04: Blacklight

The Morag Tong Citadel was located a day's travel south of the coastal village of Blacklight, and I didn't anticipate any great difficulty in that leg of the journey. From there I could charter a boat and sail the short distance to Vvardenfell, landing either at the port settlement of Khuul or some more clandestine location. Now my initiation was complete I was minded to make good speed with little delay before leaving. My fellow initiates appeared distrustful of me, and having spent so many years around this area I was keen to explore.

Vvardenfell had always existed in my mind as a great symbol, the ancestral home of my kin, the war torn wasteland devastated by the Demi-God Dagoth Ur and redeemed by Lord Nerevar reborn... yet war raged on. The Great Houses Redoran and Hlaalu, historic enemies, had been fighting a bitter struggle for a time longer than my living memory, though the lore I had been taught pointed to the collapse of the Empire several decades previous as the trigger. Or catalyst, as a grudge had existed between the two houses that predated even Morag Tong historical lore.

As a Morag Tong I now had full access to the extensive armoury, but even a cursory inspection showed that it was largely specialised for assassination and would stand out like a sore thumb in any community. Not a problem if your writ is legal and has the backing of the authorities, but mine apparently was not. I needed a cover that would let me travel openly without revealing my true purpose. Preferably a cover that allowed me to carry at least some weaponry, and that would not appear entirely out of place on an individual traveling into a war zone. I decided to go for the obvious choice of claiming to be a mercenary, though there were admittedly some drawbacks to this - it was still unusual to see a mercenary travelling alone and with free agency. And joining a mercenary organisation did not interest me due to the inherent restrictions and likely complications.

In the end I chose to simply take the short steel sword, bow, quiver and arrows that I had trained with as a candidate. The familiarity would help and they would not draw attention. I chose a bag that ostensibly held chain mail armour, and it did have one such item for appearances sake, but for the most part it was to be filled with food and drink, camping equipment, a little money, and a basic set of light weight alchemy equipment.

Morgan had been right about something unusual and unexpected having changed in me during the ritual. I now seemed dead to magic, both magical detection by others, but also in terms of my own previous magical abilities. This was not to say that I was immune to magic however, as a quick test soon discovered, though I did seem somewhat more resistant to its effect than of old. I would have to rely on potions and poisons more than ever.

The initial journey was trouble free. I knew this area well, and it was largely abandoned. I say abandoned, but the hidden citadel had some part in this as the trainee's were encouraged to dissuade anyone who visited the area from settling. A rather trivial learning opportunity, made even easier by the bleak and uninviting mountain landscape. It was all downhill to Blacklight, and having set out with the dawn I arrived before sunset.

Blacklight had been in decline for a time, but more recently had managed a grotesque resurgence. Once reliant upon fishing to finance it's weak economy, piracy now made the waters unsafe, just one consequence of the war that had raged across Vvardenfell. But when one door closes another opens, as the desperate - or desperately self-serving - residents of Blacklight had proven in turning to slavery. The conflict had created a demand for forced labour to fuel the industry's of war. Argonians seized from Blackmarsh and trafficked via Blacklight, away from the eyes of the authorities. Or far enough to allow sufficiently inexpensive bribes and an adequate profit margin.

I made my way towards the village inn, a newer brick structure that tended to house both travellers and these wealthy 'merchants'. A good place to arrange transport and catch up on news, but as I approached it was unusually quiet, and the common room lacked the typical trappings of decadence and conspicuous displays of wealth. I drew a chair up to the only occupied table and ordered a drink, exchanging the limited pleasantries necessary with my companion. A Dunmer trader fallen on hard times judging by appearances, which he soon confirmed.

"The life blood has left this village these last weeks, the cold life blood that should have been filling those cages down by the quay fit to bursting. Now they're empty. No demand. I had my last shipment sat here for almost a week with no buyers, just spoiling. Eventually I had to cover what losses I could with blunt butchery. But let me tell you, the price for the Argonian hides didn't even cover the gathering costs, let alone that of conveying them from Blackmarsh. And the meat is just sitting there spoiling. Everyone says they don't like the taste. That, or the 'morals'. Such rubbish."

Frankly it was news to me that anyone had ever considered eating Argonian meat, let alone selling it. This trader was clearly in a class of his own in some respects. I asked about the drop in demand.

"You haven't heard? The war in Vvardenfell is over. Never thought I'd see it happen, and never thought that its ending would sadden me, but that's business see. Now my livelihood is done, and I won't go back to fishing for fish. House Indoril has sponsored a peace deal between Redoran and Hlaalu, fantastical really. Fan bloody tastic. You're a mercenary, right? No point going to that ash island now"

Ah, interesting. The resurgent house Indoril. Lord Nerevar again attempts to unite the Dunmer under one banner. Now I can guess why you were given your task.

My 'inner voice' again. Silent for most of the journey and largely unresponsive to direct question. It sounded female, in as much as an inner voice can sound like anything. And it had told me to call it 'Sepia', though there seemed little point as even calling upon this name didn't always work in eliciting a reply. For now I filed away her comment and returned my attention to the trader. I would think about Sepia's observation later.

The merchant was right about it not making much sense for a mercenary to visit a peaceful land, but I decided to stick with this cover for the time being anyway. I organised the hire of his old fishing boat for a pittance. He was bitter about circumstances, drunk, and a fool. But for all that, come the morning he would doubtless repent of the price he had agreed, and it made sense for me to sail across the narrow straight between Blackwater and western Vvardenfell under darkness if I wanted to avoid being seen arrive.

Walking past the empty cages on the quay and struggling to ignore the stink of rotting meat from a nearby warehouse, I found the fishing boat and pushed out to sea.