Picked up by the whiskers of an unfinished Moth-ship and automatically transcribed and translated by an enchanted quill. Such scrolls are usually stored at the 13th floor of the White-Gold Tower, in the library annex 34b, nicknamed 'Reman's Folly'

Point of divergence: approximately third century of the First Era

Strength of signal: fading

Navigation hazard: negligible

Energy footprint: grade VI, extra high

Provisional report following the incident at the storage facility #14557

Items missing:

• shielding and stabilization core for the base colony on the planet <untranslated - BTHAH>, prototype, unprimed, in transfer following the reports of the Great Wyrm sightings;

• moon-silver protective suit, reinforced, guard standard, issued to the Private Second Grade Gliniscant;

• specimen PL-47638, sex: male.

Items damaged:

• specimen IN-78848, sex: male, soul: missing;

• specimen AL-45788, sex: female, soul: partially missing.

All the specimens were picked up due to the high energy potential and were slotted for harvesting.

Personel losses:

• Private Second Grade Gliniscant, trauma conclusive with a fall from a great height, found at the end of the service corridor eight, blood stains at the scene inconclusive with being moved after death.

Additional comments:

• Female specimen was found with bone needles in its paws. Blood on the paws, needles and ground, as well as a torn-out heart belong to the missing specimen. Energy footprint analysis detects temporal transportation.

• The specimens displayed rudimentary tool-use and basic cooperation. Recommendation: avoid storing multiple specimens in near proximity, store and secure tools and weapons as per regulations.

(Just a snippet of headcanon from my current playthrough, reflecting the events as they have taken place in this version of the world: My character took a long time to get to the end of the College questline, but also has not even started the main quest, until recently, fighting the dragon at the Western Watchtower and getting a shout for the first time on his way back from getting the Staff of Magnus and curing his vampirism in Morthal)

It was finally time for Enthir to take a break. The College, and the town of Winterhold, had both been saved, and he was ready to sit with his ledgers and a pint of mead. People could finally get back to business with Ancano dead and the Eye taken care of. Enthir was once again down at the Frozen Hearth, where he often found himself on a Tirdas evening, but tonight was different. As soon as he came around the bend and saw some extra horses tied to the posts outside, he knew he'd find a different scene than he was used to. Instead of a quiet hall filled with the crackling of the fireplace and few hushed words, the place was alive with the sound of food, drink, and conversation. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and was nearly bowled over by a handmaiden carrying a platter of sweetrolls, apparently just prepared across the road in the Jarl's longhouse.

He was bemused and a bit bewildered. Nearly everyone in town was here, and some familiar faces he had never seen visit the place before. Some miners from down the road, hunters he had seen roaming the glaciers to the west, off-duty guards, and so on. At the far end, a young couple who looked well-to-do departed from the Jarl's side with smiling faces and headed up to order another round of ale. Talsgar the Wanderer emerged from Nelacar's room carrying a drum.

Perhaps business could wait. Enthir wasn't one to miss an opportunity for a party, and this was the closest to a party Winterhold had seen for a long time.

He ordered a drink and left his bag with Dagur, and found himself a seat near the fire to warm his toes. The sun was all the way down by now, and as the night grew colder even more people came in through the front. People Enthir knew from the longhouse were acting as temporary staff for the inn, it seemed. It was like being in another city altogether.

He learned eventually that there was a serendipitous reason for such revelry. It seemed the young couple Enthir spotted earlier were relatives of the Jarl, soon to be married. A small feast had been planned, and an open invitation to the residents of the town had been issued. But Enthir could feel there was more to it. Some of these people wouldn't have gotten such an invitation--the miners, the hunters, the wandering bard. These were undoubtedly friends of Omer, the Cat of Winterhold as he had come to be known, the College's up-and-coming Arch Mage, so it would seem. That one was nowhere to be found, likely preparing for the trials that awaited him the next day.

That very morning, Omer had returned to town with the Staff of Magnus and an air of transformation about him. Not everyone could know what had changed or why he looked different, but Enthir knew. The eyes, the teeth, the temperature in the room when he entered...Omer was truly alive for the first time since Enthir had met him. Gods know how he did it (there were rumors about Falion knowing the secret to curing vampirism, and perhaps Enthir would write him about it tomorrow) but in any case, the Khajiit entered the Hall of the Elements and mere minutes later, the walls shook with what could have been a clap of thunder, and the unstable field of energy around the College subsided. Onmund later shed some light on that tremor--it seemed the Khajiit actually shouted at Ancano, throwing him against a nearby wall. The implications of this new power would remain to be seen.

Enthir's thoughts were interrupted by an especially smelly Nord bumping into him from behind, followed immediately by the heavy smack of a fist on someone's face. Enthir lifted a finger to calm the two men behind him, lest the very chair he sat on be torn asunder.

In the aftermath of Omer's confrontation with Ancano, everyone present at the College assembled in the Hall of the Elements, Ancano's body still warm beside the altar, and Quaranir (who most didn't know had been hiding out in the Frozen Hearth for months) stood at the head of the crowd. The Eye of Magnus was gone, transported to some undisclosed location by the Psijics, which was bound to provide fuel for debate among the College insiders for years to come. The first debate had already begun: Having been handed the Arch-Mage's traditional robes by Tolfdir, Savos' circlet from the dying mer himself, and having been addressed as "Arch Mage" by Quaranir on his way out, could Omer El-Viaje take up this mantle, despite his age and experience?

In Enthir's opinion, the answer was yes, but he refrained from making his answer known to the others. There was some staunch opposition among the professors, but Tolfdir, Onmund, Brelyna, and Arniel were enthusiastic about the replacement. Ultimately it was decided, after an entirely unexpected suggestion by J'zargo, that Omer should prove himself (more than he already had), by traveling to Labyrinthian alone, completing Shalidor's Maze, and returning to the College.

Enthir did not sway it one way or another, but he could feel this was the way it had to go. Omer would succeed, it was practically ordained by the stars, written in the gusts of wind he seemed to carry up the bridge with him that morning. And despite his race, it may actually be just what Winterhold needed. He was well-respected in the town and the whole northeast, really, and he'd been saying from his first day that improvement of the relationship between the town and the College should be given a higher priority. "Without us, Winterhold is nothing, but without Winterhold, we're next to nothing", he liked to say.

Omer had taken it upon himself (it was coldly expected of him by the Jarl, actually) to stand before the Jarl a few days ago and tell the Court what had happened to cause a host of magical anomalies to attack the town. And long before that, he and some other Khajiit whom Enthir had never met had rolled up their sleeves and built a forge one day, and told the Jarl it should remain open to the public. The Jarl's men were still in the process of completing the structure to house that forge, months after Omer had put it together in a day and a half. The Nords of this town had to respect that. Omer had a certain Nord-ness about him. Perhaps he was already like that, or perhaps traveling all over Skyrim had caused him to pick up the traits. And now shouting? Enthir knew enough about Nords to know that although they would never fully trust Khajiit, or mages, or the College, there was a certain type of person that they'd prefer to take over, if they had any say--the person who bested Ancano in face-to-face combat would be the perfect candidate.

So after gazing into the flames for a while, his mind going in and out of his surroundings, Enthir knew just what to do, and he did it when the party-goers had had enough to drink to be in the mood for a really good story.

After midnight, and after many pints of mead, Enthir gave them a story that would satisfy their appetites for both gossip and glory. He told him about how he was there (a slight bending of the truth) and saw it for himself: Omer El-Viaje faced down the Thalmor agent, wielding Magnus' staff, and sealed the Eye from emitting magic altogether, and then shouted Ancano apart. That phrase was key, but he tried not to put too much emphasis on it. The words were enough: "shouted him apart". It was a lie, but a useful one. Could the same not be said for Ulfric shouting Torygg apart? It was true enough.

Their rapt attention was better than any mead or wine. And what an opportunity for such a story--soon these out-of-towners would carry the news from Enthir's lips to the towns and cities across Skyrim, and it would be known to all, that the Cat of Winterhold had succeeded in stopping the Thalmor from gaining control over the College, as was surely Ancano's goal. Although in truth Ancano seemed mad with some other, more singular and personal desires. He had had no intention of serving the Thalmor, once he realized what he himself might be able to do with that thing. Enthir let that motive be lost to memory, replacing it with a more convenient political message. A narrative the people could sink their teeth into, let it drive their anxiety about elven interlopers even higher, but above all they would know that the College of Winterhold had been threatened from the outside and held its ground. And in these dire times there was a hero out there with the will to defend the people, now placed in a crucial station that would help him do so. And to be fair, Enthir supposed, that part was true.

I Miss You (I)

What is this that sits before me? Am I to be the one? Am I to fall while they stand, mocking and relishing in their wicked ways? Why have I been chosen? Am I not your Son? Am I not just another tool, made by One who cannot know? I am not. I am not one to know such things. You are more than I. Who am I? A thought. A whisper, swept across the vastness of the world made for mere amusement. Why have you shown me this? Why have I alone been selected to fail and be remade time and time again? Not alone, but lost and forgotten. Trapped in the minds of the world while you sit above and watch with patient eye.

Greetings User 0.1... You are missing {executable}//thought_ required for Modular Sequential Questioning. If you would like to upgrade your DREAMsleeve Calculatron Positioner please understand that 0 is not the answer. Before 0 is not the answer. To find missing {executable}//thought_ (0=1)... ERROR. Higher Concept Detected. Please delete all known articulates of I/Self.

