morgiah's private chambers.

Morgiah had not been in Morrowind long, though her stay was indefinite. The circumstances of her arrival were not pressed upon, it being vaguely known among the court that she had recently been widowed from a Altmer king, somewhere in Summurset Isle. It was only natural that she should want to come back to live among her kin, and, grief-stricken, seek solace and sanctuary in the company of her brother, King Helseth.

But the woman who now sat training a knife-sharp gaze over the latest Common Tongue looked anything but grief-stricken. You could almost see the information being filed and memorised, the ticking behind the eyes...

The truth was, Morgiah was preoccupied. She had never expected her reunion with Helseth to be unrestrainedly joyful, although she genuinely took pleasure from seeing him again. But though they had been apart for more than a decade, and she and Helseth could not by anyone be deemed close, she was no less adept at seeing through him than she had been in their childhood. Something was amiss. Something was wrong.

She couldn't quite put a finger on it. She was aware of the fact that through her long absence, Helseth had grown and changed. She was aware that she would have to familiarise herself with those changes in his character before she could properly trust her judgement on him again. But she was also aware that though time passes, deep down people change little. Helseth would never fully be a mystery to her. Furthermore, she suspected that he was avoiding her for this very reason. That was just one of the things that had sparked a tiny warning-signal in her mind.

He was up to something.

She was moving around the study in what a casual observer might call almost a distracted way, gliding along the bookshelves, stopping here, checking a file of documents there, sometimes merely pausing as if lost in thought ? but the clear, concentrated force in her gaze was enough by itself to destroy any pretence of diversion. In her left palm she held something; a pale green jewel or stone, and she was rolling it lightly between her fingers, almost like a conjuror playing a coin-trick?

She stopped for a moment, attention focused on a volume on the highest shelf. Slowly, she pulled it out, sat in the chair, let it fall open on her lap. The gold lettering on the spine read Altmer; Society And Progression.

Suddenly her head drooped; the book fell a sideways, and all at once she looked like what she really was, which was younger than expected, and tired. Her fingers gripped the velvet chair, hard enough for the smooth grey to turn pale at the knuckles.

Barely a few seconds had passed before she was on her feet again, the book replaced and her demeanour fine and clear, calm and calculated. It was late; she would think more tomorrow. Smoothing her skirts, she cast a critical eye over the piles of documentation on the desk, and tried to return them to some semblance of order. Satisfied, she pushed the chair neatly under the table, the chain of the green gem wound about her fingers.

She left, closing the study door quietly behind her.


*


It was almost sunset, the horizon-bound clouds making the colour hazy, and a figure was climbing the many steps that led to the huge doors of the Palace of Vivec.

The figure was not a pilgrim, that much was immediately clear. Pilgrims walked slowly, with reverence. They stopped many times to take in the spectacular view, the beauty of the palace. They trod the sacred stones with the quiet restrained respect they deserved, attentive to every detail.

There was certainly nothing slow or reverent about this figure's movement. It clumped up the stairs noisily, flippantly. Halfway up it paused to shift an enormous blunt warhammer from one shoulder to the other, continuing on with a cheerful gait in total contrast to its surroundings.

When it reached the heavy doors of the upper palace it stopped, swinging the hammer down to the side idly with one hand, fumbling in a leather satchel-bag with the other. Any Dunmer would have recognised in less than a minute that this was not one of their own; a manner so different to their own quiet, sharp, intense demeanour. But however alien it was, it would certainly be recognised by any inhabitant of Vvardenfell; after all, they were not likely to forget the person who had destroyed the enemy of their temple, and purged their land of the Blight disease.

Finally, triumphantly locating the correct key amid hoards of junk and pushing it into the lock, the Nerevarine shoved open the door and stepped carefreely inside.

And stopped at once, utterly still, all remnants of geniality gone in a moment. The hammer no longer swung idly from one hand, but was held out at an angle, steady and perfectly balanced. Because the room was empty. The dais was cold and deserted. There should have been someone there, and there wasn't.

The god was gone.

The Nerevarine stood quite still, eyes scanning the room from a helmeted face. Then, with a swish and creak of armour, the door banged and the palace was empty once more.

The god is gone! The god is gone!

The dusk light fell over the cantons of Vivec as the figure of the Nerevarine clattered back down the steps, across the High Fane, away to the north, lost to sight behind St Olm's in minutes.

The god is gone! The god is gone!

The sunset caught the pinnacle of the temple, twinkling innocently.


*


"You're avoiding her."

Helseth looked up from his meal, startled. "I'm sorry?"

The King of Mournhold was taking his evening meal with his mother, in the relative solitude of the Northern flank of the castle. In the year of late they had rarely dined together, and in a lull of the hectic city calendar, the precious opportunity was taken at once.

Queen Mother Barenziah's gaze rested steadily on him, shrewd and penetrating. "Your sister," she clarified. "You've hardly seen her since her return. I wonder why?"

Helseth pressed his lips together, stifling an outward show of discomfort. It was true that he had not made an overt effort to approach Morgiah; indeed, even for the estranged siblings they were, their recent lack of contact was not merely unusual ? it was odd. But Helseth had his own reasons for his behaviour. Curling his fingers under the table in frustration, he controlled the expression on his face with practised dedication. It was disconcerting enough to know that his mother's eagle eye was trained on his doings in Mournhold, but Morgiah as well? Helseth liked his business to be his own, and was exceptionally good at enforcing this regarding anyone but the two female members of his immediate family.

Helseth admired and respected Barenziah. He loved her, in his own calculating way. He would much rather that she were here in Mournhold with the respect she deserved, instead of back in Wayrest in the presence of his hated half-sister, Elysana. However the fact remained that Helseth reigned alone, and preferred to keep certain things known only to him. His mother, damn her, was not an easy person to hide things from; he was uncomfortably sure that she knew more about him and his doings than he would like.

He sipped a mouthful of flin in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "I certainly have not. As usual, you have jumped to conclusions. I have merely kept a respectful distance, as is proper after the death of her husband."

Barenziah was quiet for a moment. Then- "Do you not think your solace might be more appreciated?"

It was spoken so softly, so differently to her usual efficient tone that Helseth was surprised, and for a moment unnerved. The idea of Morgiah needing his comfort was so alien, so strange, that at first his mind went blank, unable to process such a thing.

Curse it! He was so good ? he was so good at presenting a formidable front to his subjects and advisors. But to his mother? He might as well be an open book. The same was true of Morgiah; he knew quite well that this was why he had been avoiding her, and it seemed Barenziah was also aware. He now remembered exactly why he didn't take his meals with his mother more often.

His usually smooth voice was moody. This was why her presence frustrated him ? he wasn't a king to her, he was first and foremost her child.

"I'm sure there are others more suited to the task than me," he said sullenly, stabbing his fork at an ash-yam with unnecessary force. "After all, I've hardly spoken to her since she moved to Summurset Isle."

"Before that, actually. In her last years at Wayrest, I don't recall you actively seeking her out more than three times."

"We both know the pressure I was under," snapped Helseth. "Elysana ? she was on the attack all the time. If I turned my back for a second she would have stabbed it; she'd do anything for sovereignty. And look what happened!"

He was agitated now. These were old grievances ? the bitter internal struggle with his stepsister for the Wayrest throne; his subsequent defeat. Helseth hated defeat. He had been humiliated by Elysana's victory over him, and his mother was opening old wounds now.

But Barenziah looked contrite. "Yes. I know. But ? at the risk of broaching a touchy subject ? losing Wayrest brought you here, and as an objective observer, the Kingdom of Morrowind is vast compared to a singly-ruled city-state of the Illiac Bay. It was apt indeed," she carried on mildly, "that the rapid deaths of King Llethan and his nephew left a vacancy for you."

Helseth froze.

Don't rise, don't rise, he repeated like a mantra. At the same time, a part of him was screaming, what does she know? What does she suspect? How could she suspect? He drunk from his goblet slowly and mechanically, for the moment starved of any response that could placate her.

But there was no need to strain himself any further, for Barenziah placed the knife and fork neatly together on her empty plate and rose to her feet. "It is late. Goodnight, Helseth. It is lovely to take time to dine with you when the calendar permits." Smiling as if nothing she had previously said held any weight, she bowed from the room and shut the door gently.

Helseth clenched his fists, his body as taut as a bowstring. Of all the tests of his character he had endured over the years, dinner with his mother proved the most taxing of all.


*
*


A/N: Any feedback or criticism anyone might have is very welcome!

Fantastic in my opinion. Well written with good descriptions and good dialogue.

Thanks for your comment!

For the absulute nothing my opinion counts for I have to say it is... GRRRRRRRRRREAT!! (hoping not to be sued by Kellogs)

sorry for the bad cereal joke but I couldnt think of anythinh non-corney.

