Ilsabet's Headcanon (Quest Spoilers; Outline in First Post)

Ilsabet

Author's Note:

So it's been a lil' while, and that's largely because the motherboard on my computer died and it's been a saga and a half dealing with that, so pretty much everything ESO-related has been put on hold. (I did finally get access to my files, so I should be able to get the last High Isle entry posted before too long, but I'm not sure when I'll be able to start Firesong questing. Please try not to be too horribly disappointed by the wait.)

Meanwhile, I realized that in all the hullabaloo surrounding the premature death of my laptop, I completely missed the 7-year anniversary of this thread. I immediately set about rectifying this grievous oversight, and I think the artistic masterpiece I came up with more than makes up for my prior negligence.

So... happy birthday like a month and a half ago, Ilsabet's Headcanon!

Ilsabet

Another victory, another victory celebration. Is it supposed to feel so hollow? All the well-wishers gathered to share in our triumph, all the self-congratulatory speeches and approving nods, as if the fight were actually over and the big bad weren't still out there plotting his diabolical comeback.

I suppose we did save the monarchs, again, and we eliminated one of the Ascendant Order's powerhouses, and Lady Arabelle seems to think the peace conference isn't a completely lost cause. So maybe there is hope to be found amongst the storm-drenched ruins of All Flags Castle. But it's still hard to shake off this mantle of weary dread, knowing this mirthful respite will be all too brief.

We did feel pretty good about ourselves as we assembled with the rescued royals in Lady Arabelle's garden. The trials of Amenos were behind us, and if it weren't for the immediate and incessant royal bickering, I might have proposed launching into our peace talks right there. But Lord Bacaro had his plans, and the Ascendant Order's threat still loomed, and so there was work to be done.

Our first order of business was to see what we could get out of the big all-hands-on-deck Ascendant Order meeting that Irnskar had learned about. That would be a standard affair of using a confiscated summons to weasel our way in, and Lady Arabelle had prepared some Ascendant Order uniforms for the occasion. But there was a complication.

"Only two?" I asked, as Lady Arabelle handed out the disguises.

"Yes, dear. One for you, and one for Jakarn. What more were you expecting on such short notice?"

I looked at Bastian, trying to decide how much of a problem this was going to be. He seemed to be having similar thoughts, but then he put on his reassuring face.

"I'll stay here and guard Lady Arabelle," he said. "We can leave the sneaking around to the professionals."

I nodded, and looked to Jakarn. He grinned back at me. "You heard the man. Let's get in there and show them how it's done."

Inside we found the meeting already in progress. One of these days someone will let me start shooting at speechifying windbags, but we were under orders not to rile up the entire Order all at once. So instead we kept our heads down and listened in while the Magus and Lord went over their plans for using druid magic to blow up All Flags Islet, and then it was time for tiptoeing around the back to try to catch up to them after they'd made their dramatic exit from the assembly.

It was the Magus who caught up with us, but not before we'd poked around his little riverfront sanctum. He was predictably insufferable, thanking us for collecting the monarchs for him and assuring us of the great justice behind the Ascendant Lord's inexorable crusade to supplant the reigning warmongers. I was expecting to have to work a little to wheedle his true identity out of him, but he decided it would make for an amusing guessing game. I might have been annoyed enough to just pull out the name of any old two-bit noble, but there was that brother of Duchess Elea's who had been dabbling in druid magic...

And so it was indeed Count Damard Dufort who graced us with a look at the smarmy face under the helmet. If he was at all concerned about what we might do with that information, it was presumably less compelling than the chance to do a little extra gloating. We were completely helpless to stop him, after all. As if being up on that ledge somehow put him out of arrow range.

He knew exactly what he was doing, though. The next words out of his mouth were about Lady Arabelle - and how his knights were at that moment doling out her punishment down in the dungeons. It was a challenge, and a choice, and Jakarn didn't even hesitate before he took off running into the crypts, even as our enemy smugly strode off toward his waiting ship.

I was left looking after one, and then the other, needing to make a choice of my own. It shouldn't have even been a choice. The Ascendant Magus was a priority target, and even one-on-one I had a decent chance of at least ruining his day a little before he portaled out of my reach. Everything that was sensible said that was the way I should move. But... if Lady Arabelle had been captured, that meant that Bastian...

I let out a growl and started after Jakarn. We would deal with the Magus soon enough, especially now that we could use his identity against him, but we only had one chance to save our friends.

I caught up to Jakarn as he was debating between a pair of hallways, and then a clash of steel and a woman's ringing taunts spurred us on. If that was the woman it sounded like, and she was still fighting, that meant it wasn't too late.

We rounded a corner, both of us with our weapons drawn. And then there they were, Bastian and Lady Arabelle, back to back taking down the last of their would-be captors.

"Ah, so glad you could join us, dears," Lady Arabelle called, blithe despite being out of breath. "Why, Jakarn, you look positively panicked. What's wrong?"

"What's...? You were - you..." Jakarn sputtered, but before his panic could completely give way to relief, his attention turned to Bastian. "What the hell were you doing out there? You were supposed to be keeping Lady Arabelle safe, and you let these bastards lay their scummy hands on her?"

"Jakarn, that's enough," Lady Arabelle said sternly, and the rogue looked at her uncertainly.

"You'd better believe I was ready to fight to protect Lady Arabelle," Bastian said. "But as soon as I reached for my staff, she ordered me to stand down."

"These fine fellows simply wanted to escort us into their secret base," Lady Arabelle said. "Why make things unpleasant when we could accept their kind offer to bring us closer to the action?"

The truth of the situation sank in, and Jakarn lowered his remaining hackles. "I'm... sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I was just..."

"I understand," Bastian said. "I'm glad to have my partner back safe too."

A moment of something resembling grudging rapport passed between them, and then Jakarn cleared his throat and turned toward me. "So hey, how about that Ascendant Magus? Maybe you should tell Lady Arabelle what we learned."

It turned out that Lady Arabelle had had her own run-in with His Mageness after being "escorted" into the dungeons, which had been about as pleasant as one would expect. She was chagrined that her capture had become a manipulation tactic to keep us from apprehending Count Damard, but at that point all we could do was look ahead to thwarting what we now knew were the Order's plans to attack the royal delegates at All Flags Islet.

I'm going to go ahead and assume that Damard had already sailed his backup ship out of the Navire shipyard before we arrived to ransack the Silver Swan, because otherwise I'd have to be peeved about Lady Arabelle forgetting that salient fact after we rescued Duchess Elea. On the other hand, I can maybe understand being distracted by plans for a boat heist, and stealing a ship with our posse of sailor friends was actually fairly fun.

And then we got to All Flags Islet, and the fun abruptly ended. Castle walls, magic wards, a contingent of bodyguards, none of it made any difference in the end. It always comes down to beating the crap out of a bad guy to make him stop doing bad things, doesn't it? Well and in this case, also using ballistae to blow up ships and feeding druids to their own storm rituals. But after all that big talk about the power of wind and flame and mountain, in the end the Ascendant Magus was no match for three bickering royals and a pair of tired babysitters.

And it's a good thing too, because whatever Lord Bacaro was doing during this whole crisis, it wasn't getting us the backup we thought we needed. Sending letters must be time-consuming work. But maybe that's just me being petty after doing so much of the heavy lifting. Things worked out okay, relatively, so no need for grousing, right?

The monarchs have been on their best behavior during the celebratory shindig, even making public declarations that they'd support the peace talks whenever Lord Bacaro is ready to try again. That sounded good, but we'll see. High King Emeric shared his doubts with me more quietly, and given his greater experience in both politics and war, I'm not surprised that he doesn't quite share the enthusiasm of his younger counterparts. Or maybe he's just less inclined to sugarcoat his skepticism.

Despite the continued posturing and traces of antagonism beneath the veneer of courtesy, though, I can see how our alliance leaders have changed. They may never consider each other friends, but they've gone through a life-or-death battle as allies. Any one of them could have taken advantage of the fracas to turn blade or spell against the others, hoping to be the last monarch standing when the storm clouds eventually cleared. But they didn't. They stood together, fighting with and for each other, for a basic common survival that superseded politics or war. And I think they'll remember how that felt, even when they're back at a negotiation table ruled by stubborn egos.

It won't be long before the party breaks up and our little adventuring troupe goes its separate ways. Jakarn is already antsy to get back to laying low until trouble finds him again. Kaleen and the other captains are going to stick around Gonfalon Bay, guarding the delegates and getting their new ships and crews whipped into shape. And Bastian and I will noodle around doing whatever we feel like until we stumble over something else that needs dealing with.

You know what, I think I'm going to choose to be in a good mood and enjoy the rest of what this Breton paradise has to offer. That'll show all the crummy nonsense that wants to make me cranky. I wonder how hard it'll be to figure out that card game...

Ilsabet

Bastian is currently off pouting since I beat him at cards again. Someone should tell him that spamming the Orgnum patron isn't cheating. And I mean I am the Tribute Champion of Tamriel, so he shouldn't expect to have an easy time of it when he challenges me to a rematch.

I'm not going to tell him "it's just a game," though. Not after seeing how much Tribute means to those I've been fighting alongside, even if this battlefield is just a fancy placemat on a bar table and the artillery is a motley assortment of playing cards.

We all have something we'd like to escape from, don't we. We'd love an easy way out of our troubles, something to take our minds off the nonsense for a while. Hell, isn't that half the reason I threw myself into learning this silly game? But sometimes those diversions become troubles of their own, exerting a hold over us that we may not even want to escape from.

I can't know exactly what made Sorinne think that using skooma was a good idea. Everybody knows how addictive it is, and how it messes you up once the initial highs aren't enough anymore. But her life on the streets of Elsweyr was marked by enough lows to make those highs seem awfully appealing by comparison. And when someone you care for, who only wants the best for you and will always be there for you, offers to share comfort in the form of a sweet release, what could be more seductive?

Of course, we both see how blatantly manipulative and self-serving Raenobi is now. But it's also easy to see why her brand of manipulation is so effective. Sorinne was vulnerable, and needed a supportive friend to help her get through those dark times. Raenobi gave her just enough to mask what she was taking, like the sweetness of sugar camouflaging a life-leeching poison. We're all just fortunate that Sorinne was able to find her way out before she completely lost herself, and it's a credit to her resilience that she resisted the allure of just one more taste.

Brahgas, meanwhile, got a little too into the thrill of competition. And when I say "a little," I mean he's extremely lucky he's not chained up on some Dres plantation right now. There's confidence, and then there's cockiness, and then there's being so sure of yourself that you're willing to bet everything you have on your next match. And then betting a little more to make up the difference when things don't go your way. And then a little more, and a little more, and even if you know you should stop you're not so sure you can, and the avalanche keeps on rolling until it's your literal life on the line.

Would Brahgas have been fine if he'd just kept winning? Maybe. But scoring big early on is a good way to convince yourself of your own invincibility, and then it all comes crashing down as soon as you inevitably meet someone with more skill or experience or moxie. Or hell, sometimes all it takes is a crappy run of tavern cards and there goes your match. Or sometimes your opponent is just really good at spamming Orgnum. And however it happens, once the winnings dry up and the debt hole starts expanding, you're stuck playing catch-up and it's all too easy to find yourself at the mercy of some unscrupulous Dark Elves. (Okay it's not always Dark Elves. But it does make you wonder how much of the slave trade banks on addicts as easy targets.)

It might be easy to judge people who have fallen prey to addiction, and it might even impart a satisfying sense of superiority to those of us who haven't, as if we would never be so dumb/foolish/needy as to make those obvious mistakes. But self-righteous judgmentalism doesn't help anyone. Kindness helps people. Having a place where they can feel safe helps people. Supportive friends who enforce boundaries and accessible resources for information and counsel help people, like Razhamad giving Brahgas a job while he's on his Tribute break or Sorinne learning about addiction from scholars and priests.

I don't know if I have anything that qualifies as an addiction. Running into danger with little or no regard for my own safety, maybe? But whether I can identify with them or not, I can support my friends and encourage them to find healthy ways to deal with those cravings that they just can't seem to resist on their own. And even when I'm not here hanging around the gaming hall every day, it'll be good to know that Sorinne and Brahgas will have Razhamad looking after them like the chapter dad he is.

Speaking of friends and being supportive, maybe I'll find Bastian and see if he wants to go do some antiquity-hunting as a conciliatory gesture. I don't need to rub it in too much that I'm the bestest Tribute player in Tamriel. At least until the next rematch.

Ilsabet

I had a really weird dream last night. I was in Cyrodiil, but not the Gold Coast or Blackwood or any other part of Cyrodiil I've ever been to. It was closer to the Imperial City, right in the heart of the Three Banners War.

When I showed up I was welcomed into the ranks of the great Daggerfall Covenant, and I learned how to shoot ballistae and trebuchets and dump oil off of balconies. And then they sent me out into the field to siege castles and face the Covenant's foes, and I had no real idea where I was going so I just kind of looked around and tried to follow people who knew what they were doing.

There was a lot of chaos after that. Big battles to capture or defend keeps, skirmishes with Pact and Dominion troops, attempts to sneak around with varying success. And lots and lots of horse riding. I feel like I died a bunch of times, but each time I just went right back out there and kept fighting. I'm not sure if we ever got any closer to claiming the Ruby Throne for High King Emeric and putting an end to the war, but somehow each successful keep battle felt satisfying, even if the bad guys eventually took it right back.

It was actually kind of refreshing just being another soldier amongst the throng, with no special treatment or real expectations other than trying my best to contribute. Reminds me a bit of my first day in the Dominion after saving the world the first time, just being a nobody that no one would pay any mind to.

Over time I did rise through the ranks, and then came the craziest part of all: The Covenant made a mad push to encircle the Imperial City, and once we had succeeded, they decided to put me on the Ruby Throne. Empress Ilsabet has a certain ring to it, but that was probably the part that clued me in that it was a dream, and I woke up not too long afterward.

Hmm, now that I think about it, maybe that's the real answer to the Three Banners War. Just put me in charge and I'll tell everyone to stop fighting and go home. I'll have to propose that if the official peace talks fall through.

On the other hand, though, I'm not so sure I want to be in charge. My adventures in dream-Cyrodiil were exciting and all, but once they were done I was left with the sensation of being very, very tired. So maybe I'll let other people handle the vying for control of Cyrodiil and stick with what I do best.

Margravigne

Absolutely love this. Found it a couple of days ago after replaying the main quest, read right through until I finished at 8am. Great writing style and character insights, I'm really looking forward to further installments. Now if they'd only stop taunting our poor characters and bring him back....

Ilsabet

Margravigne wrote: »

Absolutely love this. Found it a couple of days ago after replaying the main quest, read right through until I finished at 8am. Great writing style and character insights, I'm really looking forward to further installments. Now if they'd only stop taunting our poor characters and bring him back....

Now that's dedication. Glad you found it so compelling. And yes we need more than teasers from our boy. (Although I wouldn't say no to more teasers at this point...)

Ilsabet

Fiiiiine I suppose I can get back to work. No vacation can last forever, and something something Maormer and something something druids and fine Dhulef I'll go see what this Sir Stefan has to say about defending Galen from all these jerks trying to ruin everything for everybody. I'm sure it'll be no big deal and we can take care of business without harshing my mellow at all.

