He glanced to his right. Vilayn stood beside him. Other than being more tight-lipped than usual, and his eyes gazing at the clouds on the horizon rather than flicking between each sailor below for the slightest break from attention, he was the same as he always was at the start of a voyage, his hands folded behind his back, only waiting for an order from his captain to spring into action. He had read the roll call as usual and as he snapped at a seaman to quit whispering, it was like looking at a different person to the mer R'khan had last parted ways with at the cornerclub. Duty slammed a door on Vilayn's personal troubles and wouldn't be budged, not even when his eyes happened to pass the ship's cook. Casethar, still in his apron, stood tall and grim at the centre of the crew, waiting with them for their captain's speech.

Somebody coughed on R'khan's other side. Tosti had declined to join the voyage, with a promise that he would instead ensure Luca did not sneak aboard, leaving the role of second mate open. After lengthy discussion, and after being outvoted over awarding the role to Sock in preference to the crew’s choice, R'khan had condescended to grant Braskan the position, on the understanding that his first mistake would see him offered as a live sacrifice to the Three. So far, as he oversaw their departure from port, R'khan was not concerned. Morinah had insisted she be allowed to join any voyage attempting to breach Oblivion's gates, and had accepted keeping an eye on her father as part of the terms of her passage. Braskan seemed more afraid of upsetting her than any number of threats to peel the flesh from his bones. That didn't stop him fidgeting impatiently, though. R'khan couldn't blame him. He didn't understand his own reluctance himself.

Time to get on with it, then. He took another breath and tasted salt, smoke, fish, the smells of Blacklight, the smells of home.

'Right, you lazy s'wits. Too late for cold feet now. If you're stood here, you know what you signed up for, so I ain't going to tell you again. But I will tell you this much. We're going to make history. We're sailing into Oblivion itself and by the Three, lads, I truly believe we'll be coming back again, because this crew is two hundred years in the making and nobody, not even the Daedra, beats the Runaway Scamp.'

They cheered, to a man, or mer, or Khajiit, and R'khan thought, how well I know their faces. Every hand aboard had sailed with the Runaway Scamp before in some capacity or other. They were the only ones mad enough to sign on after they heard the details of the voyage. It was almost disappointing that they were so ready to trust him on a mission with only the slimmest chance of success, as much of a blow as Luca's fierce determination to sneak aboard herself. Her face, red and childlike in its anger as she swore she was an adult, furious tears on her cheeks while Tosti held back her tearing hands and kicking legs, was the last thing R'khan would think of before they passed over the crest of the final wave. He shook himself back to the speech.

'So let's show 'em that as long as we got a ship to sail and some blood left in our bodies, a Scamp will never stop fighting. We'll steal from the devils themselves and damn well live to tell the tale. For Morrowind! For ALMSIVI! And for our own wretched lives!'

They cheered again, Braskan loudest of all, and for a moment R'khan almost believed it himself.

.

.

.

II

Normal mage drills had been replaced by tutorials from Ethysil in how to perform the ritual. Sails sighted on the horizon, not that there were many of them, had been roundly ignored. Drasonval hardly cared how close he brought them to the outcrops and submerged rocks in the Sea of Ghosts, so intent was he on following the brig's progress across his charts inch by inch. If they missed the location, if they went too wide or overshot, if they performed the tasks they spent so much time practising and had nothing to show for it but a bare patch of seabed, they would never know if the Gate was out there somewhere, only a few miles to port or starboard. A suicide mission was one thing, but an unsuccessful suicide mission hardly inspired a second attempt.

And so it was that when they came upon the correct mark, Drasonval finally slammed his hands down on the maps and nodded. All hands were called on deck. They fell into the routine immediately, the mages chanting in a circle around the Waiting Door which Ethysil had carefully transferred to the weather deck, the sailors holding the brig steady. At first that was no hard task. The Sea of Ghosts never lay still, but it pushed and rocked in a steady, predictable rhythm, the tidal heartbeat they had followed all their lives.

The chanting rose. So did the waves. Under clear skies, water lashed against every face from the storm building beneath them. The prow lifted, tilted back so far it threatened to buck each man into the water, then plunged forwards as the wave passed, swaying, shuddering. The heartbeat became increasingly irregular. R'khan kept his place on the quarterdeck, muttering commands to Vilayn who passed them on in a loud, clear voice.

A hand slipped, skittered to the edge of the deck, clung on to a line and hung suspended as the brig heaved across another breaker. Those who tried to rescue their shipmate ended up in the water as the planks turned treacherous and slippery underfoot. Then, just when it seemed it couldn't grow any worse, the chant stopped.

