The Illusionist: To New Beginnings and Old Conclusions

by SeydaNeen

Summary:

Following the death of the Emperor, Nimileth escapes prison and with it, the shadows darkening her past. But she's a skilled illusionist, a thief, a swindler, and old habits it would seem are hard to kick.

Notes:

Hi all! Thanks for stopping by! This is my first completed fic. I posted it years and years ago when my writing was a lot rougher. I'm in the process of editing old chapters to make the language smoother which will hopefully lend itself to a more enjoyable read. If at times the quality seems erratic, that is probably why :)

Much love ❤️

Chapter 1: Prologue: Sundas Service

Summary:

Nim escapes a life of servitude

Prologue: Sundas Service

The Midyear sun blazed high and proud above Kvatch. Below, the city scrambled on. Another Midyear, another Middas. Magnus rose, its ascent resolute.

Along the city streets, the dogwoods sang the praise of last month's heavy rain, swaying softly back and forth, shading the benches in the verdure of their boughs. There Nimileth rested alone, watching the towns-people bustle by. It was a rather unextraordinary afternoon, busy and noisy as it always was when the villagers flocked to the Middas markets. Dabbing the sweat beading along her brow with her too-long sleeve, she sat in content silence from her safe distance away, listening to the incoherent chatter, the crunch of gravel, the jingle of coin-purses passed in exchange, and she imagined the marketplace of the Imperial City sounded much the same, only more luxurious. It was the capital after all.

Nimileth would find herself there someday, somehow, become a fruit vendor, a pick-pocket, another blurred face in the crowd of shoppers. It wouldn't much matter so long as she was there. In the market square, the sea of people churned, and the poor street-vendors without canopies over their stalls burned red beneath the beating sun. Nimileth hoped that whatever lay in her future, she would not be one of them. 

When the breeze passed, she began the slow saunter back to Castle Kvatch. The head-mistress had sent her into town hours ago with thirty gold pieces to buy vegetables for the evening's roast and fresh flowers for the dining room vases. A simple task though it may have seemed, Nimileth took her sweet time wandering, and by now, the flowers she’d bought had long since wilted in the afternoon heat. These summer months were full of distractions. Too many insects skipping through the grass. Too many speckled mushrooms sprouting up from the rain-slaked dirt, but it was these scant few hours of dawdling freely that made her time cooped up in the servant quarters bearable. So she took her time, oohed and aahed at every window, passing her eyes over the jewelers stalls with a deep pang of longing. Glittering baubles, necklaces, these beautiful things she’d never afford as a castle maid— Ah, but so was life, she remembered of her teachings, full of luxury designed to tempt.

The towns-people rushed about, treading dangerously close with their frighteningly rough paces, rough enough to trample. Sometimes Nimileth wondered if they could even see her as they pressed by. Weaving in and out of the dense crowds, she rushed for the side streets where the walk was calmer, lined by gable-roofed houses wreathed in morning glory, the ivy as green as can be. Once or twice, she stopped to pick the flowering weeds and twisted them into braids, sticking them through her belt for safe keeping. She had to enjoy the green while it held in a town as bland as Kvatch. Soon winter would be upon them to wither everything it touched. Ash-grey, the sky. Dead, the trees. The wind blisteringly cold to match her sentiments.

From the center of the city came the toll of the chapel bell, chiming thrice to declare the dawn of a new hour. A spike of panic lanced through her, reverberating with each peal. Where’d the time gone? She was late, exceptionally late, and the headmistress was going to be furious. Again.

Darting down the main plaza, basket clutched fiercely at her side, Nimileth nearly reached the drawbridge to the castle courtyard when she stopped to look for No-shoe Neville. She had coin for him today, leftover from the market. It wasn't her gold, not like she’d get to keep it when she returned, and the Count wouldn't miss a spare drake or two with his coffers as bloated as they were.

Shrill laughter drew her attention to the alleys. There, Neville was in his usual spot, huddled against the foundation of a nearby house, but today he wasn't alone. Bucket in one hand and ladle in the other, a boy dumped water over Neville, poor Neville, who remained still, resigned to torment, a blubbery wet gasp escaping from beneath his tangle of a beard. 

Oh, Neville. Get up! But Neville didn't move. Neville rarely even spoke. Don't just sit there! Don't take it! Get up, Neville! Come on, get up!

Clutching at his gaunt and wiry frame, Neville shut his eyes and shuddered. The boy dumped more water over him, and Nimileth whipped her head about as the towns-people strolled by. Why was no one stepping in to help? Did no one else see the boy's cruel antics? Did no one else care? But the towns-people rushed about, and though she watched them lift their heads at the sound of laughter, they passed their eyes over Neville as if he simply wasn't there. A spark of anger ignited inside her, eclipsing all fear of running late, and without sparing a second thought, she marched for the boy, shoved him hard, and swatted the ladle out of his hands.

"What in the sixteen planes is wrong with you?" Nimileth stretched around him, reaching for the bucket now, hoping to knock it from his grip. "Nine, is there no civil bone in your body?"

"C’mon," the boy snorted, "he needed a bath. Look at him, covered in grime, reeking of drink. It's a hot day too. Really, he should be thanking me for helping him cool down."

"Get away from him!"

"Yeah? Or what?"

"Or I'll spit on you!"

"And who's the uncivil one now?"

Nimileth snarled. The boy smirked. She sized him up with a quick, regardful glance. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than her— gangly, swimming in a blue cotton shirt two sizes too large for his lanky frame. Above his lip was a thin fuzz of a mustache so blonde it looked white on his oily and otherwise unremarkable face. Pathetic, she thought. She could take him if she needed to.

Meanwhile, Neville sat there sopping, gaze eerily blank. Shoving Nimileth aside, the boy reached down to grab the ladle, but if no one else stopped him, Nimileth was at least going to try. Reaching into her basket, she groped for an ear of corn then swatted the boy as hard as she could.

The boy laughed, weaker than before, but a laugh was still a laugh and not the sound Nimileth wanted to hear. She reeled back, struck again, struck harder. Harder she swung until she knocked that shrill, grating sound loose with a pointed jab to the ribs.  

“Oof,” the boy grunted. Another swat against his head as forceful as her tiny arms would allow. The boy's smile faded to a series of sharp winces, his voice breaking unevenly through his protest. “Knock it off!” he shouted, but Nimileth refused even when her arms burned and beads of sweat slid off her brow to sting her eyes. "Ow, you crazy elf! I said knock it off!"

Nimileth jabbed him in the belly for good measure. "Get away from him!"

"Talos' sake, I'm not even touching you! Stop it, damn you! Stop!" 

"I said get away!"

"Alright, alright! Fine! Just let off, will you?" 

Mangled corn cob raised high, Nimileth paused to look for Neville, but he’d since scurried off, leaving only a patch of mud in the now empty alley. Eyeing the boy cautiously, she tucked what was left of the corn back into her basket as if sheathing a fine silver blade. "I'll show you mercy this time, but I swear to the Nine, touch Neville again, and I'll run you through with the pith."

"Hmph."

"Don't hmph me. I've bested you.” 

“You say.”

“I've bested you. Admit defeat and stay away from Neville."

The boy dusted the smashed kernels from his shirt. "You couldn't really do it."

"I couldn't what?"

"You couldn't hurt me," he sniffed, "not really."

"You want me to beat you again?"

"No," he bristled, "but… but you only managed those hits cause I let you."

"Bah,” she scoffed. “I could grind you to meal if I so pleased!" Nimileth raised a carrot threateningly into the air. She lunged forward on one foot, and the boy shielded himself with his pail, water sloshing off the rim and puddling in the dirt below. "Scared?" 

"No!"

"Yeah you are."

"No I'm not."

"Mhm, a spineless sload is just what you are."

The boy crossed his arms, defensive. "I'm just... just letting you toughen me up. Yeah. Pa says it's good to build callouses young. Really, you're doing me a favor."

Nimileth squinted at him then plucked up one of his hands and ran her thumb across the smooth pink skin of his palm. "You've never worked a day in your life."

The boy ripped his hands away, tucked them behind his back and out of view.  "I have too! What would you know about hard work when you’re out there buying groceries?"

"More than you, clearly.” And with that she walked away.

The boy followed, walking abreast. Nimileth watched him with a sidelong glance, decidedly unimpressed. "Yeah, well, you ever had a blister?" he asked.

Nimileth nodded with enthusiasm. "Yeah, and a nasty one at that. Burned myself in the oven so bad the headmistress made me see an alchemist for a salve."

"Mine was worse though." The boy rolled up the cuff of his pants to show her a puckered scar on his ankle. "I was trekking through the forest all day long when I got that one."

Nimileth scoffed again, this time with more derision, because clearly this boy didn't get enough on his own. "You got that frolicking about in boots that were too small for your already tiny feet."

"My feet aren't small!"

"They're small," she said. "Almost as small as mine."

"No, they're the feet of a growing young man! My pa took me out hunting, and I carried the bow all day long. Shot it more than once even!"

"At what? A tree?"

"I got that blister fair and square."

"Whatever."

"I bet you've never been hunting," he said, as though it meant something. "I killed a deer, I did. Bet you've never killed anything before. Not even a chicken. Not even a mouse. You're one of those chapel-going girls. I've seen ya there. I know the type. Pious and so self righteous, think you're doing the world a favor with all your prayer. Bet you're scared of dirt and blood makes you all weak and woozy."

Nimileth took mild insult at the assumption, but she kept on walking, picked up her pace even. The boy went on following at her heels. "I have too killed a chicken," she said, tossing her hair over shoulder with an affected air of nonchalance. "Killed one two days ago for lunch even. Have you killed a chicken?"

"No," he said. "But I killed a deer."

"I could kill you with this here carrot," she said, and when she waved it at him again, he tensed. She fought down a savage grin. "And why are you following me to chapel anyway?"

"Ma and Pa make me go with 'em on Sundas. You're always there, praying and giving alms like the rest of those brain-washed fools. The poors gotta help themselves, that's what my pa says. It's in the ten commands too: work hard, and you will be—"

"I know what the ten commands say.”

"Then you know you're not doing them any good with someone else's coin."

Nimileth pursed her lips. The boy smirked triumphantly. A load of rubbish, she thought. Does Stendarr not say to be kind and generous to the children of Nirn?

And the local beggars knew her well enough for her small kindness, the little she could offer. Sneaking food out of the castle larders and fencing shiny things when she came by them wasn't the most virtuous way of helping, but if she didn't, who would? Surely Zenithar would turn a blind eye once. Or twice. And the beggars were always kind to her in return. They brought her gifts salvaged from the town refuse, shared stories with her, told her of life beyond the walls of Kvatch, and she knew they had faced so much in their long, bitter lives. Didn't they deserve a warm meal as much as anyone else?

Besides, it wasn't as if Count Goldwine was in short supply. And this boy, with his father's comfy cotton shirt and his tight coin purse, had never been forced to live on the streets. What would he know? Sometimes the spare coin for a strong drink was the difference between making it through the night and giving up.

"Every little bit helps," she said, and by the way the boy was looking at her, forcing those words out felt like an act of defiance. Or worse, a lie. Her stomach sank.

"How are you going to help those beggars when you can't even help yourself? Are you going to be a castle maid for the rest of your life, huh? Give all your leftovers to the poor?"

"Better than you who sits there picking your nose for treasure," she snapped.

"Better than you who has no friends."

"I bet you don't have any friends either. You're as pleasant as guar dung, and you look like a netch fart with a face."

The boy scrunched his nose and kicked a rock down the dirt path. Brushing the stringy hair from his eyes, he met her with a pointed glare. "Maybe, but at least I have a family to go back too. At least I have a real home, and what have you got? Nothing. Who knows if you ever will."

Nimileth stared blankly, her nostrils flaring, squeezing the carrot until her tendons squeaked from strain. The boy looked pleased with himself now, and it turned her sinking stomach like a great dwemer gear. He wouldn't look so proud of himself if she punched in that stupid smirk and knocked all of his stupid teeth loose. He wouldn't feel so smug lying face down in the mud at his feet, if she was pouring the water over him, if he was gasping for air. I'd like to see him like that , she thought, bloodied and broken, tears in his eyes, red-rimmed by the pain, and—

Nimileth caught herself in the murk of her thoughts and with a flare of panic, scrabbled back for the light. A long moment of silence lapsed before she returned the carrot to her basket, dredged up the mucus from the back of her throat, and spat. "I waste my breath talking to you."

She turned, but just as she stepped away, the boy stomped on the edge of her dress. Nimileth fell forward with a shrill cry. The wicker basket went crrrunch beneath her. Quickly, she drew herself to her knees to scoop up what had tumbled out, but the vegetables were ruined now, dirtied and broken, the flowers pressed flat into the mud.

Dread surged into her like a rogue wave. The mistress would have her head! Her third scolding meant punishment, a severe one, worse than the last. All this for her indolence and her mindless wandering, and surely now she'd be stripped from market duty for good! Tears pricked in her eyes as she imagined the rest of the summer forced inside. No market, no fresh breeze, no dandelion stems to braid. All week long with no reprieve all because she had stopped. All because she had tried to help. If only she hadn't. If only she'd kept walking! 

With a loud grunt Nimileth whipped around and lunged at the boy, gripping him by the throat and pressing her meager weight against him so forcefully that he went careening backwards. His pail tumbled from his grasp, spilling to the ground as she forced him into the puddle and crushed the wind from his lungs.

And Nimileth held him there with her knee pressed into his chest, the sleeves of her once cream-colored blouse now mud-soaked as he thrashed. But she held him there, watching, a wicked serpent of thrill slithering through her all while he squirmed. Eyes bulging, he gasped like a fish. Every mouthful of air, another raspy groan. A sick pleasure rose in her like bile, and she wished to spit it out, to retch, to laugh.

Managing to pry one of her hands off his throat, the boy tried to sit up, but Nimileth slammed her palm into his face, and the crunch of his nose was as crisp as boots on old snow. She shivered— sheer delight— and the boy crashed back into the mud. A muffled sob escaped him, and only then did Nimileth pull away because that was the sound she'd been waiting for. That was what she'd wanted to hear.

But then came the croaked voice of an old woman, "Ah, to be young and in love," she rasped.

Nimileth shot up to meet her haggard gaze, rheumy eyes flitting back and forth between her and the bloody boy pinned beneath her. His sobs were growing louder, and to Nimileth's horror, a crowd had gathered at the mouth of the alley to spectate. Still, none of them moved, only watched, whispered, and Nimileth felt like a circus animal on display. 

Looking anywhere else, she glanced down to find fresh scarlet blood glistening in the creases of her palm, and as fast as she could, she grabbed her basket and ran. In her wake she left the bloodied boy wailing. At his feet, a white daisy ruined forever, its slender stem broken at the neck.

---

Magnus settled over the Abecean, clearing the sky of all but a bleeding orange dusk. The busy streets too had settled for the evening, and when Nimileth finally returned her basket to the kitchens, thankfully, the Mistress was not around to inspect. Mangled and filthy as a freshly plucked carrot, Nimileth made for her quarters, ignoring the simmering fear she felt for the impending scolding. She stamped it down, seeking to bury her worries in the latest books she'd snatched from the castle library, but when she reached the hallway to her quarters, she froze.

From around the corner came the sound of heavy boots, armor clinking. What were the guards doing down here?

“...sure thought she was clever hiding them under the floorboards,” said one. “Ballsy to steal from the Countess and think she wouldn’t get caught eventually.”

“I still can’t believe it took us three months to figure it out," said another.

“She’s just a kid, Captain. Kids do these things. My nephew, let me tell you all the trouble he—”

“A thief is a thief, Savlian."

Thief? Floorboards? Nimileth’s stomach plummeted. Pressing herself to the wall, she listened as the guards drew closer. Had she been found out? Had someone ratted on her? By now she was certain they were talking about—

“What are we looking for again?”

"Bosmeri, I think. Brown hair. Mistress said her name’s Nimileth. Jesan, alert the guards at the main entrance, then check the basement. The Countess wants to ensure she's disciplined adequately. I'm going to speak with the mistress. Make arrangements."

Disciplined?

Arrangements? 

The footsteps split up immediately, most travelling away, but a very clear thud, thud, thud echoed off the walls, drawing closer. Her eyes darted to the kitchen behind her, searching desperately for a place to hide. The door was in clear view of the hallway, rendering the main exit hopeless. She'd be seen. A cupboard loomed in the corner, but it was near bursting to capacity, not enough room for even her to fit. If only she could vanish, make herself smaller, make herself gone. If only she knew how to disappear.

Nimileth’s eyes flitted to the window, lingering on the darkening sky beyond. She couldn't hide here forever. She had stolen, had been stealing for months. The guards would find her eventually, but so long as she wasn't detained, she could run, and maybe she could run so very far away, finally leave this place, never look back...

Magnus' glow was only rumor now. Evening had pulled all light swiftly from the sky, but the dark would conceal her, keep her safe, and so legs quaking, Nimileth slid a chair up to the counter, pulled herself onto the window, and leapt.

---

It was a languid, peaceful night at the Chapel of Akatosh, the pews vacant save the lone priest reading in the front row. Quiet the temple, his only company the flicker of the oil lamps and the black ink on the pages beneath his fingers. His duties complete for the evening, he relaxed until the creak of the great wooden doors split the silence. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the dark seep through the doorway. To his surprise, a small child stood there alone. 

Face barely visible through the crack, the child peered down the chapel where she was swallowed by the vastness, the silence, the looming night sky pressing its face to the windows above. The stained-glass images of the Nine peered down at them, and the girl grimaced, her gaze averted. Even from across the room, the priest could see her clutching her arm, wincing as if in pain.

He gave a small wave, and when she didn't move, he approached to find her trembling. She shifted backward with each step he took, readying to flee. “Hello,” he said, and that single word alone made her recede into herself like a turtle.

Now in the light of the wall torches, he could see her clearly and swallowed back a sharp breath. Blood trickled down her cheek and dripped to the clean white floor below. A trail of scratches criss-crossed her chin, her face otherwise wan with fright. She looked beaten, clothes muddied and torn, and the priest clenched his fists until they paled. Who would dare do something to such a young child?

"Hello there," he said again, soft and quiet. He feared speaking any louder might spook her off into the night.

She didn't look at him when she spoke. "Hello," she said, and her voice was so small he might have mistaken it for a mouse's. 

"Are you alright? Your arm appears to be causing you pain."

"I- I've fallen down."

"That's quite a tumble you've taken. May I?" The girl nodded. She tried to stand straighter but couldn’t quiet her tremors as he knelt down to inspect her arm. Attempting to roll up her blood-stained sleeve only drew out sharp winces. Gently, the priest set it down. "Do your parents know that you're here?" 

She shook her head. Something about her big startled eyes evoked familiarity. He'd seen her before, yes. A member of the congregation. 

"It's good that you've come," he said, Glancing up, he found Magnus was disappeared completely for the day, the sky a faded curtain of matte, velvet black. But no child should be wandering alone at this hour. Your parents must be very worried about you. Tell me where you live. I’ll send for them."

“Is it broken?"

"I don’t believe so, but it’s very badly hurt. These bruises will linger, and some of these cuts are quite deep. Stay here and rest. I can mend this once I find your parents. It shouldn't take long. Where do you live?"

The girl didn't respond. No doubt she was scared, and these wounds didn't come from a simple fall. Possibly, she feared further retribution from whoever had harmed her. At the very least, a scolding should she come home in such a state. Met with silence and soft sniffles, he asked again, "Where are your parents?"

"I- I don't know. In Aetherius, maybe."

"Oh. I see then."

Though dressed in tattered clothes, she didn't look like an urchin. She was well-fed, begrimed but with skin of an otherwise healthy russet, not skeletal and anemic like the orphans the chapel pulled off the streets. Most likely she was a ward of one of the wealthier estates, perhaps a servant at Castle Kvatch. The idea brought with it more troubling thoughts. Wherever she lived, someone should have been caring for her. Someone should have prevented this from happening.

The priest opened his mouth to speak, to question her further. How did you fall? Who did this to you? His stomach burned red like newly fed-fire. The monster who did this should be punished. If only she would provide the necessary information for him to take in for a report. But her lips bled pale with fear, and she kept her gaze always away from his. She was terrified, and he was a stranger. Would she answer truthfully if asked?

"Come with me," he said instead and led her to the front of the chapel. "What's your name, child?"

"Nim—" she began, then stopped abruptly. Her eyes were fixed on the stained-glass portraits of the Gods above, and when she swallowed back her words, she nearly choked.

"Nim?" She nodded. The priest approached the altar and motioned for her to join him. "Place your hand on the well and let us say a prayer together."

"Why?"

"As servants of the faith, let us ask the Divines for mercy and good health, then I will heal you."

Dark, glassy eyes widened to reveal their blistered sclera. "Oh no," she said. "I can't. The Nine- I've never asked for their help before."

"They welcome their followers to their altar. The relationships we form with the Gods are one of mutual love. Would they want to see you here standing in their house wincing in pain? Surely not."

She reached up with her good hand, wiped a budding tear away. "No. I'm sorry, I can't. I shouldn't have come."

She took a few steps away and nearly toppled backwards onto a pew. The priest reached out to stop her. "Don't go, please. I've seen you here before, haven't I? You come to our service every Sundas." She gave a small nod, head bowed and lips quivering. "Why then do you look so frightened? You must know that the Gods are happy to listen to such a pious servant of their teachings."

"But they know."

"Know what?"

"That I'm not worthy of being helped."

"Why would they think you unworthy?"

"I- I hurt myself." Silvery tears slid down her cheek, mixing with the brown streaks of blood that had dried there. "I've sinned. It's why all these bad things keep happening to me. Why would the Gods help me? I'm so stupid. I'm so—"

"We are merely mortal," the priest cut in. "It’s in our nature to err. But the Gods are forgiving so long as we walk their path. And you walk in their light, do you not?"

The girl paused, as if considering. She rubbed at her arm again. "Imperfectly."

"Who among us is perfect?"

"Well, I try. I pray. I pray every night and ask the gods to forgive me."

For what? the priest thought. What could a child possibly have done that demands forgiveness?

"I'm not a good person," she offered on her own. "That's why the gods have cursed me with his wretched life."

The priest frowned. "The gods do not curse children."

"Then why this life? Why must it hurt so much?" Then she curled into herself and cried. "What would they have me do with the life they've given me? Spend the rest of my days sweeping dust for those who mock the hungry while gorging themselves fat? Watch as they turn their noses to the beggars outside their home and call themselves Gods-fearing men of the faith? Zenithar says to work hard and be rewarded, but even if I work, even if I bleed and sweat for all my days, I'll never have the gold like them. I will never have enough to help those around me. I can’t even help myself. I have nothing! I’ll work until I die, and I’ll still have nothing! So I’ve stolen like a coward, and I‘ve betrayed him. He knows. He's seen me. He knows.

“I’ll do it again,” she said. “I’ll sin again. It's like... like I can’t help it. Like I don't know how else to be. I try to be grateful, but sometimes I'm so angry. I get so angry, and I wish—"

When Nim looked at him, she withered, and the guilt weighed on her round, youthful face like a grey body hanging from a gallow-tree. The priest could do nothing but listen, could not remember the last time he'd heard such desperation in a voice other than his own.

"Mara's love is without judgment," she whimpered, a self-soothing statement as she rubbed at her bad arm, "but why do the Gods let them carry on like that? Why have they given some people everything and others nothing, not even enough to survive? I hate it. From the very bottom of my heart, I hate it."

The priest listened in silence, the words dry on his tongue, then he motioned to the pew and took his own seat at her side. He pointed to the windows overhead, where the Divines smiled down with open hands, the first few slivers of starlight piercing through at their backs.

"Julianos smiles upon your curiosity," he said, and let warmth curl the edges of his voice, his smile faint and tolerant. Her breathing slowed even if the tears continued to fall. "He has gifted you in a way few will ever be blessed. You’re wise to question the fairness of this world, but I've seen enough kindness among my brethren to respectfully disagree. Each day is fleeting. We are no more bound to the life we live today than to the one we live tomorrow. If today we live in sin, tomorrow we may repent. It is our choice. It is our choice every day, every hour, every minute, and if our aims are true, the Gods will find it within themselves to forgive. So too can we."

"B-but I don't see how I can make a difference," she said. "I open my heart to Stendarr. He says protect the weak and give to those in need, but nothing changes. I feel foolish for trying. Sometimes I have such evil thoughts in the night, ones that the Divines must hear me whisper. They must have cursed me for it, for my wickedness and my anger, and so I pray and come to service every Sundas in hopes that they’ll take these thoughts away." 

“You must listen to your own words. Few have such a pure heart."

"But it's not pure! Didn’t you hear me? I'm angry! I burn! What if I never do any good? What if I can't? What if I'm cursed? What if—" 

"What if I told you I see the opposite in you," he said, and she quieted, if not somewhat reluctantly. "What if I said that I see a young girl who has opened her heart to the Nine and been gifted with more love than anyone should be asked to hold."

"What?" By now, her face was wet with tears and just as much spittle. The priest reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and offered it to her. "Thank you," she whimpered and cried softly into it again.

"You see, Nim, Mara's love is without judgment, but she tests as much as she provides. It's how she guides. You are angered that others are in pain— what sin is that? Does your compassion offend the gods? Is your kindness a weakness? Not at all. It is the very instrument you need to begin the life you wish to live, and like all other tools, it too can be honed. What if I told you I was once the same."

"You were?

She looked genuinely surprised, doe-eyes glittering like two black pearls. "Well, I wasn't born a priest," he chuckled. "My father was but a humble farmer. We worked the land and we struggled. It was an honest life, but sometimes it tested us too. As I grew older I strayed. I wished for more for myself and for others. I wished for some people to hurt. I questioned just as you are now, and I spurned the Gods’ name. I cursed them, gave in to temptation, made mistakes. I ended up hurting the people I loved."

The girl gasped. "B-but you're a priest of Akatosh."

"And even priests are but mortal men. I wandered from the Divine's light, and I remained lost for many years, but the Gods have welcomed me back, and now here I am, a Priest of Akatosh choosing every day to preach the word of the Nine, even if I too have doubts. Let me show you."

The priest lifted a hand, and the girl watched, awestruck, as the blue light of his restorative spell radiated out from the pad of each finger. He placed them over her arm, felt her tense as the magic left him. Slowly, he peeled back the torn sleeve of her blouse to find new, pink skin growing over the scratches. It darkened before their eyes, turning a rich ochre brown that matched the rest of her complexion.

Nim's eyes grew so wide, so luminescent that her whole face had become a mirror reflecting light and pure wonder. "How did you do that? Was it magic?" 

"It was." 

"I've never seen anything like that before. I've read about it in books, but I’ve never—"  She paused, running her finger over her new skin, then took his hand in hers next, bringing it close to inspect every crease in his palm, poking and prodding to find the source of the healing light. "Are all priests healers like you? What if... what if I don't want to be a maid for the rest of my life? What if I could heal people too? How do I become a priest? How do I learn magic to heal others? Can I be a good person too?"

When the priest smiled at her, she dropped her gaze and wadded the handkerchief into a messy ball. "Magicka dwells within every spirit," he said. "Some priests choose to wield it, some don't. It's but one way the Divines work through me. I can teach you how to call it forth, if you are willing and dedicated."

"Do you think I could do it?"

"Of course. Stendarr gave to all mortals the ability to wield magic. We are each connected to Aetherius and its magical reserves. All you need is the time and patience to practice."

"But do you think I could be a good person? Keep faith and help people one day, like you? I have nothing to give, even to myself. How can I help anyone else?"

"I think all you need to do is try."

She wiped her cheeks with the back of her palm, her toothy grin short one incisor. "Really?"

"Come in on Sundas before our sermon. I’ll show you. Together, we can work with the Nine to aid those in need. Now, are you hungry? There's food in the chapel hall."

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

"How about some tea? It will soothe the spirit, if nothing else.”

"Okay," she beamed. "And I will say a prayer now to thank the gods that I met you."

The priest walked down into the chapel hall, a strange mix of warmth and a familiar, leaden gloom brewing within him uncomfortably. Waiting for the kettle to heat, he repeated what the girl had said. What tragedy must she have faced to have succumbed to such sorrow? So young and already so despairing.

It left the priest feeling slightly ill, touched the bruises of old anger, but the Gods worked in strange ways, he reminded himself, and he felt them working through her even now to reach him. The priests who'd mentored him had taught him there was power in words, in healing, in teaching those who were once as lost as him, and as he steeped the tea, he said a silent prayer, thanked Akatosh for granting him the opportunity to employ it. Blessed be their light that they had mercy upon him. Blessed be their love that they'd given him the chance to rebuild his life from old debris.

Tea in hand, the priest proceeded up the steps only to find himself staring once more into the empty chapel. He called the girl's name, received only echo. Perhaps she'd had enough for one day. He didn't blame her. 

Alone, he realized he'd never told Nim his own name, and on Sundas, Brother Martin waited for her by the door. She didn't come. The next week he stood on the chapel steps, scanning the frothing sea of people, and with each villager that entered, his heart sank lower. Where was she? She’d held so much promise, such hope. Had he said something to turn her away?

And at night, he sipped his tea, always brewed enough for one more cup. The girl never came to Sundas service again.

Notes:

If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm here Dirty-Bosmer It's mostly TES and story related stuff, also me cursing into the echoing vacuum of nothing.

Chapter 2: Some Years Later

Summary:

One year has past since the assassination of Uriel Septim and his heirs. Nimileth has a brand new outlook on life and several brand new extracurriculars.

Chapter 2: Some Years Later

"Have you made a decision?

Nim stared at the wine list in defeat. 75 septims for Tamika? No thank you, ma'am. Not today.

Meeting the proprietor's eye, she cleared her throat. "You're not carrying anything of a younger vintage, are you? A Surilie perhaps? A house blend?"

The woman behind the counter scrunched her nose. "No. From Surillie, nothing younger than 399." She eyed Nim up and down, then sighed, irritation palpable. No doubt she had other patrons to attend to, patrons who were much more willing to part with their gold.

"Of course." Nim forced a sheepish grin and returned to studying the wine list, certain she’d leave empty handed when she only had thirty septims in her purse. It was no secret that the Tiber Septim Hotel stocked finer wines than her usual haunts, and it was long overdue that she stopped in to try some. What she thought she’d be able to buy with her money as light as it was, she couldn't now say. Apparently nothing. "What a fine selection indeed." 

The neighboring barstool creaked beneath the weight of a new occupant, an older woman garbed in red velvets. "Good evening, Augusta,” she said. "I'll have the usual, please." Placing an embroidered coin purse on the counter, she gave Nim a perfunctory glance before turning back to await her drink. Nim looked down at her own clothes, feeling suddenly very self-aware. Peering sidelong around the lobby, she was met with more velvet, glittering jewels, silks galore. Meanwhile, her own skirt barely skimmed her knees. She’d out-grown it five years ago and never bothered to replace it, and her blouse was second-hand, still splotched brown even though (she thought) she'd cleaned the deer blood from it in her last wash. With the older woman’s attention directed elsewhere, Nim sniffed herself discreetly. Fresher than she’d expected. Good thing she’d bathed today. 

"Have you read the latest statement from the Legion?" the older woman asked, rapping long, lacquered nails against the counter. The proprietor, Augusta as she’d been called, shook her head and poured out a golden-hued spirit from a crystal decanter. "It's in The Black Horse Courier. They've officially ruled out the Dark Brotherhood as suspects in the Emperor’s assassination."

Emperor? Assassination? A lump lodged itself at the back of Nim's throat. Don't think about that night , she commanded herself, but her ears perked involuntarily and her stomach dropped a foot within her. At once she stopped re-reading the wine list. Don't think about that night. Don't—

"...had simply assumed it was that horrendous cult, but can you imagine my surprise to learn the truth is actually worse? I mean, what could be worse than the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Nothing I can think of," Augusta said. "You're absolutely right. What’s more distressing than assassins running amuck?"

“Necromancers, perhaps?" Nim offered.

The older woman looked at her, a thin brow raised high. "I beg your pardon?" 

"Surely necromancers are worse than assassins. It's one thing to cause death, another to raise it. Haven't you heard the reports from the surrounding counties?"

"I'm not sure that I have, no."

"Dismembered bodies, undead thralls, syndicates of wizards practicing the black arts. That sort of thing."

Augusta rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "That's sensationalism from the papers. Just journalists grabbing at rumors to sell their stories. The Arch-mage banned necromancy years ago."

"But it's technically legal in Cyrodiil," Nim said. "Nothing's stopping anyone from practicing outside of the Arch-mage’s authority."

"Well," Augusta sniffed. "Mages Guild politics are no cause for concern among the common people of Cyrodiil. No respectable mage would practice such a savage art anyway."

"Aye." Nim gave a nod of assent. "But it's seldom the respectable mages that are cause for concern."

Augusta pulled her lips into a bloodless line. "And will that be all for you today, Miss?"

"Why, she has a point, Augusta," the older woman said, sipping as she turned to Nim, her eyes rheumy beneath that thick layer of kohl. "Yes, dear, I suppose you're right. Necromancers are a ghastly thought indeed." Humming in consideration, she finished off her drink, replaced the tumbler on the counter, and motioned for a refill. "Another, Augusta, please. It's been such a long, grueling day. As I was saying, we're in for some hard times now with the—"

Nim dredged up a humorless laugh. "Hard times? What gave it away? The death of the Emperor beneath the Imperials' very noses?" And then she snorted quite uncouthly. "And here I thought the Empire turned a blind eye when its citizens fell dead in their streets."

There was a brittle pause, a quick breath from the woman beside her, then silence save the slow trickle of liquor hitting the bottom of an empty glass. Nim’s face grew infernally warm. She wasn't sure what had compelled her to speak so sharply to a woman so far above her station. Perhaps the nonchalance of the woman's worries. Perhaps the resurfaced memory of the Emperor's blood on her hands. Nim glanced up, watched as the elderly woman sipped her drink with as much concern as was carried on a warm breeze. She dressed like nobility, talked like it too. When had she ever faced adversity? What did she know of the hard times to come? 

Augusta narrowed her eyes until they were as pointed as arrow tips, but the older woman simply shrugged, paid her tab, and patted Nim on the shoulder before walking languidly away.

Nim opened her mouth to apologize, the impropriety of her behavior dawning swiftly upon her, but Augusta cut her off before even a whimper escaped. "Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to make a purchase? I have other customers to serve." 

Eyes averted, Nim returned the wine list to the counter and made briskly for the door. Pulling a wrinkled paper out of her pocket, she reviewed the shopping list Methredhel had written: eggs, oranges, cheese, sewing thread, wine—

Everything but the bloody wine. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she confirmed that Augusta was still glowering from the bar. I didn't want to shop here anyway , she told herself. The wine is dreadfully overpriced.

---

Nim kicked a stray rock down the road, heading for the Temple District, her eyes fixed on her feet.

‘We're in for some hard times now with the death of the Emperor.’

She’d been hearing it for years, ever since that night , and now the echo of that caution rang with a dull metallic resonance like a blade striking futilely at stone. The death of the Emperor. The death of the Emperor. The. Death. Of. The. Emperor. The spit turned sour in her mouth.

There was a ghost on Nim’s trail, and she could feel it now raising the soft hairs on her neck, unsure how to exorcize it from her shadow. But she'd been through worse, and a year was a long time to forget and move on. So why then did the events of that night feel so fresh now, so raw?

Nim continued down the brick-lined street, scabbed memories scrabbling at her heels: a croaking voice at her ear, papery skin in her palms, the cold metal kiss of the Amulet of Kings. It had been over a year since she'd awoken in that cell, but no length of time's passage would make her comfortable reliving what she’d endured that day. Fortunately, most people weren’t asking, and even the ones who had would never know the full truth. They didn’t need to know who she’d been before that night nor what Uriel Septim had asked of her with his dying breath. 

It's not my fault he put so much misguided trust into a stranger , she told herself and tried to shunt the Emperor’s words away, tried force them back into the burrows of her mind where they didn’t even belong. Why not the Blades who were established to guard him? I'm nobody's servant. Not anymore. Why does everyone expect so much from me?