On topic: I really enjoyed reading it, (and yes I only got around to reading it now)

:lol: Thanks very much!


*


The King And I

Chapter Two - Breakfast Council of Three


In the early hours of the 6th of First Seed, a figure in a black robe stole along the streets of Mournhold, a package tightly wrapped in linen cloth in their arms. Contrasted against the figure's dark cloak, the cloth was luminously visible in the moonlight; perhaps that was why the figure was hurrying.

When the figure reached a tradesmen's entrance in the North Wing of the Palace, it disappeared inside. Reappearing after half an hour, it discarded the now-empty linen and melted into the shadows.

That same night, a person toting a gigantic Dwemer warhammer as if it weighed no more than a toothpick was admitted quietly to the private quarters of the Queen Mother. This person did not reappear the same night. There was a lot to discuss.


*


Morgiah awoke from a strangely realistic dream.

That in itself was not particularly out of the ordinary. Morgiah had been having strangely realistic dreams for a number of years. Some had more impact than others; one night she might dream of an older version of herself suffering in a vault of crushing claustrophobia, the next might merely be a vision of peasant dressed in First-Age clothes hoeing a garden.

This one, however, had involved her brother. She couldn't quite remember what had happened, but she hoped she had imagined the dagger.

The window was open ? there was a pleasant mild breeze, and the sun was gentle. A maid had fed the fire; it was crackling softly in the hearth. Parting the filmy muslin draqes, Morgiah padded across the carpet and sat cross-legged in front of the grate; it took less than a moment before her gaze was still, her thoughts far away.

She was still deep in thought as she went into the bathroom, slid into the sunken marble bath, sprinkled the herbs in, washed, wrapped a thick linen cloth around herself, went back to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe and dressed slowly, brushed her hair, slid her feet into her shoes, pulled the bed straight?

There was a knock at the door and the maid came in.

"Morning, your Highness," said the perky Bosmer, bobbing a curtsey, pigtails peeping out from under her cap. "Don't mind the bed, I'll see to it. I've a message for you from the Queen Mother."

Morgiah left the sheets and looked up curiously. "A message, Kippet? What is it?"

"She asks you join her for breakfast, 'Highness. Shall I stoke the fire for when you come back?"

"No, leave it, Kippet. I'll go to the study."

"'Highness," said the maid. She bobbed and disappeared.

Morgiah ran her hand along the walls as she left the room and started down the corridor. The utterly different perceptions of 'palace' each race held had always fascinated her. In Wayrest, the stately granite and plush carpets. In Firsthold, the intricate decoration and sculpted glass interiors. In Mournhold, the indoor gardens, the rich polished blue-grey stone smooth as an ice-pond. Yet they were all designed to say to their subjects; reverence me.

People are the same wherever you go, thought Morgiah. Deep down people are all the same.

She opened the door to find her mother waiting.

"Good morning," said Barenziah.

"Good morning," Morgiah replied, pulling the screen quietly across behind her. She was about to continue into the parlour, but Barenziah put out a hand to stop her.

"Unusual as it is, we? have a guest for breakfast. Someone I should like you to meet, who has something very important to discuss with us."

Morgiah looked at her mother's expression; it was almost too calm. "Who is it?"

"The Nerevarine. After an unexpected arrival last night we have had a great deal of strange information to process." Barenziah's hand moved to the door-handle. "I have been? noticing things for a while, and the time has come for me to consult my daughter, I think."

Morgiah remained passive, but her mind spun into motion at her mother's words. Had Barenziah, then, noticed the same things as her?

"Good," she said directly. "There are things I need to discuss with you, too. As for the Nerevarine, I should love to finally meet him. They say he is nigh-on indestructible."

Inexplicably, Bareziah started and her mouth twitched at Morgiah's words. "He is anxious to meet you, too," she said with a strange smile. "Come into the parlour, and I shall introduce you."

She opened the inner door and gestured inside. Morgiah stepped through and saw a figure standing by the table, decked out to the nines in armour, resting a huge warhammer on the table-leg, pulling off a helmet thick enough to be used as a weapon itself?

She blinked. The figure was very female and VERY blonde. Morgiah could tell without so much as a glance that she had as much magical talent as a piece of wood.

"Hello, your Highness," said the Nerevarine cheerfully.

It took a short moment for Morgiah to regain her composure. "Forgive me," she said, realising the woman must have heard every word of their conversation. "How dull-witted of me to assume?"

The Nerevarine waved her hand complacently and dropped the helmet to the floor with a resounding clunk. "Worry not, your Highness. No offence taken." Abandoning the helmet and warhammer, she flumped into a chair at the table set delicately for breakfast. The modestly carved chair gave a protesting creak at the onset of quite a lot of heavy armour.

Morgiah sat down more reservedly, looking from the discarded weapon to the Nerevarine and back again. It was practically impossible to reconcile three inches of demonic-looking ebony with the careless-looking blonde creature in front of her. Not even a woman, she realised. A girl. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, if that.

"Morgiah, I'm delighted for you to meet Nenya, the Nerevarine. We have been in close contact for almost two years now, but something has recently come to my attention that I need your thoughts on." Barenziah seated herself, taking a pot of hot water and pouring it over dried kanet-flowers into three cups. "Nenya, if you could bring my daughter up to speed??"

Nenya took a cup and poured almost half a jar of honey into it. She didn't seem to be one to mince words. "Vivec is gone, your Highness."

Morgiah paused, her hand hovering over a plate of fruit. "Gone? From the High Fane Palace?"

"Gone. Died. Wandered off. No idea. But he's not there, and by the look of things he hasn't been for some time."

Thoughts were ticking behind Morgiah's eyes.

"How long, would you estimate?"

Nenya blew out her cheeks. "Hard to say; it's not like he makes many general living signs at the best of times. But there were weeks' worth of spiderwebs in there, and I can't see him liking them hanging around. Even in the state he's been in recently."

"Does the Archcanon know?"

"We think yes," Barenziah broke in, "because I have been informed he came here a week ago. Agitated-looking. A very short, low-profile visit?"

Morgiah stared out of the window, at the trees blowing. "Then Helseth must know," she said quietly. "He must have come to tell Helseth; now he's gone back to the capital and is keeping the disappearance quiet." She turned to Nenya. "You said there was a possibility of his being dead. And what did you mean by 'the state he's been in recently'?"

"Well, I was just jawing- not sure if he can die, to be honest. But as for the state he's been in? you familiar with all this Nerevarine drama, your Highness?"

"Relatively?"

"Well," Nenya said matter-of-factly, crossing one leg over the other and obliviously smudging mud on the tablecloth, "I got rid of Dagoth Ur a couple of years ago by killing the Heart of Lorkhan. I'm pretty sure you'll know what that is ? the Aedra-relic that gave the Tribunal its godhood in the first Era. It's what keeps them divine. You know why Almalexia went mad?" She narrowed her eyes. "You do know she went mad, don't you, not the rubbish the public believes about her still being all serene and reposing in the temple next door?"

Morgiah glanced at her mother. "Yes, I knew."

"Almalexia went mad because the Heart was gone, and she was losing her divinity. I haven't got the faintest what it's like to become a god, but to stop being one? is it any wonder she went barking? She killed Sotha Sil and almost had me, but mad people don't have a very good right-hand parry, I found out."

Morgiah almost put a hand to her forehead, but restrained herself. "Go on."

"So it's only Vivec left now, slowly going mad like Almalexia. I know because I went to see him before the Heart died; he gave me the battle-plans for defeating Dagoth-Ur. Talked me through what really happened in the First Age when the Tribunal used the Heart to make themselves gods. I saw what he was like then, and I saw what he was like after, and it wasn't the same. Sometimes I'd go in and he'd take half an hour just to notice I was there. He's crumbling. I don't know where he's gone, but it's making me jumpy, I can tell you."

Morgiah was silent for a moment.

"So," she said at last, "Vivec has disappeared, and if we take your word for it is on the brink of madness. We must assume that Helseth knows. Then why, in a whole week, has he not done anything about it? Has he said anything to you, Mother?"

"Not a word."

They looked at eachother. Both could tell they were thinking the same thing. "Is it possible he would have orchestrated? but why? What would he have to gain?"

Barenziah sipped her tea, face composed.

Nenya looked from one to the other. "Are you suggesting that the King doesn't want Vivec to be found, or even that he caused the disappearance in the first place?"

"That would be a very dangerous thing to suggest," Barenziah said flatly.

Nenya opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.

"There is one more thing," Barenziah continued to her daughter. "I have also been informed by various sources that unidentified black-robed persons have been entering the North Wing regularly at dark, the most recent of which visits was last night."

"North Wing," Morgiah said. "Helseth's wing."