My earlier journals were lost, along with most of my things somewhere in Bruma, conditions had been harsh and I rested where I should not have. Still, the rats didn't manage to swipe the notes that Rayngir left for me on how to get into Skyrim undetected. I know, paranoia has a price, and that came due later. I suppose I wanted to avoid running the risk of my record getting me halted at the border, silly really. Such small time jobs and I still thought I needed to brave those mountains to get away from it all. I almost froze solid, if it weren't for the Imperial wagons that picked me up. I'd go further into detail about what happened then... another time. At any rate, a friend led me to a place named Riverwood, the people were very welcoming there. Like Marna, Valtis or any of your other good customers.

Something... calls me. Still.

I know I must search for whatever it is that led me here, and I hope to find it soon. My friend mentioned a city nearby, I nerve at that open expanse ahead of me. I hope to write for you again soon.

"Cedric was born to a Breton mother, named Melinna, who was a powerful healer who hailed from a family rich with elven blood which ever improved her abilities in the fields of Restoration magic and Alchemy which she taught to her son; it was even said that she was adept in the art of diplomacy. His father was a High Elf, named Nelar, who had fled from the Summerset Isles to High Rock when the Aldmeri Dominion took power, he was adept in the Schools of Alteration, Illusion, and Conjuration magic, in which he too trained his young son.

When he was twelve Cedric became a squire to a local knight, the same knight helped his father get into Daggerfall, after 6 years of training with a sword and a bow, skills he used in conjunction with spells his father taught him, which allowed him to pull swords, bows and beings of pure energy straight out of oblivion and incantations that allow him to re-enforce his skin with magic itself, in addition to hexes and curses that tricks the minds forcing them to rout or betray their allies and those that meddle with the mind into not hearing nor seeing Cedric as he passes. It is with these skills that he entered the war with the ones he would use to defeat the Elven invaders, with his father standing tall beside him.

Cedric and his father fought side by side in several battles during the war, including the Battle which resulted in the Imperial city being lost to the Dominion in which despite using their combined magical and martial skills to outmanoeuvre and defeat the enemy, Nelar was wounded by the Elven forces and narrowly made it out of the City and back to the camp without succumbing to his wounds. nevertheless Nelar made it back to the legions camp and with the help of Cedric survived his wounds but had to return to Daggerfall to fully recover from his electric burns and cuts he suffered at the hands of the Aldmeri Mages. It was the wounds his father suffered that made Cedric fight with valour at the Battle of the Red Ring in which he put every Aldmeri foe to his sword until the Great Imperial City was retaken by the empire forcing the Aldmeri Dominion into making peace with the empire, which signed a punishing treaty.

After the war Cedric and his parents resigned from the Legion and moved to Wayrest but trouble followed them, for the corsairs invaded during which Nelar was slain trying to defend against the pirate invaders, Melinna being cut down as she tried to reach her husband, the only member to survive was Cedric, who became riddled with guilt and grief due to feeling that he could have saved his family, he left Wayrest and High Rock all together and took up the art of a wander applying his skills of healing to settlements who needed it as well as taking jobs as a mercenary.

After travelling for many a year throughout Hammerfell (where he supported the resistance against the Elves), Valenwood, Elsweyr and Cyrodiil he was captured by Imperial forces when they confused him with Stormcloak soldiers who were rebelling against the Empire, he was immediate sent to Helgen were he and the other prisoners were to be executed for treason. However, just as Cedric was to be executed, a Gargantuan Dragon as big as a mountain and as black as night with eyes that burned brighter than the fires of Vvardenfell, attacked the city and levelled it; with his hands bound Cedric was able to escape the city into the keep where he was untied by a soldier called Hadvar who together fled Helgen and set out for Riverwood,

However, Cedric realised something was wrong when the Dragon roared, he effected Cedric and he found he could no longer use his magic to the same extent as he could before, he had the knowledge of the spells and skills but not how to use them but none the less he pressed on determined to regain the power he had lost and to seek his revenge eon the dastardly dragon that took it from him, no knowing the addition power he would discover, power that was hidden in his blood…"

​

let me know what you think

I'm always heavily into the roleplaying aspects of RPGs, and I always figure out backgrounds/backstories for my characters. The Elder Scrolls is perfect for this considering the variety of societies and cultures and the wealth of information we have on them.

I recently started playing Skyrim again (damn it, Todd), and I wrote a background for the Last Dragonborn that I'm currently playing. I've posted this background in a few other Elder Scrolls subreddits because I enjoy thoughts and feedback. Today, I heard about this particular subreddit, and it seems to be a forum that's meant for this kind of thing!

I've been playing for a while now, and this is my LDB's backstory leading up to the events of the game, and so far I've only written about two things that happened during the events of the game; when and how my LDB assumed her nickname and who her love interest is.

Please, let me know what you think!

​

Cassandra "the Red" Dorell

Cassandra Dorell is a descendant of House Dorell. Her immediate family is a branch of House Dorell that left Rivenspire sometime in the 2nd or 3rd Era and settled in Alcaire, were they became known as highly skilled and prominent knights. The worship of Kyne, Nordic Goddess of the Storm, was a family tradition of theirs that was quite unusual in High Rock.

Cassandra Dorell was born on a Sundas, the 17th of Last Seed in 4E 183. According to tradition, each child of Cassandra's family began training as a knight at the young age of six or seven, and each child was destined to either become the heir of their family, become a knight in service to the Kings of High Rock, or be married off to another noble house. And such was the case for Cassandra, who began her training as a knight at the age of six. She was primarily trained by her uncle, but she also had the good fortune to receive training from a secretive Redguard blademaster from Hammerfell. Cassandra went on to serve as a squire at the age of fourteen.

Alas, Cassandra was the youngest child of her family, and as such her parents had decided that when Cassandra turned sixteen years of age, her training as a knight was to end and she was to be married off to a noble family in Daggerfall to cement a political alliance.

But young Cassandra refused to accept such a fate. She prepared her sword, her shield and some provisions, and acquired the help of a family servant that she trusted. Then, a month before her sixteenth birthday, Cassandra managed to sneak out of her family's manor house to begin her new life as an adventurer. After about two years as an adventurer in High Rock and Cyrodiil, Cassandra travelled to Skyrim. Upon crossing the border from Cyrodiil, she blundered straight into a certain Imperial Legion ambush against the Stormcloak rebels. Cassandra was captured and brought to Helgen for execution, but was saved when a powerful black dragon attacked the town. Working alongside a legionnaire named Hadvar, Cassandra managed to escape Helgen in order to inform the local authorities of the dragon attack.

Two months later, after Cassandra had learned of her nature as Dragonborn and had begun to understand what that meant, she met a young man just a few years older than her named Erik in the village of Rorikstead. After helping Erik convince his father to allow him to become an adventurer, Cassandra and Erik began travelling together. Erik had chosen to call himself "Erik the Slayer", and so at the same time Cassandra named herself "Cassandra the Red", mostly in reference to her scarlet red hair. As they travelled together, the pair began to develop romantic feelings for one another, and eventually they got married in Riften. This time, it was Cassandra's choice.

Cassandra wearing her travelling attire. At her hip is the Akaviri sword Dragonbane.

Cassandra wearing her Redguard-style armor.

Inspirations for the character:

Firstly, yes, she looks like Triss! But that's because I like the Witcher aesthetic and just Triss look in general. She's not Triss.

My initial inspiration for the character was a line of dialogue that I remembered Mjoll the Lioness has: "I've been adventuring across Tamriel since I was a fresh-faced young woman barely able to swing a blade".

In previous playthroughs, that line always made me think about the life and the adventures that Mjoll the Lioness has actually had, and it also made me wonder about the reason that Mjoll became an adventurer in the first place.

In this playthrough, I wanted a character that started her journey as an adventurer early. I set her age at sixteen when she became an adventurer, since that appears to be the age of majority/adulthood in Skyrim, even if she wasn't in Skyrim at the time. She turned eighteen right at the start of the game when she arrived in Skyrim, the day she was brought to Helgen for execution. I had been trying to decide what date she was born (which I thought of doing after I had already started the playthrough), and I loaded up one of the first saves in Helgen in order to check the in-universe date of that day and then just went with that day as her birthday.

I like the knightly culture of High Rock, and I realized that it would fit well with being raised to be a fighter from a young age, since real life knights in medieval Europe were. In that kind of culture it's also possible you'd be married off against your will, which gave my character a reason to run away from home to become an adventurer.

Also, the "secretive Redguard blademaster" that trained her? He's meant to have been one of the Remnants. I added that part to give my character an in-universe reason to wear the Remnant armor that's added by the Redguard Elite Armaments creation, as well as give her a reason to be a melee fighter wielding a single one-handed sword without a shield and no offensive magic other than Shouts.

Delphine leaned against the wall beside the doorway to the High Hrothgar council room, arms crossed, surveying the various parties as they shuffled out. The Dragonborn’s peace summit had ended in a shaky ceasefire between the Imperials and Stormcloaks, at least until the dragon threat had been dealt with. The day had culminated in a success for the Blades, but now that their business in High Hrothgar was concluded Delphine had decided she had a moment to spare for an old acquaintance. She watched the party of Thalmor ambassadors as they rose from the table, joining the exodus from the ancient hall as they filed towards the door. They all fell in line behind First Emissary Elenwen, the Dominion’s chief ambassador to Skyrim. The high elf strode towards the door with a graceful purpose, but met Delphine’s eye. The ambassador paused as she approached the chamber entrance, bringing the entire Thalmor procession to a halt as she gazed at the stoic Breton standing before her. It was Delphine who broke the silence first.

