#miscarcand

Shaking herself, she pulled the bag weighing on her shoulder closer, its precious bundle wrapped in the warmth of her coat. A pink nose and arms picked with goosebumps were small things if it meant keeping the stone safe. Every stranger was a treasure hunter and every friendly smile was another cultist in hiding. She didn’t even want to come to Chorrol! But the autumn was deep over Cyrodiil, deeper than she thought possible for a land once said to be overrun with jungle, but here it was. Winter was coming, and she was cold.

The hum of voices from passersby fell on deaf ears and the nod from the gate guard went unseen as she picked her way over leaves and stones into the city. The falling light of Magnus slipped over the buildings and cobblestones in soft marmalade tones of orange and gold; in the distance, its light caught in the scant leaves still clinging to the lofty branches of the Great Oak, giving them the appearance of a broken crown set on a crumbling head.

A head black with decay, thin and ghastly as it turned to face her, its too pale eyes finding her even in the dark.

Avarenya ducked her head, hiding from the light as she shuffled down the familiar path to The Oak and Crosier, her steps guided more by memory than sight. Oreyn used to take her drinking there, back before everything fell apart. She hoped she didn’t run into him tonight. She hoped she didn’t run into anyone tonight, or until she got back to the temple. Weariness settled across her shoulders. She wasn’t up to it.

The doorway was empty when she got to the inn, and she slipped into the dining room unnoticed. It was dim inside, but warm, blissfully warm. Some of the tension left Avarenya’s shoulders as she inched her way up to the bar. Only a handful of patrons sat scattered around the room, it being passed dinnertime. Or dinnertime as set by folks in decent places, she thought grimly, her mind trailing back to irregular meals made of dry meat and hard tac, eaten in haste behind pillars and in silent alcoves. Sips of water here and there got her through the endless night below, and now she wanted something stronger.

Her bag pulled at her shoulder, anchoring her hard in reality. She couldn’t, not tonight. Not when so much was at stake. After she got back, after she placed the stone into stronger hands, she was going down into Bruma and drowning in a keg of Nord mead.

The publican, Talisman? Talasma! she remembered with silent embarrassment, noticed her only after several minutes, her golden fur creasing deeply before smoothing out the next moment. “Apologies, this one is Talasma, what may—” she trailed off, the frown returning in earnest. “Does this one know you? You seem familiar.”

“I’m just passing through,” Avarenya said, voice hoarse from exhaustion and disuse.

Talasma blinked at her, eyes narrowing in the shrewd, knowing way only a Khajiit’s can. It was only her upbringing that kept Avarenyad from drawing her lip between her teeth. For the fraction of a second, outside of time, the tired traveler and the perceptive publican saw each other. And then it passed, and the world wound on.

“What can Talasma get for you?”

“Do you have anything warm, like coffee?” She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to sleep that night. She didn’t think she could. The dark was too big.

Talasma’s whiskers bobbed. “That, and we have several teas, as well as a hot apple cider.”

“Spiced?”

Talasma nodded, “We have a special recipe.”

Well, maybe it wouldn't hurt if she ordered cider. When was the last time she’d drank a good cider? Not since before she came to Cyrodiil. The varieties they served in the Imperial City were all bland, and Skingrad, where her brother lived, was known more for wine than cider.

Before she knew it, Talasma had the hot drink placed in front of her, complete with a cinnamon stick and the fragrance of autumnal spices, and Avarenya had her coin purse in hand — retrieved from a pocket, not her bag — and was pulling at the catch. “Um, how much is a room for one night?”

“Ten septims.” Avarenya placed enough to cover her drink and a room down on the counter, and the hostess passed her a key. “It’s the room on the far end of the hall, on the left. Turn the key back in here before you leave in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Avarenya murmured, pocketing the key. She grabbed her drink and retreated to the far corner to a small table behind the stairs. It was a drab little spot with poor lighting but it held an excellent view of the room while maintaining a level of discretion that her nerves desperately needed.

Avarenya sat down — and not a moment too soon. The tavern door swung open, and in came Modryn Oreyn, with a couple of faces she wasn’t familiar with. Avarenya pulled her hood up; if anything were to make her stick out it would be the rose kissed shine of her hair . . . maybe. If it wasn’t covered in grime and blood from the ruins that is. She didn’t bother to check when she’d made her flight into the wilderness, but since Talasma hadn’t wrinkled her nose and kicked her out, she was pretty sure she passed for merely travel stained and tired. Or maybe—

Warm spice wafted its way into her nose, and Avarenya forced herself to breathe. Breathe in the sweet cinnamon and hot apple notes of the cider. Breathe. Just breathe.