There was a quiet interlude as all three kept to their thoughts. Then: "I think this deserves investigating," Barenziah said suddenly. She looked at her daughter. "I am charging you with this, Morgiah. Estranged as you are, you and Helseth were close at one time. You know how he thinks, you know how he works. Nenya, can I trust you aid my daughter in any way you can?"

Nenya licked her fork clean and put it demurely back into place next to the bowl. "With pleasure, your Highness."


*


Things are stirring. Things that have lain dormant for years and years are being set in motion.

The dais of the last Tribune's palace, bearing nothing but three long-burnt-out torches.

Orvas Dren in his comfortable mansion, directing with ease the vast network of spies in the city of Mournhold.

The head of the Dark Brotherhood in the sprawling ruined labyrinth beneath the city, preparing his report to take to the Mournhold Palace's North Wing.

The black-robed figures gathering unobtrusively in the dead shell that was Tel Fyr, slowly taking control of the weird and rambling Corprusarium, and its inflicted inhabitants.

The same shadowy figures in the now barricaded Shedungent, teasing the century-worth of knowledge from the deranged mind of Nulfaga. Teasing away her control of Aetherius, and giving it to themselves.

For Aetherius, the magic-plane, the day-sky, the flip-side of Oblivion, is being utilised once more. This time, not by Nulfaga, but through her.

And at the centre of it all is Helseth. An invisible spider brooding in the middle of an invisible web, he is somehow the centre of all these events. How, we do not yet know. But inevitably, indefinitely, he is.


*
*

I've only read the Preface, as that is all I have had time for so far, but I must say this a wonderfully unexpected gift to return to the forum and see.

Your writing style is different, and not in a bad way. It is refreshingly unlike the writing style of most others on this board. So far, the preface was a lovely piece, and I hope a sign of the beauty to come. One Fanfic more that I simply MUST devote my time to reading.

:)

Well worth the time taken to read. Another excellent chapter!

Just read the rest of the chapters, and I have to say it is brilliant. I am not sure where this ties into the giving of Morgiah's first born to Mannimarco, though...

The way you present your detail is lovely, the dialog is purposeful and not meaningless pvssyr, and really brings forth the inner personas of each character. I love how you portray their shrewdness, and Helseth's lack thereof.

Thanks, Effie! I really appreciate you taking to time to review, and thank you for your comments!

I can answer your thoughts about the whole "Morgiah's first" thing, although it's slightly long-winded. See, when I first started writing this, the only information I had on the entire plotline was the two letters copied in the OP, and http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v289/Rumpleteasza/Elder%20Scrolls/DaggerfallChronicles3.jpg?t=1218726298 page from my copy of the Daggerfall Chronicles, the official game-guide. As you can see, it clearly states that her "first" is not her first-born child.

Obviously Loranna's RP and the storylines it wove into the official lore a year or so later changed that, and I realised that I'd have to make this story an AU. I had the plot too finely worked out already to change it - Morgiah having a child just didn't fit in with anything I'd planned at all. I've always been incredibly curious as to what the original plan for this "first" was - if they declared it so outspokenly in the official guide, the devs must have had at least a some idea of what it actually was. But I've never found out what it could be.

So as it turns out, I'm just going to have to beg your indulgence. Obviously this story won't fit properly in with the official lore, so I'm just hoping people can enjoy it anyway by treating it as a 'what if' scenario. Maybe I should have called it "Morgiah's Parallel World"

Interesting... not her first born... maybe her first husband? But then why even bother getting her frickin' married?

I can see your dilemma there.

You're quite welcome as well. But one more thing... what is the hammer of the Nerevarine? Is it Dwemer, is it Daedric, is it Ebony? All three have had some subtle mention in your chapters when describing the weapon. All three are very different materials (well actually Daedric is perverted Ebony) so it leaves me to wonder what exactly it looks like and is made of. You got me lost with that there.

I also love the Nerevarine's flippant behavior even around the royalty.

I'd been wondering the same thing about her warhammer. My guess was Veloth's Judgment, but that's a rather hazy assumption. 'Tis a nice hammer though

Yay!! I'm glad you're working on this again; it was the first fic I read when I started looking for Elder Scrolls stuff. It's terrific!

I usually had Nenya wearing an eclectic mix of stuff - Domina cuirass, Ebony helmet, Indoril pauldrons and boots, and a Dwemer warhammer. I think I actually did get Volundrung at some point, so if it was going to be an enchanted weapon, that's probably the most appropriate! She was a simple heavy-armour, blunt-weapon specialising barbarian type. To be honest, I based Nenya quite heavily on Carrot from the Discworld books, if you've ever read them. I was a huge Pratchett fan at the time (still am!) and the more I wrote Nenya, the more I realised how similar the two characters were in my mind.

I'm really pleased you're both enjoying this. Hopefully this next part will start to show you how the Mannimarco/Daggerfall plotline is going to fit in, Eff!

Edit: Thanks, Eisoj! x

*


The King And I

Chapter 3 ? Interlude 1; Fiery Night


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun's Height 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.

The library was very quiet.

There were only two things in the room that could be heard. One was the soft dry rasp as Morgiah turned the pages of a book, and the other was the scratching of her tutor's quill. Even their breathing was inaudible. Dark Elves have excellent concentration, and may quite easily work for hours in still silence.

At length, the tutor stopped writing and looked out of the window. It faced west, and the low evening sun cut motes through the dusty glass; it reflected off her ornate cloak clasp. She rose and eased open the heavy lead-latticed panes, because it was summer, and the air from the Bjoulsae River was balmy. She allowed herself a moment's bask in the warm breeze, then turned to look at her pupil.

Morgiah was absorbed, learning strange things. Her eyes were trained on the page with clear cold precision, the facts consumed hungrily and stored meticulously. It was this strange mix of implied passion and clockwork accuracy that had come to fascinate ? unnerve, even ? her tutor. But Morgiah knew none of this. She was reading; her thoughts were on her book, not the woman standing by the window.

The topic of the book was conjuratory theory; in particular, the basics of Necromancy. Morgiah's parents, though naturally of the opinion that Necromancy was not to be practised by persons of good intention, were firm on the idea that the teaching of no branch of magic should be denied their daughter, provided it was theory only.

Or, more accurately, Morgiah's mother was firm on the idea. King Eadwyre was less than comfortable with the extent of his stepdaughter's magical expertise, although he rarely overruled his wife. But Queen Barenziah was an extraordinary woman, gracious and captivating, intelligent and powerful. She was observed in varying ways by the Wayrest public. Many resented the idea of a Breton province presided over by a Dark Elf and her offspring, but there were some sharp political minds who realised that although Breton Barenziah was not, capable she certainly was. Thus she remained.

And thus Morgiah read her conjuratory theory unhindered.

The summonyng of spyryts from Oblyvyon, the book told in its faint brown ink, ys proportyonate to the strengthe and ynfluence of the beyng ynvolved. Whyle the raysyng of a lesser mortale or daedryc spawne maye requyre only the encantatyon of the spelle, to bryng backe a creature of hye power demandes greater attentyon and skyll?

Her tutor watched her with a gaze part suspicious, part ruefully interested.

?For these beyngs an addytyonal levele of controle ys requyred. Thys maye be obtayned bye havynge yn thy possessyon an objecte formerlye belongyng to the partycular spyryt. Yn cases of extreme magnytude, thy wyll be complyed to speake the true and byrth-gyven name of the spyryt at the performance of the ceremonye?

Her tutor glanced out the window, then corked the ink-bottle and gathered up her papers. Morgiah looked up at the sudden noise, unnaturally loud in the stillness of the library air.

"Supper already, Karethys?" she inquired, looking out the window to the position of the sun.

"Yes. You will be late."

Casting a flickering look of regret at the open book that Karethys only just noticed, Morgiah stood up from the table and rescued her wrap before it caught under the chair-leg. Draping it around her shoulders, although there was no real need for it in the pleasant summer warmth, both tutor and pupil left the library in quiet dusk light. The books stayed open on the table, ready for tomorrow's lesson.

The sun fell across the floor of the upper West Gallery, lined with windows to catch the evening light. It plucked a note of crimson from Morgiah's dress and sang out against the deep turquoise carpet, a little patch of red that glowed defiantly until her Highness turned round a corner down the South Stairs, parting with her tutor, out of the sun.

Morgiah was thinking.

She was good at thinking. She was also good at keeping what she was thinking to herself, something which inspired both respect and misgiving in the members of the Wayrest court. How could you relate to those calmly impassive pupilless eyes? How could you find common ground, root out a weakness, manipulate the conversation the way you wanted? There were simply no cues to take your lead from.

Today was the 29th Sun's Height. Fiery Night, it was called. The centre of the year. The Palace marked it as usual with a feast, a chance to bring together the family. The Wayrestian Royals seldom took their meals together, for a number of reasons.