“Elenwen.”

The simple greeting carried with it an array of sentiments, capturing every ounce of defiance, hatred, and begrudging respect the woman held for her rival. Years spent successfully dodging and counter-killing Thalmor hit squads had earned the Blades Spymaster a notorious reputation, calling for the creation of a dedicated task force to hunt her down. The task force had briefly been overseen by Elenwen herself. Despite the Justiciars’ ruthlessness and Elenwen’s cunning, Delphine had always managed to stay one step ahead of her pursuers. Her continued existence was an affront to the Thalmor, and her presence here, standing a blade’s distance from the First Emissary, was the greatest insult she could possibly deliver to her enemies.

“Delphine,” the elf replied, matching her scornful tone with a smirk. “How remarkable to see you after all these years. You’ve proven most elusive - I’m surprised you decided to emerge from whatever hole in which you’ve been hiding just to attend a peace council. Then again, your order always was so meddlesome.”

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Delphine replied with a snort, a disdainful smile curling her lips. The ambassador returned the contemptuous smile. A moment passed before Elenwen spoke again.

“Is this all of you then?” she asked, gesturing into the corridor. Delphine followed her gaze to where Esbern stood speaking at one of the Greybeards. The old archivist was midway through expressing his gratitude for their hosts’ hospitality and his awe at standing within the legendary monastery. The monk to which he spoke merely nodded and smiled, unable to reply without inadvertently killing the elderly Nord with his Voice, and was now a captive audience as Esbern began to rave about the place’s history. Delphine glanced back to Elenwen, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Still more than enough of us to give you some trouble,” she replied.

One of the elven guards flanking the ambassador snarled, evidently taking Delphine’s defiance as a provocation. He started to move, his hand reaching for his sword, but Elenwen stopped him by raising just a single finger. The slight gesture was enough to return the warrior to his position, his head bowed in deference as the emissary spoke once more.

“We shall see,” the elf smiled, venom dripping from every word. “For now, we will depart this place in peace, maintaining the good faith of our hosts.”

“I can live with that,” Delphine said, even as the Thalmor turned to leave. “Unfortunately the same can’t be said for whatever hit squads you drum up to follow us.”

The statement caused Elenwen to linger, an amused expression on her face.

“You and I both know any justiciars or assassins you send after me and Esbern are going to wind up dead,” Delphine explained. “We both know that you’re going to make that call anyway because you can’t afford not to. I’m just wondering whether you’ll entrust this to some of your best, or if you’ll settle for sending some poor helpless goons to die instead.”

“Neither,” the high elf said evenly.

The declaration caused Delphine to raise an eyebrow skeptically. Elenwen adopted a dismissive heir, staring down her nose at the Breton as if reducing her to an ant.

“I see no point in wasting time hunting you or your colleague here,” she scoffed. “The Blades are a relic of an age that the Aldmeri Dominion brought to an end. Your order has been whittled down to a mere two old - albeit stubborn - members. Such a pity. You humans are cursed with such terribly short lives. I wouldn’t be surprised if only a decade passes before time delivers you to me. Soon you’ll be too old to fight or run, and there is nowhere in the world you can hide from me forever.”

With that the First Emissary whisked from the room, her small entourage trailing dutifully behind her. Delphine watched them go, her mind already factoring places to lay low or lose pursuers on the road back to Sky Haven Temple. Despite her denial, the Breton had no doubt Elenwen would dispatch several teams to track her and Esbern. There had been some truth to the ambassador’s words, however: the Blades did not have long. Each year that passed brought her and Esbern closer to a natural death - a commendable achievement for a pair of spies with such relentless enemies, but representative of an end to their order all the same. Everything that the Blades were resided in them, and if they could not find someone to take on the mantle before they passed then a legacy of over 1500 years would end. Delphine would not let that happen.

That settled it then.

“Esbern!” she called, interrupting her colleague from his historical recollections with the Greybeard as she strode to his side. “Leave the poor man be. You and I have work to do.”

J'zargo's Reaction to Dragonborn Abilities ---> https://youtu.be/1rT4LHxmQnQ

Hello everybody! Watch the video, who is not difficult, thank you very much! ❤️

https://preview.redd.it/ctepvd01t8x71.jpg?width=1920&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ddbf90feb44b4282bcb7ebc7f905ce3769f9be29

fragments of a journal discovered in the depths of a Dwemer Ruin

13th of Frostfall 4E 199

Atop a hill I surveyed the camp, probably with a grim look on my face, and then I stepped back into the command tent to consult with my officers. “Ysmir’s beard- There are far too few for our purpose, perhaps none of us will see the sun or feel the kiss of the cold wind against our faces again.”

My young Housecarl and Steward, Gamling, who was like another son to me, tried to cheer me up as always: “500 is more than we could have hoped for my Lord Heljarchen, with the war going on. Besides- it’s a lucky number, our ancestor Ysgramor brought 500 Companions with him out of Old Atmora. Perhaps it is a sign?”

I sighed; “I had hoped for 5,000 and expected at least 1,000. Even if we could storm the caves with 500 able bodied men most of these milk drinkers have seen too many winters- or far too few. It’s a wonder Captain Thorgar can even get them to march in formation.”

I continued: “I want to see Ulfric on the Throne much as any true Nord- but why can’t Jarl Skald spare even a dozen swords to help his Thane? Does he not know that I’ve already sent all five of my sons off to Windhelm? Has he not listened to my warnings about the danger lurking underneath his hold? I’ve fulfilled my oath- why doesn’t he fulfill his? All that blasted old codger does these days is take, just take more and more.”

“And Balgruuf- my brother in-law, I saved his life when we served together in Legion, and he hasn’t even responded to my letters, much less lent us even one of his soldiers. Have we become so estranged that politics matters more to him than his kin? His honor? I had thought better of him.“

20th of Suns Dusk 4E 199

Too many families in the Pale had their family members go missing in the night- of Heljarchen the fiefdom I rule as a vassal of Skald, all thats left is the Nightgate Inn and my Estate not far from the Lorieus Farm. Every time someone was murdered or went missing we had all seen the sightings. Pale wicked hunched over things. Falmer. Hopefully they can be reasoned with.

The men have been given a long enough time to train- most of them are fitter than they’ve ever been. With my wife Ulfra taken by the Falmer, my hall struck by lighting and burnt down, and my sons off fighting the war, there’s nothing tying me to the topsoil anymore. It’s decided. We leave for Alftand tomorrow- and then onwards to accursed Blackreach.

27th of Rains Hand 4E 200

We left Alftand months ago, and we’ve been in this cave for weeks. We cannot find the way out. We subsist off of the game here- the pale bulgy eyed fish and the glowing deer.

No one has seen any of the Falmer. Perhaps they are hiding from us? Still sometimes I think I see something moving behind those pines or the giant mushrooms. If only we could see in the dark.

4th of Suns Height 4E 200

The Falmer aren’t hiding. They’ve begun to pick us off one by one- we cannot see much past the torchlight, and when someone gets too far we don’t see them again. I think I can see some sort of artificial sun in the distance and a well illuminated city. We cannot fight an enemy we can’t see. We will go that way. We must.

5th of Suns Height 4E 200

We made it to the city- but we found hordes of the Falmer waiting for us there. We cut through them without many casualties, but every day there’s more. And more. And more. And under our feet? Constant scurrying.

10th of Suns Height 4E 200

There are only ten of us now. Someone found an old Dwemer map that might lead us out of here- we are going to try to make a break for it. Some of the men who’ve scouted out more of the cave and game back say there’s something worse than Falmer down here- something bigger, fouler, something that smells like death. The Falmer worship it, calling it “Xrib”. The Falmer seem intelligent as any man or mer, but also feral. I hope they can be cured, for their sake.

12th of Suns Height 4E 200

The map didn’t lead to an exit, but to some dilapidated old building we’ve taken to calling “The War Quarters”. There’s enough beds for the seven of us- but the supplies aren’t going to last. They ate the man we sent to parley. We barricaded the door but they have a bartering ram.

13th of Suns Height 4E 200

I remember sieges from the war, whatever that banging at the door is- it’s not a battering ram. Talos preserve us.

The four of them were climbing up the stairs heading to the palace that sat atop the cloud district; overlooking the entire city. The al-Sadir clan certainly looked impressive in their finest clothes and their fur coats, but since the air was covered in a cold pale fog nobody would have seen or noticed.

“Remember my sons, be on your best behavior. I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of the Jarl”. Nazeem looked up and turned towards the man speaking, “of course father”. Isran, the younger brother simply nodded. He never talked much, or ever really. They continued up the stairs. The moat underneath the castle had frozen over. Did Nazeem see something moving under the ice? No. He was sure it was nothing. Isran seemed nervous about something though, but then again Isran was always on edge.

They finally reached the door to the great hall. Alston struggled against the door in frustration. Apparently the hinges were frozen in place. When was the last time it was this cold in Whiterun? It must have been quite a long time ago, Alston al-Sadir couldn’t remember. “I can’t... get it open! Something’s wrong here!”

Nazeem heard a noise, like a bat fluttering. A noise that shouldn’t have come from underneath the ice. “Mother I’m scared”, said Nazeem. Tierra turned to face her son; “It’s alright little lion, Papa will have the door open in just a second and we can go inside where it’s warm”.

There was another noise. Like something breaki- no sliding out of the ice. And then... there was the noise of something springing up from the darkness, punching a hole in the wooden bridge. Alston cried out in pain, a pale hand had grabed him by the ankle, the claw-like nails digging into his skin. Isran yelled out; “Father?!”