Magic seared the air and R'khan thought he heard a burst of song, a swell of female voices singing in harmony, before the waves parted and reared up in an impossible arch around a vast, burning portal, dark at the centre despite the flames which defined it. For a minute, a long and slow minute, the deck went still, perched atop an impossible sea. R'khan felt an elbow against his side.

'Should I reef the topsails, r'khan?'

'Somehow, V, I don't think there's anything we can do to change our course now. We're set, off to hell where we belongs.'

'I always said I'd follow you into Oblivion if you asked.' Vilayn breathed in, half lifted a hand, then turned to face the deck. With his eyes on the sailors, he said, 'It's been an honour, Rulanik. Throughout all these years.'

Relkhan Hlaalu Rulanik tightened his hands behind his back.

'Don't be getting sentimental on me now.' His red eyes stared across a raging, demonic sea, stinging with salt. 'But I thought of one thing you can do. Go below to me quarters and check me sea chest. You'll find a new fiddle in it. Give us a shanty to see us out.'

Ever prompt and efficient, Vilayn disappeared below to the cabin, and in only a few minutes returned to the deck with the fiddle tucked beneath his chin. The strains of Morrowindbound danced beneath his fingertips, proud, true, and the stillness cracked. The wave plunged down, the Runaway Scamp still balanced on its crest, sailors hanging from the shrouds and taffrails, cheering, singing, and all were swallowed whole by the Gate.

.

.

.

III

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.

I came home to something very different after our last voyage. Not even Casethar waiting for me on the sea wall, and when I came home

when I came home

it was so quiet. Our little house. Sunshine filled the garden, autumn, late afternoon, sun on the bench which Sham helped Ethysil build so Hazil could sit outside. Cold inside, except for the sick room, which we never could keep as cool as Hazil wanted it.

That's where they were. In the sick room.  Casethar dragged me through the door and dropped me down beside the bed so I could see him and he could see me and everything went cold and grey, then hot and... a curious shade of orange, and then

He wasn't dead, but he was dying. I think he said my name. His lips were so dry it was hard to tell, but I kissed them anyway and held his hand and promised him I wouldn't leave and

Which brings me to what we knew was going to happen, really, from the moment we met him.

What do I say? What am I supposed to say?

I'll write it down, I said, but every time I think I'm ready to talk about it my hands start to shake and the ink goes everywhere and the parchment ends up too damp to write on. I can't light this damned hackle-lo without getting ash all over the desk. I want to go back. I want him back. I want to write him back into existence and I can't, I fucking can't.

The week after it happened is all in bits. I remember lying there holding his hand for hours (it was cold. It was so cold). I remember looking up and finding he was gone, because I'd fallen asleep and Casethar moved me into our bedroom. I remember staring at a bookcase when R'khan arrived to offer his condolences, but I don't remember saying anything. I remember my hands being too numb to fasten my sash on the morning of the funeral. I remember Casethar's hug hurting as he pushed his jaw against my head, pulled the bones of my shoulders into his chest. I remember a lot of hot soreness in my eyes, my chest, everywhere. I don't remember drinking but there are a lot of empty bottles around here and my head hurts so I think that happened too.

After all these fragmented images appeared and faded I was at the funeral. It was a nice evening. Warm air, purple sky. Dartwings in the firelight. The sort of evening we would have walked up the hill together. Ethysil said a few words and then so did everybody else. I had the violin, the painted one R'khan gave me on my wedding day, the one which sounded so beautiful it would have brought Lord Seht to tears, and I think they expected me to play it. I threw it on the pyre instead because how the fuck was I supposed to play in that situation? How do I ever play again?

And then I came back to a place which didn't feel like home any more, locked myself in here and picked up the quill. Now I know what it's like to lift a feather and find your energy drained. I know how he felt.

I can't go to sea again. I'm not sure I can go outside again, so my history of the Scamps ends here. I wish them well, whatever they find on the horizon, and thank them for all we did together.

I can't write any more, Hazil. I'm sorry.

.

.

.

Epilogue

'How is he?'

'Bad.'

'Can I talk to him? I think I can help.'

'You can try, but he won't listen. He doesn't want to hear any of it.'

'He might want to hear this.'