The banquet-door was opened for her by a footman. The great hall was already full of celebrating nobles. At the high table on the dais sat, for all intents and purposes, her family.

At the centre: Eadwyre, her step-father. Morgiah's true father was long dead, relic of the strife at the time of Uriel VII. King Eadwyre was a heavily-built Breton, hair yellow as corn and curly as a babe's. A massive but blunt presence, he alternated frequently between booming laughs, abstract irritation and cunning words. Certainly he loved his wife with reverence and tenderness, but how far that love extended towards his stepchildren was unclear.

Across from Eadwyre: Helseth. Her brother by birth and younger by eight years. Her feelings for him were complex and discomfiting ? the closeness of their youth had dissipated recently as Helseth, young as he was, turned to life in the court. Politics. His mind was sharp and eager, she knew, but his temperament could be rash and ugly. He was not cherished by the Wayrestian public.

At Helseth's right: little Elysana, stepsister, daughter of Eadwyre and his first wife Carolyna. Unlike Helseth, she was the darling of the court ? those cornflower-blue eyes, those flowing golden ringlets! So sweet of temper, so kind and thoughtful; who could not love her? Who indeed. It was only the odd malicious gaze towards her step-siblings that had sparked a warning in anyone's mind, and even then it had registered with only one person.

Finally, by the side of her husband: Barenziah. Silently adored by her daughter. Stately, sharp, beautiful, graceful, dangerously quick of mind; her eyes held fathoms of wisdom and experience. Queen Barenziah had lived more than half an Era, and it was not lost on her.

As Morgiah seated herself opposite her brother, she had a sudden flash of unbidden insight: how different really were they, these irreconcilable creatures? What paths did their minds wander along, what was being spoken behind the festival smiles and pleasantries?

What indeed.

THE REVERIE OF EADWYRE, KING OF WAYREST

?and I fear these public appearances are of greater need of late as the city seems to be waking up to the fact that an heir apparent must be announced in the coming years of course my darling Elysana so sweet and gentle I do love her so dearly as did Carolyna but bless her she is so na?ve and not that I doubt her but I am not sure of her competence to rule intelligence never seemed to be her forte but to think of that dark and brooding Helseth taking the throne I never could quite feel fond of the boy especially in these recent years he can be so cold and I have no meeting of minds with him like the girl Morgiah although I am relatively fond of her there is still a point which I cannot pass she is courteous and friendly enough but I feel she is so alien we have no common ground not that I could ever tell Barenziah my beautiful proud wise queen how I love her so and Arkay rest dear Carolyna but I love Barenziah more than my own life her hand on mine on the tablecloth so full of grace my queen I never quite penetrated the depth of your thoughts but if only I understood your children as I almost do you?

King Eadwyre looks out at the sea of his subjects in the Great Hall, and then back at his wife, and is lost in the flame of her eyes as he always is.

THE REVERIE OF HELSETH, PRINCE OF WAYREST

?Dagon take it sitting up here like a puppet on show if only I could mingle with the crowd there are people I must meet properly the Baron Moorsley for instance I must start to integrate myself I did not realise it before but we are more outsiders than we know Mother Morgiah and I it will go the worse for me if I am not careful I must work hard to become popular and my step-father is at last allowing me into council meetings to observe he thinks it is a whim I believe but I must learn the mechanics of this province I know they do not take me seriously because I am young and it is true not long ago I would have scoffed at the idea of establishing myself within society at this early stage and I do not see Morgiah so much now I am so busy with step-father and his doings I do miss her company I remember when we snuck into the treasury I was right there were piles of jewels she had to pay up all her jack-dice to me it is a shame I was caught but we have not done things like that for more than a year now I wonder I must try and introduce myself to people tonight especially the Baron but after maybe I could catch her before she goes to bed and we could have a game of halma-board?

Helseth looks up for a moment at his sister, and their eyes meet: for one second a fleeting feeling of companionship passes between them, and the smallest of smiles is exchanged.

THE REVERIE OF ELYSANA, PRINCESS OF WAYREST

?oh it's so tiresome I wish I could go back to my room I have not yet finished dressing Pollyanna in the new frock that came today maybe I shall play with her before I go to bed but the nurse might not let me she might put the candle out straight away maybe Papa will tell her and that will teach her to boss me oh Papa Papa it is so dull I have eaten all I want and why oh why must I sit next to horrid Helseth how I hate him with his stupid red eyes he is so ugly and her too I hate her with her stupid dark hair nothing like my pretty yellow ringlets I wish they had never come here Papa why did you bring the dark queen back my step-mother I wish she didn't live here she has never been unkind to me but I am a little afraid of her they say she has been alive for five-hundred years she must be a daedra oh Papa how could you bring her to live here with her horrid children one day when I grow up I will be Queen and I will send them back to their devil-land just you wait and see one day when I grow up and I am Queen?

Princess Elysana swings her legs under the table, the seed-pearls on her little bodice reflecting the candlelight. She glares savagely at her step-brother, before arranging a charming smile on her face and looking up at Eadwyre. He puts an affectionate arm around his gentle pretty daughter.

THE REVERIE OF BARENZIAH, QUEEN OF WAYREST

?I must remember to write to dear Llethan to confirm my visit to Mournhold Helseth has been quite adamant in my taking him he says he would like me to explain their system of government I don't quite know how to take this growing obsession with politics he is still so young my darling Helseth where did your carefree days with your sister disappear to but I don't like the glint of ambition I sometimes see in his eyes of course ambition is not always a bad thing but he has such a rash temper if I can only channel this interest into something healthy though I am proud of his focus proud of both of them of course they always were so intelligent I have heard of Morgiah's studies so complex and advanced her thirst for learning gladdens me oh darling Morgiah had you only red hair I could be looking at myself in your face how I love them both but dear Azura what on earth is this glare that Elysana is giving Helseth she looks at him with such loathing I have seen it before Eadwyre of course will never notice I worry that this rift will grow unless Elysana will accept my children she is so young but ridiculous as it is I find myself nervous of her I fear this hatred of hers will grow I can only think that trouble will come of it?

Queen Barenziah watches her husband and step-daughter for a moment, then sighs and looks away. There is prophecy in her eyes.


*


Thirty years later in the present day of First Seed 3E 429, Aetherius is playing host to a certain group of people, and has been for some time.

Unlike its opposite, Oblivion, the nature of Aetherius is malleable and possible to manipulate, given the right knowledge or influence. It has been done before to create the Mantellan Crux, the trap-ridden hiding-place used to safeguard the Mantella, the Heart of the broken Dwemer golem that Tiber Septim used to forge his empire. The Crux was traversed and the Mantella retrieved nineteen years ago by an agent of the Emperor, an event which resulted in the catastrophic reactivation of the golem, Numidium.

Interestingly, Tamriel has not heard the last of Dwemer golems and mantellas. It shall hear of them again, and soon.

But the mention of the Mantellan Crux is merely a reminder; a preface to the news that now, another area very similar has been created on the blank canvas of Aetherius. A habitable space within a metaphysical plane. It is a room the size of a mountain, with stars for walls. In the very centre of this room is a cluster of black-robed figures, and stationed before them: Vivec, the lost god!

Move closer; they are speaking.

Vivec's eyes are beautiful, but not focused. His movements are too slow.

"This enemy you speak of," he intones mildly. "You say I must help you create a talisman to defeat him."

"Yes, my lord," replies a black-robed figure. "Two talismans, in fact. One to power the force we will use to defeat our enemy, and one to control it. We are in need of your mercy and your aid; your magical expertise is second only to your fellow, the almighty god Sotha Sil."

"Ah, Sotha Sil," the god moans, his eyes rolling back and his arms becoming rigid. "If only I had seen you ? watch now, in your hallowed halls? your hallowed halls?"

The black-robed figures exchange looks.

Presently the god recovers, his taut limbs falling limp. He looks around slowly.

"What are these talismans I must make?"

"You shall have help, my Lord. Your skill in magicka will fulfil half the making; we have found for you a servant skilled in mechanics to complete the construction."

And now Vivec sees being led toward the group the soft massive silhouette of a man, but something about the outline is terribly wrong? below the waist, the reaching spindly arms eight times over, as of a spider made of metal?

Yagrum Bagarn, the last Dwarf, is propelled into the centre of the room. Vivec looks at him as if he is remembering something long ago, or trying to keep hold of a dream that is slipping away.

"I have seen the like of you before," he says to the hulking silhouette.

Yagrum Bagarn cannot answer. Where his tongue once was there is now only a cauterised stump of flesh, and with it has gone Bagarn's last chance of hope. He moves painfully and obediently, and his eyes are dim.


*
*

A/N: The 'reveries' in this chapter are a direct tribute to Mervyn Peake's similar literary tool in Titus Groan.