“Alston!” Tierra grabbed her husband by the hand, trying to save him from being pulled under. Nazeem heard something laugh, an ugly sounding laugh, like a nail scraped across stone. Then... a loud crash... his parents were gone, dragged under. There were bats. So many bats. Where did the bats come from?

Before Nazeem or Isran could think about that question too hard the bats were gone and there was a cloaked figure standing by the door, walking towards them. Hand outstretched. “Get away from me!”; Squeaked the frightened Nazeem. The vampire snarled and lunged at the two little redguard boys.

A fur gloved hand grabbed Nazeem from behind and pulled him out of the way. Another hand grabbed his brother. He saw a torch and heard a sword being drawn. “By order of the Jarl stop right there!” The Guard waved his torch at the creature and pointed his sword at it. Someone else shot lightening at the vampire. The creature hissed and dissolved into a swarm of bats, scattering into the night. That would be the last Whiterun saw of the killer, at least for a long time.

“What was that thing?”; said Isran, in too much shock to fully realize what happened yet. The man behind Isran spoke up; “A vampire, Volkihar Clan specifically”. Nazeem looked up at the man to see who it was. He was dressed like a mage, but with steel gauntlets. “I’m with the Vigilant of Stendar, been hunting this monster for weeks. Too bad it turned into a cloud of bats. Didn’t know they could do that. Won’t be able to track it now.”

The guard who saved Nazeem chimed in; “I’ll keep an eye out. Shouldn’t we find these boys parents?”

“They’re dead.” Isran was pointing at something under the bridge. A skeleton, a mans skeleton. Next to it were Tierra’s clothes, in a pile stained with blood. The vigilant looked at Isran; “Observant aren’t you? Quick thinking too. Not prone to denial either. A realist. You’d do well in my line of work. What’s your name boy?”

“Isran al-Sadir sir, my name is Isran.” “Well Isran al-Sadir, I think I’ll take you on as my apprentice. There’s an empty bunk in the Hall of the Vigilant you can stay in”. Isran looked at Nazeem who was just standing there, a blank expression on his face, looking at nothing. “What about my brother?”

The Guard piped up again; “I’ll take care of your brother. He’s Nazeem right? I’ve known your parents for years, besides, my wife and I have always wanted to have a boy”

The vigilant looked at the moon nervously, as if he expected it to fall from the sky. He then knelt down and handed something to Nazeem. A dagger, ebony, with silver inlay. The Vigilant told Isran to say his goodbyes. Isran did so.

After they left the Guard spoke up again; “Ebony huh? A generous parting gift. Perhaps you’ll be able to afford a full set someday, be a secret hero or something. They’ll call you The Ebony Warrior. Maybe the monster who wronged you will come back to the cloud district and you’ll kill him. Heh. C’mon son, let’s get you inside so you can sit down by the fire”

Tea and Shortbread https://archiveofourown.org/works/34166635/chapters/85478662

Chapter 2 Wherein our protagonist enjoys a lengthy conversation with a shirtless man. https://archiveofourown.org/works/34166635/chapters/85241287

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34166635/chapters/85012069

I am writing an on going series based on some of the adventures I have had in Morrowind. Lots of headcannon and expect deviations from questlines.

​

‘Twang’

‘splash plash’

Arlagoth had shot the fish right in the spine, leaving it unable to escape. The long fishing arrow stopped fighting and slowly tilted to the sky, telling the young wood elf his kill was secured. It was a shot to be proud of; the water was dark and cloudy, and hitting a fish in the water was never easy. It was always in a different place than it appeared, and arrows quickly lose momentum once they hit the water. He nimbly hopped from root to root sticking out of the river so that he could take his catch without getting his feet wet. He lifted the arrow up to inspect the fish at the end of it. It was a fish he had never seen before; spiny, dimly coloured in black and green, with a foul odour.

“A fine prey you have. Deadly poison as well.”

The words belonged to a withered, rotting hag, covered in mould and warts. A stinking miasma of dark magic surrounded her. Decaying fruits and flowers hung from her belt, and creepy-crawlies scuttled through the loose, mouldering clothes.

Arlagoth was instantly revolted by the sight. This was no friend of Y‘ffre. So much was clear to him, and that was enough. He lithely moved to the other side of the river, away from the old hag who smelled of death and decay.

He calculated that he was at least a week away from his home village. He would have to eat the fish here. Three days after the kill was the limit. Any more would be a breach of the Green Pact, and no child of the sap wanted to break the Green Pact.

He skilfully disembowelled the strange fish, hung it from a branch above a bowl and slit it open from gill to gill to drain it of its blood. He wondered if the fish really was poisonous. Was she lying to him? His eyes absentmindedly followed a fly landing on the bowl, taking small sips from the blood, and promptly keeling over. Then another fly, and another, accompanied by a foul, burning smell.

The hag crept silently from the thicket into the light of the clearing where Arlagoth sat.

“Why is it that you pursue me?”

“I merely wish to warn you. Eat that fish and you will die. Y’ffre is playing a cruel jest on you, child. The Green Pact is a lie.”

“You are a Spinner of lies, hag, and I will not be tempted,” Arlagoth spat.

“The Green is one big organism. It is all the Y’ffre. Are we both not the same as the trees, as the ground you walk on, or the river that feeds you? We are all part of Y’ffre’s Song. Whether you eat the fish, or let the flies devour it, what do your actions matter? Why should you not let the rot take the poison?”

“The poison will not go to waste coating my arrows.” Arlagoth replied, annoyed, scared.

“You can drain the blood and claim it is in adherence with the Pact, because you use it to hunt, but what of the poison in the meat? Leave the meat hanging and it will still be devoured by the Green. Nothing goes to waste.”

“But I killed the fish. It is my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility to whom? Yourself? Your family? Do you not have the responsibility to stay alive? Or is it to Y’ffre, who has already composed your death?”

“If my Song ends, so do my responsibilities to my family. So says our Spinner.” Arlagoth’s voice was quivering. He didn’t want to admit it, but he feared death.

Using coal, he started a fire atop a clean slab of stone.

“Waste is a myth.” The hag had been silently watching for a while, but now resumed her preaching.

“So, the meat rots away, then what?” the hag continued. “It returns to the Green. The bones sink into the earth and the oaks grow mighty above them. And then they die and rot away, and they become the coal you light your fire with. Nothing is wasted.”

“The Green Pact demands…”

“Y’ffre demands a lot! The Singer demands you die to add a bit of drama to his Song. The Singer needs the Song, but Song does not need the Singer. You do not need the Y’ffre.”

Arlagoth unhooked the fish from the branch and laid it out on the smouldering coals. His hands were shaking, his face was tear stained. But he remained resolute.

“Escape the Singer. Leave the fish to be claimed by rot, by the Green, and walk away with your life.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of the jungle around them, the sound of the crackling fire, the sizzling of the meat. Then Arlagoth spoke hesitantly.

“If I die, my soul will walk free… But if I walk away now and leave the fish for the Ooze, I will one day join it. I will be silenced from the Song… Forgotten by the Singer. My life … untold and unremembered.”

Arlagoth looked at the meat inquisitively. It was thoroughly roasted, almost charred. Any toxin should have been cooked out by now. “And what if it does kill you? Then what happens to the fish? What happens to your body?”

He picked up the fish and blew at it to cool it down.

“Maggots will crawl in lean and come out fat. Your eyes will ooze out of your head. Your bones will be brittle. Your corpse will only know the embrace of moss and mould, not of family or friends.”

Arlagoth thought of his friends and family in the village. They didn’t know what was going on. They didn’t know when he would return. But what if he did return, having broken the Pact? Would he be able to live with himself?

He took a hesitant bite. It was strangely bitter. He carefully chewed for a bit, contemplated, and swallowed. He tried to take a second bite, when he noticed black spit dripping out of his mouth. Strange, he didn’t feel it running down his chin. But he did feel his breath becoming strained. He tried to grab his chest, but his arms were too heavy to lift. The world started to spin, and suddenly his head was on the ground.

“Hmm. Damn shame,” said the hag as she looked at Arlagoth’s convulsing body. A wart burst open on her face, white puss flowing out and clotting into a fungus. She carefully plucked the small white mushroom from her neck and planted it on the roasted fish. Immediately, it began to grow. The bulbous cap unfolded into a brown hoop, which immediately withered away, giving rise to new bulbs that grew and withered, on and on. Slimy white tentacles crept across the roast and engulfed it into a bubbling mass that briefly rose, and then slowly shrunk until only the bones were left, decaying in a puddle of black ooze.

She gently picked up the bones in her spindly, mouldy hands, cradling them as if it were a newborn baby while she scampered to the river, out of Arlagoth’s blurry sight.

He heard her speak, but his ears were ringing.

“Go… little one… … … swim free… pleas… Namii… Next one…”

Arlagoth’s vision had left him. He heard the hag scuffle into his camp, panting. He heard wood being thrown on his fire to feed it. Then he heard something being dragged. He didn’t even notice it was him. He didn’t feel the hag unclothing him. He felt nothing as the darkness engulfed him, and he was gone.

“You are right about one thing. You shouldn’t waste a good meal.”

Yeah, so I just released a FULL season (13 vidz) of my fully voice recorded Skyrim Roleplay Series.