Besides, it wasn't as if she'd made no attempt to deliver the amulet to that Blade outside of Chorrol. Twice she’d made the trek to Weynon Priory, but each time she reached out to knock, each time she gripped that wrought iron rung, the dying light in Uriel Septim's eyes flashed before her. A lifeless blue. A nowhere blue. A blue that would never see the sky again because of her. How could she explain to the Grandmaster of the Blades that she had been the one who let him die? 

And so she said nothing. Not even Baurus knew about the amulet. When he'd asked what had happened to it, all she could do was gape. Nim couldn’t bring herself to confess to the Emperor's last words, so she tucked his amulet beneath the floorboards of Methredhel’s shack and somewhere even further, somewhere deeper, a sunless place locked shut within.

At last Nim came to the All-Saints Inn to spend the last of the ever-dwindling coin in her purse. "Fine day to you, Willet,” she called out. “I'll take two bottles of the cheapest you have, please."

Willet nodded, quirking a familiar grin. "Ah, the usual then."

"Glass for the road?" Willet returned with two bottles and a stone cup of dry red. Nim tipped five septims and drank it down quicker than was probably ladylike, but the bitter taste of memory was lingering stubbornly in her mouth, and she was beginning to feel desperate. A minute more and she'd have licked the countertops to be rid of it.

Outside, the sky shimmered a fading flaxen over the Temple District, the streets below teeming with the ant-like bustle of workers headed home for the evening meal. Her basket full, Nim walked south to the city isle tunnel where the perpetual pitter-patter of water accompanied her down its shadowy length. Beyond the far doors, the waning light of Magnus seared sharp across Lake Rumare. Nim loved the walk home, the closer to sunset the better, and now with the wine hitting her fast, each step felt a little less encumbered. She made for the harbor, haloed in the sun's warmth, the sweet scent of skooma pipes choking the air. The lighthouse bell chimed behind her on the hour, and rounding a bend, she caught sight of the local moon-sugar dealer shooing away his loitering clientele.

"Come on, get! Didn't your mother ever tell you not to shit where you eat?" A scarred eye flashed her way as she passed. She nodded as she met it— an old Renrijra Krin acquaintance from Leyawiin, from years ago, from a life she’d since left behind. The man nodded back, silent acknowledgment.  

Sailors clung to the marina like barnacles, speaking in foreign tongues, slinging colorful obscenities amongst themselves. An odd cat-call grazed her ear as she passed, but she ignored it as she always did, headed for the dingy cluster of houses that lined the lakeshore. Finally, Nim reached the door of Methredhel's shack, the place where she’d made her most recent home. Not one that she could call her own, not one she hoped to stay in much longer, but a temporary reprieve from the streets it was indeed, and so she slipped inside.

"Aha, took you long enough! What, did you grow the grapes yourself?"

Methredhel lay curled up in the corner of her bed, a book in hand and a set of dark leathers splayed at her feet. "Actually," Nim said, in the snottiest voice she could muster, "I walked all the way to Skingrad to pick them for you." Gesturing toward the leathers with a nod, she set her basket down and slumped over on the table. "Are you planning on going somewhere tonight?”

"I hear Hamlof Red-Tooth’s got a new shipment of gold ore. Wouldn't want to miss out on that."

"And who told you? I've been asking Dynari to keep an eye on Red Diamond for weeks!"

"I have my sources. You know." Methredhel's smile was coy and insufferable, and by sources she meant Armand no doubt.

"Hmph, yet another win for nepotism."

Methredhel snorted with the feminine grace Nim had come to expect of her. "As if you wouldn't use it to your advantage were you in my position." 

Nim wasn't certain if that was entirely false, so she said nothing more of it. Though it annoyed her that Armand favored Methredhel even when she had proven herself the more capable thief of the two, she didn't dare voice it. Armand was a competent doyen and Methredhel was Methredhel. She'd taken Nim into her already overcrowded shack when she’d learned Nim was living in the abandoned house next door with the rest of the Waterfront's ephemeral homeless population. She'd since proven herself a kind-hearted and true friend, and for that, Nim was unerringly grateful.

Little use dwelling on a lost heist now. She'd redistribute some property next weekend, make sure her coin purse was fat enough to get her through the rest of the week. Resigned to defeat, she ripped into an orange, and a fragrant spritz of citrus perfumed the air.

“Someone came by looking for you this morning,” Methredhel said, turning her page. “From the University."

"Did they give you any idea what for?"

"Think they wanted you to report there. Didn’t get a name and didn't ask, sorry. Was somewhat hungover from the night before and just wanted the knocking to stop. Something about all your letters having arrived? That's a good thing, right? Or are you in trouble?"

Nim gasped and found herself thankful that her mouth wasn't currently full of orange or it would have become lodged halfway down her windpipe. If all her recommendations had finally been received, it could only mean one thing— she'd been admitted.

Immediately, Nim was flooded with relief. Good gods, they'd taken their sweet time. Some scatter-brained chapter-head had been holding out on her last letter of endorsement, she just knew it. She’d gathered all those recommendations months ago. 

Methredhel watched her from the corner of her eye. "You're not going to abandon us for some haughty spell-casters and their cheap parlor tricks, now are you?"

"Dhel, I hate to say it, but I am one of those haughty spell-casters, and everyone loves my cheap parlor tricks."

"Yeah, yeah. We've all seen you lighting candles with your fingers before. Bet you make yourself real useful walking around the guild halls at night like an elven torch."

"More useful than you are to the guild's coffers, that's for sure. Ah, but don't beat yourself up about it. I know Armand keeps you busy elsewhere."

Nim smirked, adding a wink for good measure, and Methredhel stuck out her tongue in the manner that most mature women do. "Har har,” she said, “very clever. I’ve never heard that one before. You act like it's a bad thing that someone wants to take me for a tumble. Just because you're as frigid as an ice wraith doesn't mean we all should be."

"I'm not frigid," Nim said around her orange wedge. "I'm a little picky, so what? Look at my options, sailors or Amusei. Put yourself in my shoes, you'd think the same."

"Sailor's aren't so bad so long as they pay for your drinks. When they leave in the morning, you never see them again. S'all good on my end."

Nim wrinkled her nose but did indulge the thought. "I suppose Malvulis is rather pretty,” she said with her mouth still boorishly full. She'd seen her fair share of sailors and pirates along the harbor, and most of them were fairly grimy. Not Malvulis. First Mate Malvulis was polished, sharp as a whip. "But she's kind of intimidating. Last time I tried to talk to her, she threatened to run me through with her cutlass if I so much looked at the Marie Elena wrong." Nim's face grew a little warmer at the memory. She kind of liked it, if she was being honest.

Methredhel, having given up on reading, dog-eared her page and scooted out of bed. "Maybe at the University you'll find someone worth your time, eh? I've heard what all you boring mages get up to, sequestered away behind your big walls. Wild stuff. And you'll finally understand what it is you're missing out on. Maybe then you'll actually loosen up, live a little."

"Oh, I live just fine."

Methredhel reached into the basket and uncorked the wine, proceeded to fill a mug three quarters to the brim with it. "I could see it. Someone studious and smart and terribly dull. It would be good for you. You're too young to be this uptight."

Nim's expression soured. "I'm not uptight. I just don't need to be thinking about that kind of stuff right now when I should be focusing on my studies."

"Please, your head is already full of books. Like you need more." Methredhel ruffled Nim's hair, much to her annoyance, and Nim spent a good minute batting her away like the persistent mosquito she was. "And, y’know, I'm still surprised they let you in with your criminal record and all."

"Psh," Nim said, smoothing down her now-tousled hair. "Jailor's head was so far up his own ass that night, I could have told him I was Almalexia herself and he would have been none the wiser. Besides, I wasn't in for anything serious. It was a misunderstanding. Just a little—"

"Petty theft, right? Yeah, we've all heard that one before."

"Doesn't mean s'not true."

Methredhel took a long sip of her wine. "Mhm," she said, making a point of it. Though glaring, Nim split the remainder of the orange in two, and they ate in companionable silence.

After the orange was gone and the quiet had stretched long enough to fill the room, Methredhel reclined back and finished off her wine. "What now?" she said. "Off to school, I imagine?" 

"Tomorrow. It's almost nightfall. I want them to show me around the grounds, and I need to ask about classes." What if there was an orientation? What if she had to meet with the administration? Likely there'd be a ream of paperwork to sign, and who knew how long that would take? The Imperials sure loved their bureaucracy.

"Great! I was at the Float last night, won a pair of dice off some of those Clarabella pirates. They're real nice. Loaded guar bone. Polished and all." Methredhel dug them out of her pocket and rolled them across the table, where they glinted in the soft orange sunlight slanting through the cracked window at her back.

Nim nodded at them in a show of commendation. "Pretty."

"You want to see if we can use them to swindle some poor sailors out of their coin or what?"

"Ah, I really shouldn't."

"Oh, come on! It'll be fun!"

"I need to be up early, Dehl. Make myself presentable, you know."

Methredhel scooped up her dice and jangled them in her palm. "Just a couple rounds. Won't take that long, I swear!"

Nim sighed, tempted, and scratched at the back of her head. "I don't know. It's never just a couple of rounds." Making off with others hard-earned gold was one of her favorite past times, and when it came to hustling, she tended toward risk. It was the thrill of it, the challenge, pushing herself to see how far she could string the unwitting along, but pirates didn't take so kindly to being cheated, and Nim... well Nim always pushed her luck. "I can't get too riled up," she added, feeling her willpower wane. "I'm about to be an upstanding citizen with a Mage's Guild rank. I've got to at least make an effort to play the part."

"Oh, boo. Upstanding citizens don't know how to have fun then, do they?" Methredhel reached over, grabbed for the bottle of wine, and took a swig. "It's not like you're doing anything else tonight." 

She passed the bottle to Nim next, who accepted it with a shrug. It wasn't Tamika's by any means, but it settled well, pleasantly sweet with plush tannins that lingered on the tongue. She passed it back. "And how do you know that I don't already have plans?"

"Since when do you ever have plans these days? All you do is read and piddle around with your pestle."

"Hey, I don't piddle."

"What are you going to do instead, huh, stare at the walls?" With a hand on her hip, Methredhel leaned over to needle further. "Tell me I'm wrong then. Go on. What are you doing tonight that's so important, reading another book? Brewing more potions?"

"Perhaps I'll head over to Red Diamond Jewelry," she said with a smug grin, and when Methredhel took her next pull on the bottle, she damn near choked.

"You wouldn't dare." 

"Why not? I hear Hamlof Red-Tooth has a new shipment of gold ore."

---

Tip-toeing to the dresser, Nim grabbed a fresh pair of trousers and the nicest shirt she owned: a velvet blouse, simple in cut but tailored to her size, and of course it was one she had stolen. The shirt was carmine red, of much finer material than anything she’d ever purchased for herself, and it was one such luxury she really couldn't afford to keep. These days, Nim fenced all she stole. She had to be tight with her money. She was saving up for a house, after all.

Nim slipped into her blouse, admiring the soft fabric and the way it hugged her skin. Such a small pleasure but one she seldom indulged in, and sometimes she wondered why she didn't when they made her feel so damned good. Just one or two blouses, maybe a dress. Might be useful should she ever find herself in situations where looking like a beggar would be disadvantageous. This, she suspected, was one such occasion.

Nim left for the city proper by way of the tunnel passage, finding her only companion in the lapping water at the quays and the thick gray fog rolling off Lake Rumare. She stopped at a well, drew up a bucket, splashed her face with the cool water, and when the ripples smoothed, she spared a few minutes to comb through the defiant locks of her unruly hair. Two dark eyes stared back up from her reflection, and she smiled. It wasn't much to look at, but it was familiar and it had accompanied her this far.

Today, the swell of pride rose high, and it felt strange to admit, for there was so little Nim had accomplished in her life that felt worthy of respect. Acquiring all her necessary recommendations had not been an easy task, and it had taken her over a year to attain them. Few of the local chapter-heads had taken her request to join the Mages Guild seriously, and while it frustrated her to no end, she understood their reservations. Five-foot-two, undernourished, and dressed like a peasant— it was hardly the appearance one conjured of an esteemed mage. Yet even then, gangly-limbed and emptied-bellied, fueled only by the fire to be something more, Nim had accomplished every task she’d been given. Except for Falcar's, but he had tried to drown her. Really, she couldn't be blamed for not following through.

A pair of iron-clad guards exchanged posts for the morning shift. They nodded a good-morning nod as Nim passed to which she smiled and nodded back. She was giddy with excitement, her grin so broad it hurt to hold. She’d spent so much time in the company of thieves and assorted miscreants that she’d forgotten how thrilling it was to be surrounded by people who knew more about magic than she did. Her fellow thieves within the guild, while she respected them, were a different breed of talent, and Nim was still convinced she was a better thief than them all. She loved them, wished only happiness and health for them, and though there would always be a time and place for the rush of a good heist, the careful practice, the determination, the mental strain required to master a school of magic remained an unrivaled challenge. And that was the feeling Nim truly lived for— the besting of an honest challenge.

When at last she stood before the towering gates of the Arcane University, Nim breathed in with a new set of lungs. She was awake and electric, nervous and warm. Apprentice Nimileth , they'd call her. A student, a ranked mage, and she would become someone in this world with prestige, a reputation. Someone with purpose.

Enchanted purple flames danced in their braziers before the gate, waving back and forth in the soft breeze, welcoming her in. She took a giant bound forward, eager, a bit anxious not to disappoint anyone beyond the University walls, including herself. Herself most of all.

---

Raminus Polus sat in the lobby of the Arch-mage's tower trying very hard to keep himself awake. He had (yet again) stayed up far too late reading a rather salacious chapter of The Real Barenziah, and by the time morning light had sieved through his curtains, he’d read through the entirety of the book. Sleepless and full of regret, he dozed off, swaying back and forth on the bench as he persuaded the morning paper apart. It slipped from his grasp. Groggily, he reached for it, all the words blurring together in fat smears.

A soft tap, tap echoed against his ear. He looked up briefly, thinking he’d heard a knock at the door. Must have been the wind , he thought, and he was so tired. If he closed his eyes, he might just fall asleep…

Again, the thump sounded from the door. A forceful gust, he reasoned. Another knock, and Raminus, too tired to bother, shut his eyes against the noise.

"Hello?" A small voice chirped through the squeak of the opening door, and Raminus squinted his eyes open to find a slight figure silhouetted in the golden morning light. It took a few moments of blinking the intrusive brightness away before the figure focused into view. A girl had entered the lobby and now stood quiet, the door falling closed behind her. "Excuse me?”

“Good day," Raminus said, standing to his feet, trying his best to appear professional despite the exhaustion dragging his eyelids down. "How may I help you?"

"Yes, good day. I’m to meet with Master Wizard Polus about my entry into the University. Do you know where I might find him?"

“Ah.” Raminus had been expecting a new apprentice that week, a young woman by the name of Nimileth, Bosmeri and from the Bravil chapter, and unfortunately, that was all the information he’d been provided. The woman before him looked small in every dimension, younger than he would have assumed of the mage the recommendation letters had been written for. Raminus had never been good at guessing age, least of all for an elf, and despite his curiosity, his sisters had told him a thing or two about not asking a woman her age. "You must be Nimileth.”

She nodded eagerly.

Raminus had heard a few rumors about her. Gossip flowed freely through the lobby, always passed to him by Bothiel who had a knack for circulating it. Nimileth’s recommendations had been surprisingly impressive for someone with such a short history with the guild (and no familial connections whatsoever). From what he’d gathered, she fancied herself an illusionist, and taking in her diminutive build, he supposed it made sense. He could hardly imagine her completing half of the highly dangerous feats described in her letters. Fighting off rogue sorcerers, recovering stolen artifacts, rescuing a trapped mage from a cave full of zombies? Raminus thought it highly peculiar, but then again, it was not his place to question upon whom Julianos bestowed his favor.

"Associate Nimileth," he said, and took her lack of correction as a positive sign that he'd pronounced her name correctly. "Yes, we've received all seven of your recommendations. You've done very well for yourself, it seems.”

"Oh, thank you. I, um- I do what I can."

"More than that, so I've read."

Her brows twitched with surprise. A warm coral colored her cheeks. "No more than any other I'm sure." 

"Well..." Raminus bit his tongue, and did not launch into an aimless screed about how many mages were admitted to the University on a sponsorship these days. Alumna in the family, someone's second cousin thrice removed, a friend of a friend by the name of several thousand septims funding the renovations on the new library wing. Instead, Raminus cleared his throat and harbored no strong feelings on the matter whatsoever. "As a fully-fledged member of the Mage’s Guild, I now have the pleasure of promoting you to the rank of Apprentice."

"Truly?"

"Of course. Weren’t you aware that admission to the University comes with an advancement in rank?"

"I— Well, yes," she stammered. "But I suppose I still have a hard time believing I’m here at all." 

"Allow me to reassure you then. Your hard work will not go unrewarded at the University."

"That's good of you to say so, Master Wizard. I hope to do much more for the guild as an Apprentice."

Ahh, the hope of young scholars. Raminus wished he could bottle it, wondered if his colleagues envied it. He offered her a smile, and her eyes grew larger, comically wide. She was fighting back a grin and failing quite profoundly. "There's no need to address me by my title, by the way. Most call me by my first name. Master Wizard Polus is quite a mouthful, and it gets tiresome awfully quickly. Too formal. I don't think it suits my disposition."

"Really? If I had a title like that I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it. But whatever you say. I usually go by Nim. At least I can say it suits my stature."

"Er, yes." Raminus walked to the cupboard behind the front desk to retrieve a set of apprentice robes. "Now," he started again, handing them to her upon his return, "before I take you on a tour of the University grounds, please accept these."

Nim unfolded the robes and held them up before her, regarding them with a small squeak of joy. By the way she was staring at them, her eyes swollen with excitement, Raminus wasn't quite sure they were staring at the same article of clothing.

“Everyone receives a pair upon admittance,” he explained. “Later, you can take a moment to try them on. Let me know if they require alterations. You’ll find they’ve been enchanted to fortify— oh!"

Raminus tried to look away as fast as he could, but Nim had already removed her shirt and was in the process of slipping the robe over her head. She had on another layer beneath, praise Dibella, and though it was not nearly as scandalous a sight as it could have been, his face still suffused with heat.

"Erm," he said, staring at the wall. Fabric ruffled beside him. He could see her wrangling her arms into the sleeves in his periphery and kept his gaze averted. 

"It looks good, right?" she asked. "A little long in the arms, but I can trim it up just fine."

"Umm..."

When he didn’t look back, Nim made a purposeful walk in front of him and swayed back and forth on her feet. The robes flowed with the movement. "Right?" she asked him again. "And green is just my color. What luck."

She was swimming in them, drowning in them. For a moment, Raminus feared they might smother her. "Perhaps you should know that they have a clasp in the back that can be undone should you wish to ah... dress more gracefully."

Nim's eyes flashed with delight, reflecting the dancing flame of the braziers in a distinctly unsettling way. Raminus felt warm again. Uncomfortable. 

"Oh, well, I'll be! You mages and your nifty designs. I shouldn't have expected anything less." She swiped a stray lock of rust-colored hair from her face, looking very much unabashed and unbothered by the events prior. Staring keenly, her shirt folded up and draped across her arm, she said, "Now, you were speaking about a tour?" 

"Ah, yes," Raminus replied meekly. "Let’s start with the alchemical garden. Follow me."

He motioned toward a door in the far wall, cleared his throat, and hobbled awkwardly across the room. Nim skipped at his heels, and if he was tired before, he was certainly wide awake now.

---

Nim followed silently behind Master Wizard Polus, attempting to smooth down her hair all the while. It had become a mess while changing, but the consequence had been worth it. A brand new set of robes flowed down to her feet, making a gentle swish swish with each stride. Finally, she looked the part of a true ranked mage with her very own set of augmented robes! She’d carve this moment into her mind forever, a core memory, inextricable. 

The Arch-mage’s tower loomed in the center of campus, and awaiting beyond the lobby door was the rest of the University grounds. Dozens of students scrambled about with armfuls of books, racing from class to class, to libraries, lectures, chatting enthusiastically about their studies all the while. Huddles of scholars of all ages walked by, nodding in greeting to Raminus, paying little attention to the unfamiliar elf at his side, but she didn't mind. They all looked so preoccupied, so studious. She wouldn't want to interrupt them anyway.

Raminus led her across the walkway encircling the Arch-mage’s tower, staring straight ahead. "So, um, Nim," he said, "from where do you hail?" 

Nim chose to omit the fact that she didn't know where she was born. Her earliest memories were of an orphanage in Kvatch that no longer existed, but she didn't find that necessary to share. Perhaps she'd been born elsewhere in Cyrodiil. Perhaps not. She was here now, and that was all that truly mattered. "Cyrodiil," she replied. "I've been here my whole life."

"Ah, you're native like me then. Where do you live?"

"The Waterfront." She flicked her eyes to his, waiting for a sign of disapproval. It was not a place most people would readily claim as their home in circles such as these. Then again, most people didn't need to. Admitting to being from the Waterfront was like admitting you were half mudcrab; most people took one look at you and already knew something was wrong. Folk wore the Waterfront on their faces like a brand, one that said, I have nothing, am nothing. I am a shameless thief, so guard your pockets. I am unwanted. Stay away. But these days, Nim was only a shameless thief on the weekends, and she had washed her face that morning thus was hopeful it didn’t show.

Regardless, Raminus paid the comment no mind, simply walked on. "And where do you live?" she asked him

"Right here in the University."

"Convenient."

"It has its pros and cons. I'll see that you're set up in the dormitory before I turn you free to settle in." Nim beamed. She imagined the University must have wonderfully lavish living quarters. "And here we are." 

Raminus curved around the edge of the walkway and down a small set of stairs. Beyond lay a fenced off plot from which alkanet, peony, and wormwood sprouted forth. Beyond that lay more gardens lush with bright green foliage and the brilliant reds of polypore caps. Beyond that, even more.

"This is the Lustratorium gardens," he said, and Nim’s gaping mouth threatened to come unhinged at the jaw joint. "I've been told by several of our chapter-leaders that you have a penchant for alchemy."

"I'd like to think so," she said and crept forward to peer around. "I've been working on my craft for years."

"Hopefully the University lends itself to many more."

"Oh, I bet it will. I've always had to forage for my ingredients. It's fun and all but really limits what I can brew. Still, alchemy’s quite profitable in the growing season." She split a toothy grin. "You'd be surprised."

"I confess that I would. I can't say I've met many people who make a living off free-lance alchemy."

"It adds up over time, but if I had a garden like this, I’d have no limits. Now, I can experiment for the hell of it and for the hell of it alone." Raminus looked momentarily startled by her crassness, and Nim quickly continued on before giving the embarrassment time to ferment. "Say, um, are these stinkhorns?" she asked, pointing at an orange mushroom from which a claw-like fruiting body sprouted skyward. "How on Nirn do you get them to grow in such dry soil? I've only ever seen them in the Blackwoods."

"Oh, I wouldn't be able to tell you, but Julienne might. She's our resident botanical expert. You should speak with her later. She'll tell you anything you want to know about the garden. I believe she's looking for laboratory assistants at the moment, so if you're willing to offer your time, she'll see that you're equipped with proper tools." 

"Really?” Nim's ears twitched with excitement. “Like a real laboratory, real experiments?"

"Of course. Now, right this way is the Chironasium."

Inside the Chironasium, Raminus introduced her to Delmar, the master enchanter, and explained her first task as a fully fledged member of the Arcanaeum. She was to gather the wood for her very own mages staff at a local grove accessible through a cavern known as the Wellspring. Nim hoped she didn't come across too eager while asking about all the possible augmentations she might select. New robes, new alchemy equipment, and a staff of her very own? Nim was beginning to think she'd finally made it.

"And this way to the Apprentices Quarters." Raminus guided her along the row of buildings, her stomach twisting in anticipation evermore. On the first floor of the dormitory, a pair of young mages sat in the study nook, a scroll of parchment and a stack of books between them. They wore the same pair of apprentice robes as Nim and eyed her not so subtly. A look of reproof or mere curiosity? Eyes upon her always left her on guard.

Nim picked at her nails from within the long sleeves of her robe. Was it so obvious that she was from the Waterfront? She'd only been living there for a couple years. Then again, where she lived before was no better. She’d joined the Mages guild as an associate in Bravil, but Nim liked Bravil, the soggy, humble little town filled with soggy, humble little mages. The people were kind to her, welcoming and supportive in ways similar to Methredhel and Amusei and the rest of her fellow thieves. The guild scraped by just like everyone else in town did. Nim had felt right at home.

But not all of the guild halls had been so welcoming, and the reputation of the University, of the self-important mages that dwelled there, had certainly preceded it. It doesn't matter , she told herself. Let them look . And pulling her eyes away, Nim hurried after Raminus and ascended the stairs.

The common space was an open room with dozens of beds separated by wooden partitions. "You are free to stay here as long as you please. Many of our mages consider this their permanent residence, but everyone is free to come and go at their convenience. We've set aside a space for every incoming Apprentice."

"Oh... lovely." And Nim hoped the disappointment did not bleed across her face. She scanned the room. It was, in truth, rather crowded and not in fact as lavish as she’d imagined it’d be. Putting on her most gracious smile, she asked Raminus, "Which one did you say I can claim?"

Raminus led her to the corner of the room. Behind a partition was a single bed, an end table, and an empty wooden chest. Nim walked over and plopped down. Comfortable, she thought and peeled back the bedding. Are these silk?   

A full bed with a frame. A real mattress and silk sheets. Not to mention there was more privacy than her current housing situation afforded. Already it was a ten-fold upgrade from her bedroll on Methredhel's floor, and free at that! Really, how could she complain?

Mine , she thought to herself, then looked up at Raminus, feeling a child-like buoyancy lift her spirits cliff-racer high. "It's lovely," she said, and this time, she meant it. And I earned it. It’s all mine.

Raminus shoved his hands into his pockets, watching her test the mattress with a little bounce up and down. "I'm glad to hear it. Though if you live nearby, I suppose you won't be making much use of this space."

"Well, I can't stay on the Waterfront forever. I've got to get out, see new things."

"I'm sure the Imperial City is hardly new for you."

"Mmm, no, but I have plans to venture further. Hopefully I'll be in Anvil this time next year."

"Anvil?” he repeated, and he sounded surprised though he tried to hide it. “Will you be seeking an apprenticeship there? If I remember correctly, Carahil wrote you a particularly glowing recommendation. It’s quite rare coming from her, though I imagine she'd make a fitting mentor given your shared interest in illusion."

"Oh, yes, that's also part of the plan, but I'm actually looking to buy a house."

"A house?" Raminus stared for a long moment, brows raised, his new surprise hidden far more poorly.

"I may have settled on one actually," she explained, hoping to substantiate herself, to prove that she was a responsible young woman who wasn't merely spouting idle dreams. "Your eyes would pop right out of your head if you knew what kind of deal I scored."

"Ah. How, um, fortunate for you."

"Actually, it's quite suspicious, the kind of price that makes you think someone must have died there in a terrible accident."

"I, um… I suppose that would drive down the value, yes."

"Or with my luck, it's haunted."

"Oh! That would be considerably less fortunate.”

"Or perhaps there are unsavory sorts who live nearby? The neighborhood seemed alright when I visited, but I suppose one can just never tell. It is a port city, after all. The population is somewhat ephemeral."

"Erm... well, I've only heard lovely things about Anvil. Very nice beaches. Fresh catch. Good ah… squid."

“I don’t think I’ve ever had the squid there,” Nim said, wondering why she was still speaking. People were supposed to speak to one another during introductions, weren't they? But how did they know when to stop? There was a pause. Raminus shifted awkwardly, distinctly uncomfortable. Nim picked at another hangnail, and soon the silence grew unwieldy. "So have you, um, ever been to Anvil?" she asked, looking to ease the uncomfortable quiet. Perhaps she was more nervous than she had initially thought. It was unlike her to be this talkative.

You must sound so common , she chided herself, sitting here yakking on about houses and hauntings and squid like a lamebrain. Great, so much for first impressions.

"I didn't mean to blabber on, sorry," she said. "First day jitters, I guess. Heh." Feeling more than a touch embarrassed, she occupied her hands by fiddling with her sleeves. "Anyway, I should probably let you get back to your duties. Thank you for your time today, Master Wizard."

"Just Raminus," he reminded her.

"Right, Raminus."

"And it's no bother. I'm here to help." He made a half-turn to leave, then stalled. "I have been to Anvil, by the way. It's a beautiful city. I do mean it, the Gold Coast has my favorite beaches in all of Cyrodiil. Lovely sediment."

"Sediment? Like… the sand?"

"Er, yes," he replied. "The sand. It’s quite fine. Sometimes you go to the beach and the grains are just too coarse, the texture too rough. It's unpleasant, and when it gets into your shoes, it's absolutely intolerable. The cliff-sides and coastal bluffs of the Gold Coast have a very interesting geological history too. A lot to see, if you’re into those kinds of things."

Nim didn't know what kind of things he was talking about nor how sand could be interesting, but she supposed many people said the same thing about plants and their properties. Most looked at a tree and saw a green leaf, a branch for kindling, an edible fruit. A fungus, and they saw dinner or poison. When Nim looked at them she saw endless possibilities, a world of solvents and powders and clinking glass vials, sweet, tangy solutions to all of life's miseries. “Interesting how so?" she asked.

"Ah, well." Raminus scratched at the back of his head. "How much do you know about the processes that affect geological structures?"

Nim shook her head. She knew next to nothing. What shaped a river? What made a mountain grow? Really, she had simply assumed they always were and always had been.

"Coastal bluffs are typically a product of erosion," he said, "carved away by things like sea mist and wind and crashing waves, but most of the topography of the Gold Coastline is actually explained by flooding of the Strid River."

"Oh, was it? When did the Strid River flood?"

Raminus leaned against the wood paneling and grinned. "A long time ago," he said as though it were a joke, and Nim had to confess that if it was, she didn't get it. "Flooding events leave records in the stratigraphy, but they're notoriously hard to date."

Stratigraphy? Nim wondered if she should know what that word meant. Was it like calligraphy, maps and things? No, that was cartography. Maybe it was like that. Maps and things... but with rocks.

Idiot, Nim. She felt like such a dunce. Her first day on campus, and already people were telling her she knew nothing. Before she had a chance to ask for clarification, however, Raminus continued on.

"Really it's quite fascinating when you consider how different the bluffs are in, say, the West Weald or parts of northern Valenwood even though they were created by the same process."

"And, um, why exactly are they different?" she asked and felt a little bit silly for having to. It must have been such a basic question. Maybe if she knew what stratigraphy meant, she'd have something to contribute to the discussion! Silly, silly girl. She didn't even know there was anything to learn about rocks!

"Ah, well, different regions are not equally susceptible to erosion," Raminus explained. He looked much more comfortable now, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. "The differences are due to things like the material properties of the soil, the climate, the type of vegetation that grows there. Riparian vegetation especially has a significant effect on soil erosion. Another important factor is the identity of the bedrock—" He stopped himself mid sentence and glanced over to find Nim blinking rapidly in confusion. "Perhaps it's not really that interesting," he said with an awkward laugh. "Now, I fear I'm wasting your time."

"I like vegetation," Nim said quickly. "Riparian or otherwise. Surely it's not wasting anyone's time if you're teaching me something new."

Raminus peeled himself away from the partition, chuckled nervously, and looked down at his shoes. "I wish more students had that perspective while falling asleep in my classes," he said. "Speaking of classes, have you had a chance to look over the roster for the upcoming quarter?"

Nim shook her head. "I haven't had the pleasure.”

"You're lucky you arrived at the University when you did. Classes start a week into Morning Star. There’s still time to register. I can show you the courses we’re offering, if you'd like."

"And then you'll tell me about Anvil's beaches?"

"Sure," he said. "On the way over to my office, if you're truly interested."

Nim smoothed down her robes and skipped excitedly to her feet. "I'm interested. Can you start by explaining what stratigraphy is?"

Raminus was all too happy to explain

Notes:

Awkward nerd mages are awkward ☺️

Chapter 3: A Thief of Principles

Summary:

Necromancers and the Gray Fox - wanted dead or alive.

Chapter 3: A Thief of Principles

After several painfully long minutes of battling for air, Nim had finally caught her breath. With a stiff wave of her wrist, she cast a stream of healing magic. It radiated out from her chest, blue light swirling down her limbs to soothe the sting of cuts and throbbing bruises that adorned her. Fresh blood from once fresh wounds clotted over the mending layers of her skin, and slowly, the searing burn on her neck faded to a tingle. Nim winced, drew in another shaky breath, and at ease for a brief but much needed moment, collapsed against the jagged cavern wall.

Staring into the dirt, she watched a beetle traipse over the body of a fallen necromancer several feet away. She'd not been expecting a fight, only came to claim her staff, waltzed in gaily and dreadfully unprepared for the horde of necromancers that awaited her. Dragging her sweat-drenched hair from her eyes, she reached down and pulled back the torn leather of her trousers to inspect the damage done. The leather was still damp, still sticky with blood, though little of the wound on her thigh remained. She was lucky the necromancer's knife hadn't struck deeper. Another few centimeters and it would have hit a major vessel. Healing a wound that severe would have required much more than her simple mending spell, more magicka than she likely had in her. Nim stuck her hand through the gash and sighed. The rip, unfortunately, was beyond repair.

Rats . Her only pair of leather trousers too. If only she knew a spell for sewing fabric back together as easily as the one she knew to stitch skin. Alas, alteration had always been one of her weaker disciplines, and she’d resort to a patch and needle once home. At least she'd decided against wearing her new robes today. What a tragedy it would have been had she ruined them with a stray fireball after not even a week in her possession. Small blessings.

Though Nim had finally controlled her breathing, she wasn't quite ready to stand. Her head throbbed with the weight of muddled thoughts, still dizzy from the onslaught of spells she'd had to dodge, and she kept thinking about the dead body at the entrance of the cave. That poor woman. Had she died alone, afraid? On Raminus’ instruction, Nim had ventured to the Wellspring to meet with Eletta and Zahrasha and ask after her new staff, but so far, all she'd come across were necromancers and their rotting thralls and one unfortunately dead Khajiiti woman. This, she assumed, was Zahrasha which meant Eletta was presumably no less worse for wear. The necromancers had been brutal— no qualms, no mercy— and given their violent greeting, had intended for Nim to be next. And to think everything had been going so well for once in her very short life!

The beetle inched closer. Nim tried to blow it away or at the very least redirect its trajectory. No luck. Her very first University assignment plagued by hostile necromancers— really, this was the kind of luck she should have expected. The angry zombies had only added insult to injury, and indeed thinking of zombies, Nim noted somewhat clinically that though the thralls had been festering, the cave didn't smell of decay (it did, however, now smell of charred meat). If the thralls weren't made here, where had they come from? Presumably, the necromancers had brought them along for the invasion, but how? Teleported? Transported a la carte? Or was it simpler than that, rowed across the lake?

The image conjured into her mind seemed rather stupid: dozens of corpses bobbing along Lake Rumare like ducklings on their mothers tail. Nim shook it away, tried to focus, tried to discern how long it had been since the necromancers invaded. Shuddering, she wondered if the missing Eletta had since been turned into a zombie, perhaps one that she'd killed. And even if that zombie was not her colleague, it was still an innocent victim, once mortal with a life of their own and possibly a family who missed them dearly. It was undead, but was it sentient? Was it aware of what its existence had been reduced to? How long did that process take anyway? Were there potions involved in its transformation? Nim couldn't think of any common ingredient that had such restorative properties as to revive necrotic flesh... And why was she thinking about this in the first place?

Focus, Nim. Now is not the time to lose your head. No, now was an especially bad time to be headless, what with all the necromancers abound.

Nim strung her bow. She had only brought it with the intention of hunting grouse on the city isle before heading home, but she felt far more comfortable defending herself with it than she did with a dagger. Too close. Too personal, and necromancers and their thralls did not smell particularly pleasant. Nim crept forward, an illusion spell numbing her pain. She had to anticipate that there were more necromancers lying in wait in the grove beyond. No good came from lowering her guard, and after letting a quick calming cantrip quiet the shaking in her arms, she cracked open the rickety door and peered out.

