3E 433, Sun’s Dawn

6 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Skywatch, Summerset Isle

Ondolemar wheezed as much air he could while his torturer was away. He stared down at the floor from his painful spread-eagle position on the room’s ceiling, chained down and restrained by powerful magicka. Blood dripped from his various cuts and stab wounds onto the floor.

There was a creaking noise, and Ondolemar looked to his right to see the portion of wall slide away, revealing the secret entrance of his cell. The torturer walked in, clad in his usual attire of black, and his slightly balding head looked up and smiled.

“I’m… telling you,” the young Altmer gasped. “I… don’t know… where they are.”

The Blade chuckled as he walked over to a small fire near one of the walls, and grabbed a branding iron that had been heating up within its embers.

“You see, that’s where I know you are lying,” the torturer said. “I’ve been doing this for several years now, requested by the Emperor himself to root out traitors among you elves. Not better than my last assignment, however. Went from one island to another.”

The man walked underneath the Altmer, and with one swift motion pressed the branding iron to the flesh of his bare-chest. Ondolemar screamed as his skin blackened, and then the pain was gone. The torturer had removed the iron.

“You know I’m only doing this because the Empire wants me too, right?” he said. “I honestly take no pleasure in this. It would be easier if you just submit.”

“I would rather die!”

“You might just do that,” the torturer signed, and with little noise left through the secret entrance which closed behind him, leaving Ondolemar alone in the room.

7 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Argon’s Nest, Black Marsh

Cuni-Rai stood in the grand throne room alone with the King’s Honor Guard, nervously admiring the vast stonework.

As a Stone-Carver, he had been raised learning about the intricate designs of the ziggurats his people had once built long ago. He had been both surprised and delighted to discover that the royal city was built from stone. The palace itself was built from beautiful gray stone, and reinforced with marble. Dozens of aqueducts allowed water to constantly run through the small indentions within the floor, making the ancient inscriptions appear to move.

Rai was about to touch one of the walls to feel the pictograph etched there when there was a loud noise, and the Argonian King entered the room followed closely by a crowd of scribes and wardens. He quickly redrew his hand from the stonework, and made himself look presentable.

“Two more Imperial ambassadors have arrived,” one of his brethren said, reading from a report. Judging by his ornate jewelry and attire, he was the Head Scribe. “And—”

“Send them away,” the King mused as he made his way to the throne, sitting down. His beautiful headdress of hackwing feathers shifted slightly and his jeweled wrists clanged on the stone. “We do not need them meddling in our affairs.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“And the Slaver Outposts near Thorn?”

“They have been successfully razed to the ground. There are no signs that they even existed.”

“Good,” the King nodded. He looked to his right and noticed Rai for the first time and smiled. “Ah, the famous sculptor from Soulrest.”

“King, your words honor me and my clan,” Rai inclined his head, and kneeled before the king as he presented his work.

“But you honor me by bringing this,” said the King with a smile, and took the Egg stone from Rai and admired it. “This is well done, marsh-brother. My son and his son’s son will treasure it always.”

“My… my heart is filled with happiness that you believe so,” Rai said.

The King placed a hand on Rai’s shoulder. “Go now brother, in peace.” As Cuni-Rai got up from the floor, the King turned back to his assembly of advisors. “Now, we need to discuss the southern tribes. I believe—”

“I believe we must utilize force to get them to obey us,” a sharp voice issued from the entrance way. Rai found himself staring along with the King towards the intruder, who was dressed in odd green and red robes, and he wore a variety of necklaces and rings.

“Who dares interrupt me?” the King snarled. The Honor Guard readied their shields and spears, and immediately took a stance in front of the King.

The newcomer smiled coldly. “Terribly sorry for the interruption, King Hanxit, but I thought you might need some help. I am Thaxrieu, Hante Clanleader, and member of the An-Xileel. And we’ll no longer be needing your services.”

7 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Vivec, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Lanla and Chakran sat within one of the old Ordinator offices inside the Ministry of Truth, the door locked tightly with a muffle spell enchanted on the door. Lanla sat behind the desk, rubbing her hands back and forth. Chakran stood in front of it, a strange mixture of nervousness and confidence etched across his face.

“Tell me again, from the beginning if you may.” She sipped sparingly on a glass of mazte, wanting to make the flavor last longer than it should.

“As you know, the Nerevarine left Vvardenfell shortly after returning from Solstheim. No one knows Nerevar’s reasoning, but it must’ve been very impromptu, because we never found any notes on the voyage.”

Lanla finally drained her drink, and set the cup down on the table. “Which is suspicious, or at least suspicious to me.”

Chakran nodded. “Very suspicious. Years passed, and no word. We hoped Nerevar had been lost at sea. But several days ago we received word from one of our spies that the boat the Nerevarine had set out on has docked in Ebonheart.”

“The Incarnate returned,” Lanla commented.

Chakran nodded again. “We believe the Nerevarine only came back for supplies. Our agent reported that he believes that after this last stop the Incarnate will not return to Morrowind – or Tamriel – again.”

“We need to strike soon then, and fast. We might not get another chance to end Nerevar’s life,” Lanla said with conviction. “Tell the others to get ready to travel to Ebonheart at once; we must get rid of the Nerevarine quickly but also quietly.”

Chakran frowned. “But if wasn’t for the Nerevarine, the Tribunal would have never been defeated—”

“I know that, Chakran,” Lanla said as she got up from her seat. “But all traces of our heresy, including the Nerevarine, must be destroyed. Sadly, that is how it must be.” With that she stalked out the door, leaving Chakran alone in the room.

“That is how it must be,” he mused, and reached for the bottle of mazte.

8 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Orsinium, High Rock

“When will that helm be finished, Dulzar?” asked Christophe, a weak looking Breton as he stood over the Orc blacksmith, who was cooling a pair of tongs in his water basin.

Dulzar gro-Yuk groaned and raised the tongs, causing Christophe to scurry away. “You just asked me too work on them, fool. By Trinimac’s name how am I supposed to work that fast?”

Christophe laughed at the sky. “Okay, I apologize for interrupting you friend. I just want a full set of armor for the farm, you know, the family.”

“What’s wrong, expecting trouble?”

The Breton shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s just…times seem to becoming darker. The Emperor is sick, the provinces appear to be on edge, and the rumors from Morrowind…”

Dulzar shrugged as he began to reheat the forge. “I don’t care to believe in rumors.”

“Still, something is going on over there. I just want to be able to protect my family in case things become unsafe around these parts.”

Dulzar stopped, and thought back to when he was a young child, barely able to lift a hammer, and how the Bretons and Redguards used to taunt and throw things at him whenever he was around them. Now, King Gortwog and the Lord of Wayrest were trading partners, and men like Christophe were moving around freely in his home like they owned the place.

The blacksmith snorted.

“When has it ever been unsafe around these parts?”