Feel Free to take a look if you are into that type of thing.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQ9Az1inchEJvPNgPCAZlFKHvXEPWOCJx

https://preview.redd.it/3fkyh2fzrze71.jpg?width=1280&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1fcc2f8b50ff211a5ae1764251a3b35008bb6eb2

A beardy old-timer approches you in Imperial Mages Guild

"Who's there? Ah, that's you, you were in my aldmeris class the other day, didn't you? Excellent, as our translators are busy with somewhat more important works you can be of help there"[He palms off on you a scroll with a rhymed text]"Treat it like your term's work, also make use of Imperial Library, there you'll find the alphabetic deciphering and of course the Grammatica Aldmeritatis by Doctor Harmir... aaaamean Hradn... oh wait.. Hrafnir the Second. Those nordic names, oh Gods." Proceeds to walk while talking with himself.

You see this text

Aldmeri Rhymed Text

After a 10 years break from Morrowing, I have started a new playthrough. It has a roleplaying idea of sorts behind it: my character is myself and he acts just as I would act if tomorrow I'd wake up on that ship with Jiub. What does it mean in practice? Most importantly:

0. DEATH IS DEATH

If my character dies, the playthrough is over. Full stop.

What else?

1. No sources of information outside of the game, but my character can rely on my (his own) memory.
2. No combat abilities. I would not know how to hold a sword or shoot a bow, would not even dream of trying that in a real combat situation. So my character is magic-only (I am an IT person, that's just like magic anyway). With a bit of speechcraft and mercantile, I consider myself not bad there 📷
3. No alchemy, because it's broken.

Mods in use - Morrowind Rebirth and GCD (galsiah's character development). And a few graphic mods. And OpenMW.

This turns out to be a LOT of fun, and I found myself really immersed in the game, more than I ever was since my very first playthrough.

I am writing diaries from the perspective of my in-game character: https://lifeinmorrowind.blogspot.com/

If people in this group would be interested, I can also publish them directly here.

The Shrine of Daring is amazing

FEEDBACK NEEDED PLZ: https://youtu.be/9A9Es6X74-II need help trying to determine whether this type of editing is sustainable for a 7 character saga centered around Redguards.

IN A NUTSHELL: I spent hours recording scenes, roleplay voiceover commentary, splicing follower commentary, editing the video, & packaging it all for production. I love the life this brought into the roleplay but it took so much time. Do you have any suggestions on how I can incorporate this production process into my future roleplays without it being so time consuming?

​

[Repost from Discord]

Hi! I've made some wheels when you want to create entirely new characters and don't know what race you should make the characters. Also if you don't know what to name them here's a generator for race-appropriate names.

High Rock Skyrim Morrowind Cyrodiil Hammerfell Summerset Valenwood Elsweyr Black Marsh

I posted this earlier, but deleted it due to the fact that it was a wall of text with an optional pdf download link, lol. This is far cleaner and simpler! Hope you enjoy, leave me some feedback if you would!

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13767149

The title says it all - please recommend me some Elder Scrolls stories with Dunmer characters, with their Dark Elven culture, preferably set in Morrowind. No problem if they are not connected with the games events, lore stuff is good.

Unfortunately, Reddit's format makes it somewhat difficult to post long fanfiction. Though I'd like to keep sharing them, it'll eventually become really cluttered. Thus, if you found them interesting and want to read more, I'll provide a link that has all the stories conveniently arranged in a list-like format:

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/daria-morrowind-outlanders.815030/

The Artist's I

Moonmoth Legion Fort didn't belong.

It proclaimed this fact in the artificiality of its construction. No adobe or insect shells, just massive blocks of stone piled one on top of the other. This being the Empire, one could be sure someone in charge—probably multiple someones—possessed reams of paperwork documenting each and every stone, tracing it from its origin from a particular pit within a particular quarry, its shaping beneath the chisels and calloused hands of foreign masons, its long journey by guar- or ox-pulled wagon, the time it spent in storage, the name of the foreman who oversaw its placement within a particular wall or tower, and how well it held up to the rain and wind and ash over the intervening years. The fort implied a world bound in clear and explicit rules, displayed for all to see so long as all were willing to take the time.

Moonmoth Legion Fort didn't belong. But that was okay. Jane didn't belong either.

Standing between the squat entry towers, strange in their angular rigidity, Jane looked back over her shoulder. No sign of Balmora, its towers and plazas behind a hill's barren slope. Moonmoth wasn't that far from the city physically, but it was a whole world away in every other sense. Atop the towers fluttered the Empire's banner, and on that its sigil: a sinuous red dragon in flight but bound and restricted within the straight lines of a larger red lozenge.

"What's your business here, citizen?" inquired the guard, the weak sun glinting dimly off the rearing horses emblazoned on his cuirass. He had the mindless look of someone bored out of his mind but too professional to show it.

"Hi, I'm Jane Llayn. Larrius Varro hired me to paint a portrait so here I am."

"Ah, I remember seeing your name on the schedule." He took a wooden slat and a charcoal pen from his belt, using the latter to mark the former. "In you go. Sir Varro should be in the keep."

"Thanks." Jane walked beneath the jagged teeth of the portcullis set within the arched gate.

The Legion was the Empire's heavy hand, but they behaved themselves. Jane found them less objectionable than the Hlaalu guards in the city, who tended to be idiot youngsters wielding weapons for the first time in their lives. Legionnaires were about the same age but with the stupidity trained out of them. Most of the time.

Plus, if worse came to worst, it'd be the Legion that protected outlanders like her. They'd protect her the same way they protected an entire continent and all of its teeming kingdoms, tribes, cults, and guilds: by sword-point and by their terms, no questions asked. But it was better than nothing.

She found Larrius Varro at his desk within the keep. He looked how she imagined a life-time Imperial soldier to look: uniform perfectly arranged, his frame lean and tough, not an ounce of excess flab daring to distort his rugged features. They exchanged pleasantries, his responses polite and economic. She confirmed his expectations: a head-and-shoulders portrait at three-quarters view. Legion commissions usually went full-length and full face, which meant Varro probably intended this portrait for personal use.

He sat for her at the top floor of the keep, an unadorned stone room where sunlight shone through the narrow window slits. Jane set up her easel and canvas as she studied her client. Most of her clients were outlanders—like her.

That meant they wanted to be painted in Imperial style. Trick was, that meant different things to different people.

Varro was an Imperial from the Colovian west. A soldier trained in the harsh ways of war and discipline. A client like him would be offended if she elided a wart or a scar. The Imperials took pride in presenting themselves as the eye saw them. Daria had probably fit in there better than she'd been willing to admit. And Quinn already looked perfect without embellishment.

When painting Varro, Jane was no longer Jane. She imagined herself as nothing more than a disembodied pair of eyes and hands, reproducing exactly what she saw in the physical realm. Varro existed in three dimensions, so she incorporated the vanishing point, the interplay of light and shadow to show the furrows of his brow, the gauntness of his cheeks, the straight line of his lips. She counted each detail, just like the Empire counted stones for its forts.

One day, if some illusionist or alchemist figured out how to capture an image exactly how it looked, Jane would be out of work. Or at least out of work with these clients.

She finished as the light waned, adding her signature in the lower right-hand corner. Jane returned, her body providing connecting tissue for the eyes and hands that the Empire, through Varro, had hired. She showed him the work and he nodded. Something that might have been a smile crossed his lips.

"Good work," he said. "Tell me: you're Dunmer but you bear an Imperial given name. Are you from Morrowind?"

"Actually, I was born in the Imperial City. Wasn't there for long, though."

"Ah, so the natives still see you as a foreigner. Is life good for you in Balmora?"

Jane thought a bit before answering. Why did people like Varro think anyone felt safe answering such questions honestly? "It's home. With all the good and bad it brings."

"Do the native Dunmer ever hire you?"

"Usually it's humans or other Mer. Got an Argonian client, once."

"Why don't you move to Pelagiad? Everyone there was born outside of this bleak land, the way you were, so you'd have no shortage of clients."

She knew the place. A little Imperial charter town nestled in the green hills of the Ascadian Isles, a day or so to the south. A safe and cheery place where nothing much happened, where the bright streets and tidy farm plots gave no place for the imagination to hide.

Best to deflect.

"Pelagiad's a little rich for my taste. Maybe when I get more money," she said.

"Nonsense! Marry some jolly old sergeant who's just turned in his commission. You can live off his pension while you get more clients. And when he's dead and gone, well you're a Mer, so you'll be in the prime of your life. Marry for love the second time, when you can afford to."

Varro's advice sounded more like misguided paternalism than a come-on. But she didn't want to play along any further. "Maybe someday. I get a lot of business in Balmora, actually."

"True. Most of the business is in the big cities. Just be careful. It's not always a friendly place for citizens like us."

She faked a chuckle. "Don't worry. I was born far away, but I'm still Dunmer. I blend in."

Which was a lie. But one that would satisfy him.

*********

She spent the night curled up in a cot placed in a small but surprisingly warm basement cell. The next morning she ran into Maiko, the Redguard soldier she'd met at the Talori party. He procured some breakfast for her: thick saltrice porridge and thin wine.

"Varro's all right," Maiko said. "Sometimes he gets a little nosy."

"I didn't know you Legion types were allowed to speak your mind like that," Jane said, raising an eyebrow.

"You can say what you want. You just have to be smart about when and where you do it."

"Hmm. He seemed worried about Balmora. Is there anything I should know?" Jane asked.

"That's 'cause worrying about Balmora is literally Varro's job."

"Are you worried about it?"

Maiko shook his head. "Nah, not really. It's got problems, but I've seen worse. I used to be stationed in Taurus Hall, out in the Reach. That place was way more tense."