Immediately in front of her lay a lifeless woman, facedown and stiff upon the grass. Nim's stomach dropped, but the grounding effect of her spell kept her from gasping as she inspected the branching scorch marks on the back of the woman’s calves. Discharged electricity from a shock spell. They travelled all the way up her thighs before disappearing under her clothes, and on the back of her robes was the embroidered sigil of the Mages Guild, which meant most likely and most unfortunately, this was Eletta.

Fear threatened to seize Nim muscles, would have were she not currently charmed. The necromancers had killed both of her colleagues. They'd taken over the entire island!

At the crunch of dry leaf litter, Nim snapped her eyes up. There, a cloaked woman several meters away, same black robes as those worn by the necromancers she'd burned to crisps. What was this, a cult? Why else would they all be wearing the same hideous apparel? 

Just as quickly as Nim noticed the woman, so too was she caught peeking out from behind the cavern door. Nim didn't wait for her to speak. Charging a spell, she released a burst fire just as the necromancer stepped forward into its trajectory. When it struck the necromancer across the chest, she cried out with a deafening wail, more of shock than of pain because the fire quickly dwindled. A resistance charm had siphoned away most of the fireball's heat. But of course. These were mages after all. 

Taking no chances, Nim cast another, this time more for the distraction. Another shriek ripped from the necromancer's mouth, light bursting from her palms as she beat the fire back with a counterspell. Nim reached into her quiver, drew back her bow, released. Good look countering this.

Aim true, Nim hit the necromancer square in the head, sent her crashing gracelessly to the ground. Fire crawled over the necomancer’s body, blanketing her in so much heat. Unabated, it turned her gray dunmeri skin into a blistering, bubbling mass. Panic coursed hot through Nim's body, and despite her calming charm, her hands were shaking again. Sweat pooled out from every pore as another voice shouted from the distance. More necromancers? How many? Nim bolted for the trees.

Whoever had shouted was inching closer, maybe with their own twisted thralls, and once they stumbled upon what had become of the woman here, they'd be searching for Nim, looking to kill. The copse of trees was mostly oak, the forks too high to reach. Nim scrambled up the nearest tree she could comfortably climb and fixed herself into a higher crook of its boughs. She clutched a dangerously thin branch and focused her will, weaving an invisibility shroud, weaving and weaving and weaving some more only to realize it was merely flickering over her.

Gods be damned! You've done it again! It was a bad habit of hers to send out offensives in one impulsive burst. Powerful as they were, they always drained her magical reserves, and now, with only an iota of magicka to draw upon, her invisibility spell was swiftly failing her. 

Not far from her perch, she heard the groans of a shambling zombie and scanned the ground below in search of it, in search of the necromancer who commanded it too. Eventually, another figure approached from the beach: a tall elf, golden-skinned, both of his hands aflame. He walked to Eletta's corpse, and to Nim's horror, leaned over it, placing one hand on her chest, bending low to whisper. Whisper what?  Shrouded beneath his hood, Nim could see his lips moving, and from his palms came a sickly purple light. Too far away to hear, he muttered something incomprehensible, a forbidden incantation, magic Arkay had meant for no mortal to wield. The corpse's limbs began to twitch, and Nim watched, aghast, as the once rigid body began to move.

Eletta's corpse squirmed. It writhed. It thrashed like a worm in the sun, flesh and bone at the will of the necromancer's command, soul imprisoned by his binding words. Terror rendered Nim momentarily motionless, fear and shock and a morbid surge of curiosity all pummeling into her like the swells of a choppy sea, for she’d heard the rumors. She’d read the reports, but never before had she seen such a perverse display of magic. What power must a mage possess to twist spirit and flesh so readily? What terrible knowledge did he wield? Where had he learned it? Why?

Nim held her bow drawn, her back muscles burning as she aimed. She thought of Arkay, his command sharp and clean as the tip of the arrow between her fingers— Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world. Do not profane the spirits of the dead.

Nim released, and in an eye-blink the arrow struck the Altmer in the neck. He collapsed to the ground, a frothy gurgle escaping as blood poured from his mouth in a bright, poisonous red. She let one more arrow fly, this one striking him through the temple, and when he stilled so too did Eletta’s body. Nim waited for the zombie to appear, but it didn't. Perhaps it had vanished along with the life-force of its creator. She didn't know how these magics worked, couldn't be sure.

Cautiously, she slid down the tree and scrambled for cover. Her invisibility had faded completely, and she reckoned she had only enough magicka left to weave a few strong fireballs should she find the remaining intruders. She didn’t know that she wanted to find them. Running would be the safer option, the wiser option, and with a kick to the side, she double checked that the dead necromancers were indeed dead, then waited to see if they might spring themselves back to life.

Can they even do that? She certainly hoped not, but if so, she supposed she would find out soon enough. Briefly she contemplated dismembering them. Try attacking her without any limbs...

Nim notched another arrow and let her meager detection spell roam to the limits of its range. Nine, how she hated fighting other mages. There was so much about magic she had yet to learn. Put her up against a bandit with a warhammer, and at least she knew he was capable of smashing her into a flatbread. But a mage? It was impossible to tell how skilled they were from afar, what enchantments they wore, what protection charms they had employed. If she clashed steel with a claymore-wielding warrior, at least she knew she'd end up cut through like a stick of butter. If she lobbed a fireball at a mage, there was no saying whether their reflection charm was strong enough to send it right back and boil her insides into tomato soup.

The sound of rattling bones sent Nim flying into the nearby brush, and she crouched low in the dense shrub, ignoring the bite of its sinking thorns. She peeked out to find a weathered-looking skeleton shambling its way up from the water's edge, and when she sent her arrow into it, its bones scattered across the grass before disappearing back to whatever plane of Oblivion it had come from. Summoned not raised, she noted. Not a thrall. 

Nim cast a glance in the direction the skeleton had come from, and if there were more necromancers on the island, that was likely where she’d find them. As quickly and quietly as she could, she crept her way down to the secluded beach. Sure enough, there stood a necromancer patrolling the sand. He was trembling, biting his nails, looked on the verge of tears. By his colorless expression, Nim guessed these necromancing soirees were new to him. Didn't even have his own thrall, and he seemed a novice conjurer at best! His skeleton had been bent all funny, porous bones, likely arthritic. She felt a little sorry for the man, really. What an idiot.

Nim crept closer and took her chance at the first opportunity that presented itself. When the mage turned to pace, she loosed an arrow and—

Missed! The arrow struck the bluffs behind him. She’d only been off by a few inches, and now she'd been spotted. Stupid Nim, stupid Nim, stupid—

The necromancer whipped around, countered with a bolt of lightning. Nim hadn't expected such a quick reaction and narrowly missed it, dodging just in time for the bolt to singe her at the shoulder instead of crashing directly into her face. Seething through her teeth, she looked up to find him running for her, hands sparking with electricity, another bolt snapping her way.

Nim barreled forward, keeping low. The tendril of lightning passed overhead in a sizzling zing, and with a cry of rage, the necromancer called forth a haze of purple light, the same vicious shade she'd seen from the Altmer in the grove. Was he trying to raise the dead? Who? How? Nim spared a second to glance over his shoulder. Up at the grove, she could see the dead necromancer flailing, limbs bent at wrong angles, a terrible groan wheezing through his lips.  

I knew I should have dismembered him!

But the dead mer crashed back to the ground. The necromancer couldn't raise him. Were Nim not fearing for her life, she might have offered him her condolences. Should have stuck to conjuring. At least his summons walked.

The necromancer drew his dagger then. Nim reached for her own out of instinct. A knife fight? No thank you, and with a second to recalibrate, she ran for the water, letting the waves wash over her footsteps. Drawing on the last of her magicka, she vanished under her invisibility spell. The necromancer paused, clutching his dagger in a white-knuckled fist as he scanned the lake for ripples of movement. Knee deep in the water, knowing her invisibility spell would hold for only a few seconds, Nim nocked one last arrow and sent it loose into his skull. When it struck, the necromancer tumbled to the sand.

The relief Nim felt was fleeting. Darting between bushes, she searched the island, and only when she was certain the grove was clear did she make her way to the chest near the heap of dead bodies lying in front of the cavern door. Inside was a crudely carved staff that had been prepared, most likely, for someone else. Nim hesitated but pulled it out. It was rough in her hands, not quite finished. Some other apprentice was in the same position as she was, moon-eyed and eagerly awaiting their very own mages staff. What a shame that Nim was here now, and this staff, well… it was the last that Eletta and Zahrasha had carved. Nim felt she should take it. She'd honor them with it.

Tying the staff to her back with a ripped length of those tawdry necromancer robes, Nim made her way back to the cave. She cast a final glance at Eletta’s body and frowned, recalling what had almost become of her. She couldn't leave a downed mage among those who had killed her, so rolling up her sleeves Nim dragged her body through the cave. She rested it beside Zahrasha and hoped once she informed Raminus what had happened, it would be much easier to retrieve them for a proper burial. So long as the rats didn't get to them, that was.

Nim's frown deepened at the thought, but she concluded that a few nibbles here and there was a much preferable alternative to being made into a thrall. She left the cave feeling comforted, if only slightly.

---

Eyes half-lidded, Nim watched the dust motes dance in the sunbeam slanting through the shack's cracked window. Her stomach grumbled, but the smell of burned flesh still lingered in her nose, turning the hunger pangs to an uncomfortable, queasy cramp. If she had arrived at that cave earlier, could she have saved those women?

Don't think about that , she told herself. Don't.

Instead, Nim tried to focus on the staff in her arm, its wood rough beneath her palm, the comfortable weight of it. Yet despite her initial enthusiasm, it felt like a dead limb, like something that should have remained in the cave to burn. She decided then that she wouldn’t use it, couldn’t. She’d return it to the Chironasium for someone else to claim.

Nim stared at the dust until her lids grew heavy, until her dark lashes obscured all in her vision. She flickered in and out dreams, and just as sleep began to claim her, the front door (the only door) of the shack squeaked open.

Nim groaned, loud and affected. The peace and quiet she so longed for would not be granted this afternoon. "Well, well, well," Methredhel crooned. "You've been busy the past two days then. What have you there? You didn't snatch that staff up from Rindir's shop in broad day-light, did you?"

Nim rolled onto her side to see Methredhel setting a bag of apples on the table. She reached out for her staff and pulled it in. "Fought an island full of necromancers to get it, so don't you dare think about getting handsy with it."

Methredhel held up her hands to show that she posed no threat. "Well, damn. I thought you were just taking classes. I didn't realize they actually practiced on their enemies. Perhaps that place isn't as full of floozies as I thought. Anyway, onto important matters, I saw Armand earlier today, and—"

"How is that important? You see him everyday."

"Will you let me finish? He said the Gray Fox asked for you. He's at Helvius Cecia's house in Bruma." She pulled out an apple, munched quietly, then gestured toward the bag on the table. "You want one?"

"Oh, the Gray Fox himself stoops to lowly little me for help now, does he?" Nim let out a scoff so spiteful it scratched on the way out. "Look at the Guildmaster asking for my help this time instead of going behind my back!"

"You're still sour about that? Nim, that was ages ago. You know he had good reason not to tell you that the bust job was a setup." 

"Oh, did he?" 

"Don't be an idiot," Methredhel said, ever subtle in her chiding. "We had to frame Lex's informant, so don’t act stupid cause I know you’re not."

Nim frowned bitterly at the memory, "Yeah, yeah. We flushed out the snitch. All of that. But what reason did he have for keeping me in the dark? I stole the bloody thing myself! He could have damn well warned me."

"It all worked out in the end."

"Sure, but It's—"

"— the principle," Methredhel cut in, her grin turning somewhat impish. "Yes, I know. Don't very well keep your mouth shut about it, do you?"

Nim glared across the room, debated chucking her boot in Methredhel's general direction. "I've told you, I hate being lied to. If he's asking to meet, that's progress, I suppose. Maybe he heard how disappointed I was with the way he's been running things." She cradled her staff closer, snuggling against it. "Good for him."

"Mhm. I'm sure the Gray Fox has nothing better to do than sit around thinking about how not to hurt your feelings. You've never even met him before. He's the Guildmaster. Aren't you nervous?"

"He's a thief not a god. What have I to be nervous for?"

"You better watch that tongue of yours, Nim. Armand tells me the Gray Fox doesn't take kindly to snarky elves with an inflated sense of self-importance."

"Oh please, my sense of self-importance is perfectly aerated. What will he do? Kick me out?" She laughed unapologetically at the thought, and Methredhel rolled her eyes so hard Nim thought she saw her skull shake.

"Okay then. Don't listen to me. See what I care when he skins you for his boots."

"Eh, I'd like to see him try. I've fenced more in my time here than any other thief in the city has for years. He's nothing if not business-savvy." 

"Whatever you say, girl."

"Do you know what it's about, this meeting?"

"Not really."

"C'mon. Armand must have said something."

Nim batted her lashes. Methredhel shifted uneasily. "Special job of some sort, I'd imagine." She finished her apple, plucked another from the bag, and tossed it up and down in the air. "You want? Or are you intent on sitting there looking so sour you'd curdle milk?"

"Dhel, I know that you know more."

"I wish. Armand was all secret-like. Probably asked the doyens who they thought their best man was, and that's why he asked for you. See? You're finally getting the recognition you deserve."

Methredhel smiled warmly, thoughtfully. But despite the genuine mirth in her face, Nim could only eke out a grimace. "See, I don't know that I want recognition in our line of work."

"Well, I'm just the messenger. Now do you want this apple or not? I’m going to take the rest over next door."

"Sure, throw it over."

Methredhel swung her arm back but stopped midway. "Or you could float it over."

"Very funny," Nim said and not without a hint of embarrassment. "Mysticism isn't my strong suit. My telekinesis spell is novice at best."

"Come on! I want to see it! Show me what you did to all those necromancers."

Nim's belly turned at the memory, at the smell of melting meat, the twisted vision of limbs snapping back to life. But just as soon as they bubbled back into her mind's eye, she shoved  them back down into the hole in which they belonged. There they sat six-feet under and unmarked, ripe for rot.

"Consider it practice," Methredhel said, and with a sigh, Nim raised a hand, focusing her will. The sack of apples began to shake. She raised her hand higher, and a single apple floated out, teetering shakily in the air. Very slowly, she pulled her wrist toward her. The apple floated across the room, not quite in a straight path, until…

SPLAT.

"Ack!" Apple flesh sprayed across Nim’s face. The core was spread flat against the wall behind her, juice sliding down the grooves in the weathered panelling to land on her forehead with a soft drip, drip .

Methredhel's roar of laughter flooded the room. "Here, let me float this over to you," she said, and the rag she threw landed gracefully across Nim's face.

---

Even from the city gate, Nim could hear the drunken laughter spilling out from the tavern. Despite the frequency with which she visited, it never ceased to amaze her that Olav's bar was always occupied. Day or night, snow or shine, thirsty towns-folk gathered at the tables, eager to warm their bellies and escape Bruma's cold if only for brief respite.

Nim didn't mind the cold as much as some southerners, so long as there was snowfall. Today it drifted down from the heavens with a dreamlike grace, melting immediately on contact with her skin. When she was just a young girl in Kvatch, she’d only seen one winter cold enough to bring frost, but it wasn't the soft, flaky snow that fell over Bruma. For two days, hard pellets of ice beat down on the rooftops like rowdy kids throwing stones. By the end of the storm, the hail had turned to sleet, filling the gutters with muddied black slush. A villager had died that winter having fallen on the ice. Cracked his head on the flagstone after slipping off his own porch. A lousy way to go. A fitting end to a lousy life in Kvatch.

Nim looked around at the frosted cityscape, breathing it in one last time, that clean cold bite. Without the snow, everything would simply be dead, and she shuddered, reminded of those barren winters in Kvatch. Pressing forward into the tavern, she was immediately engulfed by the sharp, musky scent of human sweat. Removing her cloak, she scanned the crowded taproom for her fence and squeezed her way past a particularly loud and drunk Nord, then many more. She waved down Olav for a beer. It only took her five tries. Damned Nordic bar counters were nearly her full height.

Beer in tow, Nim made for the table across the room. Ongar sat hovering over his bottle, ruddy from drink, either half asleep or incredibly intoxicated. Most likely both. "Hey," Nim said, taking a seat beside him. Ongar didn't stir. She stuck her finger in his ear.

Ongar's eyes shot open at once. He shrieked, knocked his knees into the table on reflex. "Oh Nimli," he said, "my favorite customer. How'd y'know I'd be in here?" He slurred a few more words in greeting, none that Nim could make out. She wondered if they were even Cyrodiliic. 

"You're here at this time every day."

Ongar smiled proudly. "I'm a regimented man," he said. "Well, what trinkards, er, drinkets. What tankards—" he started over. "What have you brought me today? Slip 'em in my pocket, will ya? I might lose 'em if you hand 'em to me, eheh."

"How much do you think this would fetch?" She pulled a ring out of her pocket, and Ongar rolled it in his palm. It was a gold band encrusted with sapphires. Thin engravings swirled around its inner length.

"This Nordic," he noted, holding it up to catch the light of the brazier. "See the script? An old prayer to Kyne I'd heard a ways north of home, maybe Wind—"

"Careful with that." Nim lowered his arm for him. "It's fresh."

"Oh?" When Ongar raised a brow, Nim gestured toward one of the countless hulking giants near the doorway. He hadn't felt a thing when she brushed past him, and really it was his fault for carrying rings in his pocket. Why was it even there? Hand went in, ring came out. Seemed inviting to say the least

Nim waited for Ongar's price, but his eyes had glazed over in that very special reverie found at the bottom of one's tankard. He was staring somewhere far into the distance, much further than the length of the bar room. She took the ring back and cleared her throat. "Maybe tomorrow, hey? I wanted to ask you about something else anyway."

"Ah," he said, returning to Nirn. "Come for a bit'o sagely wisdom? Did I ever tell you why they call me Ongar the World-Weary?"

"Um, yes actually." Five times actually.

"Because I been everywhere, done everything. Left my ma's house in Riften when I was only fifteen. Had nothing but a few hundred septims and a stolen horse. Found my way to Highrock and sailed..."

Nim sighed and nodded along. She chugged her beer and then finished Ongar's while he was distracted making some very enthusiastic hand gestures. Glancing around the room, she found that most everyone was speaking this way, waving their arms high above their heads and out to their sides as though expressing the measurement of a large piece of lumber. Must be a Nordic thing.

She looked around for Olav, debated whether to order another beer, but he seemed rather distracted by a woman nearby twirling her hair around her fingers. The woman batted her eyelashes at him and leaned in close, her giggle light as mist as it drifted from her lips.

Hmm , Nim thought, that doesn't seem so hard.

She wasn't much of a charmer, not without her illusion magic. In fact, most everyone who knew her well described her as 'abrasive.'  Whatever that meant. Nim disagreed as a matter of principle. She exfoliated well, always considered herself smooth to the touch, though sometimes, when she really squinted her eyes, she thought she saw the slightest granule of reason. So she tried to balance it with palatable silences, something a little more reserved. Who knew how well that worked for her in the end. It was quite a hard balance to strike.

Nim's eyes remained fixed on the woman across the bar. She wondered if anyone had ever called her 'abrasive.' With a smile as elegant as that, somehow, Nim doubted it. The woman threw her head back in laughter, baring the pale skin of her throat, and the gem of her amulet gleamed, large and red like a beating heart. The way she moved her limbs reminded Nim of a dancer— long languid strokes to flip her hair, to brush it back, to slide a hand up Olav's arm. Nim could hardly be long but she could be languid. Maybe she should be more often.

By now, the woman had successfully secured another free drink. She was lovely to look at, dark of hair and dark of eyes, and she made it look easy. Why did it look so easy when she did it? Nim had plenty of hair to twirl and plenty of lashes to flutter about so why didn't she if it could be to her benefit? Somehow, she always felt awkward when she tried, off-kilter, gangly in her own skin, and she sighed, realizing she had been dwelling on the topic far too long. Again. Besides, there was no way of pleasing everyone.

Without thinking, Nim grabbed a strand of her own hair and coiled it around her finger. She watched the woman replace a hand on Olav, laughing heartily, and when he turned to greet a customer, she pulled her shirt down a little lower to reveal an ample amount of cleavage. Nim looked down at her own chest in disappointment. Welp , she thought, there really is no way of pleasing everyone.

"And that's how I met my first husband," Ongar prattled on. "I tell you, every man ought to bed someone taller than them. Really changes your perspective on life."

"Very true, Ongar, very true," she said, patting his arm. "I'll keep it in mind for the next time I think of getting married. Now about that question I had. The Gray Fox is in town, yeah? What do you know about that?"

"He's here to speak with you, of course. Came in almost two days ago. Follow the road up to Helvius’ place. Should be there now."

"You must have met him then." Ongar was well into his sixties if not older. For all the years he'd spent with the guild, surely he'd met this illusive man.

"Me? No, no. Well... maybe once in my youth, but I can't be sure. It was so long ago. I was twenty-five, stumbling back from the bar down some dark alleyway in Stros M'kai..."

Nim raised an eyebrow as he delved off into yet another story. "Well, do you know why he wants to meet with me?” she cut in. “Heard any rumors? Methredhel wouldn't tell me, but I think he has a special assignment for me. You know, steal some grand artifact. A secret treasure."

"Oh!" Ognar snapped his finger, finding a sudden burst of vitality. "That's a good guess! Better guess than I've ever had. In fact, my guess was that he wanted to give you some special assignment, steal some grand artifact or—"

With her words going in through one ear and out the other, Nim stood and patted the old man’s back. "You know what, I think I best make my way over there now. Thanks for the drinks, Ongar. Be seeing you."

"Anytime Nimilish. Hey… wait, what d’ya mean? I didn't pay for nobody's drinks—"

But Nim had already left the table, and if Ongar had noticed, it didn't stop him from complaining to the empty seat beside him. Before leaving the tavern, she tapped Olav on the shoulder, informed him that Ongar would be covering her tab. Olav waved her off with a nod of agreement. He was quite distracted at the moment.

---

A lone wall sconce flared from the far wall, casting small formless shadows by its flickering light. Nim proceeded slowly down, down, down the stairs of Helvius' house, wondering if the Gray Fox already knew she’d arrived.

She took extra caution to avoid creaks, to soften her breathing, couldn’t say if all the effort to go unnoticed was for the sake of the challenge or if she truly was more nervous than she thought she'd be. Damn Methredhel for weaseling into her head. Either way, silence had always suited her best.

Peeking into the bedroom, she spied the tip of a leather boot and drew in a sharp breath, heart fluttering faster. He really was here. Here . The immortal Gray Fox.

Nim trusted the beggars when they’d said he was real. That didn’t mean she’d never entertained doubt. A man of legend and fantasy so great that some thought he couldn't possibly exist, and here he was, having asked for her, sitting quietly on the other side of that wall. Just what power did a man of his reputation possess? Perhaps Methredhel had been right. Maybe she should be scared…

Like hells I’ll let a man scare me , she chided herself. The Gray Fox was no god. He was but a man with a Daedric mask, bearing the name of a better thief who’d once dared to steal from Nocturnal those many years ago. This wasn’t really the Gray Fox, right? It was only a title passed on like any other. Emperor, Arch-mage, Captain of the Guard, and the cowl was just a hand-me-down like an older sibling's Sundas best. Or so she chose to believe.

Nim forced herself forward and entered the room on a rigid stride. "Uh, hi," she said, standing as tall as she could, which was admittedly not very tall at all. "I'm Nimileth, the Shadowfoot you've been asking after."

"Ah, yes. Come, take a seat. I must speak with you."

His voice was... his voice was normal. Perfect Cyrodiilic, the slightest Colovian accent. What had she expected, a growl?

The Gray Fox beckoned her forward. She met his stare levelly. Icy blue eyes sagged at their outer corners, made his gaze look long and sad. He passed his eyes over her, swift yet regardful, but Nim’s gaze lingered, drawn directly to the cowl. It was made of leather and wool, a dull gray in color, like the dessicated carcass of an animal found in the crawlspace. Glittering Daedric runes had been stitched between his eyes. Shadow hide you, they read in their unirnly blue script, and immediately, Nim was overcome with a deep sinking dread, the stone certainty that something was wrong .

She couldn't quite place it, the dark shadow that overcame her, this magic strangely familiar, a rumor of a time before. It filled the room like a thin pool of standing water, and she could feel it soaking her feet, climbing the fabric of her trousers, staining her skin with its grasp. Was this a hex? Some sort of curse? Whatever it was rippled through the room, and when Nim drew in another breath, the air sat heavier in her lungs.

The Gray Fox had begun speaking, but Nim hadn’t registered any of the words, consumed by the noxious magic as she was. If she felt this suffocated simply in the cowl's presence, what did the man underneath it feel? It was as if she was deep underwater, all sound muffled, being held down. She couldn't look away. The iridescent shine of the cowl's runes were so alluring, so bright it made the blue eyes underneath look colorless in comparison. Nim couldn’t help it; she felt somehow... sorry for him. And that cowl he wore, by the Gods, it was absolutely the most hideous article of clothing she’d ever seen.

The Gray Fox blinked up at her expectantly. "I'm sorry, wh-what?" she stuttered, unsure if he’d just asked a question. "I didn't... I didn't catch that."

"Watch yourself, Shadowfoot," he said crisply. "I am the Gray Fox, and if you ever wish to become a Master Thief in my guild, you had better learn respect."

Sharp narrow eyes glared from the slits in the cowl, slanted downward into angry little lines. The jowly flaps at his jaw jiggled with each word. Up and down, up and down like an old, saggy dog's. "My apologies," Nim offered, feigning contrition, still gawking. "I'm just... I'm so shocked to finally meet you. What an honor it is that you’ve called upon me of all thieves in the city."

The Gray Fox straightened in his seat. His expression softened, the flattery having appeased him. Typica l, Nim thought, growing increasingly disappointed. Mortal man after all.

"Ah, I see. Come sit. I have need of your talents. This, I assure you, is a job unlike any you’ve ever done before."

Nim sat. "You sound quite certain of it."

The Gray Fox looked momentarily surprised. "I am."

"Oh. Uh, alright."

"Let's get right into business, then. You will travel to a remote monastery not far from here. Hidden away within is a very secret, very special item of magical power. You will retrieve it for me."

"A monastery?"

"Yes, the Temple of the Ancestor Moths. It's where retired Moth Priests go to wait out the rest of their days."

Nim shifted, rolled her lips inward and bit down. A monastery. Really? Who steals from priests of all people? 

"You… you need to steal from blind priests?" she asked, making sure she’d heard correctly. Now, Nim was not above theft, not above many criminal deeds, most perhaps. But even she had her boundaries with some forms of depravity flushing a few shades too fiendish for her personal preferences. The thought of stealing from a temple made her throat tighten just a little. Temples had always been a place of safety for her.

The Gray Fox nodded. "Now will you or will you not?"

This was the Gray Fox? This was the greatest thief of all time? A man behind a magical cowl who couldn't steal from a temple of blind monks? Nim scratched at her cheek. The nervous tingling in her limbs deflated, as did her expression. Second by second, she could feel it drooping into a lopsided frown. "You need help for that?"

She hadn't meant for it to come across as harshly as it had; she truly was curious. But the Gray Fox only laughed, full of scorn, a raspy sound dredged up from the back of his throat. "Save your conceit for the mission then, Shadowfoot. Blind Moth priests are highly trained-fighters who have dedicated their lives to the way of the peaceful fist. If you are so sure of your skill, prove it, and do not question my motives or my skill again."

"Sure," Nim said skeptically, not bothering to hide it. "I'll do it if the pay is good enough."

"It will be. Now, the item you will acquire is called Savilla's Stone. It is a large scrying crystal with special properties that I need—” He paused, as if reconsidering. “That I need,” he then stated simply.

That was it, no further explanation. Whatever it was he needed for, he didn't trust Nim with knowing. "Sure," she said again.

“When I receive word that Savilla's Stone is missing, I will return here to await you. Don't tarry.”

But Nim did tarry, and the Gray Fox cocked his head while stared at that horrible cowl. Morbidly fascinating, how it drew her eyes like a carriage wreck. It's strange, leaden energy still radiated through the room, crawling up her spine, squeezing tight at her nape. 

"So this cowl," she said, "Is there, like, a curse on it or something?"

The Gray Fox dismissed her with a stern wave of his hand. "No. No questions. I don't answer questions about myself, particularly not from a Shadowfoot."

"Huh? I wasn't asking about you, just the cowl. Unless it's like... a part of you. Is that what happened? Is it welded to your face? You've seen a mirror right? You wouldn't wear that if you didn't absolutely have to."

"Why does it interest you?"

"I've been around some Daedra before, you see."

"You what? "

"This magic that’s weaved into—"

"Silence! Speak no more of the Daedra! You know nothing of their power!"

"But—"

"I said hold your tongue!" The Gray Fox tightened and released a fist at his side. "You speak with the Gray Fox himself."

Nim wrinkled her face in confusion. "Yeah? Why are you telling me? I didn't forget."

"Don't get smart with me, girl. I am the backbone of the Thieves Guild, and I have been for centuries. You know nothing of this cowl nor how I wield Nocturnal's terrible power. Nor will you. Not until you prove your worth."

"Talos man, I just had a couple questions." And Methredhel had told her she was uptight!

"And I believe I spoke my piece already. No questions."

"Whatever."

"Excuse me?"

Nim grumbled, proceeding toward the stairs. "Self-centered old man... couldn't give a rats-ass about being an oooh, Master Thief... " Glancing over her shoulder, she could see he was still speaking, the cowl's jowly flaps bouncing again and flaring angrily like the gills of a gasping bass.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."The Guildmaster stared at her askance, and Nim, not knowing what was good for her, turned on her heels and kept right on walking. "Just a question... wasn't even about him... like I care about his life story? Bah!"

"Don’t walk away when I’m speaking to you. I can still hear you! Excuse me!"

When she heard the squeak of his chair, the thud of his boots hitting the floor, Nim sprinted up the stairs and out of the house. Scoffing and grumbling and muttering under her breath, she tied her cloak tight and jumped off the porch.

Helvius approached her. "So," he said. "You got your task. Everything is alright, I'm guessing?"

"Alright?" she snorted, face tight with annoyance. "Yeah, he's a right ugly piece of work, that's what he is. Go ahead and tell him that when he comes out. Thinks Magnus shines out his ass just because he has a bloody Daedric cowl! Like what a fucking idiot, wearing that thing around, you know? Probably didn't even steal it himself! Had someone else do it, lazy bastard! What is it with men? One ounce of power and they think everyone worships at their feet just cause. Master Thief my left ass cheek... Can't even steal from blind priests... could fondle mudcrabs for all I care..."

Nim trailed off, threw on her hood, and walked down the path toward Olav's taphouse. Helvius stood in silence, scratching at his head, and after a few seconds passed, Nim turned around and doubled back.

"Oh, actually Helvius, can you not tell him I said that?" She fished around in her cloak pocket and pressed the ring she’d stolen earlier into his hand. "Thanks. Shadow, uh... shadow hide you." And from there she walked briskly down the street.

Helvius opened his palm to reveal a beautifully crafted sapphire ring. He had no intention of mentioning anything to the Gray Fox in the first place, but with an argument like that, how could he say no?

Notes:

How to write combat?

Chapter 4: College Days

Summary:

A day in the life of your local first-year university student.

Chapter 4: College Days

Sitting in the lobby of the Arch-mage’s tower, Raminus had just learned (from Bothiel, of course) of Nimileth's return to the University. This was good. And this was bad.

Under orders from the Council, he was to send her on an assignment to Skingrad where she was to meet Count Janus Hassildor and hopefully gather enough pertinent information to shed light on the recent attack on the Wellspring Grove. Which was good, of course. But also bad.

The tragic events at the Wellspring had shaken everyone on the Council, and as the news spread throughout the province so too did the worry. It plagued mages from Bruma to Leyawiin, and in the capital rumors of increased necromancer activity had finally reached Hannibal Traven’s ears. Members of the Skingrad chapter wrote of their suspicions, claiming they'd seen the Count's steward meeting with cloaked figures on the outskirts of town, always in the dead of night. Naturally, this troubled the Council immensely. Count Hassildor— despite his unique nature— had long been considered a valuable ally to the guild, and the Council wished to make certain that their faith in him had not been misplaced. Of course, they couldn't simply ask whether or not he’d thrown in with the necromancers, and even if they’d been so direct, nor would they take his answer for truth. No, nothing was ever so simple when the Council was involved, and so, in opting for a more discreet approach, they had decided to send Nimileth instead.

Raminus had felt ill, violently ill, when he’d first heard the suggestion. Only he and Tar-meena had voted against it. “We have spies,” he’d said, “we needn’t involve a student in our investigation.”

Caranya had pushed back, stating this was the most efficient course of action. Begrudgingly, he'd acknowledged her reasoning. Nimileth was the only surviving member of the attack on the Wellspring, and she'd fought the necromancers first-hand. Clearly, she was competent enough to handle herself.

But sending their newest Apprentice as a representative on their behalf? It didn’t sit right with Raminus. Apprentice Nimileth had only just started her studies as a first-year student, hadn’t even finished her first quarter, and already the Council was sending her on official guild business? 

What troubled him even more was that the Council had asked him to hold in secret the true reason for her visit to Skingrad. Raminus was to send her out as an emissary from the Council under the pretense of obtaining a book from Janus’ private library. They would require her to act as uninformed bait, and if the necromancers did indeed lurk nearby, the guild presence so soon after the Wellspring attack would likely draw them out. It sounded dangerous. Dangerous and quite unnecessary. Why must they lie to Nimileth? Lies only lead to more trouble.

What she won’t know won’t hurt her,” Irlav had said Raminus wasn’t sure he believed it, but no matter how he tried to argue an alternative, the Council remained resolute in their decision. When he'd offered to go himself, the other seats refused. “It’s too risky to send a Council member. Too high profile. It will send local necromancers into hiding.”

But what if they crawled out of the woodwork when Nim arrived? What was she meant to do then?

With his unsettled qualms spitting like fire in his gut, Raminus set out in search of Nimileth. He didn't find her in the dining hall nor the archives. Not in the practice rooms either. He found no relief in prolonging their meeting, only dread for the inevitable. What would he say when he found her? Would she suspect he was hiding details? Raminus had never considered himself a skillful liar. Once, in his youth, he’d lied to his father about purchasing a rather salacious novella featuring an Argonian maid, then promptly threw up at his feet. Years and years later, he still hadn’t learned how to shed himself of such anxieties, and the deception that the Council required of him now made his teeth itch something fierce. Feeling the sickness brew stronger with every passing minute, Raminus departed for his morning stroll, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind, the mild nausea in his stomach, the lurching deep in his chest. 

It was a chilly Middas morning. The sun shone brightly overhead, sparkling in the dew as he walked to the edge of Lake Rumare. He followed a narrow, winding path through the elms dotting the city isle, toward the glazed lakeshore where white birds pecked in the sand. A softly blowing breeze ruffled his hair, making his already disheveled appearance even more unkempt. By the time he made his way back within University walls, he was feeling much calmer, if not a bit cold.

Heading for the dining hall to prepare a cup of tea, he caught a small, lilting voice on the wind. It was a melodic sound, a woman humming, and it grew louder as he approached the edge of the walkway. Peering down into the Lustratorium below, he found Nimileth leaning forward on her knees before a steaming retort which she'd set upon the decorative stone architecture. She sat in her drooping mage's robes, surrounded by newly unfurling ferns, and beneath her alchemical equipment was a small, crackling fire lit by twigs and dry blades of grass.

Taking a deep breath, Raminus fought back the guilt stabbing up against his sternum. He approached. She didn't seem to notice him at all. Facing her small fire, she sat with her brows furrowed, working hard to grind whatever lay within her mortar while the dark concoction in the retort began to simmer.

"I should have known I’d find you here," he said.

Nim startled, jumping a little as she squeaked, "Oh! Good morning, Master Wizard.”

“Sorry. I thought you heard me coming. You are aware we have a laboratory on University grounds?" The uncontained fire made him quite uneasy, and he imagined Julienne might die of heart failure were she around to see it. He gestured toward the Lustratorium door, biting his tongue, trying something slightly more subtle. "In fact, you're a mere ten feet away from it. I could help you find a place inside to arrange your alchemical tools if you’d like."