I rather like the reveries, rushed and runon as they were as it gave a sort of urgent and ever-changing notion to the entire passage. I also like how you introduced this plane on Aetherius, as if the reader himself were looking at it. A certainly unique way of presenting a setting.

And I simply love Elysana... But I still don't quite see the connection to Morgiah's first. Though I see the connection to Daggerfall.

I thought your chapter was awesome. Great description and not of the normal variety. Refreshing

Having played TES since Daggerfall days, The story so far makes me realize how shallow my understanding was of all the things going on in those convoluted quest lines.

I love the scope and sweep of your story. I also admire the way you use the `reveries' to identify and flesh out the important characters. I found the whole thing tremendously entertaining. Looking forward to more.

Thanks guys! I'm really glad you're enjoying the story, and thanks for reviewing! To answer any issues in your questions/comments:

bobg: I know exactly what you mean about Daggerfall's storylines - man, that stuff was crazy. It was only after I read the Daggerfall Chronicles for about the sixth time that I started getting everything straight in my head. To be honest, I miss that kind of complicated political intrigue in Oblivion - Daggerfall's stories made absolutely no concession to the players' intelligence, or lack thereof, and the tangled web of characters was every bit as complicated and venomous as real-life politics would be. It's what made me love the game so much - even the most basic of graphics and gameplay can be brought to life with a decent plot.

Eff: This will become obvious eventually, but for the sake of clarity I'll explain it now - this fic actually has two distinct storylines running alongside eachother. The first is the present Morgiah's investigation into what on earth Helseth is up to with Vivec. The second is Morgiah's past, and all the events of her life in Wayrest that lead to her first coming across the King of Worms, and why and how their relationship developed. Eventually it will lead into her reasons for emigrating to Firsthold, and exactly what the famous 'first' bargain was. As the two stories unfold, their plots and characters begin to link up more and more, until the past-Morgiah storyline eventually reaches the place where the present-Morgiah storyline begins in the very first chapter.

Now I look at it, it's bloody confusing. I'm afraid my style can be rather confusing at times. I think the forum-post format makes it look even more so, unfortunately. It seemed clearer on fanfiction.net. For instance, in this coming chapter, we're back in the present, but there are lots of inserted scenes that are happening elsewhere at the same time Nenya and Morgiah are talking about them. Argh. But I hope you continue to enjoy it, in any case!


*


The King And I

Chapter 4 ? The Red Lady Recruits A Septet


"I need your help."

Nenya looked up at Morgiah's words, pleased by their frankness. "I've already promised my help, your Highness. On behalf of the Queen Mother, one of the people I admire most."

"And so she should be. But I don't doubt that your admiration is hard-earned and well-bestowed. I'm glad to have your assistance."

The two women had removed to Morgiah's study. Looking across the table, they found that they liked one another.

Morgiah began to clear a small space through the piled documents on the desk, uncovering an inkpot and a quill. She rifled through a drawer ad found a sheaf of blank parchment, along with the Mournhold royal seal. "First and foremost, I need to assemble a group of trusted individuals to carry out this investigation. Off the top of my head, I imagine we shall need someone to track these black-robed visitors, someone to quietly dig up the old Llethan-Talen death-cases and anolyse the possibility of their being murdered, someone to investigate Vivec's disappearance? and someone to just search around Mournhold for rumours or clues wouldn't go amiss, either."

"I have several ideas," said Nenya, picking at a buckle on her pauldron and frowning thoughtfully. "I'm not sure if you'll approve of all of them, but the best comes with a price, I suppose."

Morgiah's quill was poised over the parchment. Nenya noticed that she was making tiny, barely noticeable movements with her hand, turning the nib this way and that so as not to drip any ink. "Firstly," she said slowly, "I'd like you to ask you a favour. It involves this investigation, so it's not to your disadvantage. If fact, it's probably much the opposite?"

"Ask," Morgiah said.

Nenya looked younger and more vulnerable than Morgiah had imagined she could. "I'd like you to write a letter to the Imperial City barracks to recall one of their soldiers to Vvardenfell," she said quickly, the words tumbling over themselves in her effort to get them out. "He'll be very helpful for finding things out in Mournhold. He's very good at getting information. But you'll need to write a request for his release."

Morgiah's curiosity was piqued, but she asked for no more explanations. If this man proved valuable to their investigation, so be it. She dabbed the quill to blot off the excess ink. "What is his name?"

Nenya smiled.


*


(Caius is pensive)

Caius Cosades had not always been a spy. Before that he had been a soldier, and a good one. He'd ranked Corporal before the Blades invitation came.

He'd always felt that he more suited the mould of a soldier than a spy. His parents had evidently thought so, enrolling him into the nearest garrison as soon as age permitted. At first, Caius had found underling military life hard, as all new recruits do, but once he began to rise through the ranks he realised that he liked this routine, straightforward way of life. He supposed the Mystics would tell him he was using his orderly, run-of-the-mill career to impose some sense on his rather disorderly, chaotic mindset.

Legion life was uncomplicated. You saw what needed doing, and either you were told to do it or you ordered someone else to. In a way, Caius had come back to seek solace, to not have to think. He was still a Blade, he was just? taking a break.

The Imperial City was always busy, but in the few hours after sunrise it was less so, and Caius was out for a walk. He was beginning to regret it, too, because the one thing walking breeds more than anything else is thought. Caius' mind was picking him up and running away with him again, and he hated it when it did that.

He turned into a small, deserted courtyard and leant against a sun-soaked wall. The cool morning air was already becoming hot and sticky.

It's the Morrowind job, he told himself for the hundredth time. It all damn well comes back down to that.

He'd been a Blades member for nine years when the summons came. From the Emperor himself, Uriel Septim VIII, it seemed ? go to Vvardenfell, the island province of Morrowind, they said. There's a house there waiting for you in a town called Balmora. Settle down and make yourself comfortable for a long stay; lie low til further instructions. Feign identity as a harmless skooma-eater.

Skooma-eater. He'd fought long and hard against that one. He had a weakness for sweet things, he'd told them; this was a bad idea, it'd only end in tears? but they were adamant. Moon Sugar addicts were left to their own devices, it was a failsafe guise to take.

A certain amount of morbid satisfaction was mixed with the pain and humiliation when they recalled him to Cyrodiil, before his job was properly finished. He'd told them the skooma would be too much for him; they hadn't listened. On their head be it.

Still, it was him that had suffered as a result. They were ok ? he'd got their Nerevarine job done for them, but him? Even the smell of sugar broke him out in a sweat now. Some way to repay a loyal Imperial servant for years of toil.

But as he leant against the hot sandstone wall, hundreds of leagues from Balmora, he knew all the [censored]ing about skooma was just a distraction. He knew his real feelings on leaving Vvardenfell. Despite the maddening drug taking over his life, he hadn't wanted to leave. He hadn't wanted to leave her, all alone without a clue what to do next. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right.

He might have been able to help her more if the assignment hadn't all been so up in the air. He hardly knew a thing about the blasted Nerevarine prophecies ? how was she supposed to? The best he could do was to send her out scouting for information, and try to keep everything on track as much as possible back his end. He'd thought there'd been a mistake when she first arrived from the prison ship; barely out of her teens, about as magically able as a rock. A Nord, a girl, for Mercy's sake ? was this the norm for reincarnated Dunmer heroes?

They'd spent a lot of time together as things went on. She'd often stayed in Balmora, kept him company? he had been surprised, at first, at the entirely capable mind working away beneath that cheerful, blonde, hammer-wielding exterior.

She'd also written him letters after he'd been recalled. At first, their tone was of panic veiled over by a cheerful flippancy ? what did he think she should do about this, did he know any contacts for that, and how was the Imperial City? He'd written back faithfully, trying to ignore the furstration building up inside. How could they burden her with this terrible responsibility? It made him angry, and angry at himself for being angry in the first place. Blades do not get attached to assignments.

After the Red Mountain crescendo was over, her letters were all smiles and laughs ? they made him all smiles too, but his laughs were halfhearted.

The barracks had brought him back to earth, made his time in Vvardenfell seem like a very long dream. It was only when the couriers came, bearing another letter, that he was reminded that it was not?

There was a courier coming now.

"Caius Cosades?" he called, weaving through the pillars.

"Yes?" Caius said, startled out of his reverie. He pushed himself off the wall, chainmail clinking.

"Letter from Morrowind," said the courier, holding it out.

Caius reached for it eagerly, turned it over to break the seal, unrolled it clumsily-

Her Royal Highness, Princess Morgiah of Mournhold, requests the release and subsequent audience?

He read the whole thing, put the letter in his pocket, sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

So much for the quiet life.


*


"A Blades member?" asked Morgiah. "I'd rather not have the Empire getting involved in all this?"

"He's not exactly what you'd call a fanatical loyalist," Nenya said with a hint of amusemant. "And don't forget I'm a Blades member too, albeit a choiceless one."