I promise I'm not getting bitter and jaded again already. It's true that I was settling quite comfortably into carefree island life, but it was only a matter of time before duty called again and frankly I was starting to wonder what was taking so long. There were those side adventures where I met Dhulef the pirate mage and Druid Laurel the... druid, but those seemed like diversions into druid history and druid circle squabbles that other people could follow up on once the dust and sand had settled.

And then Laurel sent word that she could use a guide for a trip to Glenumbra, and the call of duty started coming more clearly into focus. That squabble back at Earthen Root Enclave wasn't just an isolated spat, and the formerly-reclusive Firesong druids are serious about taking whatever they want from their fellow circles and even the wyrd of High Rock by any ruthless means necessary. And since that seems like bad news for pretty much everyone else, it's going to be our job to stop them.

And so here we are on sometimes-sunny Galen, which seems thus far to be an amalgam of the wilds of Amenos and the civilization of Gonfalon Bay. I haven't ventured too far into the less hospitable areas I've heard about, so that's something to look forward to. Assuming those shifty druids and the rampaging Maormer pirates don't get us first.

I may have gotten a little sidetracked after getting my assignment from Dhulef. I was nosing around Vastyr, getting the lay of the land as is my habit, and as soon as I walked into the tavern I heard a familiar cat's voice wishing he could be more boring. And so Bastian got to meet Razum-dar, and we got to help him settle some old Eye of the Queen business. Raz is lucky it's been long enough that reminding me of Senalana didn't stir up too much angst. But it still felt good to give him a bit of the business about that trick he pulled on me back then.

And now it's back to actual work. I hope Sir Stefan and Lord Bacaro haven't fallen asleep waiting for their backup to arrive. Oh right, Lord Bacaro has apparently also made his way to Galen, offering the Society of the Steadfast's relief to those who have been affected by the island's various conflicts. I wonder how happy he'll be to see me ride in on my high horse. (Or... Dwemer spider. Either way.) Any help is good help when you're just trying to help, right?

Ilsabet

I've been trying to decide how much I can get away with leveraging the slight confusion I sense when I introduce myself and people hear my last name. I sometimes go ahead and clarify that "no it's MEnard, not MORnard," but then I start to wonder if people would treat me differently if they thought I was some kind of noble. I toyed with that idea on High Isle too, but over there the Mornard name seems to be less well-regarded after their demotion a few years back when the patriarch of the time made the mistake of supporting Ranser's uprising. Here on Galen, though, or at least in Vastyr, the Mornards are squarely in charge.

Of course, even if I hadn't developed a habit of pronouncing my surname very precisely, anyone who knows anything would immediately peg me as "not from around here" and therefore clearly not a Systres noble. And then I might get in trouble for impersonating a Systres noble to get free drinks or something, and nobody needs that kind of hassle.

Distinctly not being a Mornard does have its advantages, though. Like when the scion of House Mornard is taken hostage and his captor demands that House Mornard stay completely out of their nefarious druid business, and all Count Mornard can do is tell his soldiers to stand down and hope that Archdruid Orlaith doesn't come up with another reason to kill Stefan. But Bastian and I are not of House Mornard, and we will do whatever the hell we want, thank you kindly.

Okay so I might not proclaim as much to Orlaith's face, but that's why we do things stealthily. And pulling off a stealthy rescue mission is significantly easier when you have a very angry Maormer stomping around screaming for the presiding sealord's head. So thanks for that, very angry Maormer.

I'm still not quite sure what to make of Captain Siravaen. She's on our side, inasmuch as she's no friend to the Dreadsails or the Firesong. But she's also a loyal agent of King Orgnum, and presumably that means she thinks his goal of taking over Summerset and/or sinking it into the sea would be just peachy. Maybe it's a good thing all of this is not going down in Altmer lands.

And now, with Sir Stefan, Druid Niraya, and the Eldertide's sacred seed safely in our possession, it's back to Vastyr to see how the imminent Dreadsail siege is going. So here's hoping that the rogue Sea Elf captain will actually keep her word, and the sacred seeds will actually be safe within Vastyr's stone walls, and we can get back there in time to make a difference without everything going to hell.

Ilsabet

Yes, Lord Bacaro, how could this have possibly happened? How could you be the only survivor after the most vulnerable and the most important people in Vastyr were herded into the cathedral at your insistence? How could the second-most-fortified structure in this city have crumbled in an instant, leaving only you to step out unscathed?

Am I being unreasonable? Is this the old paranoia flaring up again? Or am I just pissy that once again things have spiraled way out of control even after all of our planning and preparation, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it?

How many sieges has Vastyr withstood? At least one really big one, according to some book I read, when the Maormer invaders turned the sea itself against the city's walls. And yet here's one little ragtag pirate armada bolstered by druid magic and the whole town is overrun in the blink of an eye. At least we can be comforted knowing it would have been even worse if we hadn't gone to the trouble of enlisting our own druid allies.

And yet, even if the city stands and the Sea Elves have been repelled, so much has been lost, and the damn Firesong have exactly what they wanted despite all of our successes thus far keeping it out of their hands.

Could I have kept those seeds safe? Really, should I just be the one to do everything? Or would it have been just as easy for Orlaith to knock me over the head or put me in some kind of magical bindings and pluck her prize right out of my pockets?

Gragh. I'm mad at Sea Elves, and mad at druids, and mad for Sir Stefan and everybody who had to watch someone they cared about die today. It's all so wasteful. And now I guess we get to see what the Firesong always intended to do with those seeds, and what kind of fancy doodads they'll sprout into for the next Druid King. Unless, I suppose, there's any chance we can protect Frii and keep them from falling into those blighters' hands too. And so... better luck this time.

Ilsabet

So far, so good. At least as far as Frii is concerned. There is the small matter of Druid Laurel being captured by the Firesong, but we'll take care of that in short order. I'm mostly relieved that we got through our expedition to Ivyhame with relatively little carnage, and came out of it with a lot of things learned.

There was a bit of carnage dealing with the Firesong guards posted outside the Druid King's old hangout, but I tried to get the necessary skirmishes over with quickly after seeing how uncomfortable the fighting made Frii. And we managed to stay out of sight while Orlaith and her lackey determined that they couldn't get into the throne room and took their leave. It was quite nice of them to clear the sanctum out for its true visitor to be welcomed home.

I haven't spent much time with Frii before now, but I'm glad I'm getting the chance to see how the sproutling has grown since they were awakened back in Bangkorai. And how they're still growing, with each new experience and connection and understanding. They have a remarkable intuition that just... knows, and it's fascinating to see how they reach out with mind and spirit and connect with the world that is and was and should be.

They speak often of their purpose, for which Druid King Kasorayn summoned them from the Green and entrusted them to the care of the Glenmoril Wyrd until the time came for his prophecy to be fulfilled. Of course, the Firesong who awakened Frii don't seem to care whether it's the right time or not, as long as forcing the prophecy's fulfillment can put their archdruid on the Ivy Throne. Whether Frii thinks it's a good idea or not.

As much as it compels them, though, Frii's purpose does not make them an automatic pawn of the one who now holds the sacred seeds. They still have choice, they say, and while they are drawn to fulfill their purpose, they get to decide how. So even if Frii cannot help but join the seeds in enacting their shared destiny, I at least take heart knowing that they will have agency, however that might manifest in the end.

Before we can anticipate the future, though, we needed to learn of the past. And the hall of Ivyhame, having opened its arms to the Sower, was prepared to help them do just that. With the aid of a mortal conduit, of course.

And so, another dream-walk. You'd think I would be used to them by now, but I still felt better knowing that Bastian would be watching over me and Frii in the waking world while I was adrift in the past. As I slipped away from the now, I felt an impulse to take his hand, just in case.

The vision Frii and I shared was of Kasorayn's final day, when the divisions and corruption within his druid circles had finally driven him to consign the symbols of rule back to Y'ffre until a worthy successor could be found to claim them. He knew that his dream of unity could not be achieved during his lifetime, even before that life was cut short by a betrayer's blade. And so crown, staff, and gauntlet reverted to three sacred seeds, and instructions were left for Frii and for the majestic beast summoned to guard the temple where rituals past and future must take place.

Back in the now, Frii had plenty to think about with their purpose laid out more clearly. Before we could talk much about it, though, we discovered Laurel missing, likely taken to the Firesong island as bait for the Sower. I don't think Frii plans to resist the lure. They probably always knew that their journey would take them to Y'ffelon. It's just a matter now of getting the backup we need to ensure the safety of both Frii and Laurel, and to counter whatever the Firesong have in store. So back to Vastyr and House Mornard we go.

Ilsabet

I wasn't expecting to run into Quen so far from Hew's Bane, but there she was a stone's throw from Ivyhame with a job gone wrong. A druid relic that she and her new Guild partner were supposed to pick up for a client, and a partner who'd gone missing after neglecting to reveal what he knew about the mark.

It was a diversion, to be sure. But the Firesong wouldn't hurt Laurel as long as they needed her to lure Frii to Y'ffelon. And I had a feeling that Frii had ways to stay out of sight while they waited for me to meet them in Vastyr. So with a mental apology to Laurel for making her wait just a little longer, I reckoned that we could spare some time to help out another friend in need.

I caught Bastian raising his eyebrows when Quen addressed me as "partner" as soon as she saw me, and shifting on his feet as Quen and I caught up on business new and old.

"Another old friend, eh? You sure know a lot of interesting people," he said as we headed into the Maormer camp.

"Thieves Guild. Abah's Landing." I don't think he expected me to be so blunt, but there was no point in dancing around the obvious. "You want to sit this one out?"

He shook his head. "I'm still with you, aren't I? Let's just call it recovering something that doesn't belong to these pirates either."

Thus reassured by my stalwart partner's presence, I headed in to look for Quen's partner... and found him half-dressed on a bed, mumbling at me that he was worn out and couldn't possibly take any more.

Um... okay. No bread this time, and no mostly-naked woman in sight. But if I had a drake for every time I've walked in on something like this...

Umindior wanted some water, and I obliged him with a bucketful to the face. He was not appreciative, but at least he could talk coherently after that. Between his distracted rambling and the note his paramour had left on her bedside table, we learned that the relic we were after had recently been activated by a couple of "idiots," and one of the head sea witches was trying to figure out what to do about it.

The idiots turned out to be a Sea Elf couple with only one thing on their minds. Well maybe two, if you count a desire to not be locked up awaiting punishment for their recklessness. But it was a different kind of desire that had led them to have a little fun next to the relic, which had in turn triggered a whole lot more desire throughout the camp.

Hooookay. So this job had turned into a mission to relieve a bunch of randy Maormer of the very item that was making them randy. Dodging blades and spells was one thing, but dodging innuendo and amorous advances was something else.

"How are you feeling?" Bastian asked, after we'd left Umindior to deal with the idiots.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just noticed that you've been on edge since we walked in on that man. Is this... situation making you uncomfortable?"

I felt defensive and I'm not sure why. "I'm not a little girl. I don't have a problem with people... doing... things. I just wasn't expecting to walk into a camp full of people doing things. I'm fine, I can handle it."

"I understand. Sorry if the question was out of line."

It wasn't, really, but in truth I'm not sure if I could have explained to him why I instinctively felt so guarded. I just knew that if this was how this relic was affecting people, it was very important that it not do the same to me. To us.

We needed to be careful how we approached this thing. Quen still wanted to get the job done, but we couldn't just rush in and grab our prize. Fortunately the sea witches had come up with a way to suppress the relic's influence, so if we could use that to our advantage, maybe we could still pull this off without any... unintended side effects.

I give Quen credit for taking point on getting information from the Sea Elf fellow who'd taken a fancy to her. I feel like it's a good thing I've never had to seduce someone. I'd probably be terrible at it, but the alternative is scary in its own way.

Side note, "it radiates a gentle warmth, much like yourself" is a pretty smooth line. Maybe that's one to keep in my back pocket.

Some sneaking, some stabbing, some trying not to overhear too much, and we had in our possession the magic lust-suppressing sailcloth. And then, once Umindior had been freed from the amorous clutches of the head sea witch, it was time to put our willpower to the test and approach the ancient fertility relic that had reduced an entire pirate camp to wanton abandon.

It was pretty, and pinkish, and it did indeed radiate a gentle warmth. A warmth that resonated and stirred and made me keenly aware of the stalwart man beside me. Did he sense it too? Could he be feeling the same way...

No. Sailcloth. The stirring ceased, and even grabbing the wrapped-up relic and hauling it away was completely harmless. Thanks again, Sea Elf magic. The job and the day are both saved, along with our modesty and virtue.

Maybe this whole thing shouldn't have been that big a deal. I'm not especially happy about some of the less... consensual encounters we heard about and/or put a stop to, but if people want to get cozy and enjoy some extra spice, that's their business. I just know that sort of thing isn't for me. Especially when even the decision to get cozy isn't exactly in my hands.

I mean if I was going to... do something... with someone, I would want it to be my choice. Because I wanted to, and so did he, without anything pushing us into it. Even if that someone was someone I trusted, someone I cared for, someone strong and kind and idealistic...

We should get back to Vastyr. There's work to do, and bad news to deliver to Sir Stefan, and a good brisk head-clearing walk through the jungle is sounding pretty good right about now.

Ilsabet

Maybe some things are inevitable. They happen whether we want them to or not, whether we try to stop them or enable them or just stand back and watch, because the universe decides that's what should happen today.

But would those things still happen if we didn't do the things we did? If we decided not to even bother, because nothing we do matters either way? Or is the universe relying on us mere mortals to do the things we go ahead and do, because that's how things get done?

I have a feeling this line of inquiry is a good way to make my head hurt. Obviously there are things that mortals can't control, like forces of nature and the flow of time and the inevitability of our own deaths. Well okay, we can try to control nature and time with magic, and some people do pretty well warding off death by making deals with Daedra or plugging their souls into machines. But for most of us, the best we can do is try really hard not to let anything kill us today, for as many todays as we can hold out.

That is something, though. And it brings us back to what Frii has said about having choice. I've been thinking about that a lot since the big showdown on Y'ffelon. In the end, we couldn't stop the Firesong from acquiring the sacred seeds, and we couldn't stop the seeds from sprouting into the Druid King's regalia. For every success we had, the Firesong simply became more determined and their methods more drastic. They came close to leveling Vastyr in their pursuit of the seeds, and they would have drenched the entire island in blood if that's what it took to get ahold of Frii.

So could we have avoided all of that bloodshed and destruction by just handing over the seeds when Orlaith asked nicely? Seems like we could have saved ourselves a lot of work, at the very least. And we ended up in the same place either way: The seeds came together, and Frii worked their magic, and the regalia were restored.

The idea of just giving up and not even trying to stop something you know is wrong doesn't sit well, though. Even Frii felt it, even as they knew the call of their purpose was something they couldn't deny. They had a choice between two wrongs, and they couldn't just not choose. So in the end, they followed the path that would allow them to stay true to their purpose, and went along with Orlaith's demands to quicken the seeds, but they did so knowing that their allies would arrive at just the right moment to ruin the bad guys' day and circumvent the greater wrong.