Nim waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, but it's much too clear a morning to spend inside. Can you believe spring is only a month away?"

“That is what the calendar says."

"It says that, does it? How observant you are, Master Wizard."

"It's Raminus," he reminded her. "Just Raminus."

"Well Raminus," she said. "In a month from now this garden will be filled with all kinds of flowers. Hyacinth, iris, bloodroot— you can't imagine how much I've missed them."

"Not a fan of Winter, I assume? Botanists rarely are."

Nim gave a shrug and continued working at her ingredients, producing a soft crunch crunch crunch with each twist of the pestle. It made a sound like grinding sand. "Meh. That would be rather small-minded of me. Winter's fine and all, but it would be much more tolerable with a few shades of green that weren't pine. Or maybe some toadstools, a shelf fungus or two. Or some oyster mushrooms. At least that way I could go foraging for dinner." She swiped her bangs from her eyes and smeared a streak of bright orange dust across her forehead. "What say you? Don't you think everything's just a little more tolerable when something's in bloom? Or maybe with a colorful mushroom or two."

"Sure,” he said, but not too thoughtfully. “I should admit that I've never looked too closely at plants."

"No? Then what do you look at when you go for walks?"

"Pardon?"

"I've seen you strolling through the city isle in the morning on my way back from temple. You're always staring at the ground, like you're looking for something."

"Oh, I- I didn't think anyone was taking notice," he stuttered. Strange warmth flushed his face. He cleared his throat. "Rocks mostly."

"Rocks?"

"Yes, I've always enjoyed them."

"Oh, I should have known. Cause of your stratigraphy and stuff."

"Well, yes and no. Not all geology is concerned with stratigraphy."

"Oh?" she said, questioning. "Well, tell me about the other parts of geology then, the rocks you find. What about them do you enjoy?"

"Why, everything."

"Everything?” She laughed, and Raminus was certain he hadn’t said a joke. “That's a lot of things."

"I- Yes, I suppose so."

"Care to share? Tell me something about them then. I know very little."

Raminus swiped the wind-strewn hair from his eyes and stared at her, somewhat perplexed. He’d discussed his studies in alteration with other students before, but no one had ever asked him to share his interests in geology, no one beside his mother. His sister Aia once, when they were children, but she had promptly fallen asleep and had never asked again.

Nim was still waiting, and Raminus was still in a mild state of disbelief. There were so many rocks to talk about. Where would he even start? "Well," he began, "rocks are typically categorized by the minerals they're composed of and the conditions under which they've been formed. There are three classifications for the processes by which they're created, thus any rock can be described as igneous, sedimentary, or metamorphic."

"Oh. What's the difference between a rock and a mineral?"

"A great question," he said, feeling a flare of excitement. He didn't get to talk about rocks with many people these days, not since he joined the Council and stopped taking on research projects of his own. "Minerals are defined by their chemical composition and crystalline structures, whereas rocks are aggregates of more than one mineral. Take quartz for example. It’s one of the most abundant minerals on Nirn. Granite, on the other hand, is an igneous rock that contains mostly quartz but also alkali feldspar."

Nim paused in her grinding. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun behind him, looking up. "What makes something igneous?"

"Those are rocks that have been formed when magma cools and solidifies."

"Like a pumice stone?" she asked, squinting. "Those come from volcanoes or something, right?"

Raminus grinned, the gesture instinctual. "Yes, like a pumice stone."

"How'd you come to know so much about rocks, Master Wi- er, Raminus?"

"I studied them for quite a while. Years. A decade? Perhaps more than that."

"Can't be much longer than a decade. You're not that old, are you?"

"Well, I suppose it's relative."

"Hmm."

"Anyway," he continued, rocking back on his heels. "I can't really remember a time where I wasn't at least interested in them. I had quite a collection in my youth. When I was a boy, I’d wander the city isle trying to identify them with a catalogue my father bought for me as a birthday present. I learned a lot more when I finally had access to the archives. We don’t have very many geologists among our faculty at the moment, but they’ll visit to inspect our collection every now and then.” 

“Really?" she said. "Like real scientists, travelling for their research?”

“Of course. Scholars from other institutions come and go frequently. Why, I remember speaking to a geologist from Sentinel— what was his name, Eshir, I think— he studied the shale formations along the northern coast of Hammerfell. Now, he had spent decades in his studies. Silly Apprentice me thought I was some sort of expert because of all the books I’d read, but to this day I’ve never met anyone with such encyclopedic knowledge of the subject. I don’t think I ever will again. I didn’t even know I had so much left to learn, and that’s the day it struck me. We know so little about the world. That’s the day I truly became enamored with the natural world."

"Enamored," Nim echoed, her smile growing larger. "That's a strong feeling to hold for a rock."

"Well, shale is the most ubiquitous of sedimentary rock," he babbled on, feeling his face suffuse with heat. "Sometimes you can find fossils in them if you know what to look for. There's a quarry not far from here, out by the Reed river. I used to beg my mother to take me there for weekend trips.”

Raminus didn't quite understand what had compelled him to say any of that or why he was still talking at all. Sure he had a rock collection when he was a boy, but it was only an idle hobby of his and now, a relict of the past. Though he kept it around for nostalgia’s sake, he tried not to bring it up, especially when Lyra, his ex-wife, had mocked him relentlessly for preserving it. One slip of the tongue, and now here he was rambling on about things no one really needed to know, certainly not Nimileth. Though she had asked...

Enamoured, he thought with a groan, she's going to think you're some sort of deviant.

"Seems like you missed your calling,” Nim said. “Kinda makes me wonder why you’re here teaching magic and not whatever you're most passionate about."

"People can have more than one passion. Besides, the funding is easier to acquire for alteration research than it is for geological surveys."

"Well, I'd fund it if I had the means. Who knows? Maybe one day I will. I should like to see that quarry first though. Perhaps there's an old fern pressed somewhere in all that shale."

"I'm certain there is. Moss too. I've even seen kelp preserved in the sandstone deposits down in the Summerset Isle."

"You’ve been there?”

“I travelled a lot as an Apprentice.”

“Well, maybe you can show me these rocks some day," she said, her stare soft but insistent, and in her voice a note of genuine interest that made Raminus' stomach flip. "I don't know much about fossil deposits or minerals, but I do like a good piece of pumice every now and then. It's good for exfoliation."

"Yes, um, well what have you got there?" He pointed at the mortar in her hands, very eager to change the subject.

"I'm just killing time before lecture," she said and tapped on the retort with the very tip of a chipped fingernail. "Should be ready in about five minutes. Stick around if you're curious."

Raminus was curious. There were several things about her that made him so. Where had she learned the requisite skill set to accomplish all the tasks her recommenders had written of? How was someone so unassuming capable of fighting off necromancers while as severely outnumbered as she was? Did she really care to learn about geology or was she only being polite? All Raminus really knew of Nim was that she lived on the Waterfront and that only left him confused. Raminus had grown up in the Imperial City. He knew what people said of those who called the Waterfront home. As elitist as it was, he’d been led to believe that those who lived there amounted to little beyond thieves, skooma-fiends, and pirates. But University students? Skilled mages? Quite rare.

"Speaking of lecture," he said, "what courses did you decide on this quarter? I forgot to ask sooner. Should you need recommendations for the spring, I'd be happy to offer suggestions."

"Today's Beginners Spell-Crafting," Nim said, her eyes sparkling. "This week's lesson is on destruction magic. Can you believe Gaspar Stegine teaches that course? Gaspar Stegine. Every time I walk into the Praxographical Center and see him and Borissean standing there, I turn into a pile of scrib jelly. Suddenly, I feel like I've lost all my bones, and I've forgotten all of my Cyrodiliic."

Raminus chuckled politely. "Indeed, I can believe it. The Arcane University attracts the most talented of mages from across Tamriel. Borissean and Gaspar trade off lecturing every year or so."

"S'crazy isn't it? Finding yourself among the most powerful sorcerers in all of Cyrodiil? And meanwhile I’m just… just there." Nim sighed, shook her head, then returned to her grinding. "I swear to Julianos above, one day I'm going to make the biggest fool of myself in front of them, and I'll hate myself forever."

"Oh, you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. You're only an Apprentice. For someone of your age, that's quite an accomplishment."

"I'll be twenty in Second Seed. I'm sure there have been younger in my rank."

"Twenty? Ah, well you look… young."

"Well, I'm not old either."

"Ah, yes. I meant—” He stumbled on his tongue and swore that it must have swelled to twice its normal size. "Ah... um."

"I look younger is what you meant. It's fine. I'm aware. It's nothing to be delicate about." She squinted at him again, eyes flickering back and forth across his face, up to his hair, back down to his eyes again. What she was looking for with such a scrutinizing gaze, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Bothiel said that you're the youngest member on the Council," she said, still staring and still searching. "Is it true? Maybe you have some tips for me."

"Why, do you wish to replace me?"

"Oh, no! Nothing like that!" she blurted out. "I just want to do well here, that's all." 

"It was just a joke," he teased lightly. Though the University was a competitive environment, few would openly state their desire for a seat on the Council. It simply wasn't the way. "I encourage you to maintain your momentum. I can't remember the last time we had a mage enter with such glowing recommendations."

Nim nodded along to his words with a meek grin, looking a little embarrassed. In the bright rays of Magnus, her eyes were not as black as he had first assumed but an oaken brown, lined with a thin ring of green. Dark. Glassy as polished jade.

"Thank you, I just—" she stuttered, a bit flustered. "I have so much to learn, you know?  Everyday I’m reminded of how little I understand, and it's the greatest motivating force, really. I'm working on this side project of Julienne’s. Her last student left before he could complete it. I’m trying to distill the properties of some hybrid mallow she’s been cultivating, and it’s kind of scary. I’ve never really done any research before.”

“Well, there’s only one way to get better,” he offered encouragingly. “What about your coursework?”

“I'm also taking Auras and the Art of Reflection. I thought it best cause I know so little about Mysticism. Couldn't float an apple out of a sack if I tried, unfortunately."

"Boderi Farano is teaching that, isn't she? How do you find her lectures?" Raminus had taken the same course about six years ago and found her terrifying. He hoped for the students' sake that the years had mellowed her.

"Oh, she's wonderful!" Nim exclaimed. "Aggressive and loud and terrifying. I didn’t think I’d find it as effective a teaching style as I do. Is it true she was an imperial battlemage before being hired as a lecturer?"

"She’d been retired for nearly a decade before then, but yes. She comes from a long line of mages in Morrowind. I believe her Great-grandfather has a Tel in Morrowind. From what Bothiel told me, he was not happy about her moving to Cyrodiil." In fact, Raminus seemed to recall a rumor she'd been disinherited the day after she signed herself up for the legion forces

"Did you say a Tel?" Nim's eyes grew wider. "Those big mushrooms, right?"

"I suppose some of them are mushrooms, yes. They’re gigantic. They make you feel so small in comparison."

"Well, that typically happens to me no matter what."

"Ah, I... um." 

Nim didn't seem troubled by the comment, and realizing he didn't know how to respond anyway, Raminus didn't bother lest he trip over his tongue yet again. Nim blew out the fire she’d been working with and sprinkled the orange powder from her mortar into the steaming liquid within the retort. She swirled the glass around with the aid of telekinesis spell, dark violet splashing back and forth. 

“Want a sip?” she asked, pouring its contents into a nearby cup. Standing to her feet, she offered him the potion, and he found himself taking it without much thinking. It was the color of crushed berries, pleasantly fragranced and sweet. "Go on," she insisted. "Let me know what you think."

"My skin isn't about to turn blue, is it? I've seen the tricks young mages play on each other." 

"You think I'd poison you, Master Wizard? Here, in public?"

"Well... no."

"Anyway," she shrugged off his mindless comment, "there are more inconvenient things than poisons."

"Like what?" He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. It was rich, fruity, coated his mouth in liquid so thick it slid down like syrup.

"Umm, a calming charm at the wrong time?” Nim said. “Unintentional chameleon. Water-walking while trying to enjoy a bathhouse." Raminus grinned stupidly at that. "Ooh, I know a good one. A love potion! I met a girl in Bravil who got slipped one of those, and she said it left her thoughts distorted for weeks."

Nearly choking at the thought, Raminus tried to hand the cup back to her. "I do believe a love potion is a kind of poison,” he said.

"It's not a love potion, Master Wizard. What kind of alchemist do you think I am?"

"Yes, of course. I—"  A new wave of flavor hit him then. Smacking his lips slightly, he detected tangy citrus through the overwhelming sweetness of blackberries. The final note was a peppery zing that lingered on the tongue, warm and electric. He cocked his head in surprise. "Oh, that's lovely. What do you call this?"

"Breakfast," she smiled. "Pairs remarkably well with goat cheese on toast and a thick slice of ham. I'm thinking about calling it  'blackberry flambe,' or maybe 'breakfast inferno.'" She added a dramatic wave toward the sky. "I dunno. Something evocative of fire. It’s silly, and the title is still pending, and I'm not very imaginative. When I enter mass production, perhaps I’ll be more creative. Or I'll hire someone else to do it for me."

"Fire?" And suddenly the zing on his tongue made sense. "Fire salts with breakfast? I never would have imagined it could combine so well with blackberries. The orange was a nice touch, not too overpowering. Wonderful, really." He helped himself to another mouthful.

"Thanks. The rejuvinating properties of the blackberries combine with the orange to replenish energy, something most everyone needs in the morning, but as a mage, I like to get the magicka flowing as soon as possible. Thus the fire salts, to further draw out the restorative properties in the blackberries. And they add a nice zing, don't they?"

"Wonderful zing." So wonderful that Raminus had decided he was not going to hand the cup back. "I'm on my way to have breakfast now," he said, "I’ll try that pairing you mentioned. Would you care to join me?”

Nim’s ears perked. She blinked silently at him. “Uh, yeah," she stammered. "Sure.” And at once she began gathering her belongings.

“There is another thing.”

“Hmm?” She looked so eager, so earnest, and suddenly Raminus was reminded that the Council had asked him to lie to her. He could drown himself in his cup.

“Yes, I was hoping to find you before your class to discuss it,” he said. “As long as you have time. Perhaps we can talk about it over breakfast?"

"Of course. Yes, of course. I woulda made more of that potion had I known.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me how you came up with it. I’m a bit rusty with my alchemy but not entirely useless.” 

"Okay,” she grinned. “And maybe you could tell me about those other types of rocks you mentioned. Sedimentary and... what was that other one?"

"Metamorphic."

"Metamorphic," she beamed. "That's the one." 

---

"A book?"

"Yes, the Council would like you to retrieve it," Raminus said.

The morning classes were well underway, and the dining hall had emptied significantly. Raminus sat alone with Nim at a long banquet table, the idle chatter around them thinner than it had been when they first sat down.  Nim stabbed at the last potato on her plate, her eyes squinted, and Raminus couldn’t keep himself from growing stiff, from wondering if she knew he was lying. "A book," she repeated, and indeed she sounded doubtful. "But how is this related to the necromancers' attack on the Wellspring Cave?"

"Er- yes. It’s a very rare book that details the history of necromancer cults in central Tamriel. We're wondering if the group of necromancers you encountered, the ones who attacked the cave, may have some tie to these historic cults."

"I see,” she said, no attempt to hide her suspicion now. "And Count Hassildor has this book why?"

Raminus sat silently through the eye contact, willing himself not to look away. Or vomit. A low rumble sounded from the depths of his belly, but he couldn’t eat, just pushed his food back and forth. He’d managed a few bites of toast before their conversation veered to her newest assignment, and as soon as it had the gnawing guilt bubbled anew. Nim was far more inquisitive than he’d been prepared for, and he found himself fidgeting with his hands when his brain failed to produce words. Fidget and fidget, he did, until eventually he shoved his hands into his pockets just to keep them still.

"Forgive me if I am speaking out of place," she said in between a sip of coffee. "But I think we should be taking a more proactive approach. They’ve already murdered mages on the guilds own property."

"I understand your concern. I know it seems a trivial task but still, it needs to be done. The Council wants to keep the number of people involved in this investigation to a minimum, and given your first-hand experience at the Wellspring, they— er, we thought you were the most suitable representative to send."

"Hmm.” 

He was lying, and he was lying badly and surely she knew. Raminus felt miserable. He’d enjoyed talking to her earlier that morning, and now it all felt like a cheap trick meant to lower her guard. He felt like a right damnable scoundrel. If she suspected anything amiss, however, she kept it to herself. "If you say so, Master Wizard.” Finishing off her coffee, she gave a casual shrug and slung her pack over her shoulder. “I'll leave for Skingrad first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, Nim. It will be of great use to us. And please, it's Raminus. Just Raminus."

Nim stared at him for a long moment, rolling her lips inward, looking unconvinced. "Right," she said and picked up her plates, offered to take his. He refused. "Well, I should probably be getting to class. I'll see you soon?" 

"Yes, take care," he said and watched her leave.

Nim shut the door softly behind her, giving him one last little grin and a cheerful wave.  Sitting alone in the dining hall, his stomach turned not with hunger but with a scraping shame, with nausea. Why did he lie to her? What good would this do? Really, she had every reason to doubt him.

---

Blink. Gaspar Stegine, master spellmaker.  Vigge the Cautious, from the Skingrad chapter, had told her that Gaspar was among the best sorcerers in all of Cyrodill. Blink. Gaspar Stegine, master spellmaker. Nim still couldn't believe that he was teaching her lecture twice a week.

"Alright, everyone," the old mage said, clapping his hands. "We have fifteen minutes left of class. Let's see what you've made.” The students gathered in the center of the room quietly, nervously. “I want everyone to step forward and, without explaining the effects you chose, tell us when your spell would be most effective in combat. After you demonstrate on the practice dummy, we will try to deduce the effect." He pointed toward the end of the room, at a wooden mannequin wearing a beat-up leather cuirass. "Pria, why don't you demonstrate first?"

Pria, a small Breton with curly blonde hair, stepped forward and cleared her throat. She was another first-year who had arrived from High Rock. She too was in Boderi Farano's class, and though Nim had sat beside her several times, they’d only spoken once when she’d asked for a spare quill.

"I've, um, made a short-range spell that would be most useful in a confined area," Pria said, wringing her hands.

Gaspar offered the nervous girl a kindly smile. "Go ahead and direct the spell toward the dummy."

The students inched a little closer to the mannequin to watch. Pria approached the dummy slowly with a sickly grimace on her face and set a hand on its wooden arm. A small spark of light jumped from her fingertips and sizzled out in a mere second. Pria blushed a violent shade of red.

"Useful in a crowded marketplace when the shopper behind you is breathing down your neck, perhaps," Gaspar said. "But that wasn't the intention, was it?" The room filled with soft laughter. Pria shook her head. "The only way this would cause any damage is if your target were soaking wet. What are some ways we can make this spell more effective without increasing the magnitude?" Gaspar directed the question to the cluster of students. "Anyone?"

Nim's hand spasmed upward, but she quickly brought it down. She knew her destruction magic almost as well as her illusion, but what if she said something wrong? She certainly didn't want to look as silly as Pria did. Poor girl. At least her mysticism was half decent.

Nim looked up when the tall Argonian beside her raised his hand. She’d heard him speak once or twice, saw him studying in the archives on most Loredas nights while the other students were out drinking. A bright fellow he seemed, so focused and severe. Nim wish she had the guts to talk to him. 

Gaspar motioned to him for an answer. "Couple it with an elemental weakness spell," he said. “Weakness to shock magic. Weave it into the offensive first and it will increase the amplitude of the subsequent shock.”

I knew that, Nim mumbled in her head. Oh yeah, well why didn't you say it, idiot?

"Good, Chee-Tul. Why don't you show us your spell now?"

Chee-Tul nodded and stepped forward. "This spell is most useful when attacking from afar, perhaps for a scout or a guard defending against an oncoming party." He released a bright orange stream of magic from his palm, and the armor on the dummy audibly sizzled away. It left a gaping hole to expose the wood beneath it, and Nim had to restrain herself from oohing .

Gaspar's smile was blinding. "Very impressive work," he said with a series of quick nods. He turned to the class. "What do we see here?"

"A fireball," a young ash-blonde man spoke up from the back row.

Gaspar remained silent, as though waiting for the mage to continue. "Oh, were you finished with that thought?" he said

"Uh," the man croaked. "I mean, it was obviously a fire spell."

"Oh, was it really? I had no idea." The class chuckled, and the young mage shifted uncomfortably. "Why don't you look closer and tell me what you notice."

He walked toward the mannequin and squinted. "I see… scorch marks and, um, the leather is burned where the fireball made its impact."

"Is that so? Why don't you look closer," Gaspar suggested.

The young mage stammered for a moment but ultimately said nothing and turned to Gaspar with a shrug. Without thinking to ask, Nim approached the dummy, and the other mage staggered back, shriveling his nose as she twisted herself around him to run a finger around the burned hole in the cuirass. 

The edges were warped by odd ripples rather than singed away by flame, and the wooden torso was burned black in the center. Nim raised her hand, but didn't wait to be called on before she gave her answer.

"The fire itself didn't burn through the leather. Chee-Tul coupled the fireball with a spell to disintegrate the armor."

"Exactly," Gaspar said, snapping a finger at Nim who nearly swooned off her feet. "Let me propose a situation. Say you were on the receiving end. If you were fighting a battlemage, what augmentation might you have your enchanter place on your armor if you anticipated such an attack?”

“Hmm, I could think of a few,” Nim said. They’d covered them in class just last week. “A resistance charm. A general one focused on buffering incoming attacks above a certain threshold of magnitude rather than any particular element. Or a dispel charm. That ones even more versatile.”

"Very good, Nimileth. Let's see your spell now."

Nim stepped forward and faced the class, avoiding eye contact with the embarrassed student who had since returned to the crowd and was now glaring from the back. "This is a long-range spell. It can be used discretely to gain a swift advantage over a single target in battle without drawing much attention to yourself."

"Very well," Gaspar said. "I like the specificity."

Nim raised her right arm and gave it a small spin towards the end of the room. A faint green orb mingled with red wisps of light as it enveloped the wooden mannequin. The dummy itself remained physically unchanged, and Gaspar smiled at Nim, nodding his head in approval. Mumbled whispers of confusion slithered through the class.

"Nothing happened," a voice spoke up.

"If you believe that, why don't you let Nimileth demonstrate on you?" Gaspar turned to Nim and motioned her toward the student who suddenly grew very bug-eyed. 

Nim chuckled nervously. "I'd rather not, Master Wizard."

"What destruction spell did we just observe?" The class was silent. "Frost, Fire? No, what else could it be."

"Something that drains lifeforce?" Another student asked.

"Yes! Now, did anyone catch the second effect?" Nim stood awkwardly in the center of the room while Gaspar paced up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. "Give them a hint, Nimileth. What school of magic was it in?"

"Illusion."

"Paralysis," Chee-Tul called out immediately.

"Correct, Chee-Tul." Gaspar walked to the window and peeled back the curtain. Outside, the sun was just reaching its zenith. "Unfortunately, that's all the time we have for today,” he said. “Those of you who did not perform their spell today will be first to present for next week's demonstration. Remember, we’re moving into the chapter on alteration so come prepared with questions."

With their dismissal, the students began to pack their work benches and chatted idly amongst themselves. Nim walked back to her bench to retrieve her bag, trying to fight back the content smile creeping across her face. She could tell that some of the other students were staring at her. For a first-year, it was a pretty good spell, but for a Magician, a Warlock? Well, Nim was happy that most of her classmates were other first-years too otherwise she'd be laughed out of the Praxographical Center.

"It would be wise to add these two to your study groups," Gaspar called out, a mischievous grin as he pointed to Nim and Chee-Tul. When he turned to ascend the stairs, Nim cracked a grin so stupidly large her face ached. Cheeks warm, and heart blooming, she felt alive like she hadn’t in years.

Blink. Gaspar Stegine, master spellmaker.

Notes:

Listen. I don't know anything about rocks, but I tried.

Chapter 5: Ulterior Motives

Chapter 5: Ulterior Motives

A chorus of snores drifted over the wooden partition, filling Nim's ears with a boisterous song. She didn’t rest easily in the crowded dormitory and couldn’t believe that, for all its reputation of selectivity and grandeur, the University kept its mages housed like livestock.

Hmph, she grumbled silently. Even the Bravil chapter had enough rooms to house its members, and the Bravil chapter was exactly as luxurious as a molded house overlooking the sewer channel could be. Though the partition obscured most of her view of the sleeping students, a few lay visible through the thin sliver of open curtain. Nim pulled her blanket over her head and rolled over to face the wall. She didn’t want to wake up and find anyone staring at her nor find herself staring into anyone else's snoring mouth.

She left before sunrise the following morning. A carriage cost too much. She hadn't the gold to spend, and so she trekked it mostly by foot, stopping at roadside inns to refill her canteens and purchase provisions for the journey. Above, the clouds hung low in a dense blanket that choked the light of Magnus, and by the afternoon, it was so blindingly gray that it hurt her eyes to look upon. But the sky darkened swiftly. Distant thunder trundled to the east, and when the first drops of rain hit her nose, she pulled on her hood and cut off the road to take shelter beneath the forest canopy. Leaf buds kissed the tips of bare branches, the first signs of a dawning spring, and even in winter the thick of the woods shielded much of the light above.

Nim walked by her magelight, her vision otherwise obscured in mist and shadow. Beyond the forest edge, in the waning daylight hours, she emerged into a patch of flowerless flax atop a knoll overlooking Skingrad. The West Weald stretched to the edges of the Strid River, adorned by rolling hills, and in the distance, and not very far in the distance at that, stood the castle looming proudly on a bluff high above the city.

Nim made her way down the slope. By the time she reached the southern gates it was twilight, but at least it had stopped raining, and once inside, she found herself accosted by the strangest little man with the most terrible haircut she had ever seen.

"Psst, over here!" he called to her. Nim spared him a passing glance over her shoulder. Surely he wasn't speaking to her, and so she carried on. "I said, pssst!" 

The man raced to keep up with her, then darted behind a nearby building where he peeked his small face out from around the corner and beckoned her closer with a wave. Quite neurotic. Paranoid even, constantly looking over his shoulder, eyes darting back and forth like a cat on too much nip. Nim walked swiftly away.

"Hey! Over here!" he said again, his voice somewhere between a shrill shout and the loudest whisper she had ever heard someone attempt. Nim walked a bit faster, startled to find him following in suit. Every step she took, he was five paces behind, whisper-shouting from behind the building corner.

Nim glanced around at the nearby towns-folk who regarded the persistent man with an eye roll and mild indifference. Perhaps this was normal behaviour for him, strange but tolerated if not completely accepted. A town eccentric, most likely.

"Psst!" he said. "Psst! Psst!"

Oh no, not today. Nim was not getting caught up in a random elf's schemes when she had quite enough to handle on her own. Rounding the corner, she disappeared into her invisibility shroud and darted off toward the castle gates.

Night had fallen by the time she reached the castle courtyard, and the hike up had left her slightly damp with humid cold and more than slightly out of breath. She pulled her apprentice robes out of her pack, slipped them on, smoothed her hair down as best as she could, and checked her reflection in the well. It was not an imposing image by any means but respectable. Dressed in her University attire, the mages guild sigil embroidered above her heart, now she looked ready for business.

Castle Skingrad was built in the traditional Colovian style, all cold stone and vaulted ceilings. The walls were draped in wool tapestries, the floors in fur pelts, and though the decor was costly it was hardly lavish. Colovian indeed, so very austere.

Servants bustled back and forth for their evening cleaning rounds, and guards stood at attention beside a vacant throne. No Count in sight, but standing beside the dais was a pale, brown-haired man dressed in a green doublet so sumptuous he looked out of place. He was instructing one of the maids to sweep the stairs again. A steward, perhaps? Nim approached him, hoping he might help her locate Count Hassildor at the very least.

"Excuse me," she called out. The man did not seem to hear her, not the second time she called to him either. On the third, he turned toward her, slowly and begrudgingly so, to cast a long glance down to her boots.

"Yes?" he said, trailing his eyes up to her hair, and at this he held his nose pointed so high into the air that looking down at her seemed to strain his eyes. With his lips curled and nose wrinkled, she felt he might as well be staring at a pile of dung clinging desperately to the bottom of his shoes. 

"Hello," she said, nodding respectfully and swallowing her desire to flick the man at the tip of his rather long nose. She was a representative of the Council now and needed to behave as such. “My name is Nimileth. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Mercator Hosidus, steward to Count Hassildor."

"Oh, perfect. I'm here to speak with the Count on behalf of the Mages Guild. I hope it’s not too late to take callers. I don’t imagine our meeting will take very long."

"The Mages Guild you say?" For a moment, Mercator’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise that was just as quickly extinguished by a contrived and very irritated scoff. Nim stared up into the dark pits of his nasal cavity and counted the hairs there. "Ahh yes. The Count is quite aware of your presence and simply has no interest in granting you an audience at this time. Now that I've seen you myself, I can't say that I blame him."

Nim couldn't contain the snort that left her.

"What was that?" Mercator said.

"I'm sorry, there must be some misunderstanding. If the Count will not meet with me today, I suppose I will return tomorrow." 

"You should not."

"I will."

"I maintain that you shouldn't."

"And yet I must," she said with a bubbly little grin that betrayed nothing if not the utmost pleasantness. "If I must return everyday until he can meet, then I will. It really is an important matter. I’ve been tasked to meet with the Count, and so I shall."

"Hmph. Persistent, I see. Then perhaps I shall endeavor to change his mind."

"Splendid. It’s much appreciated.”

Mercator twisted his lips into an imitation of a smile. “Don't thank me yet. Return tomorrow, and perhaps he will see you then."

"Alright, first thing in the morning."

"Yes, we shall see," came his flat reply.

Not so bloody hard was it. Nim bounded toward the front doors, quite content with herself, wondering if she should thank the steward again for being so helpful just to see if it would grate on him further. She turned to see that Mercator had not moved an inch from where she’d left him. He was, of course, still grinning that grin that looked much more like a scowl. She pivoted, faced him full on and waved to let him know she saw him glaring. Mercator remained unbothered.

The guard standing post beside the door cleared his throat. “Door’s open now, Ma’am.”

"Is he always like that?" she asked the guard quietly, gesturing toward Mercator with an incline of her head.

"Like what?"

"A creep." The guard responded with a shrug. "What's his deal anyway?"

"Dunno. Your guess is as good as mine."

---

Nim spent the rest of the evening ignoring that imp of a man by the name of Glarthir. He had been waiting for her outside the castle gate, prattling on about some conspiracy, a group of people watching his every movement sun-up to sun-down.

“Sorry, can’t help you,” she said, but when he promised gold, it was enough to make her reconsider. In the end, she spent the walk through the city skirting the edge of the buildings, dashing down alleyways just to avoid another confrontation with him. Hopefully Count Hassildor would agree to meet with her soon. She couldn't imagine playing chase with this feather-duster-looking man for another day, let alone all of next week.

The following morning, the clouds had cleared to a bright blue sky and a chilly breeze. Reaching the castle gates, Nim wrapped her cloak tight around her and huddled beside a torch stone for its meager warmth.

“I’m not supposed to let anyone in until ten o’clock,” the guard at the gate said. 

“Really? Not even if Mercator is expecting me?”

The guard shifted, uncertain. 

Cold and growing inexplicably unnerved with each passing minute she had to spend in Skingrad, Nim donned her most winning smile and most flattering charm spell. She was not a flirt, never had been, but damn it, some women made it look so easy! Why couldn't she? With a twirl of her hair and the languid batting of her lashes, she bombarded the guard with a string of corny, coquettish jokes. She’d seen that woman in Bruma do it to Olav for a free beer. Hells, even Methredhel did it now and then. If she could do it, why couldn't Nim? Especially with that aid of her illusion magic. Fake it until you make it, right? She wasn't above a bit of artifice, and Nim offered a silent prayer to Dibella that something might go right this trip.

The guard was young, not much older than her, and it worked to her benefit that he was a sweet, shy thing. After a few minutes of flirtatious laughter and not entirely forced ogling, he let her slip into the castle early. A success! She'd tuck this one away for Methredhel who would get a kick out of it for sure. Nim did have to deny his request for a lunch date, unfortunately. She was here on business after all.

Inside the castle, Mercator was nowhere to be seen. In fact the hall was empty. Not even the braziers were lit. Nim sat on a nearby bench and took it upon herself to light the candles on the silver tray on the end table beside her. She drew a book from her pack. The Natural History of the West Weald, that she’d borrowed from the shelves of the local guild hall. She hadn't thought to ask anyone if it was okay to remove it from the library. She hadn't really thought to return it either.

Some hour and half later, she heard the creak of an opening door, footsteps on stone, and looked up to see Mecator descending the staircase. "You, Bosmer," he called out from a good distance away.

Nim stood to greet him with a small bow. "Good morning—" she began, but he cut her off with a stern wave of his hand.

"The Count has agreed to meet you."

"Oh. Wonderful." Nim looked behind him but the staircase remained unoccupied by anyone but the guards standing sentry at the top. "Um... where is he?"

"Not here. He insisted on meeting with you in secret. He expects you north of the Cursed Mine outside of town at two in the morning."

"Excuse me?" Nim was unsure she’d heard correctly. "Two? In the morning?"

"Was something about the instructions unclear?"

"The Cursed Mine?"

"Yes."

"That's not ominous at all."

"It is the name given to it by the locals." Now Mercator looked annoyed. "And will you be there?" he said sharply. "Yes or no? I must report back to him, and I am a busy man."

Two? Cursed Mine? Why, from Mercator's dismissive tone it seemed everyone and their mother was in the habit of choosing such secluded meeting places to hand over their inconsequential books.

"Yes, I'll be there," she said, a brow raised, unable to contain her confusion. Why would the Count want to meet her alone so late in the night? Something was terribly amiss.

"It would be wise of you to be on time. Follow the road west out of Skingrad, through—"

"Yes, I can navigate myself, thank you." And without another word she turned to leave.

Two? Cursed Mine?

Nim didn't need to know much about the Imperial courts to know that counts did not meet young mages in the dark of the distant wilderness unless it was for dalliance or deception. Nim would put money on which of the two it would be tonight. Heading back for the castle door, she tried to make herself look oblivious. It wouldn't do her any favors to let Mercator know she was suspicious. She had over half the day to figure out what he might want. 

Bugger, looks like it’s Skingrad for another night. With a sigh and a rumbling in her belly she made for the courtyard. She hadn't packed nearly enough food to get her through the lengthy trip, and with time to spare before her meeting with the Count, she figured she could squeeze in that lunch date the guard had offered. After all, who was she to deny a meal on someone else's dime?

---

At one in the morning, Nim awoke from her nap and packed her bag for departure. She tucked away the address the guard had scribbled down for her into the pocket of her sack. His name was Larrius and beneath his helmet, he sported a soft, round face with pale green eyes. He spent his holidays in Bruma with his mother, sister, and two dogs. A normal man with an endearing sense of humor, Larrius had been fine company for the two hours they spent chatting at the bar of the Two-Sister's lodge. She kissed him goodbye before he returned for his evening rounds, promising she’d write when she returned home, and maybe if she was the kind of woman that had time for normal, endearing men, she would. When she was younger, Nim had entertained dreams of joining a pirate crew, living off spiced wine, a lover in every port. Of course, that was just the romantic in her. Keeping up with that many people seemed dreadfully tiresome these days.

Vineyards wreathed the rolling hills beyond the city. Nim weaved around them under the cloak of her invisibility spell on her way to the rendezvous as Mercator had instructed. Intent on remaining unseen and vigilant, she refreshed her detection cantrip. A haze of mystical light engulfed every creature in range of her spell. Night birds and possums, racoons and chittering crickets— Nim wished she knew enough about mysticism to know how to filter them out. 

