Oblivion: Diary of a desperate merchant — pt 1

My name is Mercato Fortem. I run a shop in Balmora, in Morrowind, flogging odds and ends that I pick up on my travels. And I’ve just had the find of my life. A magical ring of great power, bought from a trader in Vivec who should've known better. 500 gold. I have a buyer who will stump up 30,000: Countess Millona Umbranox of Anvil. 

Her husband has been missing for ten years, and he wore a ring that—judging by what her messenger says—was identical to this one. She thinks it might be his, or that it's a matching pair and having it on her finger will bring him back to her. Whether it will work or not, I can’t say. All I know is that the money is my retirement, and a house wherever I want. I can’t trust the delivery to a mere courier, and the waters to the south of Valenwood and Elsweyr make a direct journey by sea impossible. So I will travel to Leyawiin by boat, and make the three-day hike to Anvil, the town of my birth. All I need to do is arrive in one piece…

(NOTE: None of this was scripted, although I have taken some artistic license with the action and dialogue.)

Leyawiin is a godforsaken place, its streets dark and damp and uninviting. I squelch through the rain, stopping only to pull my cloak tighter around me. Everybody else has their head bowed against the downpour, watching their step on the wooden boards crudely laid down where the flooding is worst. As miserable a spot as I can remember. Food, a bed, some hired swords, and then I’m out of here.

I see a swinging sign for the Five Claws Lodge, which seems a likely spot. It’s at least warm and dry inside. “Well met,” says the innkeep, an Argonian called Witseidutsei. I pay for a room and order some bread and cheese and dried meat. I hang my cloak by the fire and take a seat at the bar, my boots dripping rainwater onto the wooden floor. “Passing through?”

“Heading to Anvil.”

Her face tightens. “Rough business, that.” 

“How do you mean?”

“The priest.” She looks at me. “You haven’t heard? Murdered. And there’s a man going around yelling about being a prophet or something. Ugly stuff.” That doesn’t bode well. I gulp down a mouthful of bread. 

“What takes you there?”

“Just…business,” I say. I can’t tell anybody what I’m carrying in my pocket, no matter how friendly they appear. She takes the hint, silently rubbing a glass behind the bar with a cloth until it squeaks. I see a newspaper tucked away under a plate to my right. “Can I borrow this?”

“Sure, take it.”

So, it’s true. I heard the rumours on my journey of course, but here it is in black and white. The Emperor. Dead. I have no real love for the man, but he brought peace to this part of the world. And with him gone, the roads will no doubt be more dangerous. All the worse for me. “Say, do you know where I can hire a few sell-swords? My ship’s captain mentioned that the Blackwood Company might be able t-”

“I can help you out,” says a gruff voice over my shoulder. Another Argonian. He’s a big fellow, which is encouraging, with a barrel chest under what looks like steel armour. We chat for a bit and, satisfied with his patter, I hire two of his men. For 600 gold—most of what I carry—they’ll stay with me until Anvil. As big as him, he promises me, and twice as quick. I tell him to make sure they’re outside before sunrise, and with that I head upstairs to my bed.

I awake before dawn, stretching and pulling on my half-dried boots. Perhaps in Bravil I’ll be able to buy a new pair. I stuff what little I have on me into my cloak and slip my iron dagger into its sheath. I’ve never had cause to swing it before. Hopefully that won't change. I head downstairs, stopping to buy some fruit and bread and corn from Witseidutsei. “Hopefully you’ll be back in Leyawiin soon,” she says with a smile.

Gods forbid. I step out into the morning. 

The Argonian wasn't lying about my mercenaries. Broad-shouldered folk, with shields and steel armour, and eyes as sharp as their axes. They greet me with a nod. Silent types. I tell them we’ll be walking the whole way. My old legs can’t run like they used to, and a kick from a horse when I was a child put me off the animals for life. Again they nod, and we set off. 

We pass through the town gates and head north, hugging the western shore of the Lower Niben, past an old farmhouse, hardworking folk up early tending their crops and sheep despite the rain. “Greetings, Imperial brother,” one calls out as we walk past. I wave. 

My Argonian companions are a tad unnerving, I must admit, one at each shoulder, eyes darting about for any sign of danger. At the next farm they begin attacking a sheep for some reason I can’t fathom, chasing it over the rolling hills to cut it down, and returning to the road with fresh blood on their axes. I stay silent. Perhaps some ritual of their people that I haven’t come across before. I daren’t question them. I’ve been told to expect raiders on the road, and I need them alert. A while later, I’m glad of their presence.

As I crest over a hill an arrow whistles past my ear.

“Bandit!” one of them cries as he rushes forward, the other pushing me down to the ground before wading in himself. An arrow bounces clean off the breastplate of the first Argonian and then he’s on the man, cutting him down in one almighty swing. 