And so Kasorayn's prophecy was fulfilled... sort of. Not really. Or at least not entirely. There's still the part about the new Druid King uniting the circles for good or ill. With Orlaith out of the running, and no obvious backup candidate, the regalia remain unclaimed and Frii remains bound to a directive with no clear direction.

Maybe the time wasn't right for the prophecy to be truly fulfilled. The Firesong did push the process along pretty drastically, after all. But were their actions a valid method of bringing about what Kasorayn foresaw? Is "forcing" a prophecy simply a more efficient way to get things done than sitting around waiting for something to maybe eventually happen?

Druid King Kasorayn wanted his people to be united. They weren't, and he wanted them to be, and he hoped that someday they would be. But when he left his Dream behind to guide his successors into the future, did he really know the exact season when his prophecy would come to pass? Did he have some kind of divination magic that let him see into the future, or the counsel of an all-knowing nature spirit, or some method of scientifically calculating the probabilities of future generations of druids setting aside their differences?

Or did he just spitball some numbers into a poem and leave future generations to guess at what they meant? Honestly that sounds just as likely. From what I've read, nobody can really agree on what the symbolism in the prophecy means, and there was a pesky Dragon Break in there messing with our conception of time so we don't know exactly how many years it's even been. No one would know if Kasorayn was on the right track or not, much less blame him if he got it wrong. And yet for all these thousands of years, generations of druids have cherished the Dream of Kasorayn as holy writ, certain that the appointed time would come and the Dream would become reality.

I remember Archdruid Ellic describing the sacred seeds as a promise. Dormant and perhaps impotent as they were, they represented an idea - and an ideal - that every druid could put their faith in: that one day Kasorayn's Dream would be realized. As long as that promise endured, each circle had a purpose in guarding its seed in service to the Druid King's vision.

But fulfilling a promise means trading potential for payoff. And the Firesong certainly didn't intend for the payoff to benefit anyone but themselves. Maybe ignoring the "unity" part of the prophecy is what doomed them to failure. Or maybe prophecies can't be forced after all.

But still, here we are with a crown, staff, and gauntlet reborn. And now Frii has more choices to make, both in service to the Druid King and on their own behalf. They know they're not quite done yet, not until a new King has been crowned, but there's nothing telling them what they should be doing in the meantime. And so their purpose is their own now, sort of, and hopefully they'll have enough time to sort out what to do with it before the next stage of our saga unfolds.

Meanwhile, as my thoughts inevitably wander, what could I say my purpose is? When Frii asked me for advice, the best I could offer was "find something you like and do it." But is that what I'm doing? Do I really throw myself into danger on a regular basis, get myself involved in political dramas and world-shaking plots, eschew anything resembling stability, just because I'm having so darn much fun?

My purpose is probably more along the lines of "find people who need help and help them," as Bastian would say. That certainly sums up most of what I do. But now I wonder if that's a purpose I purposefully chose for myself, or if it's just what I stumbled into after that whole Vestige thing happened. Would that be the creed I would have dictated for myself, if at any point in my life I had sat down to write one?

I'm not sure it matters all that much, honestly. I do what I do, and I hope for a good outcome, and it's hard to see myself going any other way. I know how ironic that sounds considering my many and varied regrets, but overall I think I've done pretty well for myself, considering that I'm just one person standing up to an awful lot of nonsense. Even if half the time I'm just making it up as I go along.

Frii was given a purpose by the Druid King, much as I was set on my heroic path by the Prophet. But I can still choose how I walk that path, how I live my life day to day, how I go about trying to make a difference. And if I wanted to, presumably, I could even choose to stop walking and find something else to do with my time. What would the world do, I wonder, if the Savior of Pretty Much Everything didn't show up right where she was needed?

That's probably a question for future would-be heroes to consider. I won't be around forever, after all. Although now I have an image of Granny Ilsa tottering around waving her cane at Daedric Princes and it's cracking me right up. So I'd better keep going long enough for that particular vision to come to pass.

Ilsabet

Unlikely allies! Exotic locales! A dastardly poisoning, a noble sacrifice, the master villain's secret identity revealed! You won't want to miss the next thrilling installment of Investigator Vale!

Maybe Lady Arabelle has the right idea, turning her experiences into pulp fiction fodder. I mean if she were the author of the Vale novels, which she totally isn't. But I bet I could churn out a whole boatload of thinly-veiled semi-autobiographical penny dreadfuls if I put my mind to it. And if nobody expected too much from the writing style, or the narrative structure, or the release schedule.

My heroine could be a plucky young adventurer who just happens to always find herself in the middle of the latest crisis, and rallies the colorful supporting characters to stand up to the evil threatening the good townsfolk until the day is dramatically saved. After some close calls, of course. Probably no carousel of romantic interests like Vale gets, but she could have a heartthrob sidekick that would keep readers wondering will-they-won't-they, even as she carries a torch for a lost love who may or may not someday make a surprise appearance.

Okay maybe that's a little too close to home. I blame Druid Laurel. But anyway, we have one more thrilling tale of intrigue and danger wrapped up and ready to put in the inspiration bin if I ever decide my new purpose is making a bunch of money writing books.

The cinders had barely cooled on Galen when I was summoned back to Mandrake Manor to attend to some light bureaucracy. Remember those peace talks, that our magnanimous Lord Bacaro had been so eager to hold? Well now, amazingly, he seemed to be dragging his feet about getting them started. The time wasn't right, it was too risky with the Ascendant Order still active, he was completely swamped with the Society's relief efforts on Galen. And meanwhile the alliance leaders were cooped up in Gonfalon Palace, not even allowed to interact for fear that they'd come to blows without proper adult supervision. (Which, to be fair, is a valid concern.)

So, Lord Bacaro, what gives? Is there an actual issue here that I can help with? Why yes, plucky young adventurer, there's mischief afoot in House Dufort, and Duchess Elea is totally a baddie who's been fooling us all. You'd better go to the shipyards and see what's going on with the Ascendant Order up there. Okay, sounds like a plan.

"You don't trust him, do you?" Bastian said, once we were sufficiently out of pertinent earshot.

"Is it that obvious?"

"I think I know your smile well enough to tell when you're faking it."

Well then, time to work on my poker face. Or just hope that most people aren't as perceptive as the guy who hangs out with me every day.

There was indeed Ascendant Order mischief at the shipyards, but there was also someone trying to poison Duchess Elea, which seemed an awful lot like the same person who succeeded in poisoning Lady Arabelle. And so with the good lady's life hanging in the balance, the plucky adventurer and her intrepid druid herbalist friend raced to uncover the secrets of the poison, concoct an effective antidote, and unmask the scoundrel behind it all.

I got to put my totally-not-fake smile to work again asking Captain Marguerite about the shipment of Steadfast armor that had somehow ended up in the Ascendant Order's possession. Surely Lord Bacaro's right-hand woman would be aware of and presumably complicit in any nefarious dealings he might just happen to be engaged in, right?

But, I had to admit, if she had known what was in Bacaro's secret druid basement, she never would have sent us down there. Unless it was a trap. But it wasn't, and there we found exactly what we needed to finally put the Ascendant Lord mystery to rest.

I'd say I hate being right sometimes, but it's more that I hate when my instinct is telling me something that I have to pretend to ignore because acting on it would cause more problems than it solves. At least being proven right gives me license to finally set about the necessary punching.

His Lordness had already decided to make his big move, and he was far enough ahead of us that all we could do was chase after him as he collected the trophies that would cement his claim to royalty. Because overthrowing the warmongering establishment responsible for the loss of his family wasn't enough for someone who believed he could trace his lineage back to Kasorayn himself. Druid King or bust, whether the actual druids wanted him on the Ivy Throne or not.

His command of the stolen regalia was enough to compel Frii into resistant obedience, and rouse the slumbering volcano spirit of Mount Firesong. This was of course a problem for anyone who didn't want a giant volcano to destroy the entire archipelago, and so it was time for the plucky adventurer and her stalwart sidekick to go to work.

If it had just been the giant volcano spirit, Bastian and I might have been in trouble. Divines know we got our heels singed by rising lava enough times running through that cave. And Laurel had already warned us that the spirit of Mount Firesong was a force of nature that even the armies of Tamriel couldn't hope to counter.

But when its ascendant master ordered it to eliminate us, the spirit sent forth a mere avatar to face us in combat. Troublesome, but not indomitable. And then Bacaro made his biggest mistake since bringing on Lady Arabelle and her unexpectedly pesky subcontractors: He called on the spirit to infuse him with its power, and made his decisive stand with the volcano's matchless might diluted by his own mortal form.

At least that's the best explanation I have for why we made it out of there with only a few scorch marks. Well, that and Bastian being a damn good healer. But as badly as that spirit wanted to erupt, Bacaro must have siphoned enough energy to moderate its destructive impulses, at least long enough for us to reduce the would-be king's dream to ashes.

The mountain still erupted, of course. And we have Frii to thank for that eruption not being anywhere near as devastating as it could have been. A new purpose found, bound by the regalia, the nature spirit transformed into the new master of the mountain. And there they will slumber, until they are in some way needed again.

It's actually kind of hard for me to think of it as a noble sacrifice, because even though they're not here walking around with us anymore, I know Frii is still there, just in a new form. Maybe they and Verandis should compare notes sometime. But I know Laurel will miss them, and I should probably see if I can remember that wyrd elixir recipe to hopefully help when she goes back to commune with her old friend.

There was one other gift Frii left the druids of Galen. A tree that will someday bear three new sacred seeds, so that the Druid King's prophecy can once again endure as a promise for generations of druids to believe in. Until the time is right, for real this time.

Of course, it will be up to the druids to sort out how their circles will move forward from here, which will primarily involve seeing how the surviving Firesong redeem themselves for their order's misdeeds. But with people like Laurel and Ryvana inspiring them, I'm optimistic about the direction they seem to be moving in.

This might be the first victory party I've been to that's doubled as a major Tamrielic political event. It was pretty savvy of Lady Arabelle to lure the alliance delegates here with cake, and I can only assume that the plan is to trap them in a room until they either agree to a truce or succumb to food comas.

These are spectacular cakes, though. And the (thankfully non-poisoned) wine isn't half bad either. I usually don't imbibe that much at these parties, but I'm in a better mood than I've been in for a while. Emeric once again claiming me as the Champion of the Covenant, swiftly followed by Ayrenn and Irnskar calling their own dibs, might have something to do with that. And seeing Raz again helps too, and getting some extra hangout time with Caska and Za'ji, and knowing that nobody here is likely to stab me in the back any time soon.

I also took yet another opportunity to ask both Count Stefan and Druid Laurel about their, um, friendship, which I've been keeping an eye on since Laurel made the mistake of admitting that they used to be involved. There's no disapproving father to get in the way anymore, after all, and we all know I'm a sucker for a good love story.

I maaay have pushed my luck a little too far with Laurel, though.

"All right then, since you can't resist asking me about Stefan, hopefully you won't mind if I do the same?" she finally shot back.

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not crushing on Count Stefan, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, no, not him." She chuckled. "I'm talking about your friend Bastian, of course. You two seem close."

"Well, we've been working together for quite... some..." I caught the impish look on her face just a few seconds too late. "No, we're, we're not - We actually are just friends. Always have been. It's not like you and Stefan at all."

"Not at all, hm? I see." She smiled warmly. "I won't press you any further, then. I'll just... hope for the best, for both of you."

She glanced over my shoulder, and then smiled at me again and headed back into the crowd. I watched her go, suddenly aware of a slight burning in my cheeks. It wasn't anything she would have noticed, right? I mean what did she expect after hitting me with a question like that?

"Druid Laurel is a good person," Bastian's voice said behind me, and I definitely didn't almost drop my drink. "I hope things work out for her. And the rest of the druids too, of course."

Of course. I had no reason to disagree before needing to make another visit to the food table. There was still cake left and it wasn't going to eat itself, after all.

Now I know Laurel didn't really mean anything by her question, and she was probably just teasing me for being so interested in her love life, but I keep wondering if I should have tried harder to correct her misconception about me and Bastian. I mean is that what people really think about us? (Aside from my mother. We all know what she thinks.) I guess I can't blame anybody too much for making assumptions, since it's not like most people know anything about Darien, and I'm certainly not going to sit down and explain my whole complicated romantic history to everyone I meet. And Bastian is... well, we do get along well, and he is... who he is, so I guess I can see why people would look at us and think they see something that isn't happening. And isn't going to happen, whether anybody thinks it would be nice or not.

But if I were going to explain all that to Laurel, the time to do it was probably when she asked, and not however long it's been afterward when it would look like I've just been standing here stewing over it and she'd probably think I was protesting too much and really I should just relax and get back to basking in the satisfaction of another job well done instead of wasting brainpower thinking about how silly that whole conversation was.

Although, hmm... If I put the brainpower to more practical use, this is probably something to consider for the future adventure serial. If you're gonna tease your readers with a (possible) slow burn, your supporting characters are probably gonna notice something before your heroine even realizes what's going on. And they might say something about it, which of course the two of them will vehemently deny even though it's super obvious to everybody in the room except them, until some climactic event makes them confront their (possible) feelings...

Okay that's probably enough pulp fiction for one day. I wonder if I have room for one more piece of cake...

Ilsabet

Something is brewing, and I do not think I like it.

Why did I go to Stonefalls? Why did I go to the Rift? Why did I get out of bed this morning? Well at least the last one has an easy answer. I got out of bed because that's what I always do, even if that's where the trouble usually starts. Could I stay out of trouble if I just stayed in bed? Maybe I'll have to try that sometime.

I'm pretty sure I didn't realize we were poking around the secret entrance to a secret library when we stumbled across what turned out to be the headquarters of the Scribes of Mora. Did anyone else know there was a team of stealth librarians watching and documenting everything that happens? Were they there invisibly monitoring everything I did during my heroic tour of the Pact? Is my life story somewhere in their vault, just waiting to get fed to the ravenous eyes of the One Who Knows? (Which is a rad moniker for a Daedric Prince, by the way.)

There's way more than books hidden in Scrivener's Hall, too. They have a collection of portals that would rival Fargrave, which the scribes use to poke around and report on the shifting landscapes of the various planes of Oblivion. Most of these rifts remain closed, and the ones that open do so sporadically according to some cycle known only to the most experienced scribes.

Before I could say "TWO TICKETS TO THE COLORED ROOMS PLEASE," I discovered that the most recent rift-opening to Meridia's realm had ended prematurely and badly, trapping a number of explorers inside. Sooo that does not appear to be an option for now. Of course.

The rifts that were currently available sent us to the Deadlands and the Spiral Skein. While it hasn't been that long since we traversed the realm of fire and ash, the realm of spiders and secrets brought back more distant memories. Charging through web-covered corridors, determined to rescue someone trapped within...

We did rescue Keshargo, and kept the Itinerant Staff and its realm-hopping powers out of the hands of the usurper who preferred Mephala to Mora, and the Scribes are free to resume their purpose of doing absolutely nothing while observing everything.