She was challenging herself with this spell, as it was a bit more advanced than her current understanding of mysticism allowed, but if she didn't make things difficult for herself, how would she ever learn? Casting it, she found she could either maintain full detection within a thirty-foot range or have auras blink in and out of visibility if she doubled the spell's radius. A small rodent glowed in the brush, everything else cast in the monochrome blue of her night-eye, and by now she was feeling slightly drained. It took a lot of energy to maintain three spells, but it was also a grounding exercise that eased some of the nerves in her belly. Mercator clearly thought her a fool, and she had half a mind to laugh in his face when he’d told her when and where the Count planned to meet her. She didn't need to be noble-born to know that no count would meet a lowly apprentice outside the city walls past midnight. Not unless… 

The memory of her battle in the Wellspring was all too fresh in her mind. Crouching low behind a rock, she allowed her magicka to replenish.  If this ends in blood, I'll be damned to let it be mine.

Nim slunk through the fields a little more subtly. Darting behind boulders and bushes and trees, she scouted the rendezvous for any signs of life, but all she found were more rats scampering away. Yet the icy hand of fear did not release its grip. Tightly it coiled around her, some atavistic instinct screaming awake, screaming that danger loomed in that clearing beyond. If only she knew what. If only she knew why.

Cursing her very novice grasp of mysticism, Nim crept forward, squinting through the darkness until she could make out the barely distinguishable shapes of people waiting in the clearing. Three figures, taller than her, humanoid. A fourth trailed behind. Slowly, Nim approached, and that was when she saw who she believed was Mercator scanning the rolls of grassy hills, no doubt looking for her.

Where is the Count? Nim still wanted him to show up, to believe this wasn’t the trap it reeked of. Perhaps he would be arriving shortly, and Nim waited a moment longer until she saw the fourth figure shamble closer. It groaned. It hobbled, one rotten leg trailing limply behind it. A thrall. 

Nim's stomach sunk. A trap! More necromancers! Nim drew her bow immediately. Who does the guild think I am, their new exterminator? Mercator knew who she was now. Would he come for her if she left? Nim had no choice but to attack. They would kill her. They would try, and to think all she had sought was a stupid book! Nim wondered if it even existed in the first place.

Just as she could feel her detection spell waning, Nim released an arrow straight into the nearest necromancer’s head. He crumpled to the floor with a grunt and spasmed, kicking up small clouds of dirt. Nim raced behind a boulder and fell back into shadow, but the necromancers must have already seen her hiding spot. They rushed her swiftly, throwing bolts of lightning that crashed against the stone with a terrible crrrck.

Seeking new shelter, Nim dashed away, but a shock bolt caught her arm. She choked back a wince, the magic burning a long scar across her bicep. Charred flesh bubbled on her arm, and with a newfound rush of fear, she was on the move, keeping low in the tall waving grass, halting only to let another arrow fly. This time she aimed for Mercator, but her draw on the bow was significantly weaker, each tug on the string sending sharp, shooting pain up her shoulder and down her back. The arrow missed its target, piercing him lower than she’d hoped. It stuck him in his leg, and though it didn't kill him, it slowed him. He hissed through the pain.

The third necromancer was behind her, rounding the boulder. Nim dodged shock bolt after shock bolt, could hear the groaning of Mercator’s zombie above his shouts and commands. Nim raced behind a tree as a tendril of electricity splintered off from another shock bolt and crashed into the branches above. With a shaky hand she readied her bow, but the necromancer was drawing too close too quickly, hands sparking again as he sprinted for her. Nim concentrated on her spellwork, calling forth a ball of flame. She threw it at the necromancer. It collided with his face.  He stumbled backward, losing his balance over a rock, and crashing into the dirt, and Nim was upon him in a second.

Though the flame had withered away, almost perfectly dispelled, she had something for him that was a little harder to reflect. Dagger in hand, she plunged her blade straight through his eyes, splitting the bone there, piercing the soft meat of his brain. 

The thrall went down in a fireball, dry flesh like tinder, the smell sickeningly sweet. Mercator, now alone, attempted to hobble away, but Nim was much faster with neither of her legs pierced by arrows. Drawing her bow back, she struck him again, this time in the back of his left thigh. It brought him crawling to the ground, and when Nim caught him, she gripped the arrow shaft sticking out of his leg and twisted.

Mercator threw his head back in a deafening howl. Tears of pain mingled with the dirt on his face, streaming down in murky brown tracks.

"You sad little man," Nim sneered, pushing the arrow deeper. "What are you playing at? What was your goal here?"

Blood-red saliva dribbled past his lips. He spat, a gurgled sound, a half-formed curse. "You were supposed to be an easy kill. The Mages Guild’s newest pet."

"Where is the Count?" Nim demanded, her grip on the arrow merciless. "Why is he working with necromancers?"

"I- I'm afraid I misled you. The Count isn't arriving. He doesn't even know you're here."

"Ugh."

Nim kicked Mercator into the ground, wiped the sweat off her brow, and whirled a ball of fire into his back. Slumping down on a nearby rock, she watched the flames eat away at his flesh as he screamed. Minutes passed, many long minutes, until all that remained was a mass of sizzling black char vaguely shaped like a man. The stench of sulfur and burnt hair, the plume of dark smoke drifting higher— Mercator slowly unfurled into the black of night. 

Nim shook as the adrenaline waned. She steadied her breath, closed her eyes and tried to take comfort in the fact that she had survived by the grace of Arkay. She didn't know what the Council had expected of her visit to Skingrad, but it certainly couldn't have been anything this exciting. If there were necromancers among Skingrad's stewardship, what was stopping them from infiltrating elsewhere in the Empire? Her brief time working with Falcar in the Cheydinhal chapter had proven that even the Mages Guild was far from impenetrable.

Nim rolled up her sleeve and weaved a spell. Basking in the warmth of her healing magic, she watched as the bolt shaped scar sprawling her arm disappeared.

"You impossible fool!"

A thunderous voice brought her jumping to her feet, bow drawn and aimed at a distant silhouette bounding closer. "Stay back or I'll put you out like all of your friends," she warned, but the man continued closer, unfazed.

"Don't point that in my face unless you intend to shoot it.”

Nim took a step forward. "I have every intention of shooting unless you tell me who you are, and then I just might do it anyway."

The man stepped into the moonlight, out of the shadows of the rocky outcrop surrounding them. He was human, of medium height, dressed in dark velvets, neatly groomed, and he stared down at Nim as if she were a rat nibbling at the muck crusted on the bottom of his shoe.

"Count Janus Hassildor," he said. He looked at her as Mercator had, with his nose stuck straight up into the air like a tracking dog's. "At your service,"

"What?" Nim staggered back in surprise. "At my service for what? What are you doing here?"

"I was trying to ensure nothing got out of hand! I was going to confront him, question him! Silly me for thinking a University mage would have the foresight to see a trap as glaringly obvious as this.“

“Oh, get off your high horse. Where were you five minutes ago when I was painting this field with your stewards blood?"

"I was approaching," he said, "I was about to step in before you ran in shooting wildly. For the life of me, I cannot understand what possessed you to think I would suggest a meeting here of all places." 

"Well, I can't understand what possessed you to employ a necromancer as a steward."

"I didn't know at the time,” the Count snapped. “I had since come to suspect Mercator was involved in their cult, but I was unwilling to move against him without knowing the identities of his allies. Seeing as one of them is a disfigured mass of flesh and bone, now I never will."

Nim supposed he wanted her to feel bad about this. As if she hadn't seen what they'd done to mages just like her before. "I was following my orders," she sniffed. 

"Really? Is that what the Council orders these days, to shoot on sight, no questions asked? Or perhaps you're just a hired sword." Count Hassildor regarded her for a long while. Nim bristled but bit her tongue. "Well, your gullibility has served some useful purpose at least. I knew about Mercator, but not his friends. I suppose none of them will be a threat any longer."

"A convenient story."

"A true story. Now get that thing out of my face before I snap it in half."

Nim squinted, skeptical, but let her bow down. Something about the Count’s face made her skin crawl. From what she knew, he was said to be old, having served in his position for decades. But he didn't look old per se, rather remarkably well preserved. His skin was pulled tight over his face, relatively free of wrinkles save the crowfeet at his eyes, but it was pale and weathered with the look of old paper having lost its color to days in the sun.

Unnatural, Nim thought. But perhaps it was a play of the moonlight or her lingering paranoia. Regardless, she pushed the uneasy feelings aside. "Still," she said. "You knew of Mercator's involvement with other necromancers and kept your mouth shut. Your silence doesn't make this any better if you ask me."

"Good thing I wasn't asking you. Despite what your Council may think, I've not thrown in with the necromancers, and would nor do so. You may pass along that message."

And so her true task was made clear. Nim gripped her bow so tightly her knuckles began to leach their blood. She wasn't here to retrieve a book as Raminus had so feebly explained. The Council had sent her as a spy without telling her, without providing any instruction on what she was to spy on. Was this their idea of being proactive? Throw her out like a line and see what bites?

"I was sent here to retrieve a book about necromancers," she mumbled bitterly, "though I now suspect the existence of such a thing is unlikely."

Count Hassildor let off a contemptuous scoff and shook his head so hard she thought it might fly off his spine. "Do you really think you were sent here for a book? No, you've been sent here to spy on me. Tell your Council that the next time they want something from me, they come themselves rather than send someone under false pretenses."

"Well, if you had listened to what I said, clearly I believe there is no book. Had the Council been honest with me, neither of us would be wasting our time in this field surrounded by dead necromancers."

Nim wanted to spit. What on Nirn had the Council expected to learn from an investigation if the investigator was in the dark about the entire plan? Were they hoping the necromancers would attack her? Were they hoping the Count would? Her stomach turned violently. She hated being used like this. The Gray Fox had done it, but he was a thief. If anything, she had come to expect it from him. But the Council... weren't they supposed to protect their students? She had trusted Raminus from the start. Was she a fool for doing so? He was exactly the kind of mage she’d hoped to meet at the University, seasoned by practice, a valuable teacher, young and not yet consumed by the desire for power that so many among the guild's leadership possessed.

This, she couldn't help but think, was a dirty betrayal.

"Welp," she said. "This whole ordeal has been quite embarrassing for me. I'll take my leave now and hope you believe me when I say I had no idea of their intention."

The Count raised a brow, looked slightly surprised though still displeased. "Yes, I see that now. I regret that Hannibal has involved you this way. Don't linger here. I suggest you return to your Council soon. At least you've survived. For now."

Nim rolled her eyes and slumped down on the rock to clean her blade and unstring her bow.

"Oh, apprentice, one more thing." He turned briefly to face her, and she looked up at him one more time, and though he was still wearing his haughty expression, she couldn't help but notice that he seemed to neither blink nor breathe. "I will admit, that was quite a show you put on. I can see why the Council entrusted this task to you. It is surprising to see that someone in the guild may actually have a spine."

"Er, thank you," Nim squeaked out.

"Perhaps in the future you can be trusted to deal with more serious matters."

And with that the Count wandered off into the night, leaving Nim to process the Council's deception under the twinkling sky, alone and with a few burnt corpses.

---

Raminus sat in the lobby of the Arch-mage's tower with a copy of On Oblivion. He had been rereading the same passage for half an hour and was now on his fifth attempt to actually comprehend it. But his mind lay elsewhere, unable to shake the gut-wrenching suspicion that he had placed Nimileth in grave danger. She had left for Skingrad a week ago to complete a task that should have been a brief meeting with the Count and nothing more. She should have been back by now. 

His stomach lurched forward, pressing itself uncomfortably close to his abdominal wall. He could feel it flip inside him, writhing like a caged eel. What if she had found trouble? What if she had found more necromancers? It wasn't right what he had done, and as he sat on the bench rereading the same page, he confessed that he regretted it terribly. 

Without warning, a gust of wind swept into the room and beat against the far wall as the door swung open. A small cloaked Nimileth stood in the doorway, scanning the room, and when her eyes landed on Raminus, she marched forward with an alarming amount of purpose.

Raminus felt an immediate surge of relief and stood at once to meet her. She drew her hood back, shaking the rain droplets from her bangs, then shot him a glare withering enough to kill a crop. The relief within him dried to dust.

"You set me up," she said, her voice ripe with contempt. "You know, Master Wizard, I joined the Mages Guild hoping to learn more about magic, but so far all I've learned is how better to kill necromancers. You should have told me your true plans instead of making me out to be a fool in front of the Count! I'd rather be an errand boy than a puppet."

"Necromancers?” Genuine shock washed over him. He scanned Nim quickly, searching for injury. “I- I had no idea there would be any necromancers there."

"Wow, you and me both, Raminus. Had I been told what the Council’s goal was, I would have known to expect them."

"Sit down, please," he urged her. "Tell me what happened in Skingrad."

"I don't see what more can be said," she fumed. "I've been lied to and for good reason or for wrong, it matters little to me. I could have been killed, and had I known what I was walking into, I would have prepared! This is a terrible way to treat your mages. Honestly, I'm appalled that you of all people would take to such unprofessional measures." 

Raminus' stomach plummeted, turning to mush inside him. "I wanted to warn you, but the Council thought it would jeopardize the mission."

"So, you just blindly follow whatever the Council says? If they said walk me off a cliff, you would do it?" She jabbed her finger at him. It trembled in the air. “Of course you would," she scoffed. "You did. Everyone does it. That's basically what happened in Skingrad anyway."

Raminus blinked, bewildered, finding himself at a loss for words. He looked away from Nim and to the wall, and then back, trying not to grimace. "I don't quite understand. Surely that's an unfair comparison. Why don't we sit down so you can tell me what happened with the Count?"

"Unfair?" Nim let out a venemous bark of laughter. "I was ambushed by three necromancers while trying to retrieve a non-existent book! The steward tried to lure me into a trap under the guise of a meeting with the Count! Hassildor's not a fool either, you know, and he was quite unimpressed with the turn of events. For the record, he is not associated with any necromancer and asked me to relay that next time the Council has questions, they might consider writing a letter.”

"Three necromancers? We hadn't expected—"

"Of course, you didn't! No one expects anything!"

Raminus stuttered on his tongue, restarted. "Are you alright? Did they harm you?"

"They're dead and I'm not," she puffed. "Comforting, huh?"

"I must apologize. I had no idea the assignment would be so dangerous."

"What good does an apology do for me now? The necromancers are already being picked apart by buzzards, and if that was my body out in the field, it certainly wouldn't be resurrected by an apology. Why didn’t you just tell me?"

"Arch-mage Traven thought that sending a high-ranking official to meet with the Count would draw too much attention and send any nearby Necromancers into hiding."

"Ah, so I’m to be sent in as bait, then?"

“I promise you, it was never the Council's intention to put you in harm’s way.”

"That doesn't explain why you had to keep me in the dark. When I went to Anvil for my recommendation, Carahil entrusted me with a very sensitive mission not five minutes after meeting me. Five minutes, Raminus. We were practically strangers, but she showed greater trust in me than you or the Council have, and I did no such thing to harm the integrity of the mission."

"Nimileth, I know you are upset, but with the Count's unique nature, we thought this the most sensitive of missions."

"His unique..." Nim's eyes grew wide, and Raminus assumed she must not have been aware that Janus was among the ranks of the Undead. "Ugh, this isn't about the Count," she groaned. "He has nothing to do with the fact that I was lied to. You must think I'm a fool. Really, I expected more from this guild."

Nim backed away, shaking her head. Raminus looked down at his feet. Her words stung like nettle, and they pressed upon him with a painfully sharp amount of pressure. He knew the Council had wronged her, so why was he still defending them? Why when he knew from the beginning that it would only lead to trouble? "I understand your frustration, believe me," he said. "I felt it too when I joined. Don't you think I know how backwards our leadership can be? Too often those with power lose sight of what's most important— our mages, their safety, their well-being. Nimileth, I am so sorry."

"I suppose you think the acknowledgment reassures me."

"I would hope so."

"Whatever."

But he had apologized, and he had meant it. What else could he say? Had he known the Council’s request would result in assault, he would never have sent her there alone. The silence between them grew unbearably thick. Raminus cursed himself. Why, at a time like this, did it seem his knowledge of Cyrodillic failed him? 

"We feared Count Hassildor's involvement with the Necromancers," he said, clasping his hands together to keep from fidgeting. "Thanks to your involvement, we can rest assured he is not. You have my word that we will make no further attempts to mislead you. You have done your job admirably. I thank you for it."

Nim said nothing, just blinked, those large dark eyes full of disgust. Eager to change topics, he cleared his throat and attempted a smile, but even from where he stood, he knew it fell weak.

"Your service to the guild has not gone unnoticed," he said. Still, Nim did not respond. Silently, she stared at him, her unnervingly blank expression like a rime of ice on a window pane. "We should discuss an advancement in rank. It would grant you access to more classes for the spring quarter. Perhaps new projects to work on as well."

Nim sighed roughly, just an inkling of anger surfacing from beneath. "Is this some sort of bribe?"

Raminus shook his head quickly. "No! No, not at all! You've earned it justly."

"Have I? Is serving as a lackey for the Council worth so much to you?"

"Nim, that is not—"

"Ugh, not now, Raminus. Thank you, but I'm behind on work now, and I need to… I need to brew some more potions." And with that she drew her hood over her head and turned away.

"Er-of course, until next—" He ended his sentence just short of speaking alone to the empty space around him. Raminus watched as she vanished into the air before she had even opened the door. 

Sitting down on the bench, he ran his hands through his hair, repeating their conversation over and over. It didn't need to end the way it did, with an apprentice fighting necromancers alone and now upset with both him and the Council. It shouldn't have began the way it did in the first place, on lies and deceit. She was right, they had used her and the Council regarded her safety as little more than an afterthought.

Raminus cursed his inability to stand up for himself. He shouldn’t have let the Council treat a student as they had. Cracking open his book again, he concluded that he had never met another mage that made him feel quite like such a fool as himself.

Chapter 6: Respect Among Thieves

Summary:

Nim finds yet another reason why she is not the Gray Fox's number one fan.

Chapter 6: Respect among Thieves

Malintus Ancrus stood beneath the eaves of his roof, soaked down to his socks. He cursed the rain, the sky, Kynareth herself. Meanwhile, the wind blew the downpour right back into his face. Why had he ever moved away from the Gold Coast? He closed his eyes, thought of Anvil. Nice and sunny there with mild winters and a fresh, salty breeze to wake to every morning. He didn't like being land locked here in Chorrol. It felt claustrophobic, unnatural even.

Malintus squinted into the rainy night in search of Nimileth, who was to meet the Gray Fox in his home this very evening. In the distance, a large figure, obscured by the darkness of the unlit streets stumbled drunkenly down the pathway into the cluster of shacks he called his neighborhood. He prayed silently that the approaching person was Nim and that this meeting could be adjourned as swiftly as possible. All he wanted was to return to snuggling Glistel in front of the fireplace and to be out of this Godsforsaken rain. The figure, however, disappeared into a neighboring shack. Malintus' heart sank.

The minutes passed. The rain drove on. Malintus found himself grumbling. He had always considered himself a clever man. Perhaps not the most bookish, but he had street smarts aplenty, yet for all the cleverness, he was unable to understand the Gray Fox's insistence that he stand outside and keep watch.

Nim knows where I live , he had told the Guildmaster. Can't I just look out the window?

But oh no! The Guildmaster needed  all the space to himself. What was he doing in there anyway? Casting bones? 

Malintus shuddered suddenly. The Gray Fox had led their organization for hundreds of years. Perhaps he was casting bones, raising spirits, communing with things better left dead. After all, one's immortality had to come from somewhere...

A tap on his shoulder, unannounced, and on reflex, Malintus whipped around, knocking the oncomer into his house with his arm.

"Ouch," the cloaked figure said from beneath her shroud, "Malintus, it's me."

"Oh, sorry Nim," he said as he righted her onto her feet. "I didn't hear you there. You wear the shadows well."

"S'not the shadows, Malintus. You can't hear anything in this bloody storm. Why on Nirn are you standing outside?"

"I was just asking myself the same," he sighed, stepping aside to open the shack door.

---

Nim entered the shack. As much as she tried to wipe her feet on the mat in the entryway, she couldn't help trailing tracks behind her. The storm outside was strong enough to have drowned her, and if the downpour wasn't heavy enough to do the trick, her mud-caked boots certainly were.

Inside, before the fireplace, the Gray Fox sat on a rickety chair and sipped loudly from a pewter mug. Nim nodded at him as she strode in to hang her cloak upon the mantle to dry. She prayed to Stendarr above that this was to be quick business. Finals week at the university rounded the corner, and after all that work to get Savilla’s stone, she had two classes she desperately behind on studying for. 

"Malintus doesn't need to stand out in the rain still, does he?" she asked without offering any further greeting. She took the seat across the Gray Fox and slipped out of her boots. The Gray Fox watched, silent in his judgment, as she stuck her big toe out of the hole in her sock and wriggled it before the fire. "It's pouring awfully hard out there," she added.

Ignoring her, the Gray Fox set his mug down. "I have need of your services once more," he said.

Nim frowned. "Yes, Amusei delivered your message. Could you maybe tone down the urgency when you send him out looking for me? Amusei seems to think you are condoning breaking into my sleeping quarters which is actually a bit problematic. I'm quite fond of getting a full night's sleep, you see."

Oh, Amusei. He was a kind old friend of hers, but far too enthusiastic in his new role as the Guildmaster's messenger. Too many times now she’d woken up to his glowing Argonian eyes peering down at her as she snoozed away in her bedroll. And too many times did he seem to find it too damn amusing.

Nim looked over her shoulder to watch a shivering Malintus through the fogged window of the shack. "But about Malintus—"

"My work with Savilas stone has revealed that I need something else for my plans," The Gray Fox cut in before she could finish. "A small magical item. It’s currently in possession of a court wizard in Bravil."

"A wizard?" Nim’s heart fell to her stomach. Panic spiked in her blood, her wide eyes betraying a sharp, sudden surprise. A wizard? What wizard? Not a Mages Guild affiliate? Please not that!

"Will you do this for me?" the Gray Fox asked. 

"Who is this wizard?"

"I'll pay you well, I assure you."

"The wizard," she repeated. "Who is currently in possession of the item?" The words left her quickly, with greater urgency than she’d intended to let on. 

"So, you agree then? Capital."

Nim clenched her fists beneath her seat. "That's not what I said. I am speaking Cyrodiilic, aren't I?"

"Does it matter who this wizard is? Are you frightened of a little magic?" He chuckled mockingly, folded his hands in his lap, and shook his head. "And you're the best Armand has to offer, hmm? A whelp of a Shadowfoot."

He sneered those words, a whelp of a Shadowfoot, as if they meant anything. "Stealing a gold coin from the pocket of the town drunk is not the same as stealing one from Chancellor Ocato," she said. "You're still a thief, aren't you? You do your own work every now and then, or do you always shell out to have some nameless whelp do your business?"

The man said nothing, simply glared, and quirked his mouth into a sour, ugly little moue

"Look," Nim said, "you want me to do this job, and I want to ask a few things. It's simple."

"I don't understand how it's the most pertinent question. We should be discussing the object I need, but you haven't expressed the remotest interest in what I am asking you to steal." He released an affected sigh, disapproval. "And you think you'll be a master thief? I find myself more disappointed each time we speak." 

"Ugh," Nim groaned. "I couldn't care less about titles or what you think of me. I'm here for the gold, and this plan of yours is of no importance to me, so let's not linger on it and get to the details. You're hiring me to steal an object, so I need to know who I am stealing from. Simple. Why we're dragging this out for petty insults eludes me."

"Well, it appears I've struck a nerve," the Gray Fox said and took a loud sip from his mug. "More than a little frightened of mages, I see. A weakness to fire maybe? Small thing like you would go up in flames like panic grass. I suppose I cannot blame you."

Nim bit her tongue, and when not even that was enough to quell the urge to snap, she cast a calming spell, let the tranquil flow of it wash over her in a few long breaths. "Let's return to the task then," she said, throwing on her most winsome smile. "What do you want me to steal, oh Guildmaster? Tell me about this great plan of yours if you're so insistent."

The Gray Fox was all too eager to begin. "Finally. Onto business. The item I require is called the Arrow of Extrication. It has a unique key-shaped head. Savilas Stone has revealed that this arrow will be used to open a locked door that I intend to enter. I have been informed that Fathis Aren, the Bravil court wizard, has recently acquired it."

"A court wizard," she repeated, more to herself than to him. Such a high position among the Cyrodilic elite meant he was almost certainly a member of the Mages Guild. If Nim wasn't under her spell, her stomach would surely be turning.

"Yes, my sources tell me that a secret passage runs from the castle to his private fort southeast of the city."

"A fort, huh. And is he a Dunmer? That sounds like a Dunmeri name." Nim had read stories of powerful Telvanni mages constructing giant mushroom towers in morrowind. She wondered if such towers existed across the border, if mages here had Tel’s of their own.

"Yes, he is a Dunmer. Why is that important? Let's not get distracted any more than you already are. You are to locate the Arrow of Extrication and bring it back to me."

"Alright. So I'll sneak into his fort and snatch it. Easy."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," the Guildmaster said ominously. "I hear Fathis Aren is a powerful conjurer. His fort will surely be guarded. If such is the case, he may be killed if necessary."

“Uh…” Nim cocked her head. Did he really condone the murder of an innocent man just now? Was he testing her? She scanned his face for signs of an ill-timed joke, the punchline arriving anytime soon, but his sagging blue eyes stared eagerly into hers, quite sincere. Certainly she hadn't heard that last part correctly. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

The Gray Fox groaned loudly. "Have you cotton in your ears? Find the Arrow of Extrication and bring it to me. You are the one calling it a simple task. Go on then. Show me how simple it is."

"But I... you said—" Nim found herself stammering like a fool. "The Thieves Guild only has three rules. Unless I'm mistaken, one of them is to not kill while on the job."

"Oh, right," he mumbled. "Yes well, try not to do so in the Castle."

Nim blanched. She pulled herself back against her chair, putting the greatest amount of distance between them that she could without sprinting out of the room. The Gray Fod n picked up his mug and took another loud, drawn out sip. The blue runes of the cowl glistened in the orange firelight as though speaking, whispering, and the air in the room grew swollen again with that familiar, leaden unease.

"Is there no honor among thieves?" Nim said, disgusted.

The Gray Fox laughed like a crow. "And who are you to judge me, Shadowfoot? You who have fenced more gold than all thieves in the Imperial City combined. Such virtue you must uphold! Tell me, what moral high ground do you claim from up upon your white steed, hmm?" 

Nim continued to stare at him in disbelief, her stomach turning, the spit in her mouth thin and sour. It must have shown on her face for the Gray Fox recoiled against his chair, regarding her warily as if she might vomit at his feet any moment.

He waved his hand quickly, dismissing her. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the morals of a pickpocket at this moment, certainly not with you. Kill him or don't. This meeting is over. "

Nim reached for her boots. By now, not even her calm spell could soothe the bubbling anger building within. 

What an unnatural beast , she thought, lacing her boots as quickly as her fingers allowed. Was it this Daedric mask that had corrupted him? Was it Nocturnal's dark sorcery that made him so blind with greed he saw no value in anything else? Nim knew too well the influence of the Daedra. She’d seen with her own eyes the heinous acts mortals stooped to in service of their Prince, had partaken in them herself. A long time ago. A lifetime ago.

She looked to the Gray Fox and that strange heavy air swelled in the room like a miasma. Power, some perversion of it, pulsing like a third heartbeat in the room. When she last tasted these magics years ago, it had twisted her, bent her into all the wrong shapes. If she had stayed, would she now look like the man in front of her?

Stop , Nim snapped at herself. Those days are over. Don't think about them anymore.

"I resent being summoned here," she said and reached for her cloak, all too eager to leave the shack and the cursed air polluting it.

The Gray Fox chuckled. The look in his eyes, cruel and bitter. "What you resent is of no importance to me. My spy network will tell me when you have the arrow. Bring it here when you are done."

Outside, a thick branch rapped against the roof of the shack. Thud, thud, thud it sounded from above, and across the room, the rain hit the window with such force that Nim was certain it would crack the glass. She fastened the clasp of her cloak around her shoulders and opened the front door only for a sheet of hard, cool rain to greet her face.

Winter, it seemed, was quite reluctant to surrender to the spring.

---

Nim forked over (quite frankly) too much gold for the carriage ride back to the city. Slipping into Mehthredhel's shack, she peeled off her rain-drenched clothes, already soaked down to the marrow from the half hour walk from the stables. She’d taken the first carriage she could, and it had rained the entire day straight, leaving her feeling raisin-skinned and like a heavy, swollen sponge that trailed puddles with every step. Hanging her soaked clothes to dry, she tried to clear her mind of thoughts of the Gray Fox. The rain had done little to quench the anger. She was still sizzling. Who did he think she was? An assassin of the Dark Brotherhood?

“Bah,” Nim muttered under her breath. First the Council wants me to kill all their enemies, and now the Gray Fox? At least the necromancers had attacked her first. What on Nirn had that Court Wizard ever done?

Nim shimmied into her bedroll and tried not to think of her upcoming exams. Instead, she thought of the Council, their betrayal. Was she a fool to have trusted them? Had she grown too comfortable heeding orders from those with greater power? She'd hoped that life in the Mages Guild would be different, less deceptive. Wasn't the University founded on principles of integrity, those conducive to an honest pursuit of knowledge? Had she not been doing everything in her power to emulate them, and it troubled her deeply that the Council didn't seem to espouse such ideals themselves.

Except for Raminus. He had seemed so apologetic, so worried for her. Regretful. Raminus seemed to care about what had happened to her, and he seemed to care a great deal. Why? Was it merely professional concern for one under his supervision? She supposed he’d been the one to place her life in danger. Perhaps it was only guilt.

But was that the only reason, she wondered, the guilt? And was his professionalism the only reason he went out of his way to talk to her, to ask about her classes and her alchemy? The thought made her stomach flutter in ambivalence.

Nim burrowed deeper into her bedroll and let her wondering consume her. There were moments when she could have sworn Raminus' curiosity was genuine. Was it so unreasonable to think he could find her interesting? They talked often before classes, in between classes, after classes. About rocks and plants and minerals and anything. What was he like as a student? It couldn't have been so long ago. What must it have taken to rise to the rank of Master Wizard at such a young age? Sometimes she thought about his mineral collection, about that shale quarry, and she wondered if he might take her to see it one day too, if she should ask. But after their last conversation following her return from Skingrad, her envenomed words had pained him. As they should have. But still… Nim wanted to believe that he was sorry. She wanted to believe that he had cared.

Oh, stop that, she hissed at herself in the silence of her mind. He was only doing his job. He was only being polite.

But neither of those thoughts prevented her mind from wandering back to him, from regarding him in ways that were not half as professional as she tried to convince herself they were. She thought of him idly throughout the day, sitting in class, wandering the halls, while alone and while drinking with her friends, wondering what would it be like if he were here? Would he think me interesting then? He was such an intelligent man. She didn't know very many of those. Smart men, sure, but not intelligent. Not intellectual.

Nim tried to force the fluttering in her belly to a quiet but found it difficult if not impossible. Perhaps she really did think of him more often than she cared to admit.

And sometimes... sometimes she would think about his eyes, moss green and so focused they looked like cut gems in the sunlight. This is absurd, she would tell herself when she found her gaze lingering on him for a moment too long. He is a Master Wizard. Quit acting like such a school girl.

But sometimes Nim swore she saw his eyes flitter over to her too.

---

"And so I said, 'Oh yeah? Well, you're a mudcrab-fondling son of a guar!'"

Methredhel stared at Nim, her eyes as wide as moons. "You didn't."

"I didn't," Nim confessed and released a long sigh against the rim of her bottle. "But I wanted to. I hate that man, Dhel. No, I loathe him"

"Don't say that," Methredhel pouted. "He's our Guildmaster."

"You haven't met the man yet, and trust me, you don't want to. He's foul."

"That's just the mead talking."

"Oh sweet, beautiful Methredhel. You don't want hear the things I'll say about him when the mead starts talking."

Methredhel placed a hand over the back of Nim’s palm and opened her mouth to reply when she was abruptly silenced by the wailing hinge of the Bloated Float's front door. Nim looked over her shoulder to find Armand Christophe standing in the doorway, scanning the room. 

Methredhel dropped her voice to a low hush and nudged Nim softly. She motioned toward Armand with a nod. "Uh-oh. He does not look very pleased."

"Then perhaps you should put out more," Nim said crassly."What's the point in sleeping with Armand if he's still grumpy all the time?"

Methredhel flushed and smirked into her tankard. "Oh, I can tell you it's no fault of my own. A girl can only do so much for a man's mood." 

Meanwhile, Armand strode across the room. They both knew who he was coming for. "Nim," Armand said addressing her, "how'd I know I'd find you here?"

"Ten-drake Tirdas," she replied and tossed back her drink with a toothy grin. "Never miss it."

"Can I have a word with you?".

"You can have many. Which one to start with? I'm thinking 'Beer' or 'Mead.'"

Armand stood stone still, unwavering in his scowl, frighteningly unamused. 

"On me?" Nim offered, but it did nothing to ease his glare. "Alright then. Be like that. Lead on, and I'll follow." 

Bounding toward the front counter, Nim paid off her tab and followed after Armand, who was already out the door and making his way down the quay. She trailed him in silence until they reached his shack.

"Have a seat," he said sternly, holding the front door ajar.

Nim took the seat at the head of the table and peered around the cozy room. The house was immaculate, save a pair of Methredhel's trousers peeking out from underneath the bed. It was modestly though tastefully decorated, rich wool rugs and cotton tapestries, a few paintings along the far wall. The furniture was oak, newly varnished and of a much higher quality than anything one might find in the houses of other Waterfront denizens.

Nim was quite certain that Armand had the gold to live somewhere much nicer than here. Since she joined the guild, she’d come to know him as a frugal, sensible man with little patience for the extraneous purchases and boastful lifestyles that their fellow thieves reveled in. However, Methredhel had share what she’d found in his house after a few curious peeks into his sock drawer. Nim wouldn't be surprised if he held property in a nicer part of the province. In fact, she would be more surprised if he didn't.

"So what's got the Gray Fox’s knickers in a twist now?" Nim asked. "Was it my scathing side-eye? Did I strike the fear of Zenithar into him?"

"Tell me why we have to have this conversation every time you meet with the Gray Fox." 

"I can assure you that I enjoy these chats as much as you do."

"Really?” Armand sounded more annoyed than angry, but Nim knew better. He was mad as a clanfear dipped in water right about now. “You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe you, Nim, because I value my time. This," he said, driving his pointer finger down into the table, "is a waste of my time."

"Hey, don't you think I have better things to do too?"

"Such as?"

"Well... I have school." 

Armand looked unimpressed and unconvinced. "I didn't realize your textbooks were at the bottom of a bottle of mead. Maybe I ought to enroll in the University."

"I was getting around to it,” Nim said, clicking her tongue, a little more tipsy than she’d originally thought. “I have other things to tend to, you know, like my potions. I am an alchemist, remember?"

"Drinking counts as alchemy, now does it?"

"No," she puffed, "but there are plenty other tedious tasks for an alchemist to see to, and I'd rather do any and all of them than listen to the Gray Fox complain about ' insubordination '. It's all imp-shit, Armand, and you know it. What am I going to do with imp-shit, hmm? How does that help me? Can't grow anything in impshit, not even wispstalk and wispstalk grows everywhere!”

Armand blinked at her and said nothing, and so Nim babbled on. 

“... rather go around caverns trying to collect it than talk about the Gray Fox for another second. I'd rather pick at the plaque between an ogre's teeth— No, I'd rather pick all the stinging needles off of a nettle with my bare hands..."

“Are you serious, Nim?”

"... rather debulk a giant's tumor with nothing but a teaspoon, and I tell you Armand, it's rubbish. The Gray Fox thinks he's all-mighty and all powerful. Great! You know what I think he is? A dirty, mudcrab-fondler is what he is. All he does is sit on his bum and whine and wait for someone to boss around like he's next in line for the godsdamned throne."

Armand cocked a brow. "Are you quite done?"

"For now," she said.

He let out a small sigh of frustration. "I feel like I only understand half of what you say."

"Hmm?"

"All your references. Mudcrabs and ogres and nettles and imps. It's exhausting."

"Oh, well someone who fondles mudcrabs is—"

"That one I understood."

“Giants' tumors?" she tried again. "They're known to cause paralysis."

"That's revolting."