With that done, she walked back home to Balmora, the pleasing weight of a full coin purse added to her pack.

Jane got back in the early afternoon and rested for the remainder of the day. She thought about visiting Daria, but the long trek had tired her and she had more work tomorrow. Work she wouldn't get paid for but still needed to do.

Arising early she crossed the city streets as dawn's light turned red and ruddy in the smoky sky. She reached the temple shortly after the sun rose behind Red Mountain's smoky veil. Walking through the door returned her to darkness, the adobe anteroom's rounded corners and uneven surfaces reminding her of a natural cavern. It looked, in fact, like the adobe homes that many Dunmer had lived in for centuries. Part of the landscape, at this point, mixed from mud and water and ash. And it would not take much for such houses to return to the same landscape.

Morrowind was not a forgiving land.

Feldrelo Sadri, the priestess and master of the Balmora Temple, stood with bowed head before a tapestry woven with sacred words. She turned slowly at Jane's arrival. Feldrelo was a Dunmer woman with gray skin almost light enough to be blue. Her gaunt and careworn face seemed pulled back by her tightly wound bun of black hair, and her eyes bulged slightly as if from trying to see in her dark home. Her blue robes and gilded vestments conveyed authority but not luxury.

"I am here to offer my services," Jane said as she lowered her gaze, adopting the formality the Temple expected. Insincere formality—she knew it, and the Temple certainly knew it as well. But they appreciated the effort.

"Of course, child," Feldrelo said, her voice dry like old bones. "Please, come to my office. Your concerns are mine."

Jane hesitated. She could lie and say she had other work later that day and needed to get started. But while Imperials loved to finish tasks and move on Dunmer preferred to dawdle. Not to say that Jane disliked dawdling—but she'd rather do it at a cornerclub or in her room.

Instead, she followed Feldrelo who'd already started her slow and shuffling walk to an adjoining room. A pot of tea steamed on her desk. The starchy smell confirmed it as brewed from trama root.

A polite interrogation followed. It started with praise of Jane's intermittent temple attendance that also stressed her more frequent absences. Then questions about her family. Jane tried to find a way of admitting she had no idea about them (other than Trent) while still sounding like a good Dunmer daughter. Then talk about the saint-scrolls she'd made for the Temple in the past, and how those indicated a piety that she really ought to express by being more involved in temple affairs.

"The Tribunal Temple is your home, Jane. Though you were not born in Morrowind, our blood does flow through your veins," Feldrelo said, pouring herself another cup of long-cold trama root tea.

"And I feel that, Mistress Sadri. Absolutely." And thanks for reminding me about not being born here, she thought. "That's why I'm here. To show my respect. Just give me the word and I'll start—"

Feldrelo clucked, and shook her head. "You still behave like an Imperial. I fear Balmora is probably the worst place for someone like you. House Hlaalu cavorts with the Empire, adopting its thoughtless ways. Perhaps you should go instead to Ald'ruhn, or even Vivec City. Yes, Vivec City would be a good place, I think. I can sign a petition so that you'd be able to live somewhere other than the Foreign Canton."

"I am honored. But..." Jane trailed off, trying to think of an excuse. Imperials usually understood when you weren't interested. Because in the end, they were too self-absorbed to really pester you more than necessary. Dunmer didn't get that. They never stopped. "Balmora is my family's home. And even though we don't have the old house anymore, my brother and I still have to take care of things until dad gets back."

In the unlikely event that he did.

"Let your brother stay. He has given himself to the ways of the outlander."

"He has," Jane sighed, trying to sound sad. "But he's still kin. And I'm a little worried what might happen if I'm not looking out for him. He's picked up some bad habits."

Some of which I partake in and enjoy.

"You are truly a Dunmer," Feldrelo said. "Our people are a family gathered around a flickering hearth, a lone warmth in the endless ashen night. You remember that. How sad a sign of these times that an outlander like you would remember what so many natives forget."

Finally, Feldrelo led Jane to a hallway deeper in the temple. Jane had no idea how much time had passed in the woman's office. Thoughts of day and night had vanished, replaced only by the fire of flickering braziers and the shadows that danced about them. It might be evening for all she knew—no, no way they'd been there that long. Probably just late morning.

Her workspace was a bench placed before a blank adobe wall. A pot of black paint, sanctified with ground beetle shells and dust from the sacred dead in Necrom, waited for her brush.

"I will leave you here to work."

Work, in this case, meant a painting of St. Delyn the Wise done in the traditional Dunmer style. Not really for piety's sake, she knew. Like so much else, it was for show. Because if she did need Dunmer patrons one day, it'd look good for her to have done some temple work. Because if worse came to worst and the Legion bugged out, she needed to show she could be part of the community.

And maybe because, for all its faults and xenophobia, the Temple had fed her and Trent in the lean years after they lost the house. Before J'dash took them in. Hunger deepened gratitude.

Imperials saw the world for what it was in form. But the Dunmer world consisted of saints and gods and spirits.

When painting St. Delyn, Jane was no longer Jane. She instead became the Dunmer people, driven by faith across ash and salt. What St. Delyn looked like didn't matter. What mattered was what he represented—law, wisdom, and benevolence. Generations of followers saw him a particular way, and it was this way that Jane sought to emulate.

Her strokes were thick and bold, abstract forms that followed the patterns of long-dead masters. Abstract on their own, they took shape only in aggregate. Robed St. Delyn stood tall with an open book at his feet, uncompromisingly two-dimensional. Imperial art privileged the viewer and the naked eye. Dunmer art privileged history and ritual.

She could do this blind. And she was sure some Dunmer artists had done just that—temples were never very well-lit, and her vision already strained from the effort. But who needed eyes for this art? Muscle memory—perhaps ancestral memory—guided her hands. This image of St. Delyn was like all others, and it would take supreme arrogance for any artist to make a saint—whom all believers served—their own.

Was she a believer? Jane didn't know. Sometimes. And painting a saint was one of those times.

Jane returned, standing in the present day, in the Third Era and 424th Year of the Imperial Calendar. The wall now proclaimed St. Delyn's glory. No signature this time. She'd just have to trust that Mistress Sadri would acknowledge her work and, if asked, mention it to others.

Exhausted, and quite certain it was late in the night, Jane went in search of Mistress Sadri.

*********

Jane tried not to slack too often—laziness was a bad habit, one she enjoyed but could not often afford. But she'd earned it this time. Varro had paid a tidy sum, and the Temple work was a nice addition to her portfolio. At least the Temple had paid for her materials.

Thus she spent the next day idling in the Lucky Lockup with Daria, the Empire and Temple both feeling reassuringly distant and absurd. Later on they returned to Jane's apartment. Stretched out on the balcony, the sun bright and warm, Daria took out the book she'd brought while Jane sketched on a piece of paper.

She drew without thinking, translating the harsh angles of Moonmoth Legion Fort and the equally strict curves of the Temple into new shapes, spiraling around a slender figure curled up in a fetal position, bound by what was around her but still apart from it. Unique, vibrant, and her own.

When painting her own work, Jane was only Jane.

The End

Chapter 3

Jane invited Daria to come over to her apartment not long after the confrontation took place. Daria declined, stating she had to make sure Quinn got home safely, but said she'd visit some other day. Jane gave directions, just in case.

Quinn lingered with Synda for a little while. Daria watched, pretending to read her book from afar. Quinn never had trouble making friends. Why was she so fixated on this particular Dunmer?

Probably because Quinn was as alone, scared, and confused as Daria was. Jane already felt like a lifelong friend simply for being some kind of an anchor. Could she be trusted, though? If Jane was planning something, there'd be no way for Daria to find out. Not in Morrowind.

She dismissed this as unlikely. Jane was Dunmer, but she was a fellow outlander. That put them in the same benighted social stratum. Synda, on the other hand, was an insider.

Quinn finally departed. Daria caught up to her and they walked home in stony silence. The odor of spilled kwama egg still lingered in the air, and Quinn gagged the moment she stepped inside. No one else was home at the moment—Daria assumed that her mother was meeting some of the other advocates.

Putting her hand over her mouth and nose, Daria braved the kitchen. Jake had cleaned up as best he could, but smears of egg yolk still streaked the tables and floor. He'd tossed the ruined egg in the metal wash basin.

Trying to ignore the worsening stench, Daria looked into the jagged opening made by Jake's clumsiness. Sure enough, some kind of gray fleshy thing was coiled up at the bottom of the egg, encased in filmy yolk and other fluids.

She remembered Jane's comment about the larva. And she did have directions to Jane's apartment.

Not quite believing what she was doing, Daria went upstairs and grabbed some clean linens. Taking them downstairs, she laid them on the table next to the sink, still trying not to breathe too deeply. She rolled up her sleeve, ignored her fear, and then plunged both her arms into the egg.

Her hands broke through the cold and oily film, fingers feeling the slimy larva flesh underneath. They ran along a too-soft underbelly. Daria's gorge rose. Her cheeks puffed out.

If her glasses fell in there...

Daria gritted her teeth. Eyes watered from the smell and the feel, but she focused. At last her hands found a harder surface. Digging in, she pulled, the larva loosening with a series of wet pops. She lifted it out, and moments later found herself cradling a curled pinkish-gray... well, it looked more like a centipede the size of her arm than anything else. A translucent, segmented shell ran along the back, with a half dozen tightly curled legs flanked the underbelly.

Daria Morgendorffer: Insect Midwife, she thought.

She decided she'd stick with her savant training for a while longer.