Is non-interference really the best policy? Are the observers really complicit in the atrocities they witness and don't even try to stop? I don't think I can fault the Scribes for acting as the chroniclers of history rather than making history themselves, but I also have no compunction about interfering like hell when I see something that needs doing. (Just open that Colored Rooms rift a tiny smidge, I just need to squeeze through, I promise the place will be mostly somewhat intact by the time I'm done with it...)

Ahem.

And then there was the Psijic lady we stumbled across in Stonefalls, who was happy to see a fellow Psijic and appreciative of the backup as she investigated a weird Dunmer stronghold. She thought there was some kind of time disturbance there, which I guess is not the sort of thing you want to leave just sitting around. An eddy in the river of time, she called it?

The people there seemed to recognize us, and did not seem happy to see us. I mean okay, we're just here to help if we can, but if you feel like attacking us then don't get mad when we fight back. It took until we faced their leader for me to realize that this "Scourge" they kept going on about was supposed to be me. Did they read about my martial exploits in the newspaper or something?

Or - oh. So that's what time eddies means. Those little swirlies where the water goes back on itself and okay great we're time-travelers now. But how did those people know about things that happened in the past before we went back to the past to do the things? And would we have gone back to do the things if they hadn't tried to fight us because of the things we did which... we hadn't done yet...

Okay no I'm not doing this to my brain. It already hurts enough trying to make sense of what Saresea said after she got all multichronal and could apparently see everything in all times at once, including her own death and my "creation" and enough historical events to fill a mountain of libraries. How did she even process that much input at once? Better her mind than mine.

I'm more interested in the cryptic comments she made about me, about something I'm supposed to know, or will know, but of course she couldn't just tell me because that would be too easy. And there's an artifact that I'm supposed to... sign? What the hell is a proxy?

Bah. I suppose that's what I get for wandering around wherever the whim takes us. I say we go park ourselves in Wayrest and catch up on the old sights before we stumble into any more trouble.

Ilsabet

"Sign it, proxy."

So that doodad Saresea uncovered in Bal Sunnar, and the other doodad Keshargo stripped out of the Itinerant Staff... it was all about this contract, even then? And everyone just assumed I'd go through the process of assembling the doodads, and have my talk with the giant eyeball monster, and go ahead and sign my name away in service to yet another Daedric Prince? Even before any of that was on the table actually in front of me?

Sigh... Well I can't say I proved any of them wrong. And maybe now that I've taken action on my own behalf, I can be less annoyed about people deciding things about me and for me and treating me like some chosen messiah when I haven't done a damn thing yet.

I mean I have done plenty of things, but that doesn't seem to be what this "fate's chosen" thing is about. It wasn't "hey you helped out Azura that one time so maybe you could do me a solid too" or "hey you stuck it to Molag Bal/Nocturnal/Dagon so maybe you'd like to punch another naughty Prince in the face " or even "hey I heard you're kind of a pro at saving the world, wanna go again?" I mean Leramil did lead with the world needing saving, but it was all awfully sudden and preordained. Literally I'm walking down the street in Wayrest minding my own business and I get hit with "fate has plucked you from the flotsam of chaos for this specific moment." Who even talks like that?

Someone who's been delving into forbidden secrets for a hundred years, I guess. And I mean if Nirn's survival depends on having an ace world-saver on the job in Apocrypha, then okay that sounds like as good a next project as any. I'm just... I dunno, it feels weird being treated all special just because somebody somewhere proclaimed me a Chosen One behind my back. Like I've been shoved onto a stage with no rehearsal and no script and everybody's staring at me expecting some brilliant performance and I have no damn clue what's going on. Also I may or may not be naked.

Hopefully this won't actually play out like some anxiety dream. I already know I'll have some mystery Princes to deal with (hello Daedric Triad flashbacks) and we've gotten at least one shocking betrayal out of the way, so keeping my clothes on should be the least of my concerns.

I would really like it if I didn't have to spend all my time wondering who is and isn't trustworthy. At least I have one person I know I can rely on. But "that person you're working with is totally a traitor" didn't work particularly well when Bacaro pulled it, and it's not going to convince me to dance to your tune when you've been acting way sketchier than the person you're trying to vilify.

I did have to ponder that shrine entrance decision longer than you might think, though. I mean the obvious choice was to trust that Leramil's decryption of that encoded letter was more reliable than the guy throwing red flags. But it was hard to resist the delicious temptation to call Dralys on his bluff and see what sort of trap he had planned for me, and show him what happens to people who think they can manipulate me so easily. Ultimately, though, the sensible overruled the petty, and ambushing the ambushers actually turned out to be a pretty good time.

And so with the real traitor out of the way, the big boss made his tentacley appearance, and I guess it's been long enough since I ran into him in... was it Bangkorai and Craglorn? that he made quite the unnerving impression looming over me with that otherworldly voice of his. But we're totally on the same side, and that contract is supposed to protect both me and the mortal world from any hijinks on Mora's part, so I'm sure everything will be fine. I did actually attempt to read the contract like a responsible adult, but I didn't even make it through a whole page before my eyes started crossing. But Leramil assures me that this is a perfectly standard contract that hasn't screwed her over in any way, so I'm sure everything will be fine.

Sigh. I guess we'll see. I am good at dealing with whatever comes my way. And we wouldn't want me getting bored without a world to save. I'm less thrilled by the prospect of rubbing elbows with the Telvanni again, but maybe their peninsula will have some nice sightseeing opportunities. And so, when the time is right, we'll be off to do our new Princely ally's bidding.

Ilsabet

Ilsabet

We've arrived in Necrom. And I have already identified an immediate threat to my prospects of saving the world.

There are... so many urns. So many urns. They don't all contain honored ancestors, right? Some of them are just stashes of stuff that nobody needs anymore? No Bastian you don't need to put a leash on me, I'm just salivating over the delicious Dunmer food being cooked somewhere in the vicinity, maybe you could go pick us up some vittles for like an hour...

This is going to be rough. Nobody told me Necrom was the Urn Capital of Tamriel. I guess it makes sense with all the dead people. But how do they expect anybody's fingers to remain unsticky with all of that stuff just sitting around...

I wonder if Hermaeus Mora has started to regret ordaining such an easily sidetracked champion yet. But I mean he must have known what he was getting into, right? At least one of those eyes must have seen me in action in literally every tomb I've been to. And okay maybe it isn't exactly a heroic habit, rifling through burial coffers, but the corpses generally don't complain, right?

Well... the ones here might. And I should probably actually be more careful here, and not just because I could easily lose days wandering around checking every single container I see. Necrom is a place where the living and the dead mingle, in some cases quite literally. Ancestor worship isn't a spectator sport when you can walk up to your great-granddad's final resting place and ask his ghost for advice. So maybe it's a good thing I have Bastian to be my impulse control.

And there is, of course, work to be done. Leramil was quick on the trigger with my first assignment as soon as we made it into town, and fortunately recognized almost immediately that I'm gonna need her to keep it simple with the arcane-speak. Mora took our subsequent meeting as another opportunity to remind me of the gravity of my charge, and I'll admit that it is pretty unsettling to know that we're dealing with enemies capable of evading even the Great Eye's sight. But he seems to think that having me on his side will give him an advantage that his adversaries won't see coming. If that's the case, it mostly tells me that they haven't been paying attention. Because if I'm on the scene, it's a pretty sure bet that I'm gonna be a problem.

Presuming I actually have what it takes to pull through with this fate's chosen thing, of course. But Mora was confident that fate had made the right choice. What was it he said? Something about my innate ability to succeed, no matter the odds stacked against me? Where have I heard something like that before...

But anyway, if that's fate's criteria, then my track record does kinda speak for itself. And if these mystery Princes are so focused on keeping to the giant eyeball's blind spots, then maybe they won't notice me sneaking through the shadows behind them.

Now if they were smart, all they'd really need to do is put an urn under a box propped up by a stick with a string attached, and then we might be in trouble. Maybe that leash isn't such a bad idea...

Ilsabet

"Both light and shadow can be deadly."

I wonder if it should have occurred to me sooner who that courier's contact would be. I really didn't have much to go on, an edgy-sounding code phrase and a story about some spy among the Telvanni masters. It wasn't the kind of setup that made me think of sanctioned murder, but maybe that just shows how out of touch I am with the Telvanni social scene.

But there was Naryu, just as enthused as I was about being dragged into the quagmire of Telvanni politics. It should have been a simple writ, if only the naughty spy hadn't been using a fake name that none of the present company claimed to recognize.

We got that sorted out well enough, only a little stinkier for wear, and the masters can sort out their own differences now that the relevant treachery has been revealed. But Naryu and I both knew that there was something else we needed to resolve between us, a conversation years past due, and so we agreed to meet up at the tavern in Necrom once we'd had a chance to wash the eau de kagouti out of our hair.

I was surprised at how forthright she was, once the focus on work had been set aside. Maybe it was a relief for her to unburden the regret she's been carrying all this time, to confide in the one person who knows the full extent of what her apprentice went through after the furtive departure from Balmora. Or maybe she was just tired of holding it all in and pretending everything was fine.

She never blamed me for killing Veya. And honestly it never occurred to me to feel guilty or defensive about having done it. She knew, from Raz's (predictably embellished) account, what Veya had become. And she knew that ending Nocturnal's Earl was necessary, even something she herself should have done before the Earl ever had a chance to come into being.

I don't really regret advising Naryu to spare Veya in Balmora, even after everything that happened in Summerset. As I told Naryu, Veya made her own choices and walked her own path. But it's easy to get lost in the what-ifs and if-onlys when all you have is a disastrous past to look back on. If only Naryu had tried harder to get through to Veya. If only she'd been more emotionally supportive, more there for her. If only she hadn't pawned her off on someone else because she didn't know how to handle an unruly child that she'd never asked for. If only she'd drawn her dagger when the responsibility was in her hands.

There wasn't anything I could say to make it better or convince her not to blame herself. But I hope she saw in my eyes that she wasn't alone in feeling the way she feels. And it was a poignant reminder that I wasn't the only one who lost someone atop the Crystal Tower that day. My light and Naryu's shadow, whisked beyond our reach, leaving those chains hanging heavy on the heart until we grow accustomed to the weight and can almost convince ourselves it's not there anymore.

There's still more work to do in Ald Isra, but rescuing a cranky ghost man was the furthest thing from my mind when Bastian and I stepped out of that tavern. He wanted to know if I was okay, but whatever answer I might have had was lost in the tolling of some mournful cathedral bell. And so I just let my feet wander, and he followed close by as he always does, until we landed silently on some promontory looking out over the ash-blown sea.

All these years later, and it never really goes away...

Ilsabet

Author's Note:

Sometimes I play games that aren't ESO, and recently my picrew hole has expanded to include making (or attempting to make) AU Ilsabets in other games' character creators. Please enjoy the following screencaps, many of which will be in spoiler tags because long post is long.

My attempt at a Baldur's Gate 3 Ilsabet was so successful that I decided to actually do a run with her, which has just completed Act 2. She's a half-elf gloomstalker ranger who is romancing Gale and has an ongoing lockpicking rivalry with Astarion. Her Dream Guardian also has an uncanny resemblance to a certain hunky knight.

Final Fantasy XIV doesn't have a proper crown braid (at least one that doesn't have a bunch of other stuff going on), so sadly Midlander Hyur archer Ilsabet feels more like an approximation. She's still sitting in character creation limbo but if I ever need yet another alt she'll be ready.



I don't have any plans to play Dragon's Dogma 2, but they came out with a free character creator so I was like let's see what we can do. This game also lets you design a companion for your main character, so of course that had to be Bastian. (Or as close as I could get, I really tried very hard.)

And that's it for now, at least until I come across something else that has crown braids and is either free or something I want to play anyway.

Ilsabet

So, Peryite and Vaermina. Pestilence and nightmares. I might be able to think of a more unpleasant duo if I really tried, but I should probably just be glad it's only two Princes this time instead of three. Well... as far as we know.

I'm honestly not sure how these people managed to stay undetected by the One Who Knows for so long. I mean we're talking about cultists who leave written instructions sitting around and load up ship holds with literal plague rats and give themselves names like Blightcrown. Not exactly subtle.

But, there they were infecting an entire necropolis and enslaving an entire mining town and opening an undetectable gate into Hermaeus Mora's backyard. So whatever they're doing, it's working. Or it was until Mora's secret weapon showed up.

Now that I think about it, though, I'm not sure I actually stopped them from doing anything they set out to do. They only got a chunk of that relic that can find any secret, but that's apparently still enough to find secrets, and Master Shelreni still has a chance to decipher the ritual in that Black Book even without the cranky ghost man to do it for her. And that rogue Dremora was far enough ahead of us getting into the Tranquil Catalog that he'd already plucked what he needed from the archives before we even got there.

So... we have information, I guess, some of which might actually be useful, but uncovering our adversaries' super-secret identities doesn't feel like the coup it should have been. Not when an awful lot of things still need to come together to actually stop them from unraveling reality in pursuit of some half-remembered dream.

Our first glimpse of Apocrypha could have been something out of a dream, most likely one inspired by some sketchy alcoholic beverage. It's bleak, but also... colorful? If the color is kind of a washed-out lime green. Somehow the ink raining down from the sky didn't leave black blotches all over our clothes, but I really don't want to know what that goop was that we kept having to splash through.

And everywhere you look is books. Walkways made of books. Walls made of books. Pillars made of books. Books that float, books that flutter, books that have somehow sprouted tentacles. I don't even know if any of them could still be read, or if pulling one out would make the whole formation collapse in a heap. I guess when you have that much knowledge crammed into one realm, sensible organizational strategies go out the window pretty quickly.

Our visit was brief, but I'm sure we'll be back soon enough. And in the meantime I've got another sassy passenger to tote around in my pack, and a watchling helper who's even more jaded than I am, and a corpse-tender blatantly crushing on our wise scholar friend.

So... whatever happens, at least it's going to be an interesting time. Hopefully without any nightmares invading our sleep or globs of plague snot giving us the actual plague.

Ilsabet

I wonder what it would be like if I were smarter. I mean I'm not exactly dumb, but no one would call me a big-brain genius either. And maybe that's for the best. I get to let other people do the mental heavy lifting, and I only occasionally have to worry about anyone deciding I'm worth mind-controlling or rooting around in my noggin for intel.

And maybe having a thicker skull helps protect what gray matter I do have when it's, say, exposed to the kind of forbidden knowledge that can literally blow the mind of any mortal who beholds it. Or maybe I just succeeded in keeping my eyes squeezed sufficiently shut while the wacky inmate waved the opened forbidden knowledge box at the things whose brains we wanted to turn to mush. I certainly couldn't tell you what that Known Thing was, which must mean I don't know it, which is presumably a good thing. I don't really need any additional toes.

It's always kind of hard to tell how concerned I should be going into these not-really-mortal-friendly environments. I mean it's surprising enough that Bastian and I made it through the hold of a plague-ridden ship without being stricken like every other person who passed through there, but otherworldly realms like Apocrypha are on a whole other level of regional hazards. I still remember how untethered we felt in Fargrave, as if our minds couldn't help but drift among all those streams of infinite possibilities. And I probably should have expected something similar here, despite Leramil's reassurances that being marked as an agent of Mora would protect me in his domain.