"But potent," she added. "And ogre's teeth have alchemical properties too, but it takes a long time to clean them. Their mouths are so dirty. Filled with gunk and plaque, just right nasty. Can't very well use 'em if they're filled with gunk. It's a dreaded task among alchemy suppliers. " She shifted a little awkwardly in her seat, realizing that she was rambling again. "And the imp-shit... well, the only use for imp shit is fertilizer, but it's not very good fertilizer at that. Too acidic."

Armand breathed in deeply and maintained a stoic, disinterested gaze. Nim recognized it immediately, the same face she made whenever she had to deal with anyone insufferable.

"If your time is as valuable as you say it is,” he began, “then you would learn to handle yourself better in front of the Gray Fox.”

"I don't know what story he spins into your ear, but If I had to put gold on it, I think the problem would be fixed as soon as somebody grew thicker skin."

Armand laughed humorlessly. "A thicker skin, hah! That's an idea, Nim. If I had to put a septim on it I'd say that person would be you."

"No way. If money hinged on the fact, you'd lose it."

Armand's laughter died on his lips. "The Gray Fox is our Guildmaster," he said brusquely. "He is the reason why we are able to operate. He has led this guild for centuries and has given you more opportunity to advance than any other thief among our ranks in years. All he asks is that you treat him with a bit of respect. I don't care if he's the Daedric Prince of Madness, you smile pretty and nod your head."

"The fact that he asks you to have this conversation with me every time I flare my nostrils at him should speak loud enough," Nim grumbled. "He's insufferable! I will not lie to his face and I will not lie to yours. I think he’s a joke, and I don't understand how such a vile man could demand respect from even a worm."

Armand's frown grew intp a scowl, grew venomous. "And who are you to judge anyone's character, let alone the leader of this guild? I vouched for you, Nim. If you don't care that he thinks you're a petulant child, maybe think about how your actions reflect on me."

"You vouched for my skill, not my ability to kiss ass," she said firmly. "I have done everything he’s asked me to without fault, even after he used me to flush Lex’s snitch. And say, why does he need someone else to do his dirty work if he is a Godsforsaken Master Thief? You ever think about that, huh?"

Nim’s face burned. Even the tips of her ears felt hot and red. Armand groaned again, and NIm shifted forward until she was sat at the very edge of the seat. "Armand, look," she said in a hushed voice. "I respect you immensely. We all do. You’ve proven yourself to be a strong, competent leader. Hardly anyone see's the Gray Fox these days. Why would he expect anyone to kiss his feet unless he's an egomaniac?”

“Easy, Nim.”

“All I’m saying is you don't go around sulking when the guild takes a hit, and you certainly don't go around screeching about insubordination and defiance everytime someone rolls their eyes. And still everyone respects you just fine! Why should we expect any less from the Guildmaster himself?"

“You know that if you pulled that shit with me, I'd have thrown your ass on the streets."

"Right, well,” Nim said, clearing her throat. “I would never have treated you that way in the first place. Why? Because I respect you” She tried on a rather broad grin and hoped she sounded as convincing as the words truly were. She liked Armand, greatly. He was stubborn, stuck to his word, and watched out for his own. It was all she could really ask for in a friend these days. 

"I know that the other guild members regard the Gray Fox as a god among thieves, but they haven't worked with him as I have,” she said. “They know of him through these grand legends spun from drunken nights. Things like those take on a life of their when they’re passed from ear to ear. He's none of that. He’s a sad, small man with the power of tall tales behind him. Where was the Gray Fox when you were driven underground, huh? Where was he when the Imperial Watch overran the Waterfront? Where was he when Theranis went missing in Skingrad?"

"All right," Armand said, looking moderately concerned. "let's remember the value of our time here. Get to the point, please."

"Listen. When I joined, you told me we had three rules, right? Never steal from the poor, never steal from other members of the guild, and never kill on the job."

Armand nodded once. "Okay."

"When I last met with the Gray Fox, he told me that I should kill an innocent man if I needed to. Armand, he said it without batting an eye, like everything outside his narrow desires was expendable. An innocent man, Armand. I thought you told me we weren’t the Dark Brotherhood, so tell me now is the value of a job truly weighted as highly as the life of another?"

Armand stiffened, expression stunned. Nim had never seen him so surprised before. "Are you... are you quite sure that's what he said that to you? There's no way you could have misinterpreted it?"

"I wouldn't lie about this. Why would I? Look, I’ve shed blood before, but not like this. I thought even thieves had principles. What could he possibly want that has such a high price? For a bit of gold, he thinks he holds the world at his fingertips, and I just can't help how I feel about him, Armand. He's twisted, bent in all the wrong ways. When I am around him, I feel sick. It’s… it’s not natural,  and I certainly don't believe he has the best interests of the guild in mind, only his own."

Armand was silent for a long moment. "I don’t know what the Gray Fox wants,” he said. “I don't know what he's after save what you've told me. You don’t have to accept the job, you know that don’t you?"

"Yes, I know," Nim said. "But the Master Thief's got a bit round in the belly. Someone has to do the work if he can’t.?

"So you did accept it?"

"Of course I did. He asked me to steal from a mage, a very high-ranking mage. I know wizards better than anyone in the guild, and if he didn't send me he would have asked someone else, no? It’s a dangerous job, and I don't trust him to have anyone's back should something go wrong." Nim looked down at her hands, feeling a touch guilty. "Also it pays well," she said, "and I am saving up for a house, you know."

Armand shook his head with another tepid sigh. "I wouldn't have expected the Gray Fox to readily permit murder. You’re right, we're not the Dark Brotherhood. It breaks one of our own rules." He wrinkled his brow, thin creases forming below his hairline. "I’ll say that I find it all a bit unnerving.

Nim nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it does spoil the enchantment a bit. I mean, he's supposed to be this cunning hero who could evade even Nocturnal's unblinking eye.” She shrugged. “I'm just saying, 's a bit barbaric, isn't it?"

"Sure," he said crisply. "Your honesty is appreciated if not entirely asked for. At least I  know a little more about where you're coming from. As a favor to me, don't let these details leave this room. You understand how it could get ugly, don't you?"

"Of course. If our own Guildmaster condones murder on the job, I might expect a bit more creativity from our members."

Armand shook his head, top lip curled, a mix of exasperation and mild disgust. "Look, if you want to take his jobs, take them. Just keep in mind, no one’s holding your feet to the fire. And for Talos’ Sake, if you hate the man so much, don’t speak to him. Nod your head ‘yes’, shake your head ‘no.’ Maybe then we won't have to repeat this meeting every few weeks. It's getting old very quickly."

"I'll think about it," Nim said, standing to her feet. "But then who will listen to me lament the moral decay of the Thieves Guild on a semi-weekly basis?" She made her way toward the door and offered Armand a quick smile. He looked positively exhausted. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have another pint to finish before I hit the books."

Chapter 7: Spring Ephemerals

Chapter 7: Spring Ephemerals

Spring fell softly upon the Imperial City, hailing the dawn of Rain’s hand with merely a whisper of triumph. On the isle, fiddleheads unfurled their long fronds to paint the land in bright swathes of green. All was silent on the University campus, as was usual for the morning after winter finals, save for the chickadees perched in the branches of the blooming dogwoods that skirted its empty walkways, singing their tune proudly to no one. 

Raminus took his morning tea outside the lobby and sat bathed in the brisk air as he reviewed one of his students' spring schedules— a first-year named Pria who had come to him for course suggestions. She'd taken his introductory alteration class the prior summer and came to his every office hour even though, in Raminus’ opinion, she didn't need to. She grasped the concepts easily, asked pertinent questions in class, and seemed a studious girl, quiet and earnest. Raminus was sure she'd do quite well.

"It says here that you intend to focus your studies on conjuration." He looked up from the schedule. Pria shifted nervously. "Is that still true?"

"Mmm, yes. My mother studied conjuration while she was here, and I've always hoped to follow in her footsteps. But now... well, I don't know. I took The Physics of Alteration this past quarter with Master Caranya and I can't help but wonder..."

A brown amorphous blur flashed in the corner of Raminus' eye. He turned toward it and spotted Nimileth entering from the city isle gate, returning from the Sundas temple service as her schedule routinely permitted. She rarely, if ever, missed Sundas service, and Raminus found himself wondering why he knew that information at all.

In his periphery, he watched her enter the Lustratorium garden, plop to her knees, and sift through her pack to pull out what looked like a slender femur. She used it to dig in the soil, pulling forth shoots and gnarled looking tubers. She nibbled one, let out an, " eugh!"

Very suddenly and quite completely losing his train of thought, Raminus’ next words fell limp in his mouth. They tumbled off the tongue, an incoherent, nonsensical jumble.

“I’m sorry?” Pria said, puzzled "I didn’t catch that."

Raminus stammered out an apology. "Sorry, what I meant to say is that you've demonstrated a clear interest in alteration. You should consider Shields and Wards . It’s also taught by Master Wizard Caranya who happens to be a skilled conjurer herself.”

"Oh, yes I thought about that. And er, well, it's true. I find alteration fascinating, but my Mother thinks I should be tailoring my education toward conjuration."

"It is possible to explore more than one school of magic while here."

"Yes, but... well it's a higher level course, isn't it? My mother doesn't think I'm ready for that."

"Your mother?" Raminus raised a brow. "Is she quite invested in your studies?"

"Well, yes," Pria admitted, flushing slightly. "She's an alumna. Perhaps next time the class is offered I'd get more out of it?"

"You're a fully fledged apprentice now. Your decisions should be your own, Pria. I wouldn't let fear of failure discourage you from pushing yourself. It's the most common way to stagnate your growth."

Pria shifted uncomfortably, watching Raminus’ eyes flick to the Bosmeri woman across the garden. "Well, I guess," she said. "But my mother thinks I really should be focusing on my conjuration."

"There’s no reason why you can’t explore both schools, especially at this stage of your academic career. Given your interests, Caranya could be a very appropriate instructor to get to know. As you may be aware, it's important to take these early quarters to familiarize yourself with potential mentors or recommendation writers when it's time to seek an apprenticeship.”

“Oh, yes, of course," Pria said. "I meant to speak with you about this actually. My mother wants me to look for a mentor at the University, but one of the fourth-years had mentioned looking at the external guild halls…”

Raminus nodded along as Pria recounted her story, all the while trying desperately not to lose sight of the wandering Nimileth in his periphery. He needed to speak with her. Over the past month he’d seen her only in passing, wandering the halls in between classes and laboratory sessions. Each time she seemed very eager to avoid making eye contact with him and directed her path in the opposite direction. 

Indeed, they’d only spoken four times since her return from Skingrad (Raminus wasn’t sure why he knew that exact number). The last time had been a week ago, when he’d entered the Arch-mage’s lobby to find her chatting with Bothiel about repairing the Orrery. He’d wanted so badly to offer another apology then, to admit how wrong he and the Council had been. He wanted to ask how she was adjusting to life at the University, how her alchemy experiments were going, what he could do to rebuild her trust.

Instead, he had asked about classes of all things. Classes . As if he couldn't be any more of a bore!

‘Fine,' was her curt reply . 'They’ve kept me very busy. ’ 

Raminus winced at the memory and tried to keep his gaze from bouncing back to Nim who was now plucking the pale green bud of a trillium. ”Well Pria, I think that’s sound advice," he said. "It’s good practice to refer to the older students for guidance while you’re here. They’ve all been through it, and each with their own suite of successes and complications. Why, I did my apprenticeship abroad and wouldn’t trade the experience for the world.”

“Well yes, but my mother says a University apprenticeship looks better on the records.”

“Looks better for what?”

“Er…”

“I say it’s more important who you work with than where. If you’re interested in studying elsewhere in Cyrodiil, I do once again encourage you to speak with Caranya. She’s far more knowledgeable in the field than I am, and though I’ve no doubt your mother has your best interest in mind, it's important to carve your own academic path, one that keeps you invested and fulfilled. Follow your passions, those motivations that arise intrinsically. Furthermore, most first-years choose to focus on building a broad foundation before specializing. I encourage you not to shy away from unfamiliar schools of magic, as tempting as it might be to focus on what you’re already comfortable with. There is always more to learn.” Raminus returned Pria’s schedule to her with a small smile and rose to his feet. “I hope this conversation has been helpful in addressing some of your concerns.”

“Well, yes, but my Mother wanted me to—”

“Now, don’t hesitate to call on me in the Arch-mage’s lobby should you wish to speak further."

"Actually, I—"

"Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Pria. Get lots of rest. You’ve earned it after your first set of finals.”

Pria scrunched her face unpleasantly. “Erm, you too Raminus,” she said, not without a detectable amount of irritation.

Good grief, Raminus thought as he turned away. Snip the umbilical cord already! And with that, he headed toward the gardens, to where Nim sat digging into the earth.

Raminus approached cautiously, gripping his mug a little too tightly in a palm that had since grown somewhat clammy. Would Nim still be upset with him? There was only one way to find out. “Hi,” he called out to her with a small wave.

Nim whipped around to reveal large, blinking eyes framed by a wild mess of hair. Dark circles hung beneath them. The tip of her nose was red and runny. Raminus noted that her hands, covered in dirt, were trembling, and when he spied the mug of coffee beside her, he understood her ghastly appearance at once. He was a student not too long ago, plagued by term papers and sleep deprivation. “Couple of late nights studying?” he asked.

“One or two.” 

"Did they pay off?"

"Well, I suppose we’ll see.” She let out a sniffle and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, promptly smearing it in dirt. “If I’m to be frank, there was no way I did as well as I’m hoping I did on my mysticism final unless there’d been some element of divine intervention at play."

Raminus couldn’t help but chuckle, and Nim’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she returned to digging with a long dirt-covered bone. “You ought to be catching up on sleep," he said. "What are you doing out here? Also, is that a deer femur?”

“A tibia actually,” she said. “I couldn’t find my scapula this morning. Might have crushed it for bone meal now that I think about it.”

He gave an approving nod. “Innovative.” 

“Yeah, well a scapula works better. It’s got a nice flat edge like a spade. Anyway, this is my last chance at collecting spring ephemerals. Finals came so fast. I can’t believe I forgot how soon all the trilliums would be finished blooming. I’ve at least managed to find some bloodroot here in the garden. After breakfast, I’ll head out into the city Isle. I think I remember seeing some across the bridge.” Nim stood to her feet and dusted off her robes before taking a sip of what must surely have been cold coffee. “Oh, but you look like you want to say something. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, well. There is actually something I was hoping to speak to you about. But if your busy perhaps—” 

“Oh no,” she cut in quickly. “I have time for you, Raminus. Please, let’s speak now.”

The eagerness in her voice brought with it strange warmth, and Raminus tried quite intently not to linger on the way it made his stomach flutter. He cleared his throat. “I heard you did very well in all your classes this quarter. Congratulations.”

The corner of Nim’s mouth quivered, as if fighting to keep a straight face. Eventually a little simper made its way across her lips and she took another sip of coffee to hide it. “I did. Thank you. How do you know that?”

“Gaspar Stegine is very vocal about which students he sees promise in. That’s some high praise.”

“Oh, did he? That’s well…” Nim shrugged her shoulders, casual dismissal, but blushed furiously all the same. “Ah, that seemed arrogant, huh?" she said immediately and dropped her gaze to her mug, watching her reflection as she blinked with a crooked smile, "Really, it’s very kind of him to say so, but I’m just trying to do the best I can, same as anyone here. But I know you’re not here just to flatter me. What is it you really want to talk about? Does the Council have need of my service once more?” And with that last question, her smile dimmed. Duller and duller it shined until it had completely faded from existence.

“Ah, yes in fact," he admitted sheepishly. “Irlav Jarol asked to speak with you.” 

“More necromancers?”

“No. And that’s not actually what I came to discuss. I’ve noticed you’ve yet to enroll in classes for the spring quarter.”

“And how’d you happen to notice that? Keeping tabs on me now? Did the Council ask you to?”

“No, Nim. I happen to be an advisor for all the first-year students. I review everyone’s schedule.”

“Oh.” She cast a quick glance to the side, scratched her face, spread the dirt there around a bit more. “Right.”

“I didn’t have you pinned for the kind of student to slack on registration, so I asked around. Why didn’t you mention that you’d sought out an apprenticeship in Anvil?”

“I thought it seemed a logical decision,” she said. “Carahil is an illusionist, and the last time I was in Anvil, she told me she had openings in the guild hall for apprentices to train. She was quite supportive of the idea when I wrote to her.” Nim scanned Raminus’s face, looking for a reaction. She seemed unnerved with whatever she found. “Isn’t this good news?”

Raminus wished Nim would have told him. He had to learn of her plans from Bothiel who had in turn learned from Gaspar Stegine. As one of his best-performing students, Gaspar had taken interest in Nim’s future at the University and he’d sounded a little disappointed when he told Raminus of her intentions to leave so soon. Raminus was surprised more than anything. He still remembered Nim’s first day at the University, when she’d arrived with a smile so wide it looked painful. Yet now she was already planning to leave? He couldn’t help but feel partially responsible. Was she so disillusioned with the University, with the Council’s lying, with him and his scrib-jelly spine that she couldn’t bear another quarter here?

“I spoke with Carahil earlier this week," he said. "She’s absolutely thrilled at the prospect of a bright young illusionist joining the Anvil chapter.”

Nim stared quietly for a moment, confused. “Then why don’t you sound pleased?”

“I understand everyone has a need for independence, but I really wish you would have talked to me prior to your decision.”

“Why? Does the Council not approve? I didn’t realize I needed to run everything by them like some toady.”

Raminus frowned, his stomach sinking. Is that why she thought he was here, to berate her? Did she truly think so poorly of him after Skingrad? “Nim, this has nothing to do with the Council. You only arrived at the University a few months ago, and there are still so many classes you’ve yet to take, so many resources you’ve yet to explore, resources you will not have in Anvil or anywhere else for that matter. It really is a rare thing to have such a vast wealth of knowledge concentrated in one place and right at your fingertips. I would have advised you to take advantage of it first as I would anyone else at your stage.”

“Oh.” Nim shifted her weight onto her left foot, studying him, looking more than a little embarrassed. “So… what are you suggesting, that I defer my offer?”

“I’m encouraging you to stay at the University for a while longer, just until the fall. Take a few more courses before you jump into advanced training. There’s no need to rush into an apprenticeship so soon, and Carahil isn’t going anywhere. I assure you she’ll have no problem waiting a few more months.”

“So you’re saying that I’m not ready, that I need more training.” Nim’s voice drooped with disappointment.

“No, I didn’t say that. I’ve spoken to your professors. Julienne is thrilled with your progress in her laboratory, and the Council is unerringly grateful for your help. Truly, everyone is impressed.”

“Well, wouldn’t that suggest I should go even sooner?" she asked, genuine and concerned. "Accelerate my training and all that? Especially if the Council insists on sending me out on recon missions without my knowledge. If no one is going to watch my back, I better be able to fend for myself.”

It stung, those words, that accusation. He made a mental note to circle back to it. Clearly, Skingrad was just as much on her mind as it was his. “Why not work on the schools you’re unfamiliar with first? I give this advice to everyone; establish a broad foundation on which to build your expertise. Consider staying another quarter. Take classes in the schools you’re least knowledgeable in. I’d prefer-erm... it would be preferable to stay a whole semester, but start with a quarter. Let’s talk about your schedule afterward. How does that sound?”

“But I—" Nim swallowed back the start of a protest. "Okay, Raminus,” she said instead, “I trust your judgment. You’re right, I should have consulted you.”

“Do you mean that sincerely or are you simply trying to appease me?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes. Er… Look, I understand all you’ve said to me. I agree and I disagree, but mostly, I haven’t the energy nor the ground on which to fight."

Raminus’ frown deepened. "That's not very comforting, Nim. I can explain another way if you—"

"I understood it, really," she said. "I’ll enroll for another quarter and though I’m not over the moons about it now, I’m sure I’ll feel better once I sleep on it.” She glanced up at him, doe eyes sparkling in the pale morning light, flickering back and forth across his face. Raminus grew inexplicably warm. Nervous even. "I trust you, you know. Really."

It only made him feel wretched. Trust was not a gift he liked to squander, and the shame weighed upon him, a rock sinking through his chest, down, down, all the way to bone. “I- I’m glad to hear that," he said and tried to hold her wandering stare. "Thank you for being so candid with me." 

“Mhm." Nim drank another sip of coffee, and Raminus noted that she looked much more tired now than she did at the start of their conversation. “Now what about the Council? You said they had another task for me?”

“Yes, Irlav mentioned— Actually, that’s a matter for later. I’ve something for you.” He reached into his pocket, and the look of surprise that swept across Nim’s eyes brought some life back to her weary face. "It’s from the Council, really. It was meant as a… well, I guess a recompense for your work in Skingrad. I was supposed to give it to you sooner, but you’ve been rather busy. I’ve had a hard time finding you.”

“Well, if you had a gift for me maybe I’d have made myself easier to find.” 

Raminus smiled weakly. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that.”

He stepped closer and uncurled his fingers to reveal an amulet of two green diamond-cut gemstones, framed by a gold-plated pendant and adorned with runes that were imbued with defensive magic. Nim gasped audibly when she saw it, her eyes round and bright, catching the glint of the dazzling emeralds.

 “By the grace of Dibella's brea— braids!” she said and reached out, hovering a hand below the pendant as if questioning whether to grasp it, to touch it. “I’ve never seen a necklace so beautiful.”

“The enchanter called it the Spelldrinker's Amulet," he said. "It's augmented with a charm of spell absorption to, uh, keep you safe. I wanted— erm— the Council wanted you to have it upon your next advancement. It’s a little late now but just as well deserved.” He extended the gift toward her, and when she didn’t accept it immediately, Raminus grew a little worried. “I just want to say sorry again, Nim. I hope you can forgive me for putting you in harm's way.”

Nim scrunched her loose hair into a messy bun and held it at the back of her head. She turned her back to him, and he stood still, a bit confused, the amulet dangling from his fingers. 

“Will you?” she asked, gesturing at the amulet. The chain was quite long. Probably long enough for her to slip it over her head without him needing to undo the clasp, but he set his mug of tea down and obliged, lifting the amulet up over her head and closing the ends together at the nape of her neck.

When she faced him again, he saw her cheeks were rosy, her face split into a grin so wide even his muscles felt sore. Renewed with excitement, she glowed, and Raminus couldn’t fight back his smile nor the way his stomach flipped, his heart skipping at the sight. It felt good to think he’d been a part of it, that brilliant shining hope.

Nim held the pendant up to her eye and stared at him through the green stone. She reached out for him, taking hold of his wrist, sliding her grip down to his palm until she settled her fingers into his. “Thank you,” she whispered, still staring at him through the gemstone. “I’ve never owned anything as lovely as this.”

Purely on instinct, Raminus gave the small hand in his a gentle squeeze. Realizing what he’d done, he quickly withdrew, shoving his hands into his pocket and doing his best to ignore the burning in his cheeks. “Of course. Like I said, it’s well deserved.”

“You're a gem, you know?"

Raminus blinked. "I could have sworn that you were upset with me because of everything. I don’t blame you if so.”

"Maybe I was. But I've gotten over it. So what about that task from Irlav? What does he want?”

“That can wait," Raminus said and cleared his throat which had since grown inexplicably dry. "You should enjoy the rest of your weekend. I hear some other students are going down to the arena. Perhaps you'd like to join them? The Butcher is being challenged, I believe."

"Meh.” Nim turned the amulet over and over in her palms, inspecting and smiling as she spoke. "I'm not one for needless bloodshed. I think I’ll go out and collect some more spring ephemerals. 

“Good. Whatever helps you recover from your first quarter. It's well earned.”

Nim tucked the amulet into her robes and brushed the hair from her eyes, once more smudging a line of dirt across her face. Careless to the mess, she zipped around him, gathering her pack, her roots, her deer bones. When at last she’d collected all her belongings, she stood in front of him, beaming. “I wish you understood how nice of a gesture this was," she said. "No one does things like this for me. Really. Never. Why, I'm so happy I could squeeze you until you burst." 

“That won’t be necessary,” Raminus said and looked down at his hand, noting the thin layer of soil that remained where Nim's fingers had found his. 

Chapter 8: The Beauty of Artifacts

Summary:

Nim looks for ways to spruce up her resume.

Chapter 8:  The Beauty of Artifacts

Nim was surprised to learn that her new assignment had nothing to do with necromancers. Instead, she was tasked to assist the researchers at one of Master Wizard Irlav Jarol's excavation sites, an Ayleid ruin by the name of Vahtacen, while his duties on the Council kept him away.

Nim, being neither an archeologist nor trained in Ayleid magics, didn't know how she was expected to help in his place. Nevertheless, she had a passing interest in history and was excited at the prospect of being part of a real, ongoing research expedition. A large part of her felt relief. Perhaps now she might finally experience a scholarly pursuit that did not involve burning necromancers to ash, and although she was grateful for the opportunity to practice her destruction spells in vivo, she was eager to partake in an arcane endeavor beyond alchemy that was not centered around violence. 

A smaller part of her, however, was a little disappointed. 

Surely the growing presence of necromancers in Cyrodiil was what kept Master Wizard Jarol too busy to see to his excavations. But if the Council was working to root out their network, Nim wanted to be a part of it. She had already been included unwittingly. Why cast her aside now? Hadn't she proved that she was willing to dirty her hands on their behalf? A small knot of worry grew in place of her relief. After her tantrum following Skingrad, had Raminus asked the Council to remove her from working on the necromancer issue in its entirety? That seemed excessive when all she’d wanted was transparency, not to be discarded completely. Was it so much to ask for?

Per her latest instructions, Nim arrived at the Ayleid dig-site just as the sun splayed its golden hand over the Valus mountains. She was eager to occupy her mind with anything aside from the Gray Fox’s latest request;  it was coming up on three weeks since their last meeting, and she was no closer to figuring out how to infiltrate Fathis Aren’s tower without getting kicked out of the Mages Guild. But ah, such things take time.

"Irlav sent you, did he?" An Argonian woman lounged by the fire-pit at the mouth of the cavern entrance. She was roasting apples on a spit, looking bored out of her mind.

"Yes," Nim said. "Are you Skaleel?"

The woman arched a brow ridge but didn’t acknowledge the question. "I should have known better than to expect him. Whatever. Are you an Ayleid Historian?"

"Er... no," Nim confessed. 

The woman (Skaleel?) scoffed. "Figures. He can't be bothered to come check on his own project, so he sends someone who knows nothing about it. And this is supposed to help? Classic Irlav."

Though she hadn’t received confirmation, Nim assumed that she had indeed found Skaleel, the researcher in charge of the excavation in Irlav’s absence. Without much prodding on Nim’s behalf, Skaleel launched herself into a lengthy diatribe, detailing all the woes and misfortunes that had plagued her and her colleagues since arriving at Vahtacen. Skaleel had been stuck here for months, now stressed to the point of breaking. After weeks and weeks of waning support from her advisor, she’d all but grown resigned to wasting away in this musty old cave. One more failure, and she was set on abandoning the excavation entirely. Nim couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by pressure to realize she was Skaleel’s final chance at a breakthrough.

"Sorry about snapping earlier," Skaleel said, looking genuinely contrite. She gestured to another lounging chair and beckoned Nim to take a seat, offering her one of the roasting apples. Not knowing what else to do, Nim accepted. "No offense to you. It's not your fault. What does Irlav care that I'm months behind on progress? I travelled all the way up from Leyawiin for this opportunity. Not a single new discovery, and I’d planned to advance to Wizard next year! Good luck to me. I used to look up to Irlav. He’s a seasoned researcher, don't mistake me, but he's been so distracted ever since he joined the Council that I think he's just about forgotten that Denel and I are still here." 

“So what’s the roadblock?” Nim asked.

"Denel and I have excavated out a large chamber deeper in the ruins, but we can't seem to activate the pillar that opens the door to the inner sanctum. It's completely blocked. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and everytime it’s backfired. Literally! I don't know why Denel is even trying. This is doomed to fail if not kill us. Ayleid ruins are deathtraps. "

"Well, I'll go take a look around," Nim said, finishing up her apple. "If it's a puzzle, maybe the three of us can crack it."

"Maybe," Skaleel sulked. "Or maybe I don't care anymore. I think maybe I’m simply not cut out for this kind of thing."

"I think you just need a bit of encouragement. Some progress, you know? It’ll lift your spirits. Success always does.”

Skaleel sighed wistfully. "Well, if you're intent on going down, I won’t stop you. Take this book with you. Irlav sent it before you came. I read it years ago, but maybe a new set of eyes will find something I couldn’t." The book had seen better days, weathered and stained on each cover and the spine threadbare. Ayleid Inscriptions and Their Translations, the title read. "Denel is in the chamber at the bottom of the ruins. He’ll help you if you wish to try your luck. Be careful, though. It could be quite hazardous to your health. All I can say for sure is that the pillar reacts to magic, and badly, most of the time. The last handful of first-years Irlav tossed our way got hurt attempting to cast spells at it." Skaleel pulled a flask out of the basket at her side and took a long sip. "I've given up trying to figure it out. It's just beyond me. Why Denel stays down there, I have no idea. He's just asking to get killed. What a waste of my talents."

Skaleel offered the flask to Nim, who sniffed it only to find it filled with whiskey and promptly returned it. "Thanks, maybe afterwards though." Then, with the book under her arm, she scampered off down the stairs.

With the exception of being much better lit, Vahtacen looked unremarkably similar to the handful of other Ayleid ruins she’d traversed through with J’rasha. He met his moonsugar suppliers there sometimes, and Nim always found the shadowed hallways terribly creepy. But she went with him when he asked her to. He wanted her to learn all of the business, every type of transaction, not only the brewing. 

Eventually, Nim spied Denel, a scrawny young mage not much older than her. He was hunkered down at the entrance of the chamber, pouring over a stack of books and fervently scribbling notes, looking like he hadn't seen a mirror in ten days.

Nim cleared her throat as she descended the stairs. “Did Irlav send you?" he asked, looking up, and when she nodded, he perked a little. His eyes sparkled with hope. "Are you an Ayleid scholar?"

"No." And the small fire that had sparked in his eyes faded at once. "Skaleel sent me down with this book," she said. "I take it there are runes somewhere that need deciphering?"

"Yes. There are inscriptions all along the walls of the chamber, and they're nothing like what we've seen to date. It's quite exciting. Also terribly frustrating, but exciting still, and I wished Skaleel would just stay focused a while longer. I think I’m onto something. My current theory is that the inscriptions correspond to certain spells, and when the pillar is struck with the proper incantations, the door will finally unlock."

"You got any idea what spells they call for?”

“Some. There’s regional variation across the Ayleid language, however, and I’m more familiar with southern dialects. Some of the phrasing in these inscriptions is unfamiliar to me.”

“Well, Skaleel sent me down here with a reference text.”

“She did? Let me see it” Denel’s eyes flared bright, flashing like sun on a welkynd stone, as he flipped through the mangled book. “Where’d she get this? I thought the archives didn’t have a copy.

“Dunno, Irlav sent it over. Let's see what we can do, yeah?"

Nim spent the next few hours helping Denel translate the inscription on the walls. Mostly, she wrote down whatever he dictated, but he was a good teacher, explained everything very thoroughly and never laughed at her very basic questions. They sat on the floor of the cool, dusty chamber, a scrawl of parchment and scribbled translations shared between them. "Here we are," Nim said, running her fingers along the stone etchings of the nearby wall, comparing them to the illustrations in Skaleel's book. " Magicka Darkens, it says."

"That's an odd one," Denel mused as he flipped through his notes. “My guess is it’s not a literal translation. Another lexical variant. Is there another inscription like it?"

Nim crossed the room to the next wall and pointed at an engraving that took a similar shape. Not one Nim could read, but one she could match to similar looking patterns in the book.  "This one over here? This word looks similar. It is a word, right?”

“Yes. The first word is ‘ Magicka.’ The second is ‘shines .'” A flare of something like recognition ignited in Denel's eyes. "I've got it!" he said, snapping his fingers excitedly. He raced over with another annotated book, pointing at a scribble in the Ayleid tongue that Nim still didn’t understand. "This inscription might actually read 'Magicka Waxes'. If we assume that translation to be literal, then a spell to increase one’s magical reserves might be just what we need. Something that fortifies it, perhaps."

"And the other inscription says what then?”

“Well the opposite, I’m guessing. Like light is to dark.”

“Magicka Wanes."

"Exactly," Denel beamed. "A spell to damage magicka. The opposite effect."

Nim looked from Denel, to the pillar, then back. "Should I try it, or do you want to?"

"Oh no, I've had my fill of experimenting, that's for sure, and I've got the scars to prove it. Once we figured out the pillar reacts to spells, we tried out a few. I think I was only unconscious for an hour or so, but that was enough for me."

Nim wasn't particularly fond of the idea of passing out here, but seeing as the ruin hadn't tried to attack her yet, she figured she'd test her luck. Once at least. She directed her spells toward the pillar, proceeding in the same order as the inscriptions read along the chamber walls, and when she cast the last spell, the sound of grinding stone echoed from across the room.

The once sealed door lifted open. Denel jumped up and down at her side like a child on the morning of Saturalia. "Well, would you look at that!" he shouted, face split into a sunny grin. "I'm really impressed. You made getting past that pillar look easy!"

"All I did was sling some spells,” she said. “You’re the one who translated everything. But hey, we've opened the door, and someone will need to see where it goes. I think you should do it. You've done all the hard work after all."

"Oh!" Denel blushed and scratched at the back of his head. "I mean, sure, but it's an Ayleid ruin. There’s well, traps and things. Ghosts. Who knows what else? Skaleel and Irlav cleared the outer sanctum before I moved in here. You see, I'm not into spellwork and its practical uses as much as I’m into reading about them. Really, I just like the puzzle-solving part of research, finding solutions from the safety of my inkwell and a clean piece of paper. I’ll stick to my desk if it’s all the same to you."

Nim shrugged, satisfied with the explanation. "Good on you for knowing your limits."

She returned to Skaleel, and after explaining how Denel had deciphered the runes, convinced her to poke around the newly revealed passageway. Just as she’d suspected, Skaleel’s mood brightened considerably at the prospect of some real hands-on work after endless weeks of stagnancy. Delighted, she led Nim into the inner sanctum in search of an Ayleid artifact worthy of Irlav’s attention and hopefully an advancement to Wizard.

Skaleel released her pent up frustrations in bursts of shock magic, warding off the specters that hollowed them down the halls. The sunless chambers of the ruin pulsated with ancient magic, unfamiliar auras that left Nim light-headed and riddled with gooseflesh. She skirted the edges of the ruin’s large rooms, wary of hidden traps and pressure plates designed to kill trespassers just like her and Skaleel, and even if she had no stake in the research at hand, the rush of adrenaline was reward in itself.

---

 

Later that week, Nim sat at the dining table on the ground floor of the Bravil guild hall, chatting and laughing with mages she hadn’t seen in months. She hadn’t visited Bravil as often as she would have liked to since admittance to the University. The city itself wasn’t much to look at, sure, but the people were warm, unpretentious, and eager to help. It went without saying that they were particularly fond of Nim after all she had done to help Henatier and Ardaline, and though Bravil was not the first chapter through which she sought entry into the Mages guild, Kud-ei had been the first to take her request seriously. It was in this very building that she became an Associate, and every time she opened its rickety front door (one loose hinge, the wood bloated from moisture) the love she felt in those early days flooded through her. 

In many ways, Bravil reminded her of the Waterfront. Beyond the outward resemblance, the rows of dingy shacks, the barefooted beggars and murky channels, it was a safe haven for Nim in some of her darkest days. The Waterfront was where she’d made her first friends among thieves, the ones who took her in when she’d nothing but her prison clothes and the secret of her escape. But Bravil was where she’d met the first mages to accept her. The first mages who told her anyone can study magic. Anyone can succeed if they had the will to try.

Now she sat amongst her friends, hoping not to sound suspicious as she hatched her half-baked plan to obtain a meeting with Fathis Aren. All she needed was a little more information, and she brought a fresh bottle of Tamika’s to ease her nerves and loosen a few tongues.

“Fathis Aren?” Delphine Jend looked across the table at Nim, confused. She took a deep sip of wine from her goblet, stared into it, then held it out for a refill. “The Court Wizard?” 

