From the Sanitarium: The Dead Belong

By Gallus Sarano

Ragmar was a Nord born on a galley some nauts off the Gold Coast. He earned the name “Boulderfist” seventeen years later when - for a pair of drakes - he drew back his strongest punch and cracked a boulder with his fist. It took the healers at the temple all night to make sure he would keep his hand, and the coin he had won for the bet was not enough to cover their services, but the name stuck, and he would take satisfaction for that fact to his grave.

Between those two points in time however, Ragmar returned to the trade ships making the trips between Summerset and Daggerfall, and though he aspired higher than his station, he never did get that ship of his own, nor even a position of authority within the crew. Hauling crates, tying knots, firing cannons - Ragmar did what was asked of him.

Occasionally what was asked of him was criminal, but it was to be expected. Not including certain crates in the counting or hiding them from inspection. Occasionally he looked inside these crates, and it was never anything particularly exciting. Moon Sugar? Sure. Skooma? To be expected. Paintings, tapestries, sculptures? Nice to look at, but nothing truly grand.

There was not one truly notable bit of smuggling on Ragmar’s ship until the day that they were set to set sail from the coast of Summerset back towards Anvil for the eleventh time, and Ragmar was asked to sneak a box on board and hide it beneath his bed. As the box touched his hands he could tell that this bit of smuggling was well and completely wrong. But he did as he was asked, and his curiosity got the better of him for only a moment - seven black gems, as big as his fist, softly glowing with a beating pulse greeted him with the nausea of unease before he shut the box again and tried not to think about what was surely foul magic.

Ragmar of course had no way of knowing what a Black Soul Gem was, or what that glowing meant, but from that moment on he could not rest. Though far from the Sea of Ghosts, he was well aware that undeath is an unfortunate reality - and for the next few days he swore that the ship had become haunted. Though he told the Quartermaster of his concerns, the Quartermaster disregarded them.

But then the Maormer, the sea elves, struck in the night with a great storm, boarding between lightning bolts. In the chaos of the battle - which was lost the moment it began - the Quartermaster told Ragmar to get the box and make sure that the Maormer did not get it.

So Ragmar ran for the box beneath his bed and saw how the glow in each stone seemed to move as he would to counter the rolling of the ship in the storm - how they lit up and rumbled with each roar of thunder - and suddenly he was overcome with all of the emotion his simple life had simply disregarded. He was shaking, angry that he was not more important or successful. His sight was clouded for the sorrow from the lack of others’ belief in him and his concerns. The doubt for his survival may as well have cut off his legs.

The fear of these gems and the knowledge that they were the doom of Ragmar and his crew forced his gaze to be locked to each pulse of their foul light.

Soon enough another roar shook the ship - one of the sea elves’ vile serpents had been summoned. Shaken back to his senses, he knew there was only one hope for survival. He took the box and ran for the deck, and he did not listen to the Quartermaster yelling for him to get away from the railing.

Ragmar jumped, holding onto the box for dear life. He knew he had to survive that night, and to survive that night he would need to float. To float for long enough to survive for longer than that night, he would need a large enough piece of wood to support his weight. As soon as he began his search, the serpent roared again, and then the boat was in two, and he had his driftwood.

He was picked up an hour or so later by the sea elves and taken onto their ship. The box was torn from his grip and he was forced to his knees to watch as the sea elves examined it. The woman who appeared to have been the Captain of their ship openly wailed with despair as she saw the gems, and her first mate turned his anger to Ragmar.

He was forced to look over the rails as the sea elves summoned their serpent once more - convinced that he would be offered to it. Instead he watched in horror as countless faces appeared in the water beneath the ship - ghosts just beneath the waves. His Captain, his Quartermaster, every friend he’d ever had stared up at him - and then more. Redguards and Dunmer, women and children, beasts of all kinds soon looked up to him from depths as a thousand echoing voices rang in his ears.

The Maormer captain spoke to him as he stared in awe - but he did not hear her until he saw seven orbs of water float up through the air, guided by one of their mages to collect the gems one by one. Each was brought in turn to the waves, and with one final glow what was contained in them was released, and a new face joined the assembly. Seven Sea Elf Ghosts that even Ragmar could see looked just like the Captain.

Ragmar only truly heard one thing the Captain had to say before the shock of elven blades at the backs of his legs stole his attention before consciousness faded from him:

“The dead belong to the sea. The sea belongs to the Maormer.”

Ragmar awoke on a beach frequented by young lovers sometime later.

His legs were gone.

From that night on, whenever it stormed, he would need to be in a basement room to hide as best as he could from the sound of thunder. For days afterward, he would see the dead in the waves.