I struggle to my feet, shaking, still feeling the breath of wind the arrow left as it passed by. I stare at the bandit’s blood smeared across the road. “We should go,” the Argonian says, taking the boots off the downed archer and handing them to me. “There could be more.” I look from the blood on the floor to the boots and back again. The smell makes me wretch, and I turn away to spit. 

“Are you okay?” the other asks. 

“Yes,” I manage, although I can feel that the colour has not yet returned to my face, and my hands are shaking. He offers me his hip flask. I fumble for it and take a swig, the warm liquid burning my throat. I take another, followed by a few deep breaths to steady my fingers.

If I am to make this journey then I’ll have to get used to its dangers. No doubt have closer calls than this. It's no use crying over spilt blood, and better his than mine. The fur of the boots looks dry and inviting. I slip them on and leave my old pair on the side of the road. With a glance back, I push on.

As the weather clears so the road gets easier, and more pleasant. The constant ups and downs of the hills that wear heavy on my knees become less pronounced, the road straighter, the trees less gnarled. Beds of flowers line the path, the water to our right reflecting green islands and a brightening sky. Trees drape down into the water, as if stopping for a drink. I pause at a Wayshrine of Stendarr for a blessing, its white stone comforting and cool to the touch. Some of the strength comes back into my thighs. I spend the rest of the morning silently plodding on. 

We stop around midday by a bridge to share some corn that one of the Argonians is carrying, plus some apples and a wedge of cheese. It’s all I have. I should’ve really brought a pack with me, but I feared it would slow me down. I’ll have to stock up in Bravil.

I have vague recollections from my childhood of the beauty of this part of the world, and after lunch it comes flooding back. Statues and low stone walls frame the road, flowers and plants overgrowing their boundaries and straying onto the path in bursts of colour, as if to spite the now grey sky.

It feels old, full of memory and pride. The road is busier here, too, with travellers and adventurers passing by in bright garbs, some smiling. And, thankfully, no more bandits. It’s downhill into Bravil, and I spy its walls earlier than I had anticipated.

I had expected something akin to Leyawiin. Bravil’s reputation is of a dark and dangerous place, full of criminals that will not think twice about leaving you dead in an alley. I meet local bard Varon Vamori as I enter. “Bravil is as solemn as bitter as the grave,” he says. “Old, worn and wicked.”

But while I’m glad to have the Argonians with me, I’m pleasantly surprised by what I find. The houses are all set on different levels, balancing in a rickety assortment that I find most charming. Interesting people walk the street, including a blind adventurer with a rag tied around his face. It feels much more alive than Leyawiin: there’s a butcher, and a houseware store, and a square with farmers chatting about what books they’re reading.

The harbour is even better, full of dark wood and the smell of fish. I hear laughter, something Leyawiin had nothing of, and people milling about on the boats and outside a brewery. I wander the boards for a time, staring out across the water, thinking back on the day. If that arrow had been an inch to the left…

My rumbling stomach stirs me. I duck into the Bayside Inn, where I’m greeted by a man with a booming voice named Gerald Fander, who owns the place. “Try my wife’s bread,” he says. “She bakes it herself.” The smell is hard to resist so I order a loaf, alongside a bowl of steaming mutton stew that fills me with warmth. I order some for my guards, who thank me and sit at their own table slurping silently. I even pay for a pint of mead fresh from the brewery next door. It's sweet and deep.

I tell Fander of my journey, and ask him for any tips for the next day.

“Ah. Bit of an awkward one. There’s a couple of inns that you’ll reach very early in the afternoon, but if you push on you won’t get to Skingrad until the dead of night.”

Awkward indeed. I had heard there was an inn a day’s march ahead, at the very start of the Gold Road. But it has closed down, he tells me. I don’t fancy the road in the dark. Especially after today. 

As I eat I look at the shelves behind him, displaying various plates, mugs, and their prices. Some shelves stock fabric, too, and I spot the strap of a backpack poking out from between two pieces of cloth. “Say, How much for the pack?”, I ask, pointing to it.

He wiggles it out and slides it across the bar.  “Don't worry about it. Some traveller left it a while back on their way through. It’d be good to get it off my hands.” I slip some coin under my bowl for him to find later and spend some more on food for the next day. With the pack on my back I can carry more, so I stuff some apples inside along with some wrapped, cured ham, and a chunk more of his wife’s bread.

As I get up to leave he speaks again. “Just be careful. Lot of folk have come here talking of marauders on the road up to the Imperial City.”

I nod, but inside my stomach twists.

It's up to my room, bidding goodnight to the Argonians and Gerald Fander. As soon as my door is closed I collapse onto the bed. The sun has only just dipped below the horizon but I am already shattered. As I'm lying there the full effect of a day climbing hills hits my legs. I feel them pulsing and aching. I glance at my boots that I’ve left by the door, and feel the flash of the arrow past my ear once more, see the bandit’s blood on the floor. 

How glad I am that those Argonians are with me. And tomorrow I don’t doubt I will be in their debt once more. 

To be continued…