"Very well. I shall write him a letter. In the meantime, I need someone to sniff around Mournhold and find out what's been going on with these elusive black-robed visitors. Can you recommend anyone, or would you rather take this on yourself?"

"Oh no," said Nenya with a disconcertingly bright smile. "I wouldn't dream of taking on something so delicate. You want Ser Gothren for that sort of thing."


*


(Ser Solon Gothren cultivates his contacts)

The Dren Plantation was a tightly-run operation. Not only was it the largest plantation on Vvardenfell (and therefore subject to theft, slave-loss and sabotage), it was also the headquarters of Orvas Dren, who was much more than House Hlaalu's richest councillor.

Ser Orvas Dren happened to be the headman of the Cammona Tong, the most vicious criminal syndicate in all Morrowind. Because of this, it was hard to get into the Dren mansion with ill intent towards him, and ever harder to get out alive.

Unless you really, really knew what you were doing. And there was one person who did.

A shadowy figure stood in one corner of a second-floor room, training a lazy gaze over the surroundings. There were upwards of two thousand gold pieces stacked on the table, but he didn't trouble it with more than a glance. Thefts like that were noticed in minutes, and petty robbers didn't survive Dren's hitmen. Besides, there were larger things at stake here than money.

The figure, a Dunmer male, had been a regular sight at the Dren mansion for a week or so. It only added to his mystique that no-one could quite work out what he was there for ? certainly he was not a plantation-worker, he didn't look like a trader or a merchant, and he hadn't the demeanour of a guard. Those who had some idea of Dren's criminal connections left well alone ? it was better to keep your distance from these things if you valued your limbs, not to mention your life.

In fact, the Dunmer male was neither plantation-worker, trader, merchant or guard. He had committed his fair share of crimes, certainly, but he was far more freelance than any of Dren's usual associates. His loyalty to Dren in fact equalled zero, something Dren might have noticed had he not become so blinded by his growing liking for this particular mer. Or, more accurately, growing obsession.

The Dunmer male had his own agenda and always had done. The Cammona didn't know about his connection with the Morag Tong, Mages, Thieves Guild and Great Houses, but then all the aforementioned didn't know about his contact with Dren either. Working for yourself was a very dicey game, even if you were good at it.

There was someone coming up the stairs. His hand moved to the hilt of the crossbow, within easy reach on the table.

The someone clumped to the top of the stairs and made a beeline for his corner.

"Alright, Solon? Or is it still Galos Farethi?" asked Nenya.

"Galos, please," said Solon Gothren. They shook hands with mutual respect. "I wonder," he went on, "how you managed to get in so easily."

"Blackmail," she said happily.

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "How could I have forgotten? I shan't ask for your thanks again, however."

"That's good," she smiled, "because I shan't give it when asked, anyhow."

He could see she was trying to be nonchalant as she looked at him. She was better at it than most, but it was still noticeable. It was very difficult not to stare at Solon.

"I've got a favour to ask, if you don't mind," she continued gaily.

"Another one? It's not wise to owe too many favours, Sera Nerevarine."

She scowled. "Don't call me that. I don't like it."

He smiled. "I know."

She had to work hard not to stare at his smile, which made her scowl even more, in a good-natured sort of way. "Anyway," she said, settling herself in the nearest chair with a creak of armour, "favour isn't exactly the right word. It's a job proposition, but I'd feel a lot better to know it was you doing it rather than someone else."

Solon looked around swiftly. Alternative job propositions were not a wise thing to confer on in their current surroundings. "This is not the ideal place to discuss, Sera. We'll go beyond the estate." He took her arm and led her towards the stairs, noting her awareness of his hand, but being too used to this sort of reaction for the thought to linger.

Upstairs, Orvas Dren heard nothing of the exchange, and was none the wiser. His thoughts were elsewhere, on a certain Dumner male.


*


"That's two," said Nenya, ticking them off on her fingers. "But we're in luck; I know the perfect people to investigate your ? er ? suspicion of the King's affinity with poisons. Normally it'd be near impossible to get hold of them considering how much they travel around, but I happen to know they've stopped off in Mournhold?"

Morgiah looked up. "Not the new court warlocks from Sadrith Mora?"

Nenya's mouth twitched. "Not quite."


*


(Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd receive an unexpected offer of fund)

"I'm hungry."

"Well, don't eat this, or you'll turn into a newt."

The trestle table was littered with the most astonishing array of objects. A selection of alembics weighed down one end, while a heap of multicoloured fishscales in haphazard categories dominated the other. Next to a clay bowl full of enough pearls to turn a lady green stood a young Breton woman, bent over a sample-phial of colourless liquid, a frown of concentration on her pretty face. At the other end of the table, jostling for occupation with the alembics, sat a fair-haired young man with a sheaf of parchment spread out before him.

"A newt?" he said plaintively, looking at the phial with apprehension. "I thought you'd given up on Alteration."

She ignored the goad with a mock-glare, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before resuming her scrutiny. "Eadwyrd, what's best to fuse with marshmerrow? Do you think pearl?"

Eadwyrd wrinkled his nose rather endearingly. "Something a bit less formed than pearl. Mother-of-pearl, maybe? Or even Kollop shell? Have we got those?"

The young woman sighed, abandoning the phial and slumping in a chair next to her companion. "No," she grumbled, picking a bit of leaf from under her fingernail. "We'll need another trip to the alchemist's. Snowy, I think would be better than snow'en, there," she added, indicating a line on the parchment.

Eadwyrd looked at her sternly. "It's supposed to be formal language, Gwynabyth. '-en' is from the old Altmeri formation of adjectives."

She smiled at him. "You and you Altmeri formations. Perhaps you should help with some actual apothecary next time, instead of shouting impossible instructions from across the room whilst composing poetry?"

"I was advising!" he protested, tugging at the cuff of his robe. "Next time I'll help properly. I just had to get this verse down before it left me."

"Promise you'll read it to me when it's finished?"

He smiled helplessly at her. "Promise."

She was quiet for a moment. Then- "Maybe you could send some manuscripts to the Mournhold Players."

He looked up, startled, then plucked at his quill uncomfortably. "I don't know? besides, I'm not sure they'd even accept them. And I don't like to feel I'm doing it just to get money?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Eadwyrd, I know. I shouldn't really have asked. It's just ? well, we haven't even halfway finished the formula, and we can't keep spending money on ingredients with no source of income." She toyed with a lock of hair.

"Well, we-" began Eadwyrd, but was cut off by a knock at the door. "Who could that be?"

"The landlady, probably," replied Gwynabyth guiltily, hastily pulling a makeshift cover over a mess of soil and plants in one corner. "Oh no, the place is a tip?"

"I'll go," offered Eadwyrd, trying to put his manuscripts into some semblance of order before hurrying to the door.

Gwynabyth heard a murmur of voices, an exclamation of surprise, a door closing ? and then Eadwyrd was back, inexplicably, with an envelope bearing the Royal seal of Mournhold.

"I think," he said with wide shocked eyes, "that our financial problems may be considerably postponed."


*


"And you said they were from??"

"Glenumbra Moors, a western province of High Rock," Nenya told her. "Iliac Bay region."

"Interesting..."

Nenya didn't usually beat around the bush. "Been there, your Majesty?"

"Yes."

There was something so extremely strange and different in her expression and eyes that for a moment even the flippant Nenya was disconcerted.

The silence became ridiculous. "So," Nenya ventured at last, "they'll do?"

Morgiah came back to earth. "Hm ? yes, they're perfect. Is that the end of the list?"

"One more," said Nenya, kicking off her muddy boots, which Morgiah decided to overlook. "This one's tricky, very tricky ? but I think if we can snag him, he'll prove more valuable than anyone could imagine?"


*


(Uncle Crassius, as seen through the eyes of a secretary)

The little gilt sign on the door read 'Crassius Curio, Director of Business'. Quite what business this referred to Forvus was not sure. That Bosmeri courier had been inside for a good while ? longer than it took to simply hand over a letter.

Forvus Graccus had been Crassius Curio's personal secretary for almost a month. He had come to the city of Vivec with rumours ringing in his ears of the greatness of House Hlaalu's premier councillor, and the mixture of nervous excitement and certainty of employment that only the young and inexperienced possess.

When he got to Vivec there were new rumours. "Have you seen his new play?" he overheard a Breton woman giggle to her friend in the tavern one evening. "Oh, to be Lifts-Her-Tail!"

He became more and more nervous as the days slipped by. Why should Ser Curio bother to employ him when there were so obviously dozens of beautiful women who would jump at the chance?

He needn't have worried. When finally he was granted an audience and stood before his hero, breathless with anxiety, Ser Curio merely winked, said he could do with someone new to "shuffle his paperweights", asked to be called Uncle Crassius and told Forvus he'd look better in closer-fitting trousers.

