#braskan

Three days later, the permanent crew of the Runaway Scamp crammed themselves into Casethar's cornerclub atop the hill. The last of the daylight clung to the walls long after the rest of Blacklight fell into darkness and shone on the river until it burned. The name Firewater for the club had been well chosen. Before anyone could settle in with a glass of its other namesake, however, R'khan stood up on the bar. Although the wood was still gleaming, untouched since the day of Hazil's wake, Casethar didn't bat an eye at the boots scuffing across it. He had an arm around Vilayn's shoulders and seemed oblivious to anything else, least of all the sailors sneaking towards the bottles on the shelf.

'Hold yourselves, lads, I want you clear-headed for this.' R'khan paused, eyes settling on a cheerful, patient smile in the front row. 'Mr Braskan, what is Mistress Morinah doing here? I made it pretty damn clear that this'd be crew only.'

After a long silence, presumably spent hoping his captain would forget asking the direct question, a nudge from Morinah's elbow finally prompted Braskan to answer. He threw in a lazy salute as well, clearly hoping this would win him some favour from R'khan's stony face.

'Well, R'khan... there's this rumour, see, that ya's gonna ask us ta sail inta Oblivion, an' I might a' mentioned it ta Morinah. Only as a rumour, like, but she said if we was then mebbe she'd be useful, seein' as she works with all that Daedric shit.'

Everybody else in the room leaned forwards slightly while R’khan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Gossip spread through the crew faster than ataxia. It took the wind out of his sails somewhat, but then again, they had heard the rumour and turned up to the meeting anyway, which at least meant they hadn't dismissed the idea out of hand. He cleared his throat.

'I don't know how you does it, but you ain't far off. Most of you knows Farel Hazil, our own Mister Vilayn's husband, and his recent passing.' He paused, expecting Vilayn to flinch, or close his eyes, anything to show he was still alive, but no. Only stillness. 'And you also knows we can't go fishing every lost soul out of Oblivion, or wherever they ends up. But for reasons I ain't telling you 'cause it don't bloody concern you, this is different. Mister Ethysil believes that although the Oblivion Crisis sealed off paths from Oblivion to, ah--'

'Mundus,' supplied Ethysil, in an undertone. R'khan swept on as if he'd said the name himself.

'--there's still gates as go in the other direction, like the one Lord Seht used in 2920. There's reports of one underwater, out in the Sea of Ghosts, but with Ethys's magic and a bit of help from our... mutual friends, he believes we may be able to access it.'

He waited to see what effect his words would have. Perhaps he should have waited to make the announcement, let them get a good amount of the bar's contents down them before proposing such madness, but something had prevented him from doing so, in the knowledge that being tricked into an undertaking of this scale would kill their morale. Besides, he couldn't be alone. The years had been catching up to them recently, cold and relentless, and he knew no person could outrun them forever. Time and tide waited for no man.

So far the general attitude seemed cautiously positive. Most of the crew were talking amongst themselves, and there were heavy looks on all their faces, but only a few were glancing towards the door or outright scowling. One or two, most notably Braskan and Sham, were not excited, exactly, but already decided. They nodded unconsciously, settled, assured, eyes on their captain. Drasonval, sat beside them, seemed less certain, and as soon as the muttering died down he stuck a fist in the air.

‘What about getting back again?’ he asked. ‘Let’s say we find this gate, face whatever’s inside, and find what we’re looking for. How do we get home?’

R'khan stamped his foot on the counter until the whispers subsided.

‘You want the honest answer, Mister Drasonval? I don’t know. Could be a one-way trip to hell.’

‘Ya’s always sayin’ ya wants ta get away from th’wife,’ said Braskan. Somehow, faced with the prospect of his imminent doom, he still managed to maintain the lazy smirk. ‘Here ya go. Perfec’ chance.’

Before the exchange could develop into a scuffle or, even worse, a ruckus, R’khan kicked the counter again.

This happened in Thorn. Of course it did. Whenever the lizards (I'm allowed to call them lizards because Xisthia said I could)

start complaining about Dunmer, it always starts off in Thorn. Like I say, we were just investigating an unfamiliar tavern, minding our own business (which admittedly is quite loud business when seventy of us are packed into the same building but I think we lend a certain atmosphere to a place), when a group of Argonians approached us. No, not approached, swaggered. Even if you live in a human province you probably know the sort of person I mean, the ones who eye you up from the corner of the bar for five minutes before gathering their mates around them and swaggering forwards, making sure they kick all the chairs and tables on the way past so you know they're coming and spoiling for a fight. Note that particularly, please. They definitely wanted things to end like they did, so really we were only obliging the local custom with what happened.

They drew alongside us and were roundly ignored, at least at first, because if we honoured everybody who gave us dirty looks with our attention we'd never have time to leave port, especially in Black Marsh. There's always somebody trying to pick a fight with any Dunmer who walk through the door. Normally they focus on Braskan first, and he poured his entire tankard down his throat to be ready for them, only for them to stride right past him and surround Xisthia instead.

Xisthia doesn't drink with us often, even in Argonian taverns. I gather she doesn't like the taste of whatever mulch they serve. Nor do I, in fairness, although some thuleil is bearable, but she never drinks anything at all other than water – even her daily tot goes to Braskan most of the time – and you have to admit that's a bit strange. What warm-blooded mer (or cold-blooded lizard) doesn't like a pint or ten on occasion? You can't really blame the thugs for picking on her. They jostled around her table, kicking the legs and elbowing their way in beside her, surrounding her with bright, flashing scales. Unlike Xisthia, their hides were multicoloured, and any scales which looked a bit dull in comparison were smeared with paints and spices, resulting in a rainbow of colour and smells. Some of their spines and plumes reached the ceiling. Xisthia finds normal, unpainted people a bit much at the best of times, and she jerked her head between them and the walls, a habit I've noticed when she's nervous.

They spoke in Jel so even if I understood what they said I wouldn't be able to spell it.

Well, there you go, they called her sapless. Hopefully that clears everything up and you now understand what a deep and cutting insult it was, because I don't. What I do know is that she sank down against the table, almost flattening herself, and Braskan – maybe he was disappointed that they weren't making him the centre of attention – hurled his now empty tankard at the nearest offender's spines.

'I heard tha', ya s'wit! Ya gots a problem with her, ya gots a problem wi' all on us.'

Braskan is particular about not fighting Argonians any more than he has to, often quite frustratingly so, for example when we've captured an enemy ship full of them and you're expecting him to have your back only for him to stand there as one of the bastards bops you on the head with a stick

but I guess he made an exception on this occasion, since they started it and Xisthia looked like she might scuttle off under a table if nobody came to her aid. His reward was the largest Argonian turning on him and spitting at him, leaving a slimy trail of iridescent mucus on his seacoat, a vast improvement upon the usual substances therein.

'What is it, Dres? Don't like people playing with your toys?'

That's another thing Braskan is particular about: being honest about his House. The first thing he does when we sign on a new Argonian is introduce himself with his full title and brace himself for the reaction. He thinks it's a kind of penitence, or something. For once, however, his tiny scrap of common sense happened to be in the right place, and he stood up. The mucus dripped onto the floor and landed with a squelch.

'Who says I's Dres?'

'Your face. Your scent. Your scars. And this. A trick we learned from you.'

Summoning Ancestors doesn't happen often outside of Morrowind. Ethysil says it's because the spell is connected to the flames and the ash and the heart of Red Mountain, and although every Dunmer has that fire in their bones, it gets harder to cast the further you travel from the foyadas, Morrowind's lifeblood. Fire carries their memories, he says, and each flicker of the candle flame is a ghost. When the ringleader of the Argonians, alight with summoning magic, snatched Braskan's arm and shoved his hand into the tavern's firepit, a very definite ghost of the normal spectral-body variety erupted onto the hearth. The whole tavern could hear it shouting, even over Braskan's wails of pain.

'Dres Braskan! Son of my House! Blood of the Dres! Filthied and befouled!'

Braskan's Ancestors always go on like this. It's why he's reluctant to join Ethysil for a summoning ceremony. Had the ringleader let the ghost go on a bit more, it would have reached the part about disgracing the name of Dres and bringing shame upon the House, a theme which you'd think might have convinced these Argonians that he wasn't a threat, but instead he yanked Braskan's arm out of the fire and threw him to the floor. As the ghost dissolved into smoke, the Argonians circled around Braskan.

'Well, Dres, we saw this deethtith stealing the fish off the lines this morning,' snarled the ringleader. 'We intend to-- what?'

Here's the thing: Dunmer don’t burn easily, everybody knows that, but if you grab a Dunmer's hand and stick it in a firepit without his permission or giving him time to prepare, it still bloody hurts. That tends to make people get a bit defensive, out of instinct. When a Dunmer gets defensive, they catch fire. It's generally a good response to scare off the threat. Ancestral fire tore across Braskan's arm and spread to his shoulders, his back, his head, until the ringleader realised they were crowded around a small inferno.

They had also forgotten Xisthia. Sensing the worst possible moment, which is always when Xisthia chooses to do anything, she tried to make a break for the door, keeping low to the ground, and crashed head first into the ringleader, pushing him towards the blazing figure on the floor. He stumbled and lost his balance, and the rest...