“Yes. He offers training in conjuration, right?” Nim asked, filling the goblet well past the midline. 

“Indeed, but since when have you been interested in conjuration?” Delphine, an adept trainer in destruction magic, had spent many hours working with Nim when she was still an Associate. The two of them shared a penchant for setting things ablaze, and it was true— Nim had very little interest in summoning.

“Since I enrolled in Caranya’s class,” she said, “ Sigils and Binds for Novices .”

Kud-ei shook her head. “The spring quarter has been in session for one week, Nim. You work yourself too hard. Just study regularly and go to office hours if you’re confused. You don’t need private lessons to pass your exams.”

“Besides I hear he charges an arm and a leg for his time,” Delphine added.

Henantier, who had just entered with a plate of steaming sweet-cakes, hummed pensively. “I’m not sure that’s true anymore, Delphine," he said and took his seat beside Kud-ei, rubbing her hand tenderly. Nim’s heart soared to see them together, safe and happy. They’d been inseparable ever since she’d returned Henantier from the Dream-World. It must be true what they say, near-death experiences make the heart grow fonder. "I spoke with him earlier this week, and he seems awfully bored up there at Castle Bravil. As well-compensated as he is, I’m not at all envious of his position. It sounded like he’d be willing to train a guar just to break up the tedium.”

“Is he taking visitors?” Nim asked.

“I don’t see why not. Between the time he spends here and in tending to the Count’s family, I don’t think he has much of a social life.” 

Aryarie snorted loudly from beside her. “I assure you the Count and his family are not much company. Between that clown and his skooma-sucking son, I bet Fathis is spending as little time in the castle as possible.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Nim reached out for a sweetcake to nibble, cautiously eying the other mages, gauging how much each had to drink. Delphine and Aryarie were well-past tipsy. Kud-ei had a mild buzz that turned her scales a darker shade of green. Henantier— well Henantier was over seven feet tall. It would take a whole keg to get that man drunk.

“Is it true that Fathis has an interest in rare artifacts?” Nim asked, tearing off another hunk of sweetcake. 

“I suppose he is a bit of a collector,” Kud-ei replied. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Friend at the University. He wouldn’t happen to know anything about Ayleid ruins, would he?”

“Ayleid ruins?” Delphine scrunched her nose as though smelling something foul. “And since when have you been interested in Ayleid ruins?” 

“Have you been listening at all?” Aryarie said. “She just told us about her work in Vahtacen.”

Delphine waved her hands dismissively. “Don’t you listen to that Irlav Jarol. You’re a destruction mage, just as I am. We don’t excavate, dear. We incinerate.”

“A bunch of uncultured brutes, that’s what you are,” Aryarie mumbled into the bottom of her goblet.

Kud-ei tapped her finger on the table in thought. “I suppose he does have a large assortment of curiosities, though I’m not sure they’re all scholarly in nature. Last time I was at his tower, he showed me the oddest work of taxidermy I’d ever seen. Some sort of troll. Or an imp maybe. I’m not entirely convinced it was a real creature but some morbid oddity he picked up in a curio shop. I think he just liked looking at how ugly it was.” Kud-ei’s face contorted in displeasure. She took a long swig of her drink, washing the bad taste of memory from her mouth.

“But nothing Ayleid?” Kud-ei shrugged. Nim knew, however, that he had at least one Ayleid trinket in his possession. One that the Gray Fox needed. One that she was supposed to steal. “Well maybe some Dwemer in that case?” she asked. 

Any information about Fathis Aren’s interests was useful to the development of her plan. Nim was almost certain she could secure an audience with him under the pretense of conjuration lessons, but a simple training session wouldn’t do her any good. What she needed was to get into his tower. Specifically, she needed to be invited into his tower. Nim wasn’t about to burgle a fellow mage. Even she had her limits.

Currently, Nim planned to trick him which was not honest but perhaps better than outright stealing. If she knew what kind of relics Fathis was interested in, she might be able to convince him that she too was an inspiring collector and maybe, just maybe, he’d let her see this cursed arrowhead. Convincing him to give it to her... well that plan was still cooking. 

“Oh Henantier, what was that event he mentioned the other month?” Kud-ei tapped her partner's hand, struggling to resurface the memory. “Some sort of auction in the Imperial City, wasn’t it?”

An auction? Nim’s ears perked at the news.

“Oh yes, that’s right. Apparently there’s an Ayleid enthusiast in the city who holds auctions for rare artifacts. I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Ambarno? Uncano?”

“Umbacano?” Nim asked. Denel had mentioned him, an Ayleid relic collector living in the city. Umbacano was a wealthy man who owned a large residence in the center of the Talos Plaza District. Though not affiliated with the Mages Guild, he and Irlav Jarol were well acquainted. Skaleel had even met him, hoping to peruse his library for something to help her solve Vahtacen’s puzzle. The number of experts in Ayleid history were few within Cyrodiil. It wasn’t uncommon to keep one another in close correspondence.

“Yes, that’s the name.” Henantier said. “You know him?”

“Of him. A friend at the University mentioned him. Henantier, could you write Fathis Aren for me? He doesn’t know me. Perhaps you could put in a good word? I hear he spends a lot of time in his tower outside of the city. I wouldn’t want to show up unannounced.”

“My pleasure, Nim. I’ll let him know you’re interested in his work. Keep an eye out for a reply.”

And as Nim settled back into her routine coursework, she waited eagerly at the mailbox, eagerly and with the smallest hint of utter terror.

 

---

Raminus sifted through the afternoon mail, slightly distracted. Metallic clangs and muffled laughter passed into the lobby through the walls of the Orrery where Bothiel and Nimileth had been working away at the final repairs. Four long hours they’d been in there. Four long hours of clang, clang, whirrrr.

Raminus considered taking his work with him to his chambers to avoid the noise, but every now and then he’d hear a screech of gears and then a hoot of triumph. Laughter followed, buoyant and mirthful, and every now and then Nimileth’s voice, always asking a series of questions. This cog goes where? This tube does what?  Yes, I do think the axial tilt of Akatosh is off by seven degrees. Let me measure that again.

And Raminus liked that sound enough to ignore the incessant grinding that surrounded it.

Earlier that morning, Nim had burst into the lobby with half her face covered in blood. She’d been babbling incoherently about some shipment of Dwemer artifacts and waving a long metal rod in the air as if she’d just discovered the cure for Corpus. Before Raminus could sit her down to inspect for wounds, Bothiel shrieked in delight. Horrified, Raminus watched as the two women made eye contact, exchanged several words telepathically, and ran straight for the Orrery, all within a matter of seconds.  As curious as he was to know what they were up to, Raminus hesitated to offer his help. The Orrery was Bothiel’s baby; everyone was surprised to learn that she’d allowed Nim to help at all.

Rumbles continued from beyond the door. Raminus continued sorting through the names scrawled on the envelopes that had arrived from the morning courier. When he saw Nimileth’s name written in looping black ink, he couldn’t help his curiosity. His eyes flicked to the sender's address— Fathis Aren.

What business did Nim have with the Bravil Court Wizard? For a reason Raminus chose not to explore further, he felt compelled to read its contents.

Fathis Aren? How long had they been acquaintances? Raminus squinted his eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d seen the man. It must have been a few months ago, when the Council invited him to give a seminar with the well-disguised intention of squeezing out information regarding the necromancer presence south of the Nibenay Basin. He’d been a delightful guest, if not unhelpful whatsoever. A talkative fellow, full of confidence and charm and touting quite a colorful past. Raminus thought he’d liked him, but now.... now he couldn't quite remember so clearly.

Master Aren was an older mage, how old exactly, Raminus wasn't sure. What was Nim doing, spending time with older men? Did she like older men? Was Raminus old enough to be considered 'older men '? Unlikely. He wasn’t even thirty. Besides, maybe she didn’t like men at all.  Still, Raminus wondered if Fathis Aren was really as attractive as the image he produced in his head. He wondered if Nim thought so too.

Those are strange thoughts you are having, Raminus, he told himself and promptly shook them away.

With the letter in hand, he approached the Orrery. “Hello,” he called out peeking behind the metal door. He gave a cautious knock. When no voice answered, he slowly pushed through to the inner chamber.

The glowing mechanical heavens of the Orrery swirled around him. Bothiel had shut off the lights, and the stars in the ceiling now burned an ethereal blue. The rhythmic whirr of the Dwemer machinery filled the silence as he ascended the spiral stairs. It had been several years since the Orrery was in working condition, even more since Raminus had taken the time to visit it. A little embarrassed to admit it, he’d forgotten how breathtaking a mechanical contraption could be. Standing still at the top of the stairs, he gazed upward as the celestial bodies orbited the room in perpetual motion. Wherever they were, Bothiel and Nim had made fast work of the repairs.

“Raminus,” he heard a small voice call out through the darkness and looked around for Nim. “Come sit with us.” 

He peered around the mezzanine and spotted Bothiel’s robe-covered legs sticking out from beside the console. He approached, sliding the envelope into his pocket and taking a knee next to Nim. She sat cross legged, leaning back on her arms as she waved him over with a smile. 

“It runs even better than before,” Bothiel said, barely above a whisper. She was laying flat on her back and staring skyward at the revolving planets. Her robes were splotched black with oil stains, so too her hands and face. She seemed utterly unbothered by it, utterly at peace, hadn't even turned her head to greet him. Truthfully, Raminus wasn’t sure if she was even aware he had entered.

“Come sit,” Nim once again requested. She scooted to the side, leaving just enough space for Raminus to wedge himself in between her and the console. 

“It’s magnificent,” he said softly. “I can’t believe the two of you managed to fix it within a day.” 

“I just followed directions. Honestly, I couldn’t tell a coherer from a cylinder.” Raminus was about to pull the letter from his pocket when she tugged on the arm of his robe. “What’s your birthsign?” she asked, gazing up at him expectantly.

Raminus caught her eyes, and words failed him momentarily. Just like Bothiel, her clothes were covered with dark smudges of oil. Unlike Bothiel, she also bore suspicious streaks of dried blood, the same she’d worn when she arrived that morning. But she didn’t appear pained in any way. In fact, she looked quite blissful. Assured she wasn’t hurt, Raminus cleared his throat. “The Steed.”

Nim tipped her head back and leaned against his shoulder to scan the artificial sky. Raminus stiffened. He hadn't been so close to a woman in years, not since he'd been with Lyra in the last good weeks before their marriage had fallen into irreparable disarray. An errant lock of Nim's hair tickled the exposed skin of his neck, just above his collar, and she was sitting so close to him. Unprofessionally close to him. Raminu cast a worried glance at Bothiel who lay stretched out on her back, eyes glazed over in reverie. Unsurprisingly, she was not looking at them.

“Umm...” Raminus shifted slightly to put space between them, but he was cut off with a soft shhh as Nim stared up at the sky. 

“Over there.” She pointed a finger into the distant dark, and her breath brushed his jaw as she spoke. When she blinked, her lashes swept across his cheek like snowfall, blink, blink. 

“Where?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray how nervous this proximity was making him.

"Where Kynareth makes the western most end of her orbit.”

“Mhm. Okay I see.” 

“Just to the left of that point. Do you see the horse's legs?”

Raminus trailed the spinning planet as it danced around the room. “I’m not sure. I think— oh yes! I see it now.” 

They sat quietly beneath the constellation, Nim's fingers curled around his arm. She leaned into him, rested her head on his shoulder, and at his ear, he could hear her soft exhales like a spring breeze through the thrum of the Dwemer cogs. They sat like that for minutes, minutes that seared by until Raminus had lost all track of time.

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Nim said, her voice a gentle lilting song. She gazed up at him, gazed into him.

Raminus nodded, his eyes transfixed on her delicate smile and the reflection of the blue light in her dark, glassy eyes. Beautiful. It was quite a beautiful sight indeed.

Chapter 9: Not Talented, Just Resourceful

Chapter 9: Not Talented, Just Resourceful

Nim rose from the pew as the chapel bell struck one O’clock. She was thankful that Marz, the chapel healer, wasn’t present at this hour. Mara knew how much that woman loved to talk, and as unfortunate as it was, Nim did not have time to stop and chat today. She pulled her letter from Fathis Aren out of her cloak pocket, double checked the time listed in the black ink. She was to meet him in half an hour from this very minute to be exact.

Apparently, Henantier’s letter had been well received, and Fathis seemed eager to begin lessons in his reply, a bit overly enthusiastic even. Perhaps his duties as Court Wizard truly were as dull as Henantier had let on. She wrote back promptly, making plans to meet the approaching Loredas afternoon which was, as Akatosh willed it, today.

Nim was a little troubled that Fathis hadn’t mentioned anything about the Ayleid in his letter, as if Henantier hadn’t relayed her interest in writing, and without that to serve as an introduction into the topic, she had no idea how she’d work it into conversation. Since her chat with the mages in Bravil, Nim had spent every waking moment digging up as much information on the Fathis Aren as possible. She had thoroughly questioned her colleagues at the University, and when even that did not suffice, she broke into the Imperial City’s census and excise office to find his immigration records. They were colorful to say the least.

Nim had learned that Fathis was old, not ancient but 224 was at least eleven times as many lifetimes as she had lived. He declared quite a fortune upon entering Cyrodiil which suggested that he’d either come from generational wealth or had amassed a great amount in his centuries long life. If so, how? That much so soon seemed suspicious at best. To make matters even more intriguing, in his home province of Morrowind, he belonged to House Telvanni. Prior to his expulsion, that was. Nim was both relieved and disappointed to learn the reason why, relieved to learn he’d been a staunch and vocal opponent of the Telvanni endorsed slavery. Disappointed that there were no juicier details surrounding his removal. 

Folding the letter up again, Nim approached Mara’s altar and hung her head, praying that the divines forgive her for the lies she was about to spin. If they worked, then she wouldn’t technically need to steal. One less sin on her soul gave her comfort. 

Leaving the chapel, she clutched her cloak tightly and stepped into the humid chill of early Bravil spring. The wind scraped through the trees with a shrill whistle, fragrant with the stench of the canals and threatening to blow the hood right off her head. She crossed through town, keeping her head down and stopping only when she arrived at the statue of the Lucky Old Lady. Local tradition brought the townsfolk to this stature on gloomy, hapless days for a bit of good fortune, and another man stood nearby, lurking and watching, looking almost like he were guarding the thing. Every now and then Nim saw him lean closer, mumbling under his breath as if speaking to it. Skooma-drunk loon , she thought, maybe he needs a little luck today too . Avoiding eye contact with him, she stood to her toes to kiss the statue’s stone cheek. The man grimaced, mortified by this gesture, his eyes igniting to flame. Nim ignored him. A little luck went a long way in these trying times, and she was not about to pass it up.

Dark grey clouds loomed overhead, and in the distance, a faint rumbling edged closer. Nim scurried faster along the bridge to the castle, and when a small drop splashed the tip of her nose, she broke out into a run. She couldn’t show up for her meeting looking like a drowned rat, especially not when she’d spent so long making sure she looked halfway decent for it. Arriving in the great hall of Castle Bravil, she found a Dunmeri man richly dressed in red velvets, his hands clasped behind his back. 

"Master Aren?" Nim asked. 

The Dunmer man nodded. "Indeed. Please, call me Fathis."

He was fifteen minutes early for their meeting. Very eager. Nim let her cloak fall to her shoulders and shook her hair loose, straightening her wool gown with her free hand. She’d taken her time (too much time, in her opinion) getting ready that morning, and had even tried her hand at rouge and lip paint to add some brighter color to her face. It was all part of the ruse, and she hoped she looked as presentable as she felt. Though she wouldn’t dare try to charm a fellow mage, the courage spell she’d cast outside the castle doors was now in full effect.

“Fathis," she repeated. "It’s good to finally meet you. My apologies. I didn’t think you’d be waiting.”

“Nimileth, I take it? It’s no worry at all." He offered her a smile, one which she returned, and took her outstretched hand with both of his. His red eyes swept her face, lingering there, curiously squinted. Nim tried not to let herself grow stiff. Was something stuck between her teeth? “Have we met before?” he asked.

Nim gave him a not so subtle glance up and down. “I think I would remember if we had.” Ugh, she scolded herself. She hadn’t meant for the words to spill forth as kittenish as they did. Now is not the time to practice being a flirt! What would happen if she failed miserably? All this work, all this research for nothing! "I mean to say, I don't think so," she quickly corrected.

Fathis raised a brow. Nim would have flushed were it not for her suspended illusion. Plenty of women used their charm to get what they wanted, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate, not now, here with a fellow member of the Guild. Before she realized what she was doing, however, she was moving on instinct, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fluttering her lashes, offering up a coy smile.

In truth, Nim had met Fathis Aren before. As an associate in Bravil, she’d regularly practiced her destruction magic with Delphine in the basement training room. Fathis, who lived in town, made the occasional appearance there to restock his alchemical supplies. Nim had only seen him in passing a handful of times. Once, she’d bumped into him and mumbled out an apology, but that was nearly a year and a half ago, not long after she’d escaped the Imperial Prison. She was a wiry, gaunt thing back then, shier and shrivelled and somehow always covered in dirt. She highly doubted Fathis had taken note of her then, and she certainly was not about to mention it now.

“Of course," Fathis said, "hard to forget a face as devilishly handsome as this one, I imagine.”

Nim chuckled unexpectedly, and the laughter burst from her like a coiled spring. Good, she thought. His playfulness had caught her off guard, but it allowed herself to relax. She could lean into this. She could make it work for her.

Fathis smirked. “I take it you don’t agree."

Nim shook her head as she regained her composure. “Oh, and risk my chance of a discounted lesson? In fact, I think I'll agree with you. But now that you mention it, you do look familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere before. I’m certain of it.”

“Not at the Guild Hall. I would certainly have remembered that.”

“No, let’s see.” She rested her cheek in her palm and looked off into the distance, forcing herself to stare pensively at a small crack in the far wall. Should she mention relic-hunting now? In the end, she decided against it. They were still in the great hall and far away from the Arrow of Extrication. She'd need to work it into conversation at a more opportune time. “If I remember, I’ll tell you. How about that?”

Fathis seemed to be studying her, and Nim still wasn’t sure what her plan was. Was she playing the flirt? Maintaining an air of mystery? If she wasn’t under such a strong courage spell, she would absolutely be panicking.

“So conjuration,” she said, rocking back on her heels. She looked around the hallway. “Where do you suppose is the best place to summon a Xivilai?”

 Fathis laughed heartily. “A Xivilai! You’re ambitious, aren’t you?”

“Among other things.”

“Well, certainly not in the Grand Hall. The court holds session after the midday meal. Perhaps the courtyard? Come, let’s make our way—”

“Actually, it’s rather dreadful out there,” she cut in. “I think a storm is on the horizon.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

“Yes, I was hoping we could stay somewhere dry and warm.”  

The Gray Fox had told her that a secret passage connected the inner castle to Fathis’ tower outside the city walls. Her best bet was that the passageway was in Fathis’ private quarters, and she hoped she could convince him to lead her there with minimal eyelash batting and hair twirling. She was still new to this coquettish act. It felt silly, and she hadn't yet learned how far she could push it before it became insufferably cloying.

“Understandable.” He nodded his head and gestured toward the top of the grand staircase behind him. “My study is on the other side of those doors up there. Plenty of space to work as long as you're not planning to summon a frost atronach.”

“Not even a small one?” 

Fathis smiled. “Maybe a small one.”

“Splendid. I’ll follow after you.” 

They proceeded into the castle’s private quarters, briefly discussing Nim’s most recent advancement to Conjurer, noting that the irony was not lost on her when she’d asked for lessons. Upon reaching his rooms, she noticed that he’d used a series of four keys to unlock the door. Whatever he was hiding within he certainly wanted to keep from wandering eyes. 

Fathis held the door open. Entering, Nim gazed in awe at the size of his bedroom. She hadn’t been inside the private quarters of a castle since her servant years in Kvatch and had nearly forgotten how excessively large the living spaces were. Quickly bringing herself back to focus, she scanned the perimeter in search of a suspicious looking wall sconce, a bookcase, a throw-rug that could be hiding the entrance to a trap door. She found none.

Fathis walked to the far end of the room and turned to face her. Her eyes were still trailing the perimeter of the room. “Let’s see what you can do then.” He motioned toward the center of the room with an open palm. 

“What?”

“A conjuration spell, if you will. I’d like to see your form.”

“Oh.” Nim hesitated. “Right.”

Nim drew in a breath and focused her magicka to call upon the realm of Oblivion. A yellow mist washed over her as the kiss of cold metal nipped at the bare skin below her skirt. Bound armor surrounded her leds, and with her hands on her hips, she stepped out of the mist, beginning a slow saunter toward Fathis. She took deep bounds, placing the heel of one daedric boot firmly on the ground before bobbing up into the next step. It was a strange jig, but the armor was cumbersome and unfamiliar on her legs. With series of clink clanks the boots hit the stone, and Fathis watched, wide eyed, his lips pursed, as Nim raised one hand in the air. 

The mist returned to envelope her forearms. Keeping her hand held high, a pair of bracers materialized on her wrists. She turned and circled back toward the front of the room where she could get a better view of the items lining his shelves. With her back to Fathis, Nim wasted no time scanning the cabinets, the desks, the walls for anything she could use to strike up a conversation that was not about conjuration. Anything to get into that tower and closer to the Gray Fox’s damned arrow.

Nim halted in her tracks when she heard Fathis clear his throat. She pivoted, peering over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes a few times for good measure.  “Ta-da,” she said.

Fathis leaned back against the wall with one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand propped under his chin. He appeared deep in thought. “I’m searching for the proper words to describe what I just saw.”

“I’m afraid I only know three spells. Would you like to see me summon a dagger?”

“Not if you’re going to do that dance again.”

“Oh.” She pouted. “Something wrong with my technique?”  Fathis sucked in through his teeth. “What? Was it really that bad?”

"I may have a few pieces of advice. Let's begin with the basics."

Nim turned to face him when she caught a brief flash of dazzling light from the corner of her eye. The source of the glint lay on a dining table beneath a brass brazier— a large Varla stone resting in a silver pedestal. Nim’s blood turned electric.

“Aha!” she cried out with the snap of her finger. Fathis took a step back, surprised by the sudden outburst. “The Varla stone! I remember now!

Fathis cocked his head in confusion. “Remember what?”

“Where we met. In the Imperial City. You were at Umbacano’s auction back in First Seed, weren’t you? I knew I recognized you.”

Another flicker of confusion flashed across his face, before it was suddenly alit with surprise. “Yes, I was! What were you doing there? Are you a relic-hunter too?”

“Blessed Julianos, what a small world it is!” Nim hoped her deliberate avoidance of the question would go unnoticed as long as she kept him entertained. “You know, I just completed an excavation at Vahtacen last week. You won’t believe what we recovered from there.” 

“You were in Vahtacen? I thought Jarol had given up on the project. I thought it was deemed a fool’s errand.”

“Quite the opposite now that we’ve something to prove for our efforts. Master Wizard Jarol and his students recently secured funding to establish another field site nearby.”

“Another Ayleid ruin?”

“What other type of ruin?” she giggled girlishly, and the sound made her teeth itch. “As far as I know there were no Dwarven settlment’s south of Skyrim or Hammerfell nor West of Morrowind.”

“Don’t tell me you’re interested in Dwemer artifacts too.” 

“No, not at all. Repairing Bothiel’s Orrery was just a little side project of mine.”

For a brief moment, Fathis was silent. His eyes, wide as saucers, looked ready to burst from excitement.  "I'm rendered speechless," he said. "And given my great love for the Cyrodiliic lexicon, I find this a rare moment indeed. Bothiel had told me the machinery was damaged beyond repair.”

“Well there are alternatives," Nim said. "I simply did what any collector would do.”

Fathis narrowed his eyes at her, curious, maybe even suspicious, but his smile remained broad and blindingly bright. The conjured armor slowly disintegrated off Nim’s limbs, and feeling suddenly very naked, she clasped her hands in front of her and rocked back on her feet. 

“She mentioned that the shipment of replacement parts had been stolen," he said at last. "You recovered them, I assume?"

Nim nodded. After learning that Fathis was also interested in the Dwemer, she’d spent several days in the Imperial Reserve hunting down the items needed for the Orrery's repairs. In the early hours of the morning, when the bandits were still asleep, she had managed to sneak her way into their camps and lift the items right out of their tent. Only once had her heist been interrupted. It had gotten messy then. Bloody even. Nim only did what was needed in the moment and hoped not all collectors required such violence in their acquisitions.  

"I can’t imagine recovering them was an easy task,” Fathis said.

“No, it wasn't," Nim replied a bit too nonchalantly, "But important tasks seldom have easy solutions, I’ve found.”

“Hmph, and here I was thinking you were going to be another lost cause.” 

“My technique wasn’t that bad,” she said. Fathis did not reassure her. "It wasn't, right?"

Clapping his hands together, Fathis gave a thoughtful nod. “I’m rather impressed, Nimileth. I don’t know many first-year University students who would be willing to get their hands so dirty with another mage’s projects. I thought all they did up at the University was force you to take useless classes from professors who were well past their prime.”

Nim had never heard another mage speak so critically about the academic rigor of a University education and couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not. “I’ve gotten far more than my hands dirty, I’ll tell you that. It’s the best way to learn.”

“Just what kind of projects have they been assigning to you there?”

“Oh, just alchemy mostly,” she said, giving her head a little shake. “But Fathis, as much as I’d like to continue this conversation, I mustn’t take up too much of your time. You’re a busy man, I’m sure, and I’ve only got you for one lesson.”

“What a tease,” he jested. “Ayleid ruins and stolen Dwarven artifacts. Not to mention Henatier let slip about some risky assignments from the Council.”

“He did? Oh, well…” With a dramatic sigh, she stared off into the distance. “Honestly, I’ve no idea what the Council wants with me.”

If Fathis’ interests weren’t piqued already, they certainly were now. Another gossip looking for fodder. She didn’t realize there were so many among mages. “Aha,” Fathis said. “I’m not going to let you get away that easily. You still haven’t told me how you ended up at Umbacano’s manor or how I happened to miss you.”

“Oh that. Gods, it’s quite an embarrassing story really.” She looked away again feigning bashfulness. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“Bore me? My dear, you’re the most exciting guest I’ve had in months.”

“Are you always this chatty? I’m on the clock here. You’re not going to tell me I owe you 2,000 septims for your time afterwards, are you?”

Fathis laughed and shook his head firmly. “Tell you what. We’ll consider this a complimentary lesson as long as you answer a few of my questions. You’ll grant me that small pleasure, won’t you?” Nim pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, as if questioning. When she didn’t immediately reply, Fathis raised his brows. “No? That’s not enough? You want two lessons?”

Nim pointed at the dining table. “I’m guessing this Varla stone isn’t the only Ayleid artifact in your collection. Where are you keeping the rest?”

Fathis hesitated, looking to the Varla stone as though waiting for it to grant permission. “You’re too curious,” he grinned.

“We’re scholars. It’s our nature. You wouldn’t keep a young, up-and-coming Ayleid researcher from taking a few notes, would you? Who knows, maybe ten years from now when I’m a Master Wizard, I’ll be leading the digs myself. Maybe I’ll let you see what we unearth and reserve some space in the authorship of my publications, hmm?”

Fathis held up his hand. “Say no more. You’ve convinced me.” He stepped to the back wall and gripped the decorative column of an alcove carved into the brick. Nim held her breath, watching as the wall fell to reveal a pitch black passage beyond. 

“I don’t normally lead my guests through this passageway, but since we are already here we might as well,” Fathis said and waved Nim forward. “Follow me. It’s a long walk to the tower so I hope you’re ready to talk.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, casting her mage light around them and stepping through.

---

Nim followed as Fathis led her through his well-defended Grotto, utterly and completely awestruck. How long must it have taken to build this, she wondered. Even if it had merely been repurposed for his own use, it must have cost a small fortune to repair and refurbish. How exactly could a conjurer have amassed so much wealth? Surely, the Bravil court did not pay that well. 

Along the way, they passed at least one dremora, three clanfears, and after the 12th atronach Nim had stopped counting. The way the creatures eyed her twisted her stomach into a knot, but she stuck close to Fathis’ side and directed her attention to the path in front of them. They had been walking and talking for nearly twenty minutes, and Fathis was proving to be very nosy. 

She tried to skirt around his questions. He felt no shame in calling her out. “Well that’s not at all ambiguous,” he would say, and Nim, not knowing how better to lie, resorted to half-truths. Three-quarter truths even.

Prior to their meeting, Nim had prepared herself as well as she could to construct a convincing retelling of the  night she was supposedly at Umbacano’s manor. Back at the University, she’d spent a solid hour interrogating an increasingly annoyed Irlav Jarol. He’d been at the auction, and she’d asked for the guest list, trying to gauge what kinds of people were typically invited to Umbacano’s events. Irlav, though peeved, had been helpful once she explained she was only trying to gather the names of the small group of Ayleid researchers to send her questions to. To concoct a believable tale, Nim picked a name off the guest list that she recognized (for better or for worse) and claimed him as her date.  

“What was his name again?” Fathis asked. If he doubted her, he was doing well to hide it. His inquisitive tone, more curious than skeptical.

“Milvan. Lazare Milvan.”

“And his father is a Lord, you say? Lord of what?”

“Lord of a pile of rocks for all I care,” Nim said with a snort. “It was invitation only, and Umbacano doesn’t know who I am. Yet.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s only a matter of time before we cross paths. I’ve only just started my work on Vahtacen. Anyway, I needed a way into the auction.”

“Why didn’t you ask Irlav?”

“Well, he’s been so preoccupied with his duties as a member of the Council.” Nim waved her hand, getting back to the story. “Anyway, Lazare Milvan needed a date. “ 

“And where did you meet this Lazare Milvan?”

Nim hoped that Fathis wasn’t closely acquainted with the man, otherwise he would know that she was lying through her teeth. Irlav had mentioned Lazare’s name and after a little digging, she was surprised to find that she’d actually met him before. He was a resident of Skingrad who occupied a large manor in the heart of the city. While Nim was completing her recommendation for the local guild chapter, she’d been accosted by him while having dinner at the inn.

She’d been sitting at his preferred table near the window when he approached her, demanding that she leave lest she like to press herself against the tip of his sword. At the time, she was a scraggly thing, still scared from her stay in prison and left quietly but not before cutting his coin purse loose. Nim was quite certain Lazare Milvan would rather take a dog as his date than have her at his side. But Fathis didn’t need to know that.

“We met in Skingrad,” she said, “through a mutual acquaintance. Maybe you don’t mind going stag, but Lazare Milvan would never.”

“Lazare Milvan…” Fathis repeated, “I’m trying to prod my memory.”

“Oh if you met him, you would know. Short, medium build. Breton. Blonde and with quite a punchable face. He liked to refer to himself in the third-person as Sir Lazare Milvan in the most obnoxious tone imaginable.” 

Fathis stopped in his tracks and turned to face Nim. She held her breath. “You must joking," he said. "You didn’t actually attend with him, did you? The arrogance of that man would test the patience of Vivec himself! How could you make it through the night?” 

“With a bottle of Tamika’s to console me.”

Fathis laughed and shook his head. “B'vehk! You’re braver than I thought. In truth, I’ve only spoken to him once but I think even that is more than I’d prefer.”

Nim nodded in agreement. “Skingrad, right? That city seems to attract the most undesirable, arrogant lot in all of Cyrodiil.” 

“Second only to the Arcane University,” Fathis added with a snort. “Look. See that door? We’re nearly there.”

Fathis waved his hand, releasing the magical lock that held the door tightly shut. Beyond it lay an open courtyard, and Nim entered slowly, locking eyes (at least she thought they were eyes) with the flame atronachs patrolling the grounds. Light pellets of rain sizzled as they hit them. Gazing skyward, Nim stared at the fortress walls.

She was standing on the ground floor of an old stone fort, Imperial and not in fact made of mushroom like she’d imagined. The mismatched bricks suggested some repairs had been recently made, and to her right was a wooden gate thrice her height, bolted shut. Fathis’ tower looked like any other imperial fortress, only with atronachs instead of human guards. Nim was willing to bet a thousand septims that it also possessed some heavy fortifying enchantments to keep unwanted nosys and roaming marauders out. Kynareth knew they were all too plentiful in the lower Niben.

“Let’s head up the stairs. That’s where I’m working on my new display.”

Nim followed after Fathis as he wound up the stairs and led her into his study, a large, cluttered room lined with alchemy benches, cabinetry, and display cases. It was unnaturally dry here, Nim noted, fragrant with the smell of tea leaves and warm. 

“Dwemer enchantments,” he said when he noticed Nim staring around the room in confusion. “Humidity isn’t good for the specimens. There’s a piping system designed to draw all the moisture out.”

The walls were lined with shelves holding oddities and antiquities from jars of fetal trolls preserved in alcohol to ornate moonstone talismans crafted in a motif that looked distinctly Khajiiti. J’rasha’s aunt had one that looked just like it. With matching earrings. She’d said it was one of the few things she still had of her mother back in Corinth.

Nim slowly walked the perimeter of the room. Fathis had a whole cabinet dedicated to Dwemer relics; gyroscopes, small cogs, even the metal hand of a centurion. Beside it was another of Ayleid urns decorated with welkynd insets, a polished helm, a broken statuette. Nim pulled out the drawers of another cabinet, revealing a collection of pressed flora that she knew were not native to the Niben. 

“What is it?” she asked.

“Hackle-lo,” he said. “I had an herbarium back in Morrowind.”

Nim moved on to the next set of displays. “By Kynareth, what an abomination," she muttered under her breath. Fathis walked over to find her staring at the dried carapace of a small, many-legged he’d mounted to a wooden stand.

“Have you seen one before?” he asked her.

“A land dreugh?” She nodded “Well, not alive. Never one so small and never one quite as well preserved as this. The dead don’t keep well in the Blackwoods. Too humid.”

“The Dreughs are fully aquatic in their adult form," he explained. "These are juveniles. They spend a few years of their life growing on land before entering a metamorphosis for sea-dwelling. We see them in many of the water bodies of Morrowind. Both freshwater and saltwater.” 

“Really? What an exceptional capacity for osmoregulation.”

“Like diadromous fish.”

“I had no idea these were the same species.”

Fathis had a remarkable collection of preserved fauna and pressed plants, many of which Nim had never seen before and a few which she only recognized from the illustrations of guide books specific to the surrounding provinces. She felt stupid for asking so many questions at first, but she’d never been shy to admit ignorance. In fact, Fathis seemed more refreshed than anything, and he happily replied to her every inquiry when she spied something unfamiliar.

Eventually she’d grown so distracted that she barely heard the subtle pop of a wine bottle being uncorked. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched Fathis approach bearing two silver goblets.

“Tamikas?” he offered. “To help you get through the evening.” 

“A true gentleman. I didn’t even need to break out my flask.” 

The drink hit her fast, and when it did, she recalled with sobering unpleasantness why she was here in the first place. Damn it, Nim, how’d you get so easily distracted, but in truth she was having a wonderful time.

Fathis turned to her expectantly. “So what do you think?” he asked.

“A wonderful blend,” she said. “Cherry on center stage, tobacco buried a little deeper through the finish. Pleasantly astringent. Bright and sweet despite the soft smokey base notes. I’m guessing it was stored in oak barrels.” Nim took another sip and lightly smacked her lips. "What vintage is this? 405?”

Fathis raised a brow. “Umm, yes. It is,” he said, surprised. “However, I was referring to the collection.”

“Oh. You’re a complete hoarder. It’s marvelous.”

“Thank you? I’m unconvinced that was a compliment.”

“Oh it was!” she quickly assured him, placing her free hand on his arm. “I mean it. It’s really a lovely assortment of curiosities. I wish there was such a collection at the University or at least an herbarium. The material we learn in ‘ Fundamental Properties of Flora and Fauna ’ is centered around species native to Cyrodiil. I wish I could see more of Tamriel in general. This was a pleasant introduction.”