I give Bastian a lot of credit for holding up as well as he has, even without a protective charm like Leramil gave to Gadayn. Maybe staying close to me extends some kind of warding aura to him, or maybe a trained mage's mind is more naturally resolute. Not that you'd necessarily know it looking at that Morian fellow.

We knew the Infinite Panopticon was going to be an even more intensive test of our mental mettle, a storehouse of powerful secrets existing outside the bounds of what we would understand as reality. But Leramil seemed largely unconcerned about protective measures considering that even a glimpse of the pocket dimension's shifting interior has been known to drive mortals mad.

I probably should have asked for another one of those charms for Bastian, but we made do with staying close and hoping for the best. And things went pretty well, with Leramil's guidance and Meln's ghost sight, until a portal spell went awry and we found ourselves without our guide and with only a vague idea of where we were supposed to be heading.

But Bastian and I still had each other, and I don't want to think about what might have happened if he'd landed in some far-flung corner without whatever protection an agent of Mora could grant him. Especially as the winding pathways got even windier, and the unpredictable portal-hopping got hoppier, and our final destination was the concentrated forbidden memory contained within one of the Great Eye's actual eyes.

Within, we weren't even physical manifestations of ourselves. The shiny transparent effect was kind of neat if you didn't think too hard about where the rest of you had gone.

The rogue Dremora, Torvesard, was waiting for us. To speak, not to fight. To inform us of his intentions to recover memories that had been stolen by the Great Eye. To reassure us that he wasn't out to harm us or anyone else.

He suggested that we leave, for our own good, since to continue delving into this place would likely be fatal for mere mortals. Meln reckoned we should do the opposite of what the Dremora told us to do, and I couldn't really argue. Especially once I spotted the urns lining the inexplicably rocky hallways. Mora's memories wouldn't mind a few missing lockpicks, right?

And so we wandered, not thinking too hard, making sure Bastian was never too far behind me, until I came to rest and realized I had no damn clue where we were.

"Hey Bastian, do you know which way we're going?"

"I've been following you. Does that mean you don't?"

"Um..." I squinted down yet another passageway roughly hewn into the rock. "It all kind of looks the same. And everything's been a little blurry since we got in here."

"I know, I feel it too. Ever since we entered the Panopticon. But it's definitely stronger here. Like the knowledge is too much to take in, pressing in all around us."

Okay, so we were lost inside a forbidden Moric memory that may or may not have wanted to crush or consume us, without the one person who might have had the experience and the mental fortitude to tell us what to do.

"Should we try to go back? Or..." Just trying to figure out our options was making my head hurt.

Bastian frowned, and then peered ahead down the rocky passageway. "There, you see those urns? Keep moving toward them."

The urns. Of course. The ones I hadn't rifled through yet must mark the way forward. Just keep moving toward them, to the next ones, and the next ones, and eventually we'll reach -

A vision of a confrontation between Mora and Vaermina. An echo of a memory of long ago, traces of an event that Mora wanted erased from history. The half-remembered dream that Torvesard wanted to reclaim.

And Torvesard, determined to resurrect that echo, fending us off with summoned minions just long enough to restore a shrine to his spurned Daedric mistress.

And so now, having returned to fresh air and solid ground, we must contend with both our adversaries being one step closer to their reality-shattering goals, and the possibility that they're only and perhaps understandably trying to reclaim something that was stolen from them. I'm not quite at "are we the bad guys here" levels of questioning our mission, since I can believe that if Mora found it necessary to delete something from existence then he must have had a good reason for it. But Mora had damn well better be justified in what he's doing if he's dragging me along to enforce his will.

And of course, I have no real way to evaluate the rightness of what he did and is doing, considering that knowing the secret would defeat the entire purpose of making the secret unknown. I doubt I would be the exception to the rule and it would be fine if Mora just whispered what happened into my ear and I promised not to tell anyone. So here I am, taking it on faith that a Daedric Prince is really acting in the best interest of our existence and not just trying to cover his ass because he did something rotten.

As Scruut would say, just... peachy.

But at least I didn't lose Bastian, or my sanity, or too many brain cells. I think. See this is where I’m not sure if it would have been better if I were smarter, if I could have sorted this all out on my own a lot sooner, or if it would have been even easier to lose my mind if I had more mind to lose.

We got Leramil back in the end, though, so she can get back to the mental heavy lifting. And I will continue to hope that she and her patron aren't leading me through some elaborate fate's chosen farce. It'll probably be fine, right?

Ilsabet

Author's Note:

Paragon of self-control that I am, it took approximately three weeks for me to go ahead and make FFXIV Ilsabet and spam her through the early levels that I've done about a dozen times. (I am also not an altaholic.) I discovered after making her that there actually is a crown braid hairstyle, but it's only available to Elezen, and since I didn't really want to remake her as a gangly elf it's probably a good thing that her cute side braids have grown on me.

I of course named her chocobo Darien, and of course her retainer had to be Bastian (who I definitely didn't name Bas-chan because Bastian was predictably taken).

This might be the most lies per capita of any of my forum posts.

Please enjoy these screencaps of Ilsabet's noobly journey toward finding decent glam.

And here's Darien rocking the ostentatious weaponry-of-light barding my main character made for him. That's totally Dawnbreaker in the back there. (Also Snorri the (ald)goat says hi.)

And here's Bas-chan looking dapper, along with bonus Fennorian because why not. Also a very cranky Azandar who does not especially wish to be here.

Ilsabet

Ah yes, the time-honored pastime of looking back at life choices and wondering what might have been. I suppose it's comforting to know it's not just me. And being older and wiser and smarter doesn't make you immune to the temptation, especially when you're old and wise and smart enough to actually do something about it.

We met an arcanist named Azandar during one of our first visits to Cipher's Midden, the closest thing mortals have to a sanctuary in Apocrypha. The denizens there are predictably obsessed with learning and research, but Azandar had an unusual problem that stemmed from his research being unpredictably successful: He could actually see the alternate paths his life could have taken if he'd made different choices along the way. As in, there were actual manifestations of alternate Azandars popping out of the woodwork to assert themselves. Which is not ideal when there's only supposed to be one of you.

And that's how I learned about what arcanists call the weave, which upon reflection seems like a more personalized version of Akatosh's grand tapestry of time. Where the Dragon God concerns himself with the proper flow of all things, and the ways disparate events converge and intertwine, the theory of fatelines concerns how individual lives unfold, how a throughline emerges in the midst of countless branching possibilities.

Our lives are defined, in many ways, by the choices we make. But part of the power of the choices we make lies in the choices we didn't make - the options we considered and ultimately discarded. After all, if we only had one option, the choice wouldn't really matter, would it?

According to this theory, those abandoned options become a kind of metaphysical loose end in the weave of our fates, the "might-have-beens" born of anticipation and fleeting desire, imperceptibly joined to our "true" fates like the trimmed thread ends sticking out of a weaver's knot hidden on the backside of a tapestry where no one will ever see them. But they're there, and they will always be there, and if you tried to cut them out you'd only succeed in ruining the knot and setting the whole thing to unraveling.

Azandar's original goal was only to observe those thread ends without disturbing them, to see as if through a glass where his abandoned choices might have led him. But disturbed they were, untethered from their place as footnotes on a journey that had left them behind. Observing them made them "real," in a way, and tugged them loose from their out-of-the-way resting places. They became fates of their own, but frayed, as the weave of Azandar's fateline itself began to unravel.

Tucking those fates back into their proper places involved tracking them to the divergence points that had created them and zapping them with the relic that had frayed them in the first place. I don't pretend to understand the zapping part, but that was the arcanist's job, and fortunately his enhanced Fateweaver Key did indeed seem to do the trick.

At least until it came to the frayed fate that had decided it wanted to take over Azandar's actual life, and was competing with us to track down other fates so it could absorb the power of their potential and grow strong enough to usurp its creator. He was a wily one, as you might expect from Evil Azandar, and we needed the aid of a magic truth-revealing book to find the divergence points that anchored him to Actual Azandar's fateline. In the end, the final anchor turned out to be the Fateweaver Key itself, and so the arcanist's magnum opus became the final sacrifice in reclaiming dominion over his right to be himself.

The whole thing was a sobering experience for Azandar, I think, even beyond the highs and lows of his triumphant advances and devastating losses. It might have been easier (easier on his ego, certainly) to brush off Evil Azandar as a fabrication with little or no basis in his true self. But he knew exactly what aspects of himself had found purchase in his adversary, and saw echoes of those traits in the person he still was. Maybe not the kind of insight he expected to gain from his thread-observing experiment, but a valuable cautionary lesson as he moves forward with the rest of his decision-making life.

It should probably go without saying that our adventure has given me a lot to think about too, but this one is hitting harder than most. How many times have I wondered how the hell I ended up where I am? How many times have I questioned my decisions, wished I could have done things differently, wondered where those other paths might have taken me? And what would I see if I could point my own Fateweaver Key at the tapestry of my fate?

Azandar's a lot older than me, and presumably he's had way more opportunities to generate divergence points. But even so, even without an enchanted relic to light up the threads, how many alternate fates can I already imagine branching off from the life I've led?

The fate where I refused to take that horse to Aldcroft, never left my hometown, and became a ranger and married Ian. The fate where I couldn't pretend to be the hero that Camlorn needed, and never walked into that chapel to meet the captain of the guard. The fate where my bow and my blade ensured the success of King Kurog's vision instead of turning against it. The fate where I was strong enough not to get on that boat to Anvil. The fate where I'm wasting away in the Colored Rooms, still shouting into the void. The fate where I told Bastian I didn't need a babysitter and went on my solitary way.

Could all those other lives exist somewhere? Could all those other Ilsabets be real, at least to themselves, unaware that the way they are is not the way it's supposed to be?

And could I look back at all of those choices I've regretted, and look those Ilsabets-who-chose-differently in the eye, and tell them that their reality is less deserving of existence than the reality I've chosen for myself? If it meant the chance to do certain things over, to erase some of those regrets, to orchestrate a smoother path down the river... would it be so bad if the weave of fate got a little bit frayed?

I've always told myself that the bad things in my past were an acceptable counterpart to the good things, that I couldn't erase one without losing the other. But how tempting would it be, to take the pen of fate to the script of my life and write out how I would actually want it to go? How much would I really need to lose, when I can look back with all the foresight of experience and know exactly which strings to pluck?

I don't have that much control, though. Even if I could rewrite my own choices, I could never control what other people choose to do. I could never have stopped Darien from sacrificing himself, or convinced Kurog to give up his cruel ambitions, or recast Meridia into a deity who actually cared about her charges. I would still just be reacting to what the rest of the world threw at me. And maybe I could react differently in ways that would make a difference. But in the end, it's all about creating the best possible version of the "me" that has to navigate the rivers I find myself floating down.

And looking at Azandar's experience confronting other versions of himself, I realize what might happen if I gave those other "mes" the chance to assert themselves. Because being entranced by possibilities means opening the door to bad possibilities too, and not all of those alternate selves are what I would call an upgrade.

There are plenty of different ways I could "be," after all. I've seen some of those impulses before, and I can imagine what they would turn into if I gave them free rein. I could give in to anger and lash out at anyone who pisses me off or takes something from me or hurts someone I care about. Or I could give in to jadedness and let it turn me completely emotionally numb. I could stop caring about killing people or even come to enjoy it. I could finally get fed up with everyone being so needy and demanding and tell them all to shove off and deal with their own problems.

But I don't want to be that person. Any of those people. I might not be entirely happy with the person I am and have been, but I'm not convinced I'd be better off if I were more selfish or more jaded or more resentful. And those are the impulses that seem to have manifested in the frayed fate that rose to the top of the power struggle to be the "new" Azandar. Which makes sense, I suppose, since there's an inherent ruthlessness in devouring the potential of other possibilities to make oneself stronger.

So... where does that leave me now, after all that critical analysis and soul-searching? Right the hell where I started, mostly. I still can't alter my past, and using the Fateweaver Key had enough undesirable side effects that I wouldn't want to try even if I still had it in my hand. I don't expect any alternate Ilsabets to show up and demand validation for their choices, so it's still gonna just be the me-that-is moving forward and trying to make the best choices I can, with all the foresight born of experiences I can never change. Just like it's always been.

But it's probably still worth having the conversation in my own head, for as much insight as that provides. And after all this I do have a new ally I can call a friend, and Azandar will be happy to join us whenever we need a third hand gallivanting around Apocrypha. It's been nice to see Bastian have someone he can talk magic shop with, and sometimes I'll just sit back and watch the two of them go to town on topics I'll never understand in a million years. It's kind of nice, for once, not to have anything riding on what I might say or do.

Just do not under any circumstances get the two of them going about the Psijics. I barely managed to drag Bastian away before they came to blows the last time...

Ilsabet

Today on Tough Choices with Ilsabet: Is it better (which is to say, less worse) to lose someone by seeing them die, or to lose them by having their presence in your life completely erased? If those were the only two choices and you couldn't just actually save them. And if giving up their life was their idea in the first place and they had every intention of following through with the sacrifice for your sake.

I thought I made the right choice at the time, and I had reasons for doing what I did, but of course now it's second-guessing time. I honored a father's wishes, and his son will live on bearing the memories of their life together. That's worth something, right?

So Hermaeus Mora is, among other things, a collector of ships. He's actually widely associated with the sea, even considered by some to be a patron deity of sailors. Maybe it's the tentacle monster thing, like the krakens and giant squids of seafaring fables. Or maybe the fathomless depths are their own repository of knowledge that mortals can never glimpse. At least until Dhulef's bubble spell starts making the rounds.

Anyway the Tide King has his own assemblage of formerly seaworthy vessels plucked from Mundus or wherever else they came from, like that ship's graveyard in Coldharbour but less drab. And there are plenty of formerly seafaring ghosts wandering around there too, who may or may not understand where they are or how they ended up there.

One ghost, however, knew exactly why he and his crew and his ship were in Fathoms Drift. Because he's the one who had called out to Herm'us Mora and offered up his soul in eternal servitude to save his son from drowning in the storm that claimed their ship and everyone on it. But the pact that Naanurrel meant to sign had not been finalized, and when the time came to seal the deal, we discovered an alternative price that the Tide King was willing to accept: Naanurrel could keep his mortal life, and be absolved of his bond of servitude, but his son Landolvel would lose all memory of his father. "The memory of Naanurrel" would be the price paid for a life reclaimed.

That might seem like a pretty good deal. I mean Naanurrel was already dead, technically, and his son would have died too if Naanurrel hadn't invoked the pact, so it's kind of a two-for-one deal to have both of them alive in the end. And Landolvel was entirely willing to give up his memories to save his father's life, even as Naanurrel insisted on giving up his life for his son.

So whose wishes should I have chosen to honor? Whose loss would have been greater? And did you think I could possibly get through this rumination session without putting myself in their place?

So then... would I give up my memories of Darien if that's what it took to restore him to this world? I'd like to say that I would be that selfless without a second thought, that it wouldn't be about me and what I want, that all those memories and feelings and the years of caring so damn much would be a small price to pay for having him back. Even if "having him back" would mean nothing to me and I'd have no idea why this random (albeit very attractive) guy was such a big deal.

There would be angst involved, certainly. An entire history with someone you've desperately loved isn't something to be thrown away lightly. But in the end I'd probably still do it, because it would be for him, and wouldn't I give anything to see him alive and safe and free?

So does that make me a hypocrite for not allowing Landolvel to give up his memories to save his father's life? I... hope not, but I couldn't really blame anyone for making the accusation. And it is harder to feel confident in my choice when "he could literally still be alive as a person" was the option I turned down.

But I can't look at Landolvel's situation through the lens of my own. We're not talking about the memories of someone pining for a first love. We're talking about a family, decades of togetherness, all the formative years of childhood, a man who idolized his father and a father who would give everything for his son. That's a hell of a lot to lose.

And if I assume that "the memory of Naanurrel" means everyone's memories of Naanurrel, that means his wife, his friends, his former crewmates and associates, everyone would be cut off from their bonds with him. Everyone would lose him, and he would lose everyone. I suppose he could try to form new bonds, but at best they'd be starting from scratch and at worst he'd never get the chance.

So... is it better for Landolvel to bear the grief of losing his father, or would he be better off having no clue what he'd lost? He probably still wishes he had been the one to make the sacrifice, but I would hope that time and those cherished memories will help ease the burden. He will always know how much his father loved him, and that ought to make all the difference.

Ilsabet

I should probably be more careful browsing in Apocrypha. That seems pretty obvious when I just say it like that, doesn't it? I mean powerful books like the Unraveling Palimpsest aren't things you'd want to stumble over unawares, and not all of them will be safely locked away in delves.

But those little clusters of cluttered shelves are scattered everywhere here, offering that powerful temptation to look through other people's books. And we can use a break now and again while we're trundling through this acrid green wasteland.

I can't say what might have drawn me to this particular cluster or this particular shelf. But what caught my eye wasn't a book, but a piece of parchment haphazardly stuck within the stack, fluttering in the breeze like a coquettishly-waved handkerchief.

While Bastian occupied himself with whatever tome he'd found, I wandered over to check out the beckoning note. There was a vague sense of attraction, curiosity's pull growing stronger the closer I got. What juicy secrets might these scribbles reveal?

The scribbles, regrettably, were unintelligible. Some kind of runes, a cipher, the scrawlings of an arcanum-mad wizard with terrible handwriting. But as I squinted, studied, peered as deeply as I could, they began to shift and swirl into something I could fathom.

I'm trying to reach you. Yes, you.

I froze. Those words... But how?

There had to be more. I had to see, to know. That name, at the end of the letter, where was it? Is it... could it be... does he need me to bring him home...

The words swirled on the paper, evading me, taunting me with their enigma. They didn't want to show me, but I wouldn't be dissuaded so easily. I just needed to peer, to fathom, to push aside everything that wasn't the truth of those words.

Wait. Something was wrong. A trap? Those words would be the perfect lure...

I had to pull myself together. If this note was trying to control me... I made myself let go of the parchment, and it fluttered harmlessly back to its stack. But it still beckoned. It still held secrets, anticipation, endless possibilities. I needed to see. It was there, just there, and the longer I gazed toward it, the less relevant the rest of the world became.

Help. I needed help.

"Bastian."

Something moved next to me, at the periphery of my rapidly contracting awareness.

"Bastian?"

"I'm here." His voice was close, but...

The edges of my vision blurred more and more. Was the world spinning around me, or was I the one coming unmoored? If I could just make it over to that bookshelf, I could satisfy my longing, see what I needed to see. But why was my heart racing so fast?

"Bastian..."

I heard him, but I couldn't tell where he was. I couldn't tell where anything was. Help me.

"Bastian... Bastian!"

Breaths coming faster. World swirling. Bastian. Something closing around me. Constricting, wrapping. Words in my ear. I'm here, I've got you, I'm not going anywhere. Bastian... Bas... Lips trembling voiceless yearning. B... B... I'm here... I'm not letting you go...

And everything swirled into nothing.

***

Sweet smell of cherry blossoms. Babbling brook, twittering birds. Warm breeze on my face. Where am I...

I'm in no hurry to open my eyes. I know the bright rays of the sun are waiting to greet me, but I just want to take in the sweetness I sense all around me. It's been a while since I felt this innately serene.

Something moves next to me. There's someone else here, and I catch quiet strains of a hummed melody. Is that "Sway as we kiss"? It's not entirely in tune...

I open my eyes, and look up to see an expanse of shirtless muscles. A man is sitting next to me, his brown hair ruffled by the breeze.

He glances down, and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he leans closer. "Hey there, beautiful. Glad you could finally join me."

I have to blink a few times before I realize how I know this face and why that smile is making my heart all jumpy.

"...Darien?"

His gentle smile broadens, and he lets out a small breath, as if he's relieved that I recognize him. "Try to resist the urge to leap into my arms, okay? We'll have plenty of time to catch up, but you should take it easy for now. You were out for quite a while."

Oh great, I'm sure finding me knocked out in the middle of nowhere must have made a great impression on him. I fidget a bit, and surprisingly nothing hurts or feels sore. This must have been quite the rejuvenating nap.

Just as I'm realizing I'm in my undershirt, a flash of white and blue draws my attention to a chestplate glinting in the sunlight. That's right, the armor I wore the last time we were together, in Summerset. But when did I change back...

Darien has noticed me noticing. "I hope you don't mind, but I took some liberties with your armor. Figured you'd breathe easier out of it. And I may have polished it up a bit while I was waiting for you to come to. Sure shined up nice, eh?"

It actually feels good not being weighed down by steel and leather for once. I tentatively stretch out, and Darien offers a hand to help me sit up. His hand is strong and steady, and my gaze is drawn to the muscular physique he's so kindly put on display.

"Dare I ask where your armor is?"

He gives me that saucy half-grin. "We both know you're not complaining. But to answer the question, I haven't really needed it in this place. Haven't seen a single monster or bad guy since I got here. And I won't say no to soaking up some sun."

I look around. This is a good spot for a camp, a blanket of soft grass beside a clear flowing stream. The cherry trees and pastel-hued flowers remind me of Artaeum, but the sky is the shade of wistful blue we'd get in Glenumbra after the storms had blown back to the moors. Not a soul or building or trace of Daedric hellfire in sight, just the welcoming embrace of nature.

"This place... Where even are we?" I ask.

"Some kind of glade, is all I've got. I haven't been able to do much exploring yet. Actually, that would be a good date activity once you're up and around."

Wandering through a peaceful wooded glade hand-in-hand with the man I love does sound awfully nice. But something doesn't add up.

"I don't understand. This is some corner of Apocrypha, isn't it? That's where I was. But how did you... why are you..."

He chuckles. "Not who you were expecting to see in ol' Hermy's realm, eh? It's good to know I'm still capable of surprising you."

"But how are you here?"

"Not much of a story to tell, really. You wanted to find me, and here I am."

"But how? I wasn't even looking for you. I was... what was I doing..."

"That doesn't really matter now, does it?" His hand comes to rest on the side of my face, a gentle caress to soothe my worries away. "I'm here, and we can finally be together, just like the Divines intended. Well, Mara at least ought to be pretty pleased. And maybe Dibella too."

He still knows how to make me blush. But... "Darien, I need to know what's going on."

"Are you sure? You can't just be happy to finally get what you've always wanted?"

The warning bells finally go off in my head.

"This isn't real, is it. This is a dream, or... you're some kind of illusion..."

"Ilsabet." His tone is patronizingly firm, as if putting an end to a child's prattle. "I'm just as real as you are. You can feel my touch, right? I'm not some ghost your arms would pass right through."

"Then tell me why you're here. What happened to the Colored Rooms? What happened to... fading away?"

"Well, you can see I haven't faded away. Maybe this is the other form I was going to take the next time I saw you. Good thing I'm still just as devastatingly handsome as ever, right?"

"Then how did you get here?"

"I told you. I'm here because you wanted me here."

Not this again. "Are you just going to talk in circles?"

"I'm serious. That's..." He sighs. "Still as stubborn as ever, I see." I wait, and he sighs again, more gently this time. "All right, since you want to know so badly, that's what this place is. It's your place. Where you can have what you want." He grins. "It's quite the ego boost, knowing I'm at the top of your list of unfulfilled desires."

I look around again, and it starts to sink in. "Then this is... some kind of alternate fate."

"Something like that. Maybe. I'm not too clear on how this weave thing works. But with so many possibilities, there has to be at least one where we get to be happy together, right?"

I snort. "You think the fates would be that generous?"

"At least one of them ought to be. You deserve it, after all."

He's got a point. After putting me through so much nonsense, it's about time the universe made it up to me.

The breeze blows my hair past my shoulders, and I realize I don't have my crown braid up.

He reaches out to brush the loose strands. "I've always wondered how you'd look with your hair down. I like it."

I study Darien's face as he amuses himself playing with my hair. There's not a trace of tension or urgency. We're so close, but we don't have to rush anything. We can relax here, for as long as we want. Even so, with him just an arm's length away, I can feel the blush intensifying on my cheeks.

"So... what are we supposed to do here?" I ask.

He leans back. "We can do whatever you want. Some downtime sounds nice, doesn't it? A nice romantic getaway, nobody bothering us with trivial errands, all the drinks and backrubs you could ask for. And when we get bored of lazing around basking in our mutual attractiveness, we can get after all those adventures we've been missing out on together. Maybe find another world that needs saving. There must be plenty of those, right? We'll do what only we can do, and this time you'll get the recognition and respect you've earned. And... I promise this time I won't leave you. Ever."

I sigh in equal parts satisfaction and amusement. "You sure know how to sweet-talk a lady."

He tries to look respectable. "Hey, I have a lot to make up for. You're entrusting yourself to me, and I take my responsibilities very seriously."

"Uh-huh." That joy is bubbling up inside me again. How long has it been since that magical day on Artaeum? It doesn't matter now, does it. All that time spent apart was just leading both of us here. And now here he is, and I can gaze at his beautiful face, and laugh at his dumb flirty jokes, and hear in his voice how much he loves me. We have all the time we need, and not a damn care in the world.

He leans toward me again. "So what do you say? Shall we take a look around? I can always carry you if you don't feel like walking."

"I should be able to stand on my own two feet. Just be careful not to make me swoon."

"Heh. No promises there."

He stands up first, and I entirely accidentally lose my balance just enough to need to steady myself with a hand on his chest as he helps me up. He gives me a wink, and then turns to survey the area beyond our camp. I watch him go, sighing a long, contented sigh. This... is going to be wonderful.

He gestures to me, having found a path through the trees, and I take one last look around to make sure we're not forgetting anything important. Just as I'm about to follow after him, a trace of an echo of... something catches my attention. Is that someone's voice, drifting on the breeze?

Darien notices me hesitating. "What is it?"

"I hear something. It's faint, but..."

"Probably just the wind. Come on, we have a life together to start."

He heads toward the path. I start to move after him, but the faraway voice comes echoing from nowhere again. Its intent is somehow clearer now, a feeling without words.

"There's someone waiting for me."

Darien turns back to me. "I was waiting for you. For so long."

"I know, but..." My senses are drawn toward the wordless voice, and somehow I understand. "He needs me to come back to him."

Darien takes a step closer. "I need you. Here. With me. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"He hasn't stopped calling for me. He's not going to let me go."

"Tell him you don't need him. Tell him you have what you need."

There's an edge creeping into Darien's voice, telling me he needs me to stop. But those faraway echoes are just there, just beyond the cloudless sky, and if I just strain a little harder maybe I can sense what the voice wants to tell me...

"He's... with me... He's not going anywhere... Please, come back..." Why does the voice feel so familiar? So warm? Why are there suddenly tears in my eyes?

And then air rushes into my lungs, and my lips form a whispered word. "Bastian..."

In the next instant Darien is grasping my forearms and he's all I can see. "You don't need him. You have me. You never have to go back to that world where nobody appreciates you like I do. Nobody loves you like I do. And you'll never love anyone else the way you love me."

His gaze bears down on me with an intensity that goes beyond passion, distorting his beautiful face into something it never should have been. It's frightening. Twisted. The face of obsession.

His strong hands have a death grip on my unprotected arms. "Darien, that hurts."

He immediately loosens his hold on me. "I'm sorry. I would never hurt you, you know that. I just... I need you here. Just like you need me. Nothing else matters. I need you to see that."

His hands on my arms are gentler now, caressing, soothing. But something is missing. Warmth... Darien's warmth, that I carried within me from the pinnacle of the Crystal Tower...

I gently reclaim myself and take a step back. "I think... I am starting to see."

This isn't Darien. I know that. Maybe it's some aspect of him, a frayed fate given form and will. The Darien who loves me as much as I love him. The Darien who would never give up on me. The Darien of my dreams, if I could have everything I ever wanted, if I ever needed a reason to leave the world behind and never look back.

"Darien... tell me something."

"Of course, my love."

"If I stay here with you... what happens to everything else?"

"Everything else... you mean out there? Why would that matter?"

"Because there are things that aren't here, that I care about..."

"Those things will fade into memory. You won't need them anymore. We'll make even better memories together. You just need to trust me."

I want to trust him. I want to make all the memories with him that we've always been denied. There's so much I could have here that I could never have anywhere else. And I wish I could follow wherever he leads, with nothing holding me back.

But the faraway voice is still there, murmuring, pleading, and I can't stop myself from turning back to look. Could Bastian be there, somewhere beyond that wistful blue, waiting for me to come back to him...

Darien watches me. "You can't have it both ways, you know. This place is for you. I'm here for you. If you can't keep from looking back... Going back to him means leaving me behind. You understand that, don't you?"

I do understand. This place only exists to fulfill my deepest wishes. If I reject it now... I may never get another chance at the paradise I'm being offered.

I look into Darien's eyes, and I see longing, desperation, love on the precipice of despair. He needs me to make a choice. And he needs me to choose him.

I close my eyes, and I try to envision the rivers diverging before me. In both directions, something is claimed and something is lost. Something precious. Something... I love.

I take a deep breath, and when I finally return to him, I know what my choice must be.

I take his hands in mine. "You know I've never stopped loving you, Darien. And... no matter how long it takes, I'll never stop wanting to bring you home."

His eyes glow with hope and apprehension.

"But... if I have to choose between a delusion with you, and reality with him... then I... I can't..."

The light fades from his face. "I see. So that's how it is... my love."

He lets my hands fall, and turns to pace away. I wait to see if he'll be angry, but his body is stooped in dejection, and I have to resist the impulse to run after him and throw my arms around him and tell him I wish it didn't have to be this way.

But then he straightens up enough to run his hands through his hair, and when he turns back to me, the tension is gone from his body.

"I am allowed to be jealous, right?" he says, and the return of his jovial tone is like a burst of fresh air. "I mean getting to spend every day with you, sharing your triumphs and sorrows, being the one to protect you... I'd trade places in a heartbeat, you know that."

I dare to trust in his good humor. "Maybe you should see how he feels about a dream realm getaway."

He shakes his head with rueful amusement. "As if he'd be fool enough to leave you again."

I can't resist a smile, and then something occurs to me. "You seem to know him pretty well, considering you've never met."

"Oh? I suppose I have you to thank for that. I am your Darien, after all."