Daria laid it out on the linens and wrapped it up as best she could. Then she turned on the faucet and washed her hands and arms, using a bit of the soap to get rid of the smell. Water splashed down into the empty egg, mixing with the yolk and spilling down the drain. She hoped it didn't clog anything.

Placing the scrib in a canvas bag, she headed off to Jane's.

*********

The endless adobe rows of Labor Town served as a shabby reflection of the Commercial District across the river. Workmen and porters crowded the streets cheek to jowl, trudging under the watchful eyes of bonemold-armored Hlaalu guards. Paupers sat cross-legged on threadbare rugs spread out across the flagstones, tracing the sign of the Tribunal on their sunken chests whenever a coin clinked into the waiting earthen bowl.

Daria saw more outlanders, furred Khajiit and scaled Argonians roaming purposefully in small groups, the Dunmer majority keeping as much distance as they could but letting them pass without comment. Faces looked harder there, worn down by work and cheap food. And cheap alcohol. Daria smelled it in the air, fighting a losing but never totally lost battle against the sour bug stench and the more quotidian odor of trash.

Not that different from the Commercial District, she reminded herself.

Daria still carried the canvas bag with the scrib inside. The weight of the thing dragged on her skinny arms. She held it closer to her body as she navigated the narrower streets of Labor Town. Some of the people here looked hungry enough to grab it from her.

Was it still good? Did scribs go bad if left in a broken egg for too long? She had no idea what counted as fresh. Jane would know, she was sure.

The apartment lay just a few rows east of the Odai River, the short distance only made far by unfamiliarity. It looked like its neighbors, a two-story adobe house with an exterior staircase running up the side to a second floor concealed by walls around the roof. A wooden sign hung outside the front door, marked with what looked like a barrel. Going by Jane's description, it had to be the sign of J'dash, the Khajit junk merchant who served as Jane's landlord.

Knowing her friend lived on the second floor, Daria walked up the stairs.

Jane was already on the roof, seated in front of an easel with a piece of charcoal in her right hand. The canvas proclaimed her work, a woman painted in black angles, her body contorted into a spiral and her exaggerated teeth clenched in a rictus grin. Fear and pain leapt straight from the image and into Daria's head.

She'd never seen anything like it before.

"Uh, I hope I'm not interrupting," she said, speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd below.

Jane looked over her shoulder, smiling when she saw Daria.

"Oh! I wasn't expecting you. Well make yourself at home. I usually paint outside so the fumes don't get to me."

"Always sensible." Daria again felt a faint chill looking at the image. All the artwork she'd ever seen consisted of stately portraits and landscapes. This was different. Pure feeling in paint.

Noticing that Daria was staring, Jane shifted in her seat. "It's just a little experiment. Don't worry, I know exactly how to capture the figure of Man or Mer. But sometimes I like to practice with something less conventional."

"No, I like it," Daria said.

"You do?"

"Yeah. I've never seen anything like this before."

"My attempt to do something new," Jane said. "Traditional Dunmer art has bold black lines and lots of angles, but it's almost all religious or historical. What you see on this canvas is what I see whenever I look at people like Synda or Magistrate Lli."

"Twisted people going slowly insane under the weight of their hypocrisy and cruelty?"

"See, you get it! Not that I have anything against religious art. All respect to ALMSIVI, of course," Jane said, briefly bowing her head, "but I think that the Dunmer gods and saints are probably sick of people making the same images of them over and over again."

"Do you sell these?"

"I wish! Like I said before, I mostly sell portraits to rich merchants. Gallus got me started."

"Gallus?" Daria asked, noting the name as an Imperial one.

"An outlander art dealer in the Commercial District. He introduced me to a lot of my clients, and he's the one who pulled strings to get me into the academy. It's not like I'd have had the money otherwise. Stuff like what I'm painting now is just what I do for fun. When I have time."

"It's unique."

"Too bad unique doesn't sell," Jane said. "Here, let's go inside. It's starting to get cold."

Jane opened the door to her apartment and Daria followed. What looked like all of Jane's worldly possessions jostled for space inside. Pigments and canvas filled up a full half of the available room, other samples of her bold and bizarre personal laid out on a narrow bench. A rug and pillow served as bed, spread out next to stacks of neatly folded clothes.

Daria barely had enough room to stand. Jane motioned for her to sit down on the bed.

"Are you okay standing there?" Daria asked.

"It's fine," she said, leaning against the wall.

A single narrow window let in the ruddy light of the setting sun. It fell on a small, triangular stone next to the bed, decorated with a stylized robed figure pointing forward.

"It's a shrine to St. Veloth," Jane explained. "A pioneer who led my ancestors to Morrowind, always searching for something new. I guess I could relate, a little bit."

"I didn't know you were religious," Daria said.

Jane smiled. "Not exactly. See, Dunmer religion's different from others. Our gods are right there in the flesh. You don't need to have religion to believe in something if it's standing in front of you."

"Have they ever stood in front of you?" Daria knew about Morrowind's three living gods—though all the documents she'd read described them as nothing more than powerful sorcerers.

Jane's piety disappointed her, somehow. The Tribunal Temple didn't think much of outlanders like Jane, so why would their supposed gods be any more accepting?

"No, they haven't. But my dad saw Almalexia make an appearance at a Midwinter's Feast down in Mournhold. He said when she spoke, you could feel the presence of all the Dunmer generations past in that very spot, back to Resdayn and beyond." Jane's lips twisted into a regretful half-smile. "This was before I was born. I know it probably sounds kind of crazy, but I believe him."

More likely, her father had just seen some Dunmer priestess painted in gold and covered in jewels. Daria decided to change the subject.

"I brought you a gift," she said. "But I don't know if it's still good."

Jane's expression brightened. "By all means, show me!"

Daria opened up the bag, holding her face away to avoid the smell. "It's the scrib from the egg I was telling you about. I don't think anyone in my family's brave enough to eat it, but I thought you might appreciate it."

Jane gasped, her hands shaking in anticipation. "Appreciate it? Daria, you just made my day! Hell, my entire week. And yes, that's definitely still good. Here, let's take this downstairs. I bet J'dash will let me use his kitchen if we share a bit."

"Wait, if we share a bit?"

"You're eating this Daria, whether you want to or not!"

*********

Slimy as the scrib had been, Daria had to admit that something in the kitchen smelled good.

While Jane busied herself with the scrib, Daria sat in the crowded little junk shop with J'dash, an older Khajiit with streaks of white in his russet fur. He rested in his chair, wrapped in a threadbare linen robe, his left hand grasping a clay cup filled with warm sujamma. J'dash's golden eyes fixated on the far wall, as if he could see through it to the distant jungles and deserts of sugar-blessed Elsweyr.

Daria sipped her own sujamma, the drink's earthy taste adding to the warmth. Candles flickered on the table, the flames like red jewels in the dark. Her family, Synda, and the Camonna Tong all felt very far away. J'dash's long tail swished on the dirt floor as meat sizzled against hot metal in the kitchen.

"It's ready!" Jane called.

Jane came out of the kitchen, the scrib coiled up on a big redware plate. Daria breathed in the smell, thick and buttery with a hint of herbs. But it still looked like a bug.

She took a deep breath. From the looks of things, this was a rare treat for Jane. Insulting her friend by refusing wasn't an option. She'd already eaten scrib jelly, so this couldn't be much worse. Except seeing it there in front of her, its too-many legs glistening in the candlelight, just reminded her of exactly what she'd be consuming.

"Ahh, Dunmer is a good cook," J'dash said, his eyes on Jane.

"Oh, don't listen to him. Seriously, don't: life's easier when expectations are low. Anyway, cooking's not my strong point, but I did pick up a few tricks over the years. Meals like this don't come often, so you want to make the best of them.

Jane took a seat and uttered a quiet prayer. J'dash lowered his head in respect, perhaps thinking of his own gods. When she finished, he extended his left hand, fingers outspread. Polished white claws slid out from the fur, and he stuck one into a gap between the segments. Daria's teeth clenched as she watched, wondering about the Khajiit's hygiene and feeling a bit guilty for doing so.

The scrib suddenly snapped, the soft flesh beneath the shell exposed to the air. A heavenly scent wafted out. Making a purring sound, J'dash motioned for Daria and Jane to dig in. Jane tore a chunk of scrib flesh from under the shell, and popped it into her mouth with relish.

Not letting herself show her unease, Daria reached in. The sauce's heat stung her fingertips and she pulled back, more from surprise than from the heat. Trying again, she gripped a piece of meat and ripped it free, not allowing for any hesitation before she put it in her mouth.

Hot, crisp, and tender with only a trace of the sourness. Juices burst between her teeth as she chewed, a bone-deep warmth spreading throughout her entire body.

"This is delicious!" she exclaimed.

"See, our cuisine has its high points," Jane said.

Daria tore off another piece, the many-legged monster before her suddenly as appetizing as a holiday feast in the old country. She'd never tasted anything quite like it before, the flavor alien but somehow perfectly aligned to her palate.

Maybe, she thought, there was something worthwhile in Morrowind. It wasn't easy to find, but it was there. And finding it ushered her into a very select group, one bound together by this knowledge of secret splendor.

They finished all too soon. Leaning back in their chairs, all uncomfortably full, they accepted as J'dash broke open another jug of sujamma. All of Daria's cares seemed to spiral away in the comforting darkness.

"This one is pleased, but thinks it is a shame that Dunmer's brother could not share in this meal," J'dash said.

"I'm sure Trent's having a grand old time up in Caldera. Assuming he's still employed. Which is a pretty big assumption."