It curled into her nose and down her throat, flooding her lungs and seeping down her limbs, further and further with every inhale pushing it along. There was a flavor of peace in her mouth, the kind that made her want to curl into a ball and sleep until the world broke and all that was left were dreams.

Gods, Martin needed a barrel of this.

Avarenya sipped the hot drink, and some of the residual tension around her heart eased. Maybe if Camoran got a taste of this stuff, he wouldn’t be so anarchical and, and crabby. And Auriel knows what she and Martin could accomplish then!

Chairs scraping shattered Avarenya’s sunshine and rainbows fantasy of Camoran sobbing and prostrating himself before Martin in the Temple of the One. Not very far away, just on the other side of the stairs near the bar, Oreyn and his two companions were settled, each with tall, thin pints of what was likely bear. Modryn Oreyn looked a little worse for wear, his pallor less ashy and more ashen — if that made any sense — than she’d ever seen before. He looked almost ill, and a squeeze of concern for the older Dunmer gripped Avarenya’s heart.

“It’s getting bad,” huffed one of his companions, a Rdguard with a scruffy face and broad shoulders that she didn’t recognize. “We ran into two of them escorting the caravan from Craglorn, and those are just the ones we saw immediately on the road!”

The other, a Nord with red hair like a rope of fire hanging over her shoulder, drowned what looked like half her tankard before thumping it back on the table. “It’s the same coming from Whiterun. Most of ‘em are right off the road where they can get travelers, but I’m telling you, it's only a matter of time before they’re opening them up at the city gates!”

“They already have,” Oreyn sighed, rubbing his face. His beer went untouched. “They destroyed Kvatch.”

The Redguard bowed his head and the Nord drained her tankard. Oreyn slid his over to her, and she started on it.

“Donton hasn’t given any orders on what to do about them?” the Redguard asked.

“She wrote to the Arcane University over a month ago, but she’s heard nothing back. Word is the Mages Guild’s got their own internal issue they’re trying to take care of, but no one really knows anything about that, either. All I know is Teekeeus, the local guild head, refuses to send someone on our behalf to the University. It’s the same response across the province: we can’t contact the university, and we can’t deal with these thrice cursed gates!” Oreyn turned his head as if to spit on the ground, only to catch Talasma's eye, and, clearly thinking better of it, crossed his arms and tucked his chin into his chest, a dark look burning in his ember bright eyes. Avarenya could feel his tension from her corner. The world didn’t need to go to Oblivion in a handbasket; Oblivion itself came to pick them up for delivery, and everyone was paying for it.

Knots of stress tangled around her insides.

“I heard someone closed the Kvatch Gate,” the Redguard ventured.

The knots constricted.

Modryn Oreyn nodded. “The Hero of Kvatch, they’re calling her. Rumors vary on why she was there in the first place, but the point is: she closed a gate. No one else has.”

The Nord set aside Oreyn’s empty tankard, her eyes narrowing like a hawk’s, and just as clear. “Well then, who is this girl and why haven’t any of you called her in?”

Modryn Oreyn’s face tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line. Avarenya wondered if his loyalty would let him admit the truth to these two strangers, guild members though they were. “She was one of ours,” he said, voice low. “When Viranus was killed, she’s the one who brought his body back. In thanks, she was expelled.”

“By Kyne,” the Nord sighed.

Something was wrong, Avarenya realized. Something very wrong was going on in the Fighters Guild for Modryn Oreyn to straight up tell others even a fraction of what Vilena Donton did to her . . . when did Donton and Oreyn fall out?

“Expulsion,” said the Redguard, swiveling his finger between his companions, “does not have to be permanent, nor does it equal ostracisation. The Empire is in crisis and Donton won’t apologize to the one person we know who’s closing gates?”

Oreyn threw his hands in the air. “I won’t say Vilena’s done the right thing, but I won’t say she's wrong either. Only that we’ve been dropped in a hole and no one’s offering us a rope.”

Avarenya buried herself in the remains of her lukewarm cider, the cinnamon still strong and sweet. She wanted so badly to push back her chair, charge over to Oreyn, and declare that bad feelings could be forgotten and a new, stronger bond between the Fighters Guild and its ill-favored daughter was theirs for the asking. Closing Oblivion gates was a hard, soul bending task and she wouldn't wish the burden on anyone, but more than that, she didn’t envy the fate awaiting anyone unlucky enough to be dragged into the Deadlands. Those innocent victims needed someone in their field, and as much as she hated it, hated herself for it, Avarenya couldn’t be everywhere at once. She couldn’t save them all.