Vilayn stabbed at the parchment with the quill, blotting the page and upsetting the vase of stoneflower stalks. Before the water splashed onto the manuscript he swept it aside, letting every word fall to the floor, and picked up a new sheet to write on. His hand jerked angrily across the page.

fucking priests and their fucking bloody thrice damned words oh I'm sorry how awful how sad let me know if there's anything I can do think about all the good things he's safe now he's with the gods now isn't that lovely isn't that so fucking nice for them fuck that make them give him back he isn't theirs he's ours I want him back I want him back I want him back why can't any of them fucking do anything

There was a knock on the door. The nib of the quill ripped through the paper and scratched the desk below.

'Vilayn? It's Ethysil. I really want to talk to you. May I come in?'

'Fuck off.'

A search of the hold turned up a number of crates and barrels salvaged from more successful captures, as well as enough supplies for the final two weeks of the journey home. Bob, tasked with inspecting the barrels and reinforcing the enchantments, performed her work on the weather deck while her shipmates tended to their wounds. She probed her thick fingers around the banding on a keg. The enchantment sputtered at her touch until she urged new magic into it, frowning lightly, or as lightly as an Orc could manage when her face was permanently buried under the weight of its own leathery skin. The work was delicate and tedious. Not a chore she was best suited for, but it had to be done.

After a while she became aware of someone else sat nearby. Jo'Raya had the ability to pad up in total silence and yet the impatient swishing of her tail, the silent burr of her nails digging into the deck, always gave her away. A trail of blood, not hers, slicked the fur down from the back of her head and across her neck, and she flicked an ear at it occasionally. They sat in companionable silence for some time before Jo'Raya said,

'You feel it?'

Bob laid down her tools.

'Feel what?'

'The change. This one smells it in the elves.' Jo'Raya stretched out her legs, spreading her toes and letting the claws shine against the bloodstained deck. 'When Khajiit feels change, there is a restlessness which clings to its fur. The urge to run and pounce and to do.'

Years ago, back in the stronghold, Bob remembered the old chieftain, before he was challenged by his son. She had been young then, but that didn't stop her feeling the buzz around the forge or hearing the whispers running along the walls, as if the air were charged with an unseen energy. Eventually the tension grew so tight the son had to make his challenge simply to relieve the strain on the rest of the clan.

The urge to do. Around them, scattered across the deck, the sailors were working as usual, scrubbing down planking and hauling the spoils back to the Runaway Scamp, but every now and then there would be a glance between them, or a silence where there would usually be friendly insults and laughter. Bob picked up her hammer again, only to tap it against the side of a barrel to no effect.

'Mebbe. Why?'

'The elves can't run away from it. Change hunts without rest.'

'Y'ain't thinkin' of desertin'?'

'No. Where would this one go? Besides, Khajiit says, all kittens must leave their clan mother. Some change is merciful.'

In the wintry light which always lay over the Sea of Ghosts, Jo'Raya's fur looked dark, but the edges were tipped with gold. She held herself perfectly still and poised as she gazed out to the ocean. Bob watched her for a while before shrugging and digging herself into her work.

'Orcs got a sayin', too.' She waited until Jo'Raya turned her head to listen. 'Whatever shit life throws at you, meet it head on, 'cause there ain't much thicker'n an Orc skull.'

Jo'Raya's tailed lifted. Bob had never seen a Khajiit until she signed on with the Scamp, but that was enough to teach her that this was the closest Jo'Raya ever came to laughing.

'Orc and Khajiit, not so different.'

'Cap'n says we ain't Orcs 'n Khajiit 'n elves, we's crew.'

'Then we meet the change head on together, yes? We charge in headfirst, one crew.'

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...

Silently, but with an eagerness that betrayed his gratitude, Ethysil took the tankard. There was an oily film on top of the liquid inside and its colour, as much as could be discerned inside the pewter, was a rusty shade of brown. Ethysil didn't give his mind time to reject the idea of drinking it before pouring it into his mouth.

While the concoction tried to eat its way through Ethysil's throat lining, Azareth found a crate and sat down, producing a pipe and biting into the stem. He packed it with hackle-lo and tamped it down, without much interest in the spluttering going on beside him. By the time Ethysil found his voice it was smouldering gently.

'As usual, Mr Azareth, you are a lifesaver.'

Azareth puffed out a lungful of smoke.

'Could of asked for it yerself.'

'R'khan would have noticed.'

'Think he noticed anyway when y'tried explaining Lord Seht's Sequence to him using a fork 'n some salt.'

'Ah.'