“If that is really what you want, I think you will have no problem doing so. Try Mournhold. It will be truly alien to you and the guild there is always looking for new members. Come, let us sit.” He motioned towards two armchairs in the corner of the room and with a flick of his finger, lit the wicks of the candles on the small table between them. Nim took her seat, as did he. “Alright, you’ve told me how you managed to weasel your way into Umbacano’s auction, and I’ve told you about my collection. Now tell me about yourself.”

“Pardon?” Nim shifted in her seat. “What else do you want to know?” 

“I want to know how a little thing like you ended up in a place like this.”

Nim snorted. “Don’t call me ‘little thing’ unless you want me to call you an ancient draugr.”

“Noted. My apologies. How old are you then, 400?”

“Close,” she replied, smirking. “I’ll be twenty in Second Seed.”

Fathis cleared his throat and chose his next words with greater care. “So then enlighten me. How were you able to attain the rank of Conjurer so quickly. When did you join the guild?”

Nim downed the remaining wine in her goblet. She hadn’t fully disclosed the history of her short life to anyone in full detail, not even Methredhel. Though Fathis seemed as trustworthy as her gut intuition would allow, she wasn’t planning on revealing much to him either.

With a wave of his hand, Fathis floated the bottle from across the room  and refilled her cup. She drank slower this time, reminding herself to watch her tongue. “So much of it is luck," she said. "Being in the right place at the right time. And the rest well, when you’re as young and small as I am, you have to be resourceful. I joined the Bravil chapter when I was seventeen. Kud-Ei was hesitant to accept someone my age, but she was in a terrible predicament at the time. I’m sure you remember what happened to Henantier?”

Fathis nodded. From how Henantier and Kud-Ei had spoken of him, Nim assumed they were good friends. “So you were the one to rescue Henantier from his Dream-World. Kud-Ei was short with the details, but I suppose I know why given the situation. I still can’t believe she didn’t ask me first.”

“Well, they had their reasons for privacy. Henantier’s experiment broke many of the guild's regulations, as creative as it was.”

“Yes, I’m sure they wanted to draw as little attention to the whole ordeal as possible.”

“So like I said, I just came along at the right time. Afterwards, Kud-Ei allowed me to join as an associate and provided me with my first recommendation."

"And how long were you in Bravil? I can't believe we didn't meet previously."

"Oh, just a month or two," she said. "I trained with Delphine as much as possible and brewed some potions to make a bit of gold to support myself while travelling for the rest of my recommendations. One by one, I earned them. It took about a year and a half and most of that time was spent convincing people to take me seriously. Falcar gave me the most trouble, but knowing what we do now, that shouldn’t be too surprising. He did try to kill me.”

Nim paused, the echo of her words still ringing in her head. Sometimes the grave reality of her brief encounter with Falcar eluded her. 

“So it wasn’t an over-exaggeration,” Fathis said. “I’d heard about Falcar’s disappearance and subsequent expulsion, but only from the whispers that reached Kud-Ei.”

“Uh, yeah. I almost drowned in a well. He killed another associate the same way.”

“Ah, that was terribly insensitive of me. Rumors have a tendency to compound on their journey down to Bravil. You can never be sure what’s hyperbole.”

Nim shrugged. “A little skepticism is perfectly healthy.”

“No word on his whereabouts?” Fathis was leaning in closer now than he was at the start of their conversation, eager, hungry.

“I don’t think the Council would tell me even if they knew,” she sighed. “We’ve, uh, butt some heads, the Council and I.”

“Oh? You work with them close enough for that?” 

“Here and there.”

“Then it’s inevitable. Is this regarding the necromancers? Henantier said you encountered them on your way to the Wellspring.”

“Well, yes.” She shifted again, uncomfortably this time. It always made her a bit uneasy to know people were talking about her behind her back. “It was much more than that really. You didn’t hear the story?” 

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Fathis continued, “that the necromancers are still embedded within the guild. But isn’t that all they are, rumors? Unfounded fodder for the gossips to circulate? Falcar was a one-off incident, surely. Truly a regrettable circumstance.” 

“Do you really not know what’s going on?” Fathis, seemingly unsure how to respond, gave a slight shrug. Nim clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Two mages murdered in the Wellspring Cave. Necromancers lurking in the Skingrad court. I fear Falcar’s not an isolated incident.” By Fatihs’ puzzled expression, Nim guessed this was all news to him. “You really hadn’t heard?”

“I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.”

“I really fear for the future of our guild. Keeping quiet about the tragedies won’t make the problem disappear.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure how quiet the Council is keeping it. Perhaps I simply  haven’t been listening. Since my appointment to Court Wizard, I’ve spent long periods away from the University, and given that the nature of my research is independent, I stay holed up in my study with my manuscripts. Anything keep me out of the court.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse. Ah, but I keep myself busy. Boredom is among the most unforgivable of sins. I won’t stand for it.”

“And what is it that you’re working on here?” Nim asked, sipping her wine and casting a long glance around the room.

“Can I confess to you that most of my time these days is actually dedicated to hunting down rare artifacts? It’s for pleasure more than scholarly inquiry. Cyrodiil has changed me.”

“And here I am scrambling to make it to all my classes while the Council sends me off to do what they ought to have done months ago. I didn’t realize a Court Wizard’s days were so full of indolence. Sounds nice”

“What kind of assignments has the Council been giving you? You’re only an apprentice.”

Fathis listened quietly as Nim detailed her encounter with Mercator and the necromancers at the Wellspring. She was trying her hardest to provide well-grounded criticism and avoid unnecessarily bad-mouthing the Council in front of him, but from the startled look on his face as she recounted her mission in Skingrad, she guessed Fathis was far removed from the Council’s inner circle. 

“I just don’t understand why they insist on doing nothing,” she said. “We can’t really waste anymore time standing idle. They’ll grow in numbers. Whether the Council approves of it or not, I’m thinking maybe someone should just go undercover and root them out. We need to learn more about how they’re operating, what practices they’re using in their twisted sorcery, who’s supplying them with soul gems and bodies, but I don’t know… I can’t help but feel like the Council is all talk, and if I so much as breathed a word of it to them, they’d shut it down. It’s frustrating.”

“For such a young— I mean new apprentice, the Council seems to be asking a lot of you.”

“No, not really. I just have a hard time saying no.”

“You must be very talented if they’ve trusted you with such sensitive missions.”

Nim frowned. “I wouldn’t say that either.”

“Few mages at your stage have seen a drop of bloodshed, did you know that? Back home, it would be damn near expected, but in Cyrodiil? Never. I would like to see your skills speak for themselves, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I certainly hope no one else is speaking for them. What would you have me do?”

“A little demonstration perhaps. You’re clearly a skilled fighter if you can take on multiple necromancers by yourself and live to tell about it. Show me how you do that.” 

“Alright then.” Nim stood to her feet and walked to the center of the room. She pointed toward the empty space before her. “Conjure something.”

Without moving a muscle, Fathis did. A haze of dark mist appeared before the door, swirling upward, obscuring the creature materializing beneath. It cleared to reveal two skeletal figures, both armed and both angry. The furthest one from Nim raised its bow. 

The second skeleton unsheathed its shortsword, and began its charge, but before the archer released its first shot, Nim reached out with a magical tether and directed the arrow into the back of the swordsman’s skull. The arrow cracked through the brittle bone, and the swordsman staggered forward, right into the path of her oncoming fireball. The impact pushed the swordsman backwards, crashing into the door and flinging it open where it disarticulated on the stone brick of the mezzanine outside. Meanwhile, the archer shambled backward, out the door, putting space between them. It released another arrow beneath which Nim ducked and rolled away. She shot another burst of flame from her palms, sending it hurdling into the marksman’s chest, and it landed so forcefully that it pushed the skeleton right over the mezzanine's railing. It’s body clattered to the ground with a satisfying crack . 

The whole encounter lasted no more than a minute, and once the skeletons were gone, Nim shrouded herself in an invisibility spell and disappeared beneath its illusory mist.

“Hello?” Fathis called out. Nim crept around him, his only reply the light pitter-patter of rain falling onto the courtyard beyond the door. “Nimileth?” 

Fathis stood to his feet, walked to the center of the room, and looked around. Nim slunk up behind him, concealed by her illusion. She reached for the knife sheathed at his belt, slipped it out ever so slowly Holding her breath, she stood to her toes and reached around him then, pressing the dagger's flat edge to his neck. 

She weaved a silencing hex into her paralysis spell and pressed her fingers to his throat. The muscles clenched beneath. “You're dead," she said and pulled back, satisfied. Dropping her invisibility shroud, she stepped in front of him and collapsed her hold on his paralysis.  A wave of relief spread through Fathis’ face as he shuddered.

“That was…” Fathis shook his head as if to clear it, his mouth slightly agape. He looked confused, not angry, but perhaps disturbed as he held his hand to his throat. "How did you..." he began, but trailed off again as his eyes fell to her hands, still clutching the ornate dagger she had pressed into his neck. “Is that mine?” he asked and pointed at the blade. "You were about to kill me with my own dagger. Unbelievable.”

Nim was seized by a flood of panic. Gods you are an idiot sometimes, Nim. What were you thinking, playing these kinds of games? You’re not on the Waterfront anymore. “Yes,” she squeaked. "I mean no. I wasn't going to hurt you. I promise." 

Fathis blinked at her. Idiot, Nim. Idiot, idiot, idiot!  

“You’re not mad at me are you? I was just putting on a show.”

“I didn’t even hear you approaching.”

“I’m light-footed,” she said and didn’t understand why this seemed such a shock to him. Still holding the dagger, she motioned from her shoulder down to her knee, emphasizing her diminutive frame. “'S'just the way I’m built. ”

Fathis cleared his throat. “That was... something," he mumbled. "I think you’re being far too modest. How did you paralyze me? I keep a resistance charm on me at all times” 

“I silenced you first.” she said, and Fathis raised a brow.

“But how could you tell I was charmed? I weave my spells so thin, it’s barely detectable to most unless you’re incredibly skilled in mysticism.” 

“I’m not and I didn’t know,” she shrugged. “I just assume if I’m dealing with a mage, they’ve protected themselves with magic too. Like I said, I’m not particularly talented, just resourceful.” She flipped the dagger in her palm and offered the hilt back to Fathis. “I’m sure it would be much more difficult to kill you if you were aware that was my intention. And skeletons, really? Were you scared I might hurt myself if you conjured something with flesh?“

Fathis stopped rubbing his throat to return the dagger to his sheathe. “I don’t know many people who could break through my resistance charms,” he said and shook his head again, askance. “I’m sorry, I’m still having a hard time processing this. You expect me to believe you could do all that with no formal training?”

“I trained here and there.”

“Oh, come now, Nimileth. I’ve been around mages long enough to know they don’t teach you that in school.”

Nim startled, feeling uncomfortably seen and bared to the room. Fathis maintained a grin, but the look in his eyes teemed with confusion. “I’m an illusionist," she said. "I know a handful of spells and throw them together to look impressive. Hardly the first.”

“No first-year I’ve ever met tosses spells around like that. You forget that I’ve been training other mages for decades, and in conjuration no less.” Fathis’ tone was no longer playful but serious, concerned. “I know what is expected of young mages. I know how steep the learning is.”

“Okay," Nim said, scuffing her boots against the floor. I’ll admit that I knew some magic before I joined the Guild. A bit over a year ago, I found myself in Bravil training to be a healer under Marz.”

“Marz? I don’t recall knowing anyone by that name.”

“She’s not a mage. She’s a priestess of Mara.”

“The Chapel? You’re a devotee of Nine?” 

“I say my prayers and offer my thanks. The Nine have guided and protected me all my life.”

“And I’ll bet you suspect me to believe your skill is a gift from Julianos himself.”

“Hey.” Nim jabbed a finger into the air. “What’s that supposed to mean? Why couldn’t it be so? Maybe a Telvanni wizard has no reason to worship the Aedra, but there are plenty of Gods-fearing mages. I don’t appreciate having my beliefs belittled.”

“I never told you I belong to House Telvanni.”

The confusion in his eyes shifted then, tapered to a pointed edge. Nim withered. “I- I asked around about you," she stammered, trying to keep her cool despite the panic flaring in her chest. "We have mutual acquaintances.”

“Henantier doesn’t know about my association. I was disowned before I left Morrowind.”

Nim’s heart beat furiously in her ribcage and she prayed that Fathis did not have an active detection spell to see her rapidly pulsating aura. How could she have been so foolish? How could she let that slip?

“No, but…” she stalled, excuses racing through her mind, “I did my research before I came.”

“Hmph. Inquisitive, I see.” 

“It’s the nature of a scholar.”

Fathis crossed his arms over his chest and continued to eye her suspiciously. “You trained with a healer then? I understand teaching you the fundamentals of alchemy and restoration, but I doubt a healer has much use for illusion and destruction magic in prayer. And I certainly doubt they teach you how to pickpocket in the chapel either. I sense you’re not being honest with me, and I don’t understand why.”

Nim stared blankly at Fathis and twiddled with the chain of her amulet. The two elves stood unmoving in the center of the study, the quiet broken only by the soft trickle of rain, the sizzle as it hit the fire atronach patrolling outside. Nim watched silently as Fathis returned to his seat. He brought the goblet to his lips and swallowed, eyes narrowed.

“I can’t help but feel as though you didn’t really come for lessons today, Nimileth.”

“Don’t be silly,” Nim said and waved her hand flippantly to the side. The knot in her belly grew heavier, metamorphosing into a ball of lead. “Of course I did. You saw my conjuration first hand. I’m useless.”

“No, I think we both know that you’d be fine without my help."

Nim could hear the blood flowing through her ears. Her mind raced so fast and so hard that a dull throb of pain had begun to pound behind her eyes. What could she do? She’d made such a mess of the evening. 

Tangled, suffocated within her web of lies, she did her best to maintain nonchalance. “Maybe I want it anyway."

“Why?” 

Fathis took another sip of his wine, looking pensive. The quiet stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Meanwhile Nim reached deep, using everything she had learned about Fathis to come up with a reason for standing here in his private fortress that did not involve stealing. At her silence, his expression grew increasingly frustrated.

"Is it because of my association with the Telvanni?” he asked. “Did the Council ask you to spy on me, make sure my allegiances haven't strayed? I knew you weren’t really a first-year looking for lessons."

"No," she said, and immediately regretted it. It was a good excuse. She should have thought of it herself. "No, I came here on my own."

"Why," he said again, eyes slivered down to blood red crescent moons.

“Because..." she stalled. "Because I really do need your help."

"With? Not conjuration, I'm guessing."

"Necromancy."

Fathis looked at her bewildered. " Excuse me ?"

"I don’t know anything about necromancy, and you do.” Words were flying from her mouth before she’d processed them in her throbbing, useless brain. Did she really just accuse him of being a necromancer? Gods, what was she thinking?

Idiot, idiot, idiot! 

"I what? " Fathis asked sharply and he flushed with anger, his blue ears turning a deep shade of purple. “Exactly what are you trying to say?”

Oh, no. Oh, no. He's angry. What have you done, Nim? Quick, find a way out!

But instead she leaned in, falling forward head first. “Don’t tell me that in all your time with the Telvanni you haven’t learned anything that could help us," she said. "You must know how it works. Maybe you know what they want. I had to take a chance in speaking to you."

Fathis screwed his lips tight until they were bloodless. “Necromancy was banned in Morrowind long before Traven banned it in the guild. What makes you think I’d know anything?”

“It was banned from being performed on Dunmer,” she said. “There were no laws preventing its use on the other races. You must know something. Someone must know something.”

Fathis seemed to contemplate this for a moment. To her surprise, his expression softened. With a sigh, he hung his head. "Nimileth, I— I could be banned for admitting to this.”

“Who will I tell?" she pleaded with him. "I told you what I've seen. I’m desperate, Fathis. You don’t know what it’s like, working with the Council. How can such powerful people be so useless?”

“Look, I admire your gumption," he said hesitantly. "Critical voices in the guild should not be silenced. But you’ve come to me a liar. You came to me under pretense, hoping to squeeze information out of me, and you are not who you say you are."

"I am," Nim said. "I’m Nimileth. I'm everything that you see here."

"And yet you didn't pick up those skills from chapel healers or the Gods above. Tell me I'm wrong.”

“I’m trying to help the Council keep the guild safe from necromancers. I don’t see how my past is relevant at all."

“So you admit it. You are a liar.”

“No I—” Nim opened her mouth to protest, but quickly shut it. Thus far she’d received nothing from Fathis that she came for, only wine and suspicious glares. How did they end up here, talking about necromancers? The line she walked grew treacherously thin. “I keep my secrets,” she said. “Don’t we all?”  

“Well, how do you expect me to part with mine if you won’t part with yours? How do I know you’re not looking to practice yourself? How do I know that you don’t wish to seek them out? I need to know that I can trust you.”

Nim shuffled back to her seat and sunk in deep. “So what are you suggesting? You want to trade some dirt?”

Fathis nodded, suddenly cheerful, as if she’d asked him to join her for dinner at the Tiber Septim, all expenses paid. “That’s exactly what I want," he smirked. "Knowledge is power, as the Telvanni say.”

"Yeah," she pouted, "and I thought they usually ended that saying with ' keep as much of it to yourself .'"

Fathis' smirk flashed a brilliant white.

Accepting defeat (self-imposed or otherwise), Nim slumped backward into the chair. “Fine," she said, "but we’ll need another bottle of wine.” She raised her goblet for a refill. “To loosen the tongue.”

Waving his hand, Fathis floated another bottle over and uncorked it with a snap.  It poured itself slowly into her cup. He raised his goblet to meet hers, looking rather triumphant, and Nim couldn’t help but feel as if she too had been tricked. “Well then,” he beamed. “Let’s start digging then, shall we?”

Notes:

It is kinda corny, but it is what it is.

Chapter 10: The Art of the Deal

Chapter 10: The Art of the Deal

“The long version or the short version?” Nim asked, leaning back in the armchair and utterly engulfed in a bear-pelt blanket. Fathis had thrown it over her when he’d seen her shivering. She now sat wrapped in it tightly, only her head and one spindly arm holding a wine goblet visible through the mass of brown fur. Beyond the room, the rain had progressed from a light drizzle to flowing sheets. They uncorked a second bottle. Wine poured in concert with the sky.

“Tell me the whole story and I’ll give you any information you want," Fathis said. "No games. Grant me that small pleasure, won’t you.”

“Alright, but I hope you’re not expecting much."

"My expectations are below the crust of Nirn."

"Well, gee. You didn't need to be that harsh."

"I'm afraid lying set the bar."

Nim took a long, deep sip of her wine. "Whatever." 

She told him of the orphanage and its demolition, her subsequent appointment to Castle Kvatch, even her penchant for light-hearted theft while cleaning the noble's bedchambers. Sticky fingers , she had called when she was young.

“Ah, so you started early,” Fathis said.

“Started what early?” 

“Please, Nimileth. I don’t suppose my pocket was the first you picked. No, your movements flowed much too seamlessly. Naturally, if I may.” 

“Hmph, you may kindly not interrupt again. Now where was I?"

"Your sticky fingers," he reminded her gently. 

"Right. So… one day the guards caught onto the fact that I’d been stealing from the Countess's jewelry box, and I heard them talking about ‘ punishment.’ The head mistress had this long stick—the wrath of Stendarr, she’d call it— so I jumped out the window hoping to escape the beating. It was a long drop, but I was more scared of getting caught than anything else. They instill the fear of authority within you at a young age, you know. So I ran."

"Did someone take you in? Nine years old— you couldn't have lasted long on the streets."

"No, I didn't stay in the city. I wandered aimlessly through the West Weald for weeks."

Fathis clucked his tongue in surprise. "You risked the wilderness all to avoid a punishment? Surely it couldn't have been so bad. What were they going to do, throw a child in jail? They don't do that sort of thing in Cyrodiil, do they?"

Nim gave a small shrug. "Dunno, but I knew they'd beat me. Maybe they planned to turn me loose in the streets afterward. Either way, I'd end up cold, starving, with nothing but the clothes I fled the castle in. It wasn't so bad out there really. Not when the weather was warm.

"I stole fruits from the vineyard and the orchards around Skingrad. A chicken here or there. But then Winter came and the crops withered, and I couldn't support myself without them. It grew colder, and there were so many days that I went to sleep hungry. Every morning I was shocked to find that I hadn’t died in my sleep."

“You lasted a whole winter on your own?" Fathis sipped his wine, enraptured. Gods, was castle patronage truly so dull that he found this , her simple dreary life so interesting? By the gentle droop of his eyelids, he looked pleasantly buzzed. Considering she’d drunk most of the previous bottle, he still had a lot of catching up to do.

"Well, not quite," she said, "By Morning Star, I was barely conscious. I don't even know what I was living on. Tree bark. Snow. Dirt. I can’t remember. I hardly had the energy to move. It was a blur honestly. All those days blend together."

And truthfully, Nim thought it better that way. She touched those memories like old bruises, not noticing they were there until she brushed them, felt the dull stab of aged pain. It was perhaps her closest brush with death, and she hated the reminder, the fact that there was a time when she’d been so powerless, incapable of protecting herself in the most basic of ways. 

Never again, she thought. Never again.

"One day, I awoke in a house,” she said. “I didn't know how I ended up there, only that it was warm, and I was being tended to. There were three women watching over me. Two of them were young, the third much older, worn and sun-weathered. They had found me while returning from a pilgrimage up in the Great Forest, or so they had said. I didn’t question it. They could have left me to die just as well. They didn’t ask me many questions either, only if I had family looking for me. I said no.

"Their cabin was in the Blackwoods and a bit secluded from the nearby villages. From what I’d seen, the women lived a simple life. A godly life. They raised their own livestock and grew fresh vegetables and only passed through nearby towns to trade once a month or so. When I regained the strength to walk, I helped tend the garden, fed the animals, fetched the water, swept— anything to make myself useful. I would hear them praying outside at dawn and dusk, and sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of them preparing rituals. I thought they were priestesses of Kynareth. I thought, maybe, that the Divines had taken pity on me, that they’d finally heard my prayers. Finally, they’d taken me out of Kvatch and given me a chance to start anew, this time closer to my faith than ever. And I liked them, those women. They seemed to like me too. When I asked them if I could stay, they accepted me.”

"And were they priestesses of Kynareth?” Fathis asked, his stare intensely curious.

"No."

Nim paused. She hadn’t told anyone this part of her story before. Being an orphan was one thing, being a thief another, but this ? She looked to Fathis who was on the edge of his seat, as if he already knew, as if he could see right through her. Was it so obvious what she’d been through? Did she wear it plainly on her face? 

“They were witches,” she said, “a branch of a larger coven. I’d been with them for several months before they decided to initiate me. They taught me to forage for food and medicinal herbs, to hunt deer and trap small game. They showed me the basics of alchemy, and I learned how to brew healing salves and other restoratives, and they let me dabble on my own. I learned quickly, and they welcomed questions. It all started off innocently.

"Eventually I asked them if they could teach me how to wield magic, and they did, happily. I didn’t realize it could be so simple. I learned the basics of restoration and some spells to use around the farm, like how to replicate starlight to guide my way through the forest and how to draw out flame to light the hearth. But the spells they really wanted me to study were much more... well, they were pointed, had teeth. How to paralyze and silence, how to make myself unseen. It felt like they were preparing me for something, a test, and it was exciting, having something useful to do for once that wasn't cleaning or cooking. I was greedy for it. I was insatiable.

"I pushed myself. I wanted to know what else I could do with this gift. To feel the magicka coursing through me was— well, you know what it's like. It was breathtaking, indescribable. I had never felt so in control, so connected to something larger than myself. And when they told me that to grow stronger, I must meet the Elder Spirit, I didn't question it at all.”

Fathis’ eyes flew open as the name left her lips. "B'vehk, you don't really mean..." He trailed off, and Nim didn’t wait for him to finish before continuing. If she didn’t say it now, she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to.

“Though the women spoke kindly, they were eager, and deep down I knew I was treading the edge of something dangerous. I convinced myself that this was another name for Kynareth, but I think I knew deep down that they did not pray to the Divines. There was… a ritual. Afterward, we prayed to Mephala, that she weave power and strength into my tapestry.”

“To Mephala!” Fathis made no attempt to hide his shock. “Well, they really threw you in head first.”

“Is there another way to enter Daedra worship?”

“Yes,” Fathis said. “You can be born in Morrowind.”

“Well then of all people, I’d think It wouldn’t be so strange to you.” 

“Oh, because I’m a Dunmer?” He chuckled. “You seem to think our experiences should be the same. Have you ever been to a Dunmer temple?” Nim shook her head. “Well then don't be so common, Nimileth. Read some Dunmeri literature. There is far more to my people than the rumors you hear from these pearl-clutching Imperials."

"Is there not some whisper of truth to the most widely spread rumors?"

"Some," Fathis shrugged. "Daedra worship may not be taboo in Dunmer society, but I rarely hear anyone outside of Morrowind speak openly about their practice, even other Dunmer. This land has made them soft with their dainty little chapels of stained glass and marble. And in the rare instances where I have met a follower here in the Heartland, their worship is much different than what you see among the Ashlanders or Velothi and those who worshiped in the pre-Tribunal Temples. Pre-Tribunal, post-Tribunal....” Fathis paused, a sudden grimness oversweeping him. He sat silently in thought “By the Almsivi, that still sounds so strange to say." 

“Erm… sorry.”

He shook his head, as if to clear it. "My point being, the Daedra worshippers I’ve met in Cyrodiil are… strange. Largely unpleasant zealots or full blown cultists, no structure reminiscent of Dunmeri religion. But do tell me, how did it feel to realize you’d just joined a Daedric cult?” 

Nim stared pensively into her goblet, recalling her initiation. “In that moment I had no idea what a Mephala was, but I was sure as all hells knew it wasn’t Kynareth.”

Fathis let out a short chuckle, and suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she was a child again, standing in that unassuming cottage in the Blackwoods, dazed as if under a spell.

Then she was rushed outside, unable to control her legs, carried forward by fear and the arms of the women she’d trusted. There, beneath the moonlight, she looked down at her trembling hands and saw red, fingers coated in blood not hers. The forest surrounding her pulsed, the gloom unnaturally viscous, like oil. Through the gnarls of trees, she watched the shadows lurch, and her skin prickled beneath fine needles of terror. 

 "Welcome, my little spider," the darkness had called, taking no form, only a voice that beckoned her through the very rivers of her blood.

And the earth beneath her quaked, and the power within her rose. That night, the Cult of the Spider had welcomed her into the Web, and her life was forever changed.

“It was... exhilarating,” Nim said, and she was not proud to confess it. So much had been given to her that night. So much had been taken away.

Fathis hummed, his expression crooked and betraying the slightest hint of disappointment. “Not what I was expecting from someone who claims to be a devotee of the Nine,” he said, and to her surprise, there was a hint of reproof in his voice, as if he’d expected better from her. “I didn’t think you would be so quick to accept a deity known as 'The Mother of Dark Secrets'”

“Eh," Nim said and rocked her head side to side. "I didn't really have a choice. Besides, it's not like Mephala's sphere is all brimstone and fire. The Imperial Temple paints her as the Prince of deceit and lie and betrayal, but you know nothing is quite so simple.”

“Do I?”

“She’s the dichotomy of creation and destruction, and her web holds the harsh realities from which we turn our heads. Mephala gives voice to the horror we see but dare not speak of. She shows us how to confront the ugliness in the world from the shadow and turn weakness into strategy.”

“Right," Fathis said. “And to me, that sounds like a lot of words that equate to the very simple tactic of manipulation."

Nim shrugged and sipped her wine. “Well, think of someone like me. Young, small, alone. I can’t overtake those that would bring me harm by brute force. In Mephala’s sphere the cunning have the upper hand, and with a few whispers into the right ears, your influence can span a nation.”

“A few whispers, huh.” Fathis scrunched his nose as though smelling something foul. By his sudden sullenness, Nim was sure she’d said something to annoy him. “Mephala is the patron deity of the Morag Tong, you are aware?”

Nim rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Of course I know. But not all murder is equal. I would rather see one king assassinated than thousands of innocents sacrificed over a war waged by few who will never suffer its costs.” 

“You speak like a politician,” Fathis scoffed. “Or a Telvanni, and Telvanni values are not ones I am particularly fond of. I would know, wouldn't I, eh?"

"Her teachings are for her disciple to interpret. Through worship, we decipher her secrets."

" 'Lust is love. Lies are truth. Death is life'," Fathis said, listing off Mephala's mantra. "Those sound pretty explicit to me."

"Her sphere is one of contradictions," Nim added matter-of-factly, and Fathis tutted in disapproval. She wondered if she’d struck a nerve. 

"Mephala taught my ancestors the art of secret murder, meticulous plotting, and betrayal," he said. "My people worship her because her teachings are what our society was founded upon, but does the great Webspinner care for our greater good? No. Vivec, did but not the Daedra who anticipated him. She cares only for her own amusement."

He looked to Nim, gauging her reaction. She offered him another blasé shrug. 

"You need further proof?" he asked. "Look to the Telvanni. Our house is a battle, all against all. We study to transcend, to be the strongest, and as such we leave our weak to die. The weak among Telvanni are worse than an embarrassment. They are a burden, a scourge to the very name, and if they are stubborn and refuse to go, we send them to their death while smiling as though doing them a favor.

"Poison, cursed objects, family against family. Perhaps one might pay off a slave to kill their own masters. Perhaps one would kill off their own blood. I've seen it all, Nimileth. It's not terribly uncommon to secure a writ of execution from the Morag Tong to dispose of unfavorable members. Subterfuge ran rampant throughout our ranks. Paranoia was a healthy thing to build, perhaps the greatest ally one could have. I’ve seen the realm in which Mephala's teachings thrive. I have lived it. I have bled for it, and I left that part of me behind.”

Yes, she had definitely struck a nerve. “Look, Fathis," she said. "Maybe in Morrowind they authorize assassination in the name of Mephala, but I was only ten when I was brought into the coven. I wasn’t executing high-ranking officials. I was an orphan trying to keep myself alive, and so I did what I was told, and if I learned some valuable lessons in the process, so be it."

"Humph," he said.

Nim leaned forward and pointed an accusatory finger at his chest. "It must be easy to reflect on your cushioned life and pick and choose what’s right and wrong. Maybe you think a little deception has no place in civil society, but I doubt you’ve ever had to wonder where your next meal came from. Mephala didn’t teach me to murder. She taught me how to survive when the only thing you can rely on is the set of skills in your possession.” 

Fathis slouched back in his chair, regarding her as he brought his goblet to his lips. “It sounds like we’ve gleaned different lessons from her teachings.”

“Maybe, or maybe we just apply them differently. I don’t claim to have any better understanding of Mephala's influence than you, but I would be a fool to have spent so many years in her worship and not take a single thing from it. “

“Fair enough,” he said, looking eager to move on. “Perhaps it was small-minded of me to jump to judgement, but having seen her sphere of influence within my own government, my own family , I cannot stray from what I've been conditioned to. As a devotee of the NIne, I was certainly not expecting any defense on your behalf. Do you still consider yourself a follower?”

“I... am unsure," she said and wondered how drastically Fathis’ opinion of her had changed since they began this conversation, how it might’ve changed now that she answered. "I was with the coven for five years. It shaped me in some way. It’s only natural I’m tempted to imitate her strengths. Mephala is a seductress and she is a rogue, but those things don’t always necessitate violence. In fact, they can often be used to avoid it."

“I suppose I understand your penchant for illusion magic then. More deceit and manipulation. How fitting of her followers to teach those magics to you." 

"And you said I was common?" Nim scoffed. "Only those who don't understand the school see it as something innately immoral."

Fathis gave her a knowing look. She scowled at him half-heartedly, relieved to find more playfulness in his expression than disgust. "Do you really want to debate ethics with a Telvanni?" he asked.

"Former Telvanni."

He chuckled. "Sure. And what was your initiation like? Something exciting, I imagine?"

"Uh. Something like that."

Nim dropped her gaze into her wine, and her reflection stared back, crimson hued and smooth as glass. She promised herself she wouldn't repeat those horrors, for if she said them out loud, they would be true. Mephala would unwind the skein of her memories. She would remember again. 

It wasn't your fault, she reminded herself. You were a child. You didn't know they were going to die.

She had tainted her soul on that day. Did the Gods know how it haunted her? Did they know she hadn't wanted to do it? Did they believe that she had been forced?

Oh, but the screams. If Nim closed her eyes she could still hear them, could feel the ceremonial blade in her hand, slick and warm, dripping blood to the cottage floor in a trail of red petals. She squeezed her fist around her goblet and remembered that day, when she’d squeezed the dagger so hard its daedric runes engraved themselves into her soft, pliant flesh. Like a brand.

She hadn't wanted to do it. It wasn't supposed to be that way.

Nim stared into the wine glass, and in her skull, laughter rose like a tempest, brewing in the mouth of her memory, full-throated and cruel. It crashed against her, and at her ear she heard that silken voice calling from the darkness, urging her onward, as gentle and barely there as a coiling tendril of smoke.

"What a horrifying tapestry you weave, my little spider." 

And she was moving, just a child, more fear in her heart than blood. At the altar— a body bound in ropes. Writhing. Squirming. She stilled him with a touch.

"Don't move now, it's okay," she’d. "This will all be over soon." And they had told her it wouldn't hurt him. But the screams. The screams.

"Each thread tugs the other," Mephala cooed at her ear, and from that day onward she would be the mother of her secrets, her hidden shame." Such delightful tension."

A rasping breath. Pleading. Whimpering. More begging. Three pairs of hands guided her forward…

And then the blood. Blossoming beneath the blade, a redwort come unfurled. Syrupy scarlet on her fingers and the taste of copper on her tongue. Fire laced her veins. The power consumed her. From deep within, a hunger like she’d never known before... 

Nim blinked and found the reflection in her wine goblet staring up at her, wide-eyed. When she raised her eyes, Fathis was staring at her with a look of confusion that bordered on concern. 

"We slaughtered a lamb," she said. "Painted runes on our bodies. Prayed at midnight. That sort of thing."

Nim wished she hadn't unearthed that. She bore out another hole in her mind, kicked those memories down into it. Down, down, down they fell until she could no longer see their ugly, black edges, then she shoveled the dirt. Mephala did not harbor her guilt anymore. When she abandoned her worship, she was left to shoulder her own burdens. Nim had since learned how to dig her own graves. 

"It's behind me," she said. "I was young. I didn't know any better." And she added a faint little grin, hoping to lighten the mood, for if she didn't she might fall back into her wine glass and see the things she thought she had buried. "We made an honest living as alchemists when we weren’t harvesting souls for our Prince. Truly, murder and sacrifice were few and far between.”

Fathis opened his mouth, ready to object. Pausing, he wagged a finger, his smile toothy. “Ah, you’re joking with me, aren’t you? About the sacrifice and what not?”

“Let’s not ask questions we don’t want the answers to.”

“Um, okay.” Fathis nodded demurely, unconvinced but silent. He cleared his throat, readjusted his seat. “I figure it couldn't be worse than anything I've done with the Telvanni anyway. Anything for knowledge, no matter how iconoclastic, profane, or unconventional."

"Glad to know I'm in good company."

Fathis’ face wrinkled, chagrined. "Let’s continue on then."

"Let's."

"When did you leave the coven? I assume you have left the coven."

“Well, I didn't really leave," Nim admitted. Fathis raised his brows. "As time went on, the local villages became suspicious. We denied that we were Daedra worshippers, but you know… the rumors spread. If someone fell ill, they blamed it on the witches in the woods. If a crop failed, they said it was blighted by an evil eye. They turned to our coven when husbands cheated and children rebelled. ' Mephala forced me !' they'd say. ' The witches cursed us !' And we weren't perfect or even good people by any means. Sometimes it was true. 

"During this time, Olette, the eldest sister, fell sick. Our cabin was in the Blackwoods, east of Leyawiin, several hours walk away. They would send me into town to restock supplies we couldn’t grow on our own. We needed bloodgrass for the treatment, and the only hope of acquiring some was from the alchemists at the Mages Guild in Leyawiin. I'd arrive in town, spend the night, leave come sun up. As the illness grew, I'd visit more frequently. One day, I came home and found our cottage was up in flames."

"The villagers?" 

"They burned us to the ground," she said. "I sold them out."

Fathis sputtered on his wine. "You what? