some of us don't believe in the moon and stars

Initiating conversation:

“Hm, hm, hm... oh!”

“Good day, muthsera.”

Exiting conversation:

“Farewell.”

“Go carefully.”

“May the future smile on your House.”

Asked to wait:

“I wish I bring a book with me...”

“All right, I wait!”

“Good. My feet are very tired!”

Spoken to whilst waiting:

“What the ghost of a god would be... I’m sorry, muthsera, you say something?” / “If I think about it that way... yes, muthsera?” / “I found a beetle! It’s cute.” - Initiating conversation.

“Yes! I am behind you always.” / “Let me finish my notes... all right, we go.” / “Have you found something? Please show me!” - Asked to continue following.

“Very well. Which passage is it...?” / “Mm hm.” - Conversation exited without being asked to follow.

Asked to move/interact:

“I try.” / “I do this!” - Command given.

“I cannot, I think.” / “Maybe I do it wrong?” - Command denied.

“It’s done!” / “Like that?” - Command completed.

Asked to trade items:

“If it’s mine it’s yours, muthsera.”

“Things are only heavy if you think they are!”

Dismissed:

“I go back to my books now, but I see you again, yes?”

“Please don’t explore shrines without me! You might break them, or make them angry.”

“If you find anything, bring it to me and I take it to the museum.”

After dismissal:

“My research goes very good! I write a lot about nothing, and everything... but maybe this doesn’t make sense. How are your adventures?”

“Have you found anything new, muthsera? I love to see it!”

Combat

“N’chow!”

“Fetcher!”

“Ouch!”

Other Dialogue (Specific cities, locations, situations, etc.)

“We look closer, yes? Please say yes.” -Approaching any Daedric shrine.

"Can you read this? I would like to know how.” -At a Word Wall.

"A place of very much waiting, and very much sadness.” -At Dunmeth Pass.

“Oh! My boots have a hole. My socks are very wet!” -Ambient dialogue in Hjaalmarch.

“If there are bones, please save some for me, and I study them!” -Encountering a dragon.

“The Dwemer know many secret things, and maybe they are lost forever. We look anyway!” -Inside a Dwemer ruin.

“Falkreath is very pretty! It reminds me of Cyrodiil, but very less warm.” -Ambient dialogue in Falkreath hold.

“Why are Imperial buildings always square?” -Ambient dialogue in Solitude.

“I never thought I would see the Razor! ...You don’t keep it, do you? You take it to the museum now?” -Mehrunes’ Razor equipped.

“Not many people win deals with Clavicus Vile. I wonder, who does better in your deal with him?” -Masque of Clavicus Vile equipped.

“The Ebony Mail is good... while Boethiah likes you! And Boethiah doesn’t like anyone!” -Ebony Mail equipped.

“We have the Mace at the Museum, once. I don’t like it. Sometimes I think it watches me when I’m not looking.” -Mace of Molag Bal equipped.

“It looks very heavy... Don’t drop it! It’s priceless!” -Volendrung equipped.

“Mistress Aram asks me to clean the shield, many times, but it’s never clean!” -Spell Breaker equipped.

“From what I hear, I think my brother would have liked that...” -Sanguine Rose equipped.

“I want to study it! But I don’t want to touch it! Please don’t point it at my notes.” -Wabbajack equipped.

“Hm... I don’t see Dawnbreaker before. But we have Goldbrand! Until it’s stolen. Why does that always happen to artifacts?” -Dawnbreaker equipped.

“To take a dream is wrong. All we are is dreams.” -Skull of Corruption equipped.

She took a moment to check that it was, indeed, herself who had woken up, before she swung her own, real legs onto the real splinters of a real wooden floor. Her room, or to be precise -- and Alma had always favoured precision -- her guest room at an inn. The room she had booked the previous night. Yes. She remembered. Hard to tell, sometimes; as the line between reality and dreams became clearer, the line between herself and other people, herself and this person who dreamed of absurdities and happily twisted their own mind apart, was becoming blurred.

It wasn't all dreams and imaginings when he took hold. Sometimes she saw him through his own eyes, away from the flowerfields inside their mind, on the streets of Blacklight maybe, where he was thumping a scarred old pugilist into the gutter. She had felt his lungs push against the inside of her ribs as they inhaled a smoke which sent her mind tumbling into his madness. She had broken a drunk Nord's nose with her fist, her crooked and arthritic fist, and her brother had smiled with her mouth. When she woke up she was leaning against a tree in Mournhold's Arboretum talking to herself in words she couldn't understand.

It was time to put a stop to the nonsense. Asking in Mournhold wouldn't do, people might think she was going crazy, and there was only one group of people whom Morinah knew had neither the interest nor the right to question somebody else's sanity. At this moment in time they were docked in Riften, which had meant a trip across the border to Skyrim.

She declined breakfast in the Bee and Barb, where she had chosen to spend the night, and followed the sounds of coughing and snoring to the inn on the other side of Riften's canal.

There was no doubting that the crew had been there, as Morinah noted a smashed balustrade on the walkway and some Dunmeri graffiti daubed in charcoal across the wall outside. The scandalised glances of townsfolk all pointed towards Haelga’s Bunkhouse. It was finding one particular person among the bodies after a night of revelry that was the challenge. The crew were spread around the main hall, most sprawled across tables or stuck to the floor, although the first mate – Morinah had to look hard for this one – was curled up inside the cold fireplace. She edged around the mer on the flagstones and checked each snoring head until she found the one she was looking for.

'Mr Braskan?'

Braskan snorted and rolled over, bottle hugged to his chest, lost in a nightmare of his own. He wouldn't be woken by shaking, shouting or prodding, and it was only when Morinah tried to pull the bottle away that he mumbled half a sentence and swayed upright, tugging it back. He remembered, slowly, how to open his eyes, smiled when he saw her and then broke down into a fit of coughing. She thumped him on the back a few times, having to peel her hand away from the oil, tar and other unspecified substances on his seacoat.

'Mr Braskan--'

'Morinah?’ he croaked. ‘Yer a righ' fine sight fer sore eyes. Where ya bin?'

She finished trying to wipe her hand on the table, only making the stickiness worse, and smiled thinly.

'Mournhold. I need help, please.'

Her voice was low but their conversation still drew several groans from the crew. With some effort and no shortage of wincing, leaning on her shoulder, Braskan hauled himself to his feet and steered Morinah towards the door.

The rest of Riften was well awake by now and there were plenty of people to sniff disdainfully as Braskan located the nearest water trough, broke the ice with a fist and splashed a handful of the half-frozen slush over his face. Morinah blew on her fingertips and waited. When he was ready, shaking the frost from his hair, Braskan sat on the edge of the trough with one knee propped beneath his chin.

'Said ya needed help? Anythin' fer me fav'rite daughter.'

It was a phrase Morinah enjoyed hearing as much as he enjoyed saying it, although today she only sighed heavily.

'It's very difficult to explain.'

'Give't a go. Ain't so stupid as I look, some a' th'time.'

She had to admit, he listened more earnestly than she would have expected for somebody who looked as if he might drop off to sleep again at any moment. It wasn't enough to help him understand. He nodded along when she told him about the stranger in her head, about how crowded and noisy her thoughts were, that she could never be sure who was doing the thinking for her, and when she was finished he scratched his head. It was something to fill the pause.

'Uh. Sounds like... sounds like...'

'Sounds like I'm mad. It's true, maybe! This is why I need help.'

'Aye, sure, but what help?' Braskan shrugged helplessly and jerked a thumb at the inn door. 'Could ask our surgeon, Rosie, if ya want?'

'No. I need you to take me home.'

'Wha', ya mean ta Mournhold?'

'No. Home home. Maar Gan. Vvardenfell.'

Morning market setting up. Nords shouting out their wares, an Argonian muttering on the planks below, the trickling sewers. Braskan tried to focus on these things and not the water which seemed to be rushing in his ears. Waves rising. Storm brewing.

'Vvardenfell?' He swallowed. His mouth had lost the taste of mazte and was instead full of salt and iron. 'We bin there before, lass. Didn' end well. Captain won't want ta go back. Lost me own ship there and damn near me life as well. The Kintyra, a sloop outta the Empire, fine vessel she was, an'--'

'My memory is not the best, but I don't recall asking you a question, sera.'

There was no denying that tone, especially not for Braskan, who would have sailed to Akavir if his children asked. It was cold and commanding. The only odd part, he thought as he led the way inside, was Morinah's face. Her features were round, for a Dunmer, soft and gentle, made more so by the fading of age, but for a moment they had sharpened until they looked just like her brother.

She was quiet and thoughtful after that and stood frowning in a corner, playing with the hem of her sleeve, away from the attentions of the crew. Braskan went ahead and explained the situation to Vilayn. Then he explained it a second time, after the first mate finished brushing soot off himself and could just about listen if he kept a hand pressed to his forehead. Vilayn's skin went from pale to dark and stormy, until he had a chance to speak himself.

'We're not taking your daughter on another bloody pleasure cruise!'

The only words Braskan heard were “your daughter” and he grinned as if the matter had been settled.

Where the ash falls and the cries of netches still echo through the hills, there were footsteps. They left the ship to unload in its anchorage at an archaeological camp and picked their way into a blasted nothing, slipping through the crust occasionally, suspended a long drop over ruined buildings. Their boots made new paths over roads long forgotten. This, once, was Seyda Neen. Somewhere deep below were the tradehouse and the strider dock and the watch tower. Braskan knew it well. He didn't need to see them to walk the old path from dock to wasteland.

They walked until they were climbing, and then they climbed until they were out of breath. Until one of them was out of breath, anyway. Braskan landed on his knees with a thud and was lost in a sweep of ash.

'Do we got ta keep goin'? Dunno 'bout yersel', but I'm an old mer, technic'ly speakin'. My legs ain't wha' they used ta be.'

Morinah stretched her hand towards him. She hadn't spoken much since they left Skyrim. Eventually Braskan took it, pulled himself to his feet and walked some more. Vvardenfell tried to swallow them with its dead ground. The wind rubbed their ears raw.

This is for them, it said. This is for all the things you didn't do.

They passed an odd outcrop, shaped like the carapace of a crab on its back. Braskan asked if Morinah thought it might be the remains of the Redoran's Great Skar, petrified in ash where it fell in its fight against the Daedra. Morinah didn't answer.

They touched against the ruins of the ghostgate and followed them north. The ancestors were loud here. Braskan said that he could hear his relatives, those whose bones used to shape the fence between the pillars they were walking over, wailing about the loss of their homeland. Morinah said nothing.

They parted from the ghostgate and veered left, navigating by the sun. There were deep pits in the brittle rock. Braskan fell into several and swore loudly.

'Amma?' said Morinah. She was gazing away from Braskan, towards a peak of cold, black pumice. He pulled himself up and tried to put an arm around her shoulders, missing as she took hesitant steps forwards.

'Stop tha'. Ya sound kinda strange.'

'Amma?'

'Y'sound like--'

'Amma! You hear her, yes, Mr Braskan?'

'No,' said Braskan, and then a moment later, 'Yes. Oh, gods. Oh gods!'

Morinah ran as if she were being tugged along and then her shape was running ahead of her, her shadow detaching itself, escaping. Her braid bounced against her shoulders and Braskan was looking at a little girl running after her brother, towards her mother, in an unexpected ash storm. He held his arm up to his face and forged forward, but for each step he took the wind buffeted him back three paces. Never did want him there. When he tried to make out shapes his eyes stung.

At least he heard her voice. One last time; distant, quiet, almost just the wind. But one last time.

'Hlenil!'

'Amma!'

The ghostshapes stumbled towards each other, Red Mountain snarled and as the notliving touched, the world ended.

It started again in a small, blanketed room. Morinah blinked. Not blankets but tapestries. She blinked again. Not tapestries but hammocks, patched together from a million rags of Morrowind silk. A lot of eyes were watching her, but they scattered when a hand waved across her vision.

'All righ', ya filthy s'wits, she's awake. Bugger off! Leave us be!'

The last of the eyes and Eddis's wooden grin slipped away. Morinah might have fallen asleep for seconds, minutes, hours. Maybe she didn't sleep at all. Either way, Braskan was still there when she opened her eyes, crouched on the floor beside her hammock.

'How're ya feelin'?'

'Very quieter, thank you.’

'Yer in the crew's quarters. Wanted ta keep ya safe, like. Outta the way of them archee-logy folk on land. They was real int'rested in ya, so I told 'em ta fuck off.'

Between his words she could hear all the questions he wasn't going to ask, and which he hoped she would answer anyway. The thought of it exhausted her and anyway, she wasn't sure she would be able to. All she remembered was the ash storm, a memory she had always kept with her since--

'Mori?'

'Yes?'

'D'ya remember much a' the Red Year?'

Since then. Yes.

'No,' she said. 'I'm small, very small. But if you want to know what happens to Alma, I remember she sends me with the others, out of Maar Gan. She goes back into the Ashlands to look for Hlenil. She dies there, I think, but this I don't understand until very later.'

Always waiting to see her. Always thinking of the hasty goodbye before the ash took her. Never knowing why she hadn't come back when she promised, she promised.

'D'ya think...?'

'Maybe.'

Braskan whistled through his teeth.

'Two hundred years.'

Dead and alone and waiting.

'It doesn't matter. She finds him now.'

'Wish I could of... Guess a part a' me knew that... that if she loved summat, like she never-- like she never... loved me, if she loved something like tha', she'd love it ta the ends a' Nirn n' back. She were fierce, was Nyria. Right fine lovely, but fierce. If she said she were gonna find our son she were damn well gonna find him, no matter how long it took.' He stroked Morinah's hair away from her forehead, gently and quietly, like a parent caring for an ill child. 'Gods, but I'm proud of her. Don't matter what she thought a' me. Always said ya couldn' stop her once she put her mind ta somethin'. I ever tell ya about the time she were tryin' ta get in wi' them Redoran lot, and she says ta me, she says...'

A wave bumped against the side of the ship. Pulleys clanked and ropes thudded against the masts. Morinah focused on that and allowed her mind to drift, her eyes to close, time to pass. Let the silence come.

Later, when Braskan thought Morinah was asleep, she heard someone recite a prayer.

The letter, tucked inside a copy of Pirate King of the Abecean, arrived late and crumpled, having been passed around every member of the crew before it was scrunched up and tossed at the head of its intended recipient. The book followed shortly after. Swearing and rubbing the scratch across his head, Braskan kicked the book aside and squinted at the neat, hesitant handwriting, while his shipmates jeered in the background.

‘Think she got the wrong Brass, Brass!’

‘She ever actually met ya?’

‘Soppy li’l s’wit, ain’t she?’

‘How much did y’have t’pay her, gettin’ her t’write shit like that?’

It wasn’t hard to ignore them. Braskan read the letter again, and again, blinking hard. After a while he rested his chin on his hand and read the letter a third time. The jeers behind him turned to whispers.

‘Is he crying? Like, proper crying?’

‘Ah, shit. Don’t tell me he’s goin’ t’get all soft on us.’

‘How do we make him stop?’

In the end, it was decided that the best way to end the display of emotion was for Drasonval to thump Braskan in the nose. The letter fell to the sodden deck when he jumped up to retaliate.