I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but he only gives me a mischievous grin.

He's taking this remarkably well, but I have to be sure. "You're going to be okay with this?"

"How could I not be, if it's what you really want?"

"I mean... I know you're disappointed."

"Of course I am. But if this is what's best for you, then I'll just have to be content with the time we've had together." His voice softens. "I... hope it's meant as much to you as it means to me."

I should have known the tears would threaten, and I do my best to hold them back. This would be the perfect time to say something poetic, something meaningful, something I've never had the chance to say before. But it all comes out in a whispered "...Yeah."

We stand there gazing at each other, and then Bastian's voice echoes from the heavens again, and Darien breaks the tension with a wry groan. "All right, loathe as I am to curtail our precious time together, you'd better go put the poor bastard out of his misery before he goes completely hoarse."

I smile and nod, melancholy averted. "So... how do I get back? Is there a portal or something?"

"This place is all about you getting what you want, remember? If you will it hard enough, you'll be waking up to cruel reality in no time."

Right. I just need to know what I really want, and commit to it. Easy as pie.

Darien's attention is drawn to the faraway voice again. "I'm not sure if you'll remember any of this once this place is gone. But if you do, tell him to..." He pauses to reconsider, and the thought amuses him. "No, nevermind. It's what he'd do anyway."

He turns back to me, regret and acceptance mingling on his face, and I feel the gravity of finality settling on my heart. "Well... this is it, isn't it. Anything you'd like to do before you go?"

There is. I hesitate for only a moment, and then I go to him, and run my hands over his shoulders, and kiss him as if I know what I'm doing. It's wondrous and passionate and tender and the warmth coursing through me almost makes me forget about the warmth that isn't coming from him.

And then I step back, and we share longing looks, knowing this may be the very last chance we'll ever have.

I want him. I want to stay like this forever. But I know where I need to be.

"I'm sorry," I say. He smiles. He knows. He knows he has to let me go.

I close my eyes, and let the idyll fade.

***

Pungent smell of ink. Cold damp creeping through my pant legs. An endless expanse of acrid green greeting my grudgingly opened eyes. Someone's arms around me, a hand clasping mine.

And a voice, hoarse and strained, murmuring in my ear. "I won't leave you. I'm here. As long as it takes... I'm not going anywhere. So please..."

Bastian? Why did he sound like he was losing his voice...

I tried squeezing his hand, and the murmuring gave way to a sharp inward breath.

"Ilsabet... are - are you..."

I managed an affirming "mmmph," and he let out a long breath. "Oh... thank the Divines... every single one..."

Why did he sound so anxious? If I just passed out...

I managed to turn sounds into words. "What... happened? I felt... dizzy..."

"I don't know what you found or what it did to you, but... it was like watching you drift away. You kept repeating my name, but you wouldn't respond when I spoke to you. All I could think to do was hold onto you, as if that could keep you grounded somehow. And then you collapsed, like your body was suddenly empty..." His embrace tightened around me, and his raspy voice choked to a whisper. "I was so afraid I was losing you..."

I still didn't really know what was going on. The world around me was an unfocused haze. I wasn't even going to try moving my numb body. There could have been a hundred onlookers, legions of monsters waiting to pounce, an endless void closing in, and I wouldn't have fathomed any of it.

But I had a focal point for my gradually expanding awareness. The face nestled in my crown braid, stubble scratching my ear, shuddering breaths billowing warm on my neck. Those were real. He was real. And I don't know why, but in that moment I didn't want to be anywhere else.

Ilsabet

Okay, my brain seems to be functioning normally again, and I can ambulate within customary parameters, as a certain arcanist would say. So I guess we can declare me cured of my spooky Daedric somnolence. Huzzah.

Bastian and I both needed a solid sit-down after he carried my useless deadweight all the way to Azandar's place in Cipher's Midden. (I'd like to think that my mumbling encouragement in his ear the whole way helped ease the burden. Even if I probably just sounded drunk.) Fortunately the ol' wiz was home, and didn't mind letting us crash for a few days while I got my mental and physical bearings back. I think he saw it as an opportunity to study my recovering mental state as much as an offering of hospitality, but I don't know how much he was able to get out of me considering I still can't remember anything that happened after I looked at that parchment. But I did catch him "hmm"ing and scribbling down some notes here and there, so maybe he got something to work with after all.

Bastian, meanwhile, spent the whole time flitting and fretting and fussing over making sure I had enough rest and food and fresh air. I swear, how is he more of a mother hen than the guy who could be my actual grandpa? At least his poor sore throat got a reprieve thanks to Azandar's tea stash.

The two of them took a gander around where Bastian thought that bookshelf was, but they didn't find any trace of a weird note. Azandar was cranky that he won't get to study it, but it's probably just as well that it won't get another chance to work its wiles on any of us.

Azandar says there's definitely Apocryphal magic that can create text from fragments of memory, so that must be why it chose to show me a snippet of Darien's note. He agrees that we're lucky that Bastian was able to wake me up before my consciousness got dragged into some kind of mind trap. Apparently that's been known to happen to scholars who got a little too carried away with their reading. Maybe that explains some of the well-dressed skeletal remains we've seen tucked away in various scholarly lairs.

Anyway, crisis averted, and now that I'm feeling put-back-together we'll be back on the road before long. Bastian of course has made me promise at least four times not to get grabby hands around any more unknown Daedric artifacts, so we'll see how that goes. Hopefully he didn't notice Azandar making a side deal with me to let him take a look at anything interesting I find. And hopefully we won't have any more unscheduled trips to Sleepytown before we get this reality business sorted out.

Ilsabet

In case it wasn't clear: You really, really do not want to mess with Hermaeus Mora's books. I'm not talking about casual browsing, although as we've seen that does come with its own risks. But there are certain places, where they keep certain books, where you'd better not think you'll get away with sneaking a peek without the big guy knowing. And not being terribly happy about it.

Yes, we'd all love to know the future, or reshape the past, or live forever as ethereal knowledge-absorbing spirit essences. But there might be a reason most people who try to read those how-to manuals end up going batty instead. The limits of mortal minds and all that. I do give credit to the guy who got around the going batty thing by making other people do the reading, but if he could already extract knowledge from other people's heads, couldn't he have called it good without the murder?

Well I guess then he wouldn't have gotten to live forever, and it is pretty depressing realizing that no matter how much you learn, your brain and everything in it will one day just be gone. But that's where you make the most of the lifespan you've got, and try to put all that knowledge to good practical use, and maybe commit some of that erudition to good sturdy parchment for the benefit of those who come after. Or at the very least find a less murdery approach to living longer.

At any rate, I have been restraining myself remarkably well with remarkably little effort when it comes to sneaking peeks at all the forbidden places I've been granted access to. A prediction-generating book bindery would be a great place to see what my fate has in store, except where I know it would backfire horribly in any number of horrifying ways. Such as becoming trapped in a time loop where the only way out is returning the books to where they should have damn well stayed, which only becomes possible through the intervention of a conveniently-appointed outsider.

At least Mora's time loop trap was nice enough to undo all of Meenai-Shai's many untimely deaths. I have to admit it was pretty funny watching him get swatted by tentacles over and over, but only because I knew he'd be running back in as chipper as ever once the cycle reset. That is one case where ignorance must be bliss. It'd be a lot harder to stay optimistic when you're well aware of how many times you've lived through dying.

Speaking of, I hope the Morbid Observer (was that her actual name?) gets a nice relaxing vacation after everything she's been through. And is able to take some nice non-forbidden books along with her to read now that she has physical hands again.

And then there was the Disquiet Study, where the joy of reading came to life. Literally. It was like that academy in Summerset where everyone thought they were book characters, except these books decided to spit out the incidental baddies who had it out for the protagonists. That one was less about uncovering Mora's forbidden knowledge, and more about books just literally trying to kill us. Except the one nice book who was actually a Nord having a bad day.

Anyway, we've all learned a valuable lesson here in Apocrypha: Don't mess with the books.

Ilsabet

Oh joy, more Telvanni politics. In an ideal world, the Masters Conclave would have been able to deal with their perfidious colleague themselves, especially since they already knew most of what I had to report about Shelreni's recent exploits. Magister Gothren hasn't lost any of his imperious arrogance since our run-in in Sadrith Mora, and of course neither he nor the other masters needed the help of a meddling outsider to deal with whatever paltry threat Shelreni and her Daedric patrons might pose.

But after all the trouble Curate Gadayn went through getting us clearance, and the trouble we went through crafting that cloak of definitely-not-working-for-a-Daedric-Prince, I couldn't just turn around and wish the Conclave luck. Especially once we poked around enough to discover that Shelreni had ensorcelled one of her former colleagues in preparation for unleashing her master stroke.

Which, inconveniently, she chose to do at that very moment. And since I can never just shoot people when I have a high vantage point, we had to fuss with yet more magical wards before making our heroic entrance onto the scene.

I made it into the adjudication chamber just in time to see the masters scrambling for cover, while a couple of them pushed past me toward the exit. In the center of the room, Shelreni had started channeling magicka infused with Daedric malice. One spell was all it would take to claim her spot atop the Telvanni hierarchy.

There wasn't a moment to lose, and I couldn't rely on an arrow to break Shelreni's spellcasting focus. I pulled my blade and charged. Someone called my name as the magicka surged, but I was almost there... and then a wave of black energy slammed into me, flinging me into (fortunately non-literal) oblivion.

I woke up to Bastian kneeling beside me, looking down with worry lines just starting to relax. "Ilsabet... Do you know where you are?"

I cringed, and a new wave of pain throbbed from the back of my head. "I'm not that out of it. This time."

He looked more relieved as he helped me sit up. "We really need to not make a habit of this..."

Magister Gothren of course claimed all the credit for deflecting Shelreni's unleashed spell, but I know the lingering traces of Bastian's barrier magic when I feel them. And I was not at all surprised when Gothren declined to put his magical prowess to further use helping us pursue Shelreni through her mystery portal. Apparently it stops being Telvanni business when you're on a Daedric Prince's payroll.

The portal led to a weirdly familiar labyrinth of rocky passageways lined with urns. Thankfully it was easier to navigate than the manifestation of memory we had visited before, especially without the Moric mind tricks.

That statue Torvesard restored in the memory turned out to be the focal point for the ritual Shelreni had pieced together from Meln's Black Book. We fortunately meddled hard enough to get the sacrificial Telvanni master freed from her bonds, but good old Blightcrown decided that his partner in crime would serve the purpose as a literal warm body just as well. And so Shelreni herself became Vaermina's corporeal vessel, just in time for a little jaunt into Apocrypha. So much for being archmagister.

We're still not entirely sure how this loophole in the "Princes can't enter each other's realms without permission" rule works, unless it's just a matter of having a meatshield suit camouflaging the Prince's Daedric essence. But that plus Blightcrown's upgraded pestilence/dream alchemy combo sufficiently blinded both Apocrypha and its master to Vaermina's presence, at least long enough for her to worm her way wherever she wanted to go.

Which meant, of course, that we needed to worm our way after her. Leramil and Scruut were both distressed by the turmoil unfolding in Mora's realm, and the fact that they couldn't sense a connection to the Great Eye himself. But we had no choice but to forge boldly onward, despite the inevitable dangers, and despite the fact that we needed to get into the Infinite Panopticon again but didn't have the luxury of scrying for the current location of its ever-shifting entrance like we had before.

It was kind of cute when Leramil wanted Gadayn to stay behind to keep him out of harm's way, but he couldn't bear the thought of her facing that danger without him and insisted on coming along. I couldn't help a glance at Bastian, and found him returning a knowing smile. It's not a question either of us would need to ask. There's no way I'd leave him behind, and there's no way he'd stay.

Back in Apocrypha, things didn't look too out of sorts. At least there were no purple meteors crashing from the sky or hordes of frenzied Daedra waiting to descend on us. The entrance to the Panopticon had indeed moved on, but through what I can only assume was the strength of will of a woman who has spent a century studying fate, Leramil literally bent what is into what she wanted it to be, and the door to infinite secrets stood before us once more.

The interior of the Panopticon was even more warped than usual, with a noxious trail of corruption leading to another Eye of Mora. The memory inside was... unnatural, false, covered over with a nightmarey veneer like a shiny candy coating covering up an apple so you can't see the worm hollowing out its core.

We found the cracks in that veneer, though, and then a fragment of Mora's truth revealed itself to us. That memory, that he went to such great lengths to unmake, is hidden in three pieces within the heart of Apocrypha. And when Apocrypha's master regained enough control over his realm to appear to us, he authorized me as fate's chosen to go after the first piece and make sure his enemies hadn't been able to tamper with it.

I arrived in the glyphic chamber alone, with no sign of Bastian and an unusually dormant-feeling Telvanni soul gem. So, only fate's chosen was worthy to behold the memory along with its creator. It seemed to be intact, and viewing it didn't immediately cause reality to unravel. But unseen by both me and the Great Eye, Torvesard had somehow joined us and beheld the memory too. It didn't seem like much, but it was enough of a spark to stir the dormant dream within him, leaving him practically giddy with the promise of more to come. And so one thread of fate snapped, thanks to the meddling of the one fate had chosen to preserve the tapestry. Sigh.

Mora wasn't mad about it, though. We still had two threads left to preserve before doom befell us all. And he reassured me that all I needed to do was follow my heart, and I'd know what to do when fate needed me to do it. Because that's been working great so far.

Mora was kind enough to portal us back to Cipher's Midden, where a whole lot of things were going wrong. Blightcrown's poison was spreading throughout Apocrypha, afflicting both mortals and Daedra with a violent madness. Outside the ciphers were panicking and at least one had been struck down by a rampaging seeker, as others kept a wary vigil at the perimeter of the settlement.

And there was Azandar, in the process of filleting a watcher with his magic chakrams. "YOU ARE INTERRUPTING SCHOLARSHIP!"

His mood brightened when he saw us approaching. "Cohort! What a splendid time you've chosen for a visit! I don't suppose you're in the mood for some target practice?"

I explained the situation, as best I could, and Azandar joined us as we headed back in to report to the team. Back at HQ, Leramil and Scruut had both begun succumbing to the lure of madness. Scruut's vision was coming and going, even more disconcerting considering how many eyes she has, and she couldn't say how long it would be before she too gave in to the urge to murder us all. Leramil was struggling just to stay conscious, as her control over her mental faculties grew ever more tenuous.

It looked like Gadayn and his monastic training might be our only hope, and he was not at all confident in his prospects. But then an unlikely savior appeared. Torvesard wanted to talk, again, and offered to ease my allies' suffering long enough to carry out an alliance of our own.

He'd never wanted to hurt anyone, you see, and now that his Princely co-conspirators had served their purpose in getting him closer to restoring his dream-memory, he was disgusted by the excesses of their ambitious push into Apocrypha. Vaermina and Peryite needed to be stopped, and none of us could do it on our own. And so, if we could set aside our differences, we could all work together to end the blight threatening to consume the realm.

It wasn't entirely clear what Torvesard wanted out of the deal, only that he needed our help. Under other circumstances I might have thought about it more critically or been more skeptical. But none of us wanted to watch our friends continue to suffer, and Torvesard seemed genuine enough in his desire to ease the suffering of Apocrypha as a whole. And if we were going up against one Daedric Prince and the favored priest of another, a rogue Dremora's abilities would be a welcome addition to the arsenal.