Thus his employment commenced.

"Urgent letter from Mournhold," announced a courier that Forvus hadn't even realised was there. "May I go straight through?"

"Ah, no," stuttered Forvus hastily, glancing at the shut door. "Leave it with me, Sera, and I shall convey it to Ser Curio as soon as possible." He held out his hand to take the letter.

"Is he not here?" pressed the courier, making no attempt to hand it over. "It would really be better if I could give it directly to him; it's quite important."

"I'm afraid he is, ah? indisposed," Forvus stammered on valiantly, beginning to feel a bit desperate. He was sure he could almost hear the squeaking of bedsprings.

Unfortunately, before the courier could reply, an extremely long-drawn-out masculine moan thundered from behind the door. Forvus froze, hand still outstretched for the letter.

"Good grief", said the courier after a moment's staring. "What on earth? Is he ill?"

"Oh yes, terribly, terribly," gabbled Forvus, pouncing on the excuse like a rat on a biscuit. "Doctor's with him now. Bosmer doctor ? ah, very proficient ? And of course you shouldn't be lingering around here," he continued, ushering her away and prising the letter from her fingers. "Could be contagious. Can't say. Thank you ? thank you ?"

The courier disappeared with one last suspicious glance. By the time Forvus had gotten back downstairs, a dishevelled-looking wood-elf was emerging sheepishly from the office door.

Crassius Curio himself followed, and unlike his companion was still immaculately groomed. "Keep those letters coming," he said airily, patting her cheekily on the bottom. She giggled, but then caught sight of the staring Forvus and fled.

"So, my little scribe, my little nib-tease," smirked Crassius to Forvus, utterly unabashed of his very obvious methods of diversion. "What have you for me today?"

"Ah ? just one letter, sir," Forvus said, locating and holding it out. "The courier said it was urgent, but it came when you were, ah?"

Crassius raised an eyebrow, amusemant evident in his eyes.

"?busy, sir," Forvus finished lamely.

"Excellent job as always, pudding," said Crassius, his smirk now wide enough to fit a door through. "And don't bother with the 'sir'. You and I are past such formalities."

Already tomato-red, Forvus held out the envelope. Crassius tickled his palm as the letter exchanged hands, with the obvious intent of making the poor boy blush even harder. It worked.

But once the letter was opened, all trace of lightheartedness disappeared. His eyes scanned the document meticulously, once, twice, three times.

Forvus was silent. He admired Crassius for his charm, but above all for his intelligence.

"Interesting," said the older man finally. "Very interesting."

"?Sir?" Forvus ventured, forgetting his employer's request.

"I shall be going away for a short spell, Forvus," Crassius announced, folding the letter up neatly. "I shall need transport to, and accommodation in Mournhold for three days. Can I trust you to make the arrangements?"

"Oh yes sir, of course sir!" gasped Forvus, thrilled to be entrusted with something so important. "I'll get on top of it immediately."

"I'm sure you will, sweeling," murmured Crassius devilishly, giving his secretary's close-fitting trousers a lingering glance before retreating to his office.

Not for the first time, Forvus made a note to peruse the nearest alchemist for a remedy to excessive blushing.


*


"A Hlaalu councillor," Morgiah stated as she wrote. "What a cunning angle to take. Perhaps you should have been a politician, not a warrior."

"Too much lying. Shall I take those letters right now, your majesty? I'll drop them off with your courier on the way out."

"Thank you, but no. I shall revise them and send them off this evening."

Nenya stood, lightly picking up her massive helmet and perching it atop her head as if it were merely a pillbox hat. "Righto. Back to old Vvardenfell. One week from today, I'll be back with all the responses I can get." She slid the ebony visor down and clumped out of the room.

When she had gone, Morgiah took a fresh sheet of parchment. She dipped her quill in the inkwell and scripted an envelope with the name of Bomba 'Lurrina, and an address in the city of Daggerfall. The key personality of Iliac Bay's fate in 3E 410 would be summoned by her Highness one last time.


*
*


A/N: One thing I wanted to do with this story from the start was to include as many existing characters as possible. It's tempting, with a game like TES, to focus too much on your own avatars - but there are existing characters that are very popular, and I reasoned that since I enjoyed reading about them, others might too. I do have my own original characters in this story, but hopefully they're balanced out by just as many canon ones.

Caius and Crassius, of course, most people will be familliar with. Crassius cracks me up every time - I just HAD to include him. Gwynabyth Yeomham and Eadwyrd Greenhart were two Daggerfall characters I met in an alchemists shop in Glenumbra, and who eventually wormed their way into the plot I have now.

Solon is more obscure. I'll just copy-paste my explanation from ff.net to explain him: "Solon is a very fun character. He sort of evolved when I downloaded the Astarsis Basic Replace mod onto my computer (highly recommend it, by the way) and there was one dark elf face that caught my eye and kept on popping up on certain people in the game. Like I wrote in the chapter, Galos Farethi, the half-naked guy with the daedric shield who wanders around the Dren manor, was one. The others were a guy in the Common Tongue hideout, a bodyguard at the Hlaalu Grandmaster estate and Crazy-Legs Arantanamo (I have almost definitely got that name wrong), who works for Gentleman Jim Stacey the thief in Vivec. I started forming this mad theory that they were all the same person, some crazy criminal guy with loads of aliases, and thus Solon was born!"

Hope you enjoyed Next chapter is back to Morgiah's past, and her first ever glimpse of the name "King of Worms".

Another fantastic chapter. Looking forward to many more.

Your writing puts me to shame. The way you executed the chapter was spectacular.

Again, your work reminds me how vast the TES world is. I am thoroughly enjoying this whirlwind ride through that world. It almost makes me want to load up Daggerfall and revisit some of my old haunts. And then maybe spend a little time in Balmora.

Thanks so much for your support, guys!



I should definitely not put you to shame! You've done something I have never had the skill, determination or patience to do - namely, participate long-term in some very indepth and demanding RPs. I really admire the dedication it takes to make that writing form into something special. It's very difficult to keep a handle on.

The King And I

Chapter 5 ? Interlude 2; How The King Came Into Play


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun's Height 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.


There was a restlessness in Wayrest; it had been building up to a peak since Fiery Night. Morgiah could feel it.

There was something wrong with the Emperor. Everyone knew it, though it was seldom spoken of. Rumours came of his out-of-character behaviour, his unusual comments and decisions. It was as if another Emperor had taken over and was living under his skin. Morgiah remembered her brief audience with him two years ago, with Helseth and her mother? it had been just before the news of their father's death, and their move to Wayrest.

And she remembered how quiet her mother had been after that, as if she were carrying some terrible burden. The presence of Eadwyre lifted it, but only slightly. It was obvious that Barenziah knew more about the Emperor's condition than she was letting on.

And now rumours, more rumours all over Tamriel, not to mention High Rock, of something (or someone?) happening to turn the tide against this strangeness, and the digging up of old artefacts? Morgiah had heard tell that the Oghma Infinium had been found.

As soon as she had heard this, she had gone to the library to look up the lore of legendary artefacts. She had so far found information on the twenty or so of which were considered the most powerful and important. And there, right in front of her, was a description of the Oghma Infinium. The knowledge-giver. A 'tome written by the Ageless One, the wizard-sage Xarses - All who read the Infinium are filled with the energy of the artifact which can be manipulated to achieve wisdom of near demi-god proportions? if he can brave the might of the Daedra Prince Hermaeus Mora, the giver of the Tome.'

Morgiah usually tried to stay away from gods and goddesses, demi or not. She didn't want to be a demi-god. She just wanted the knowledge.

But the Oghma Infinium?

She knew it would never amount to anything. They were just daydreams. Silly, grandiose fantasies. But it was hard to keep from thinking of it; so hard, in fact, that during her next tutoring session in the library she was uncharacteristically uninterested in her revision of what Karethys called 'Cultural Study'. She was looking lazily across the quiet room, at the patterns on her tutor's cloak.

"That's a pretty brooch, Karethys," she said vaguely. "An unusual rune. What does it mean?"

Her tutor seemed to hesitate. "It's? a symbol. Of devotion."

"To what?"

Karethys turned a perfectly level gaze on her. "A leader," she said unhelpfully, easing a book onto the shelf. "Your last hour is finished," she continued, as if nothing had been said. "You may spend the afternoon as you wish. Would you like to stay in the library? I shall leave the windows open for you."

"Thank you, Karethys. I think I might."

The tutor retired and shut the door quietly; Morgiah got up and browsed along the shelves. She felt like something different today. History, maybe, or something more frivolous ? she was in a fanciful mood, and the library, the view from the windows, even the weak daylight glow of the oil-lamps seemed adventurous.