But fear and shame kept her in her seat, huddled in the shadows. She couldn’t help Oreyn and the guild. Going to him now to offer help would delay her in the city by more than a day, at least, and she needed to leave before first light. The conviction bit at her chest, needling her for being a coward, but Martin needed the stone. The sooner Martin had the stone, the sooner they could open the portal, and the sooner they could take back the Amulet and stop Dagon once and for all. In stopping Dagon, they would close the gates everywhere. That was her task. Veering off course would put off the conclusion, and prolong the crisis. This is what she had to do.

Then why did she feel so guilty?

Less than ten minutes later, the trio of Fighters Guild members stood and left. They walked out the door as Avarenya drained her mug and passed it off to the serving maid who came to gather the empty tankards. Avarenya trudged up the stairs to her room, the bag on her shoulder crushing her down like a lodestone. It was almost too much.

The room was clean, with a single bed, calling out with a promise of goose down pillows and warm blankets, but she shunned it in favor of the desk in the corner. Her bag she set on the chest at the foot of the bed, and thus freed, she sat down to write.

Avarenya never made it into bed that night.

When she woke, neck aching and ink stains on her face, a mess of scattered pages greeted her. Checking they were dry, she ordered them into a neat stack. Then she searched the desk for an envelope. Not finding one, Avarenya chewed her lip before retrieving her bag, digging into an inside pocket. She pulled out a hair ribbon, bright blue with faded gold embroidery. This she tied around the stack of papers, securing them together.

Avarenya left the inn, then. She didn’t stay for breakfast, though after that apple cider, she knew Talasma wouldn’t have jipped her on a good breakfast like some inns. She placed the key on the counter; the dining room was empty, though she could hear some buustle from the direction of the kitchen as she passed.

The morning air was crisp and cool, the sky lit with the gray fog of predawn. Avarenya wandered down the silent streets, passing the occasional guard. Each one kept one eye on her until she rounded the next corner, but she didn’t mind. The way she looked — and felt — after sleeping in a chair after nights spent in the wilderness, she wouldn’t trust herself if she saw her walking around town at this time.

Modryn Oreyn’s house was neither big nor impressive. Actually, some would call it a shack. Avarneya simply called it modest. The Fighters Guild champion’s cabin, as well as those of his neighbors, was quiet. A small box was set on a post near the door, ready for any mail that Oreyn didn’t have forwarded to the guild hall, but Avarenya forewent that in favor of the door. She couldn’t risk Oreyn not seeing these papers. He needed to find them before he left for the guild.

She slipped them under the door. There was a thump inside, and the urge to flee seized her as she realized that Oreyn was awake. Avarenya scrambled to her feet, darting back across the street, making it behind the house there just as the creak of Oreyn’s front door heralded his emerging outside. She didn’t dare peek around the corner to see what he was doing, but she was pretty confident now that he saw her papers.

She waited with bated breath for several moments before daring to venture along the street to Chorrol’s outer wall. She did it: she helped her old guild and she was still leaving on schedule.

“Avarin? Avarin!”

Avarenya ran.

Glancing over her shoulder, she didn’t see Modryn Oreyn chasing after her, so how did he—? The hair ribbon. Of course the bloody artist would remember the ribbon she used to wear back when her days were filled with contracts and training.

Still, if it made him believe what she wrote, then Avarenya had no qualms about him identifying her as the author. But that didn’t mean she was going to stay to chat, either.

The bells of the chapel chimed the hour, six o’clock, and the city gates were only just opening as she approached. She slipped through them, back into the shadows of the road. Dawn wasn’t quite breaking the barriers beyond the Great Forest, but she knew the sun would be overhead soon, shining bright and warm through the leafless trees as she made her trek northeast. She took comfort in that; the dark was still too big for her, too hollow and cold with the memory of Miscarcand so recent.

All would be well. By Auriel and Magnus, she would make it so, if it came down to it.

Not alone, either, she reminded herself. The dark night in the black of the Ayleid ruin had passed, and though the road before her was still long and there were many tasks she’d do on her own, there were others fighting out there. Hopefully, with the instructions she wrote out for Oreyn, the Fighters Guild could help where the Legion and the Mages Guild failed. Help in places where she was not. And where she did go, she knew Martin was with her in spirit, though he was back at the temple, waiting for her and counting on her strength to finish the task. It was the thought of him that guided her through Miscarcand, and it would continue to guide her out of the darkness and into the light of the sun.