Another coughing fit prevented further embarrassment. When it was over, Ethysil joined Azareth on a box and smoothed a hand across his head, which was already feeling less sore than it had done five minutes ago. The sight of the feather on Azareth's hat swaying in time with the horizon didn't turn his stomach, either. He frowned at it anyway, then beneath the brim, where Azareth was watching his pipe smoke absently.

'While we're alone, do you mind if I ask you something?'

'Nah.'

'Did I see you calling in your debts back in Solitude?'

After a moment, Azareth slumped a non-committal shoulder.

'Aye. Needed gold for supplies.'

'You were doing it in Northpoint, too.'

'Needed a lot a' gold.'

'And yet you haven't asked any of the crew to pay up.' Ethysil waved away the pipe smoke, which clung to his hand for a moment and then faded away. 'Is something going to happen?'

'What makes y'say that?'

'You're a gambler. Nobody can call them like you. When I see you cashing in your old debts, I start to think that perhaps I ought to be doing the same.'

Azareth shifted on his crate until he faced the rest of the deck and crew, who were finished with the sail and preparing for a mage drill. Nobody had any reason to visit their corner by the prow. He waited until Oran had stamped below decks to marshal the newer recruits before turning back.

'It's a hunch, is all.'

'Your hunches are more reliable than a direct visitation from the Three accompanied by written scripture.'

The ashes in the pipe bowl glowed bright.

'Things're changing. Seen it in R'khan's face. Dunno what, dunno why, but I thought, mebbe now's the time to settle any outstanding scores. Don't hurt to be prepared.' He tapped the pipe against his knee a few times. 'Don't s'pose the Three've mentioned anything?'

'No, but I can ask. It's almost time for the Ritual, and thanks to you I might manage to get through it alive.'

No time like the present, either. Vilayn, overseeing the drill, had finally noticed the slackers to the fore of the ship, and if he hadn't stopped to criticise the formation of the mages along the side Ethysil knew he would have been the next up for a tongue lashing. As it was, he did his best to appear full of purpose as he strode towards the hatch, and only paused when Azareth coughed.

'Ethys?'

'Yes?'

'Y'owe me a septim for the cure.'

Azareth was smiling, but Ethysil knew better than to assume this meant it was a joke. He flicked his fingers into a gesture which definitely wasn't recognised by any subsect of the Tribunal Temple.

'Tight bastard.'

Take Anna, for example. She was a striking lass, strong as a Nord and fierce as a Khajiit, with half her teeth missing after a run-in with the Thieves' Guild but none the worse for it. The gold she filled in the gaps with her gave her smile a lovely sparkle. I don't know what made her single out Braskan on the night in question, but single him out she did, with a lot of simpering about how she was new to the Imperial City and how she needed a handsome mer like him to keep her safe in such a big place. This, of course, was a lie, because we’d met Anna on our last visit and got pretty well-acquainted. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but a hefty amount of liquor helped Braskan swallow it. They disappeared into the tavern's back rooms, and the back of his seacoat and her short red dress weaving up the stairs were the last we saw of them for the night. Braskan claims he can't remember the precise details of what passed in that room so I suppose, in the interests of accuracy and honesty which I obviously support at all times, I have to leave that up to the imagination. For the sake of my sanity I prefer to imagine they had a nice cup of tea and then went to sleep, because Braskan engaging in wild profligate sex doesn’t bear thinking about, but your opinion may differ.

What he does remember is the next morning. After waking up, he didn't move for a while, partly because of the sweet soreness filling him from head to toe and partly because when he tried, he discovered his hands were tied to the bed. Calling for Anna got no answer. Braskan was alone in the room and firmly affixed to the bedpost. There are worse situations to be in, in my opinion, but maybe not when you weren't expecting it and don't recall asking for it. He considered going back to sleep, but his attempts were thwarted by a breeze through the open window flowing across his bare skin.

Eventually, after perhaps an hour or so, he deduced that this meant he was naked, and made another valiant attempt to free himself from his bonds. The sound of the tavern staff waking up below made the need to get up and find his clothes all the more pressing. Anna must have studied her knots, because the rope cut deep into his skin, but eventually he managed to loosen them enough to wrench his wrists free and flopped out of the bed onto the floor, where he lay panting until a shout from below reminded him of his predicament. It was time to find his clothes and escape.