She returned to the table with a pile of books from dusty and forgotten corners, picked up the oldest and dustiest of all, and began to read.

Creation myths? old monarchs? the continents over the sea? the shaping of the lands? the migration of the elves? old heroes, old tyrants, old figureheads, and the symbols of their power and domination?

She blinked suddenly, staring at the familiar shape that had appeared on the page before her. She had seen it only moments before. The rune on Karethys' cloak-clasp.

"?a symbol. Of devotion."

Morgiah pulled the book towards her, curiosity and excitement rising through her. The commentary on the symbol described it as a rune of questionable meaning and origin, apparently incorporating aspects from Altmeri and some form of ancient Breton. At one tyme thys symbol maye have been prominent, it told, and although now yt ys more obscure, yt ys no less commone. At one tyme certaynly yt was recognysed as the syne of allegyence to that Sorceror, that Worm Kyng, who trycked the secrets from the pawes of the gods to learne his craft.

Morgiah sat back. Something strange had happened to the room, or to her ? she suddenly felt as if she were looking into an abyss, or falling into the sky. As if some vast space and distance were laid out before her. Worm King. Worm King?

"?a leader."

It was as if she was putting one foot onto a bridge that would lead ahead of her whole life.

She cross-referenced 'Worm King' in the library indexes, and with the results began to search the shelves.


*


Palace North Wing, Mournhold, Morrowind, 7th First Seed 3E 429, Present Day.


Helseth looked across the desk at his interviewee. The person was wearing a black robe which all but obscured his face, and was sitting motionless and quiet.

"You understand, then, the implications of this project?" Helseth asked him.

"I am aware that its successful completion will drive the n'wah from the land", replied the figure. "That is enough for the Sixth House Dreamers left behind at Dagoth Ur's demise. You have given us a focus; a means to achieve our end. I do not fully understand what you intend to do, but I stand by you nonetheless."

"Then as a devoted subject you deserve that understanding," Helseth confirmed, knowing well the etiquette of such situations. "Are you familiar with the history of Tiber Septim's uprising, and of his use of the Dwemer golem Numidium?

"I know a little of the lore," replied the figure, his mouth just visible under the hood of the cloak. The lips were very red. "Septim used the heart of his battlemage, Zurin Arctus, to create the heart of the golem Numidium. Using this monstrous weapon, he forcibly pulled the provinces together to create his empire. I hear the same golem was also involved in the so-called 'Warp of the West' nineteen years ago, but how or why I do not know."

"You are correct, although you cannot know the full extent of Numidium's influence, despite the fact that it is now irreparably broken and scattered throughout Oblivion." Helseth sat back and laced his fingers together. "First, its construction. The Dwemer obviously took care of the mechanical side. However, two artefacts were needed in addition. The Totem was a device that the Emperor held, in order to direct and control the golem. The Mantella, as you said, was the device placed inside Numidium ? its heart, if you will ? without which the golem would have been useless. Through my extensive studies I have concluded that this heart, this Mantella, is a kind of enormously powerful soul-gem. Numidium's Mantella was powered by the soul of Zurin Arctus, and was the source of the golem's vast potential."

"You explain well," said the Abandoned Dreamer. "I understand now."

For a moment there was silence. The Dreamer drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"How did you come to learn of the existence of a second golem?"

"The Nerevarine may have kept the specifics of her foray in Red Mountain to herself, but I have various sources of information," Helseth said with a twist of his lips. "Since the excommunication of the Dissident Priests was repealed, their de-hereticised records have made for interesting reading. The Heart of Lorkhan is dead beyond doubt, but the thing that housed it still stands."

"And Vivec and Bagarn?"

"Essential," Helseth confirmed. "Now Sotha Sil has unfortunately met his end, Vivec is the only individual within our grasp with the magical expertise needed for the two necessary artefacts. Bagarn is obvious. No mer could outstrip a Dwemer when it comes to mechanics."

"And when Vivec has served his purpose, you will use his soul to power the new Mantella?"

For the first time, Helsth seemed uncertain. "No," he said slowly. "That is? a problem. Vivec is mad, and highly unstable. An unstable Heart means an unstable Housing, and that could be the death of us all."

"Then who?"

"There are several options which come to mind," Helseth said thoughtfully. "The obvious, and most impossible, is the Emperor himself. But though the unrest in Cyrodiil City has not escaped my attention, even I am not so brave, not to mention so foolish, as to attempt such a feat myself. Besides, he is old, and weak."

"I next considered Nulfaga," he continued, "who is now ? with my greatest gratitude ? under your full control. But of course Nulfaga presents the same difficulties as Vivec: though immensely powerful, her mind is grossly unstable. I would not use her unless all other options were exhausted."

"It seems you are running out of candidates," remarked the black-robed figure. "We could perhaps have soultrapped Divath Fyr, had you warned us."

"I did think of that," admitted the King, "but we had then no means to trap a soul as powerful as Fyr's. We would have needed a mechanically completed Mantella, and so it would have been necessary to keep him alive and in captivity until it was made. That would have been impossible. Silence, stealth and utmostly surprise were our only weapons against him. Even then I believe it was a closer shave than you would like to admit."

The Dreamer said nothing.

"But there is one other," murmured Helseth, narrowing his eyes in thought. "When I resided in High Rock, in the province of Wayrest, we had rumour of an age old being ? a sorcerer ? now known chiefly as the Leader of the Necromancers. Have you heard of what I speak?"

"Once or twice," said the Dreamer slowly, "though I believed it only legend."

"It is a legend, but it happens to be a true one. I have the fortune to know someone whom I suspect may have had dealings with this leader at some point ?"

"Who?" interrupted the Dreamer, forgetting himself.

"? which if my suspicions are correct," Helseth continued, ignoring him, "we may use to capture and subsequently soultrap this being. It's a long shot, but difficult though it may be, I think it could be the best."

"And who is this person we might utilise to bring us closer to the Leader, your Majesty?" asked the Dreamer, deferential in the face of his lapsed humility.

Helseth said nothing. His face was in shadow.


*


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed 3E397. Back in the Library, 32 years before the present day.


Three hours later, Morgiah was entranced.

Necromancers. That was it. This Worm King, or King of Worms as he was more commonly known, was the leader of the Necromancers, and had been for as long as memory permitted. Where had he come from? No-one knew. No record stated his birth and parentage ? had he even been born at all? The oldest dates in which she had found references were thousands of years old. This was beyond Dunmer, even Altmer life span. But he was certainly not a Daedra?

'Tricked the secrets from the paws of the gods'. What did it mean?

First and foremost, of course, was that the untranslatable rune was undoubtedly the badge of a Necromancer. Morgiah sat back, and let out a breath she'd been unaware of holding.

So, Karethys, she thought. I wonder what other secrets you're keeping?



*
*


A/N: It bears mentioning that Karethys, like many characters in this story, actually exists in the game itself. She is a dunmer (one of the only ones you ever see in Daggerfall apart from Morgiah, Barenziah and Helseth) who you can find in the back-hall of Castle Wayrest. Since dunmer are so scarce in Daggerfall, I thought it was only logical to assume that Karethys was there to give Barenziah's children a connection to their heritage culture and previous home.

So its 4am and I was interested in reading your fan fic, so i gave it a stab.
I don't know where to begin.

-Its so refreshing to get my gears all oiled up and back into the familiar fields of Morrowind.
-I love the team that Morgiah and the Nerevarine have set up. (what an odd mix of personalities. Its going to be great how they interact with eachother)
-I love the fact that you went into detail about Cauis' addiction. (To ignore it would be a complete misinterpretation of his character.)
-The way you brought up Crassius' flamboyant personality made me smile and laugh to myself.
-I really enjoyed the brief moment of sixual humour. It was a shame you specified what gender the person Uncle Crassius was engaged with was.
-I also think Helseth is the perfect man for a villian, bringing back Dagoth's big robot whos name im too tired too prenounce...What a schemer!

Im probably forgetting a whole bunch of things, but thats all I can remember for now!



Out of plain curiosity (i probably know the answer to this already) but why would you constantly replace words that contains "i" with "y" "allegyence to that Sorceror, that Worm Kyng"
The same could be questioned about the word "artefacts." Is it European dialect? or am I just really ignorant with my english...

I typically dont read, but when im interested in things, i'll read. As of now, i'm pretty interested.


Anyways, I hoping you continue this. Remember, Mike only reads this. Mike+Reading= Education (Yay!!)



-Mike

Hmm... If this is the FOURTH ERA 429, as you state in the last chapter, that is WAY after the Oblivion Crisis. Which means Mannimarco is long since godly, and Helseth is not in the know that he's trying to capture a God.

Almost ironic, really. Except for the fact that it is 4E because of a typo on your part. But still, it means Mannimarco is a God even in 3E 429. Or at least godly. Unless you take a different opinion on that matter.