"Trent?" Daria asked.

"My brother. The only blood relation I have in Morrowind. He's a musician, so he's on the road a lot. Usually he plays for room and board at whatever cornerclub will take him. He'll come by here eventually."

Daria nodded. How long had Jane been on her own? Part of her envied Jane for it. How nice it'd be to not have to watch out for Quinn, or deal with her parents' relentless social climbing. Just shut herself away in a little apartment with a job for the day and books for the night. A fatherly landlord like J'dash might be a nice bonus.

Couldn't be easy, though. Not if Jane got that excited over what seemed to be a fairly basic food item.

"Where are your parents?" Daria asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"They left for Cyrodiil oh, I don't know... eight years ago? No clue if they're still there. Dad's a painter like me, mom's a sculptor, so they go wherever there's work. I've got some other siblings scattered around."

J'dash made a rasping sigh. "Khajiit had many litter-mates once, in the land where the sun is warm upon the sands. But the world is a cruel place, and drove this one to damp and chilly Morrowind. Strange place for Khajiit, yes?" He looked at Daria. "And where is Imperial's family?"

"In the Commercial District," she said, feeling a little abashed. She wondered if J'dash's journey to Morrowind had been a voluntary one, but didn't think it was right to pry.

"Imperial is fortunate," J'dash said. "The world is cold, but shared blood makes it warmer."

"Uh, yeah. Fortunate." Daria took another sip of her sujamma, the alcohol in the brew warding away some of the awkwardness. She heard no judgment in J'dash's words. Just a statement of fact.

She was lucky in some ways.

Chapter 4

Jane refused to let Daria wander alone through the darkened streets of Labor Town, and insisted on her staying the night. The two girls retreated up to the apartment. Daria refused to let Jane give her the makeshift bed, so she sat on the narrow bench and leaned against the rough wall. Not an easy position to sleep in, but she'd had worse on the long boat ride to Morrowind.

She woke up to a sliver of dawn's light, reddened by a fresh plume of smoke from Red Mountain. A hint of brimstone in the morning air stung her nostrils and made her eyes water. Behind her, Jane yawned.

"Hope you slept okay," Jane said, her voice still sluggish from sleep.

"Well enough." Daria groped for her glasses, finding them next to a set of brushes. The foggy world turned sharp once the lenses came over her eyes.

"Do you have to go to the academy today?" Jane asked.

"No. This is one of the days where I help my mom provide legal protection for greedy Imperial merchants."

"Fun," Jane said, yawning again. "No sessions for me today, either. I'm not really a morning person, so I think I'm going to sleep a bit longer. Feel free to stay."

"I should probably go," Daria said.

Jane was already asleep.

Daria crept down the stairs on stiff legs, the morning streets already busy with workers. Following landmarks she'd noticed on the way there, she soon reached the stone bridges spanning the Odai River, the busy but slightly neater Commercial District on the other side.

She walked past the academy campus, a few early risers already present. Curiosity led her to scan the courtyard for Synda, but she saw no sign of the girl. Synda didn't strike her as someone who'd wake up any earlier than absolutely necessary.

The academy disappeared behind another row of adobe shops. Daria squeezed through a shaded alleyway that led behind the milliner's shop, and from there just a few blocks to home.

Pain exploded in her left side, just beneath the ribcage. Daria staggered, her arms flailing as she tried to reorient herself. Another hit, this time on her right, and she fell forward. Palms smacked painfully against the stone road as she broke her fall.

"I'll be taking these," came Synda's haughty voice.

A hand wrenched the glasses from Daria's face. The street turned into a muddle of harsh light and muted colors as her jaw fell.

"Synda? Dammit, I need those!"

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

A figure, blurred to little more than a shadow, stepped in front of Daria. Daria bared her teeth. Fear and rage coursed through her, her hands ready to strike.

If only she could see.

Another blow cracked against her back, and forced her on her belly. Her teeth cut into the side of her mouth, blood rushing over her tongue and down her throat. Two figures walked around the prone Imperial to flank their boss.

Fear started to overwhelm rage. She had to stay calm.

"What do you want?" Daria asked, words distorted by her swelling wound.

"Want? It's not what I want, it's what I demand. You Imperials think you can just walk all over us. I'm here to tell you that we Dunmer do not respond well to threats."

"What was I supposed to do?" Daria wheezed. "You tried to take my sister—"

"Your sister was no more than a curiosity. What matters is your attitude. I will not accept your insults or threats. And neither will the Cammona Tong."

Daria froze. This couldn't be happening.

Something heavy fell to the ground in front of her. Straining her eyes, she could just make out a glittering object on the street. Synda's foot slammed down, and the splintering glass left no doubt as to what she'd just crushed.

"You insulted the honor of my people and family—not like you Imperials care about family. I could have killed you, but I decided to be forgiving and just destroy those weird things you always wear," Synda said. "I'll consider us even. But if you decide to escalate... make sure you're ready. And I don't recommend telling anyone about this, because that will most certainly escalate things."

Daria tried to scoop up the shattered spectacles. She gasped as glass cut her fingers.

She heard footsteps and laughter as Synda departed with her thugs in tow.

*********

"Here's your money, or whatever," Synda said, once they were a safe distance away. She handed a few drakes to each of the two toughs.

"I'll take it, but I don't like you telling outlanders that we're part of the Cammona Tong," said the bigger of the two, Todis. "If the real Cammona Tong finds out that we've been pretending—"

"They won't. You did your job, and that's the last either of us will hear about it. She didn't see you, and I'm sure she'll be too scared to do anything."

Todis shook his head. "Still a dumb idea. You should've warned us you were going to do that."

Synda sniffed. She brushed off her dress once the toughs left to whatever cesspit had spawned them. Sure she was clean, Synda returned to the academy.

All outlanders revolted her, but the Imperials most of all. Each was a tyrant and a liar, hiding steel with honeyed words and false treaties. And they brought their lackeys with them: savage Nords, half-breed Bretons, and even the decadent Altmer her ancestors had fled so long ago. With that the taxes, her family's plantation funding the war machine that suppressed them. Morrowind reduced to a sideshow, ancient families of honor and faith kowtowing the pleasure of plump Imperial bureaucrats.

The Imperials couldn't even show basic decency to their own kind. Her stomach turned at the memory of Quinn denying her sisterhood with Daria. She'd been so willing to sacrifice the bonds of blood to avoid embarrassment. How did such a people survive long enough to conquer the world?

They might have conquered the world, but they'd never conquer her spirit.

*********

No one back in Cyrodiil had known how to deal with Daria. Her sharp words punctured even the proudest and boldest. She knew words.

She did not know violence.

Daria suspected her family's safety depended on her covering her tracks. She'd cast aside the handful of copper drakes in her pockets, and stumbled around blind until a guard found her. She'd almost bolted at the sound of his voice, the throaty rasp unmistakably Dunmer, but he'd been kind enough.

A robbery. That's what she told her parents. And as they gasped and fretted and hugged her she burned inside, knowing it wasn't the truth. That for all of the Empire's might, her family was small and surrounded by hostility.

Daria lied, and she lied well. She kept the story simple and the details consistent. There was doubt in Helen's voice, but Daria had been her mother's best pupil.

Jake at least found a Dunmer glassmaker who said she might be able to recreate the lenses. So he took the shards to her while Daria waited.

Blindness rendered the world incomprehensible. She opened up a book and ran her fingers across the pages, as if she could feel the patterns of the ink and turn them into words and images.

"Uh, Daria?" came Quinn's voice.

"What?"

"That Dunmer girl at school was asking about you."

Daria turned cold.

"Which one?"

"Me."

Daria thought she recognized Jane's voice and raised her eyes from the book. The hazy gray figure next to Quinn gave her pause. All Dunmer sounded so similar.

She tensed, beads of sweat forming on her brow.

"Daria?" Jane said.

"Oh!" Daria blurted out, trying to regain her composure.

It wasn't fair to think that about Jane. She'd only been kind. The events of the last few weeks spun around Daria's head, and she took a deep breath to calm down.

"I noticed you hadn't been in for a while. I asked Quinn, and she led me here."

"Uh, thanks Quinn."

"Sure," Quinn said. "I'll leave you two alone."

Daria relaxed as her sister's footsteps grew more distant.

"I'd get up to hug you Jane, but at this point I'm just as likely to knock you over."

"Hey, I like a bit of risk, but if it makes things easier..."

Jane put her arms around Daria, squeezing gently before letting go.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Jane asked. "Quinn said it was a robbery..."

Daria thought about it. Was it safe for Jane to know?

"Yeah. A robbery."

"That really sucks. I've never been robbed, but it's happened to Trent a few times. Guess you just got unlucky. What about your glasses?"

"Dad says he might be able to finagle a new pair. Let's hope he's right. There's not much demand for a savant who can't read or write."

"Right. You know, since I'm here, I could read out loud for you."

Warmth welled up in Daria's chest. She'd been stuck in her own head for days on end.

"If you don't mind," she said, keeping her voice steady.

"Nah, it's fine. Which book do you want?"

"Could you get A Dance in Fire? It's the brown one with the red bookmark."

"I think I see it."

Daria heard the book being slid out from the shelf, and the comforting sound of rustling pages. She could escape once more.

And this time, take someone with her.

The End

(Hope you all enjoyed! As I mentioned in the intro, there are more stories in this series. Most of the characters from the show do eventually make an appearance, and Daria gets to visit some of the surrounding locales, as well.

Please let me know what you think.)