Other than a lot of dirt, and a pair of lacy undergarments which certainly weren't Braskan's, there was nothing on the floorboards. Nothing on the bed, either, not even when he shook out the sheets and the empty bottles wrapped up in them. The closet in the corner was home only to more rope and a thick layer of dust. Not a sign of Braskan's clothes, not even his seacoat, which most people who've seen it believe to be permanently stuck to him by a sort of boozy, tarry glue.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a chair. It didn't take long to search. On top of it was Anna's little red dress, thrown aside hastily during the night. Underneath it, there was nothing. The only stitch of clothing in the room was that dress, and someone was knocking on the door. Braskan looked at the dress, which would barely cover his thighs, looked at the window, and made a decision.

--

'Is that it?'

'What?'

'She stole his clothes and he had to walk back to the ship in a dress?' Fria wrinkled her nose and bent her head over the puppet she was fitting together, having replaced its limbs while Vilayn told his tale. 'It's awfully dull, if you don't mind my saying so. Why, I must have heard the same story fifty times already in every inn on the coast.'

'No you haven't. That wasn't the end. If you let me finish, you'd see that the dress wasn't important at all, and anyway this actually happened, unlike all those other stories, and that's why my ending is different. Everybody else stole it from me.'

'Really? Do go on, then. Pardon me for interrupting.'

--

Now, to us Dunmer, a man wearing a dress isn't unusual. If it's comfortable, why not? Mages do it all the time. Imperials, on the other hand, they haven't got their heads around this simple concept, and so Braskan drew more than a few looks as he made his way back to the ship. Knowing Braskan, he didn't mind. He probably swaggered. When you're in that sort of predicament you might as well play it up. Wolf whistles and invitations that don't bear repeating in polite society followed him along the Waterfront, mostly from dockworkers who knew him well (Braskan is the sort of sailor who makes himself known everywhere he goes), and he returned them in good spirit.

'All right there, Brass, me lad?'

'Aye, I's right good, thanks.'

'Like the dress, Brass!'

'Righ’? Does ya good ta feel the air ev'ry now an' then, I says.'

The Runaway Scamp was anchored further out from the City, because as I have mentioned before the crowds of adoring fans can cause some trouble with the guards if we dock within their jurisdiction. For this same reason we were in something of a hurry to leave, and so everything was ready to go, waiting only for Braskan's arrival. Purely coincidentally, this meant we could line up along the taffrail when Drasonval sighted him, watch Turithys row him up alongside, and deliver our own verdict on his new attire.

'Nice legs you got under there!'

'That red brings out your eyes something beautiful.'

'I'd of spent me money on summat a bit more practical, but you do what makes you happy.'

He endured all this with the same good nature, giving as good as he got, while we hauled them aboard. R'khan appeared on deck to greet him personally – not something that happens often, I assure you, but the reason for this unusual compliment will soon become apparent. There was what I believe could be fairly referred to as a twinkle in the captain's eye.

'Welcome aboard, Sera Braskan. We almost weighed anchor without you.'

'Ah, ya couldn'a done it wi'out my help.'

'On the contrary, we got ourselves a new recruit who fills your shoes remarkably well.'

---

"I'm going to look up what ingredients Hazil's medicines would be made from!" Ctrl + F "restore fatigue"

>Bread ...all righty then. Technical ingredients, these. >Crab Meat Crab sandwiches it is. >Hackle-Lo Leaf Followed by a quick smoke. >Large/Small Kwama Egg "All food", basically. >Saltrice To taste. >Scrib jerky >Scuttle

Right, that didn't work. Let's try "fortify strength" instead. >Ash Yam (secondary) There is going to be at least one healer Hazil visited who just told him to eat a proper meal. >Daedra Skin That's more like it! >Dreugh Wax Yay! >Vampire Dust (secondary) Hurrah!

http://morrowind.inventivegamer.com/tools/potion-maker/ Dreugh Wax, Saltrice, Daedra Skin and Hackle-Lo fortify strength and restore fatigue, but have a chance of paralysing the patient if made incorrectly. Dreugh Wax and Saltrice alone

Bread, saltrice and hackle-lo  restore fatigue only, but would be edible. Dreugh Wax and Bear Pelts fortify strength.

"What the shit is that?!?!" "It's wax smeared across a bear. Eat up! :D"

Dreugh Wax, Scuttle, Ash Yams and Scrib Jerky makes fortify strength/restore fatigue/fortify fatigue. So musty, fishy wax. Mmm.

When people ask Hazil why he's so bitter about taking his medication, he points out that its primary ingredient is wax, it tastes of fish and it doesn't work.

"Oh, wax isn't that bad!" “Do you know what dreugh wax is? Have you read 2920? In the words of Lord Sotha Sil, dreugh vomit.”