And so I agreed to the pact, and Torvesard made good on his pledge to aid Leramil and Scruut. With them back on their feet (so to speak, in the latter case), it was time to pursue the invaders into the Mythos, the central core of Apocrypha, which we had only visited in Mora's memory before.

I looked over our assembled squad, which seemed bigger than usual for a commando mission. "Azandar, do you want to hold down the fort here? If the Daedra kick up another fuss -"

"Oh no, you're not leaving me out of your next foray," Azandar asserted. "The Mythos? The veritable heart of Apocrypha under threat? You need all hands on deck and I am not missing out on this escapade."

Leramil and Scruut were coming too, even though the reprieve Torvesard had granted would be short-lived unless we could stop Blightcrown and Vaermina for good. Leramil assured me that I seemed to be resistant to the corruption despite my link to Hermaeus Mora, and Gadayn was protected by Leramil's warding charm. But that left two others I needed to be concerned about.

Bastian's brow was furrowed in concentration, and he answered the question before I could ask it. "I can feel it, washing against my mind like waves against a ship's hull. Urging me toward anger. Like... that old fire in my veins." He looked up at me resolutely. "But as long as I'm near you... I won't lose my focus."

Azandar simply smiled and tapped his forehead. "Fear not, cohort. This mind is a steel trap. And do not discount the prodigious willpower of an old mage fueled by spite."

And so, as we forge ever boldly onward, the fate of Apocrypha rests on three mages, two Daedra, a monk, a ghost, and a proxy who hasn't been able to save much of anything yet. I'm sure everything will be fine.

Ilsabet

I wonder how many Daedric Princes I've fought at this point. Molag Bal, obviously. Dagon. Nocturnal didn't face me herself so she doesn't quite count. Sheogorath was more of a battle of wits, but that's probably as close as I'm going to get with him.

That's actually not as many as I would have thought. But if we consider Princes I've pissed off, even if I didn't get to throw down with them directly, the list expands quite a bit. Nocturnal, obviously, and Mephala and Clavicus Vile count even if we did pretend to get along afterward. Namira probably wasn't super happy with me after I messed with her dro-m'Athra in Reaper's March, but she's at least kept things civil. Meridia should probably go here, although she's the one who pissed me off. And Peryite can't be too pleased with his favored priest being taken down, even if the Prince himself has been conspicuously absent from the actual proceedings in Apocrypha.

Vaermina would have been in that second category too, after our confrontation in Stormhaven. What a rare honor, then, to be promoted to the small but growing roster of Princes personally trounced by the Vestige.

Well, the Vestige and friends. As usual, it took the whole team to make it happen. Leramil and Torvesard combined forces to open the way to the Mythos while I used my fate's chosen credentials to pull the appropriate strings. Gadayn and Scruut helped clear out Blightcrown's founts of corruption inside, and Leramil and Scruut used the last of their dwindling energy to provide portals to get us closer to where we needed to be. Gadayn even joined the fight against Blightcrown en route to reclaiming the stolen half of the Fulcrom Obscura.

And when I finally cornered Vaermina, in the stolen flesh, I had the ghost of a Telvanni magister and two stalwart mages by my side. It was a good thing, too. I'm used to opponents throwing their bags of tricks at me in fights like this, but the Mistress of Nightmares had an entire war chest. I could have been easily overwhelmed by her energy-beam-shooting shadow clones alone, without Meln's ghost sight illuminating their weaknesses and Azandar and Bastian helping pick them off.

Destroying Shelreni's meatshield suit exposed Vaermina to the full brunt of our attacks, but it also allowed her to unleash her power without mortal frailty holding her back. She became the nightmare embodied, skittering unpredictably around us and drawing pools of shadow from the void.

It should have been easy enough to evade her attacks, but all it took was one unbalanced step backward for one of her shadowy pools to catch me. A dread chill took hold of my leg, and my body stood stunned as a vision flashed before me: My parents lying motionless together in a cold and empty house, driven to despair when I never made it home.

It... it wasn't real, it couldn't be, but... no...

I tried to shake the image out of my head, but it was only replaced by another, and then another, as I sank further and further into the gloom.

Ian wasting away in some Daggerfall alley, just wishing he could have seen my face one more time before the end.

Darien cursing my impotent love as his last light flickers out, finally facing the truth that he never should have placed his hope in me.

Bastian looking down at me with spite in his eyes, a raised blade ready to administer the justice I've always deserved.

What I deserved... of course... if that's how it was, then all I had left was to close my eyes and accept it...

"Ilsabet!"

I raised my face to see Bastian looking down at me... with earnest determination in his eyes, a hand reaching out to keep me from slipping away. "Stay with me. Whatever she's showing you, don't give in. Come on, I've got you."

Behind him, Azandar was deftly juggling chakrams in our direction for shielding and in Vaermina's to keep her fended off. "Snap to, cohort! No time for daydreaming when there's a fight to finish!"

"Nightmares aren't real," Meln added. "That's Vaermina's weakness!"

That's right, I reminded myself as I let Bastian grasp my hand and haul me out of the gloom. Bastian is real. Azandar is real. I am real, and my resolve is real. Anything else is deception and folly.

Bastian held my hand and my gaze long enough to make sure I was with him. "Focus on me and Azandar. If you can't trust your own eyes, you can trust in us."

I nodded, lingering for a moment to take in the truth in his eyes, and then we were back in the fight. The nightmare visions didn't want to retreat so easily, of course, but with my mind's eye fixed on a red-headed mage and a guy who could be my actual grandpa, and buoyed by the exhortations of a cranky ghost man, all I had to do was stay on my toes and keep shooting, as long as it took to put the nightmare to rest.

...And then, with her skittering nightmare form dispelled, Vaermina rose to the full grandeur of a Daedric Prince, and suddenly it seemed like shooting wouldn't work anymore.

"Use the Black Book!" Meln called out.

I didn't have the luxury of squeezing my eyes shut this time, but as soon as I opened the book, a surge of Moric energy enveloped me. I focused my will on Vaermina, and the energy obediently coalesced into a beam that drove back whatever attack she had planned. More importantly, as Vaermina gloated that a mere trinket would never harm her, it served as a beacon for Apocrypha's now-unblinded master. Mora appeared and banished his unwelcome guest, and the threat to Apocrypha dispersed.

It would have been nice if that had been the end of it. Bad guys vanquished, realm preserved, I get to go home and have a well-deserved nap. But Mora had to make sure that Vaermina hadn't messed with the second memory glyphic. And remember that rogue Dremora, who needed my help to get inside the Mythos? How nice of us to once again open the door for him to walk right in and grab the thing we're trying to protect. Sigh.

Maybe Mora was just caught up in the rush of getting his realm back and kicking out his rival Princes, but he still wasn't mad about another glyphic being compromised. In fact I was considerably more upset about it than he was, to the point that he practically had to talk me down. Everything that's happened was meant to be, he said. We've eliminated all other possibilities and established this point in fate as absolute. Just as he foretold I would.

Okay great, I'm glad he could be so optimistic, but I still wasn't happy about it. Maybe it would take Torvesard time to unlock the stolen glyphic, but that didn't mean we could just pretend everything was fine and get complacent patting ourselves on the back for the admittedly great job we did stopping Vaermina and Peryite. And so it was a relief when plans for the inevitable back-patting ceremonies were put on hold so that I could investigate an anomaly that Scruut had detected that was likely to be our rogue Dremora.

Bastian and I came upon Torvesard in the process of watching the unlocked memory. It was too late to stop him, and I didn't even try. He'd seen what he needed to see, again. The secret was his, with only one more fragment left to restore the full picture of what had happened so long ago. And now that the glyphic had served its purpose, he left it to me to learn what he now knew.

I spent some time stewing over the situation after he took his leave. I couldn't be certain what lay in store, but one thing did resolve itself in my mind. "I'm the only one who should see this."

"Are you sure you should see it at all?" Bastian said. "Who knows what that knowledge will do to you."

He was probably right. Maybe I should have just left the glyphic alone, or put it harmlessly in my pocket to deliver to its owner later. But I felt that tug of curiosity. Torvesard and I were already bound by that first fragment. If fate had chosen me to ensure its threads remained woven, I deserved to know what I was protecting.

"I'm not sure what will happen when I trigger the vision," I told Bastian. "If you can get far enough away, I don't want to risk you getting pulled in or overhearing too much."

I could tell he wasn't happy, but he wasn't going to argue. "I'll take Meln's crystal. He should be able to get me back across that hidden bridge. I'll wait for you there until it's time for you to cross."

I watched until he was out of sight, and then turned back to the revelation-in-waiting. Another slice of the confrontation between Mora and his eventual rivals, an argument about a Prince... Ithelia? Mora insisting that the risk to reality was too great, and making the others forget despite their outraged protestations.

Mora was waiting to confront me as soon as the vision faded. Now he remembered, too, and he remembered just why it was so vital that those memories be locked away forever. And he was no longer allowing himself to be optimistic.

Prince Ithelia, the Prince of Paths, the Fate-Changer. Torvesard's Prince, the one he had served before his memory and purpose were wiped away. A Prince with the power not only to observe and predict fate, but to unravel and rework it as she pleased. It wasn't clear if she had actually done something deserving of punishment, but Mora was convinced that the mere potential was reason enough to banish her from existence before she could have the chance.

Except that Daedric Princes can't be killed or destroyed, so the best he could do was to remove her from the universe's collective consciousness. As long as no one knew she existed, apparently, she would have no power to exert influence on anyone or anything. And that was working great until her secret weapon found a way to pursue the echo of a dream that she'd kept intact in his mind.

I wonder if Torvesard understands the whole "reality could come to an end" thing I keep trying to explain to him. You'd think reality unraveling would be inconvenient for him too, but maybe he just doesn't care, especially now that he's been vindicated in his belief that Mora stole something of immeasurable value from him. Maybe all that matters to him is fulfilling his role as his mistress' dutiful servant. Or maybe he doesn't believe the danger is as great as Mora claims.

Do I believe it, now that I know at least part of the truth of what happened? The Prince of Fate does not lie, or so he indignantly insisted. He truly believed that erasing his fellow Prince was the only way to ensure that she couldn't do irreparable harm to reality. But it's legitimate to ask, as Peryite did, if it's fair to punish someone for something they haven't even done yet. And you can't really blame the affronted parties for having a difference of opinion.

Not that any of this really changes my position. I signed on to protect reality, as Hermaeus Mora contractually defined it, and as long as there's one tenuous thread left to preserve, that's going to be my job. It's unfortunate that Torvesard's purpose lies in direct opposition to my own, but neither of us is going to back down. Not that I have in any way obstructed him thus far.

Is that really what was supposed to happen all along, as Mora suggested earlier? I mean I'm supposed to be the savior of pretty much everything, the champion hand-picked by fate to preserve reality, so why do I feel like I'm not making a damn bit of difference? Was I just destined to fail, but not so badly that everything immediately falls apart?

Maybe that's it. Like getting punched in the face and you can't avoid it, but you can at least take the blow in such a way that your jaw doesn't shatter. Or something. Either way, I'm probably still not going to be happy about being so ineffectual, especially if things continue to go badly with Torvesard, but as long as we still have a reality to protect I guess things could be worse.

Meanwhile, everyone's happy that we gave Vaermina and Peryite the boot, and my name gets to be inscribed in the super special annals of Apocryphal history. And Curate Gadayn got his own welcome-back party at the Necropolis after triumphantly returning with their prize relic, complete with his own agita-inducing speech. So those were nice diversions, I guess, before Bastian and I get back to trying to make ourselves useful while Leramil and Mora work on tracking down our next lead on Torvesard.

Leramil, unsurprisingly, couldn't contain her curiosity about what happened with Torvesard and the glyphic. I wasn't going to tell her what I saw, of course, but then I felt a stirring, a prodding, as if some greater force thought that it was right for my guide in fate's work to know. And so I whispered the secret into her ear, and now there are three of us who share it. Well, four counting the One Who Knows. And reality yet remains intact.

And now, with the festivities wound down and nobody else chasing after me for immediate aid, I think it's time for my well-deserved nap.

Ilsabet

Another story of a servant girl falling in love with the Telvanni master's son. But this one was real, this time, despite the best efforts of the disapproving mother to make it seem otherwise.

I'm not sure if disapproving is even the right word for it. Mistress Dreloth seemed to like Dacia well enough, and she apparently had little use for the rigid social hierarchies enforced by her kin. But still she went to extremes to pull the lovers apart, even trying to make them believe their entire love affair had been a lie.

It wasn't hard to see through the forged breakup notes, of course. Mistress Dreloth probably should have spent more time studying her son's handwriting. And she also shouldn't have assumed that her son's beloved would simply give up and wander away when there was a chance he was in peril and needed help.

The lovebirds' story would have made for a good fairy tale. The prince locked in a tower drawn to the sad yet lovely voice of a servant girl singing songs of her lost home in the garden below, the flower-folded notes dropped from his balcony, the burgeoning feelings transcending the magical barriers that kept them physically apart.

And the decision to transcend those barriers completely and travel the world together, in spite of his mother's insistence that he needed to stay protected within the wards. Of course, as we discovered after Nathyn made his escape in pursuit of his cast-out love, it was the world that needed to be protected from him.

You could say that Mistress Dreloth only did what she did to protect both her son and his lover, but I feel like a lot of this could have been avoided if she had just been honest with Nathyn about his condition to begin with. Even if that meant admitting the not-entirely-ethical things she'd done to him in the name of research, and even if it might have been painful for him to learn that he was a walking fungus bomb. At least he would have known what he was carrying around within his body, and that would have allowed him to make informed decisions rather than having to take an overprotective mother's word on faith - or reject it as overprotective nonsense, to disastrous results.

Dacia had a decision to make too, once all had been revealed. She and Nathyn still wanted to be together, of course, and Mistress Dreloth gave her blessing once she saw how devoted they were to each other. But there would always be wards between them unless Dacia joined Nathyn in hosting the same fungal spores that kept him alive but confined. She too would become a prisoner in his tower, no longer free to roam the world as she had dreamed. But she would have a home, with the man she loved, and they would never again be separated.

That would have been the more romantic ending to the fairy tale, I suppose, but it's not the one I advised Dacia to take. Mistress Dreloth also offered a path that would allow Dacia to see plenty of the world, as a research assistant helping to find a treatment for Nathyn's condition. It'll mean more time away from her love, and less of a feeling of home, but their relationship will remain intact and have a chance to grow. And hopefully, especially with Dacia's contributions, in time Nathyn will be freed from the wards to join her the way they truly wanted.

I actually ran into Dacia out in the wilds of the Peninsula, as she was undertaking a fetch errand for her mistress. To my surprise she was accompanied by Nathyn's glowing form, and it turned out he'd been learning projection magic from his mother for just such a purpose. His spellcasting still needed some work, but even with the distortions and garbled words, I could tell how much that simple connection meant to both of them.

So I'd call that a love story with a happy ending. And hopefully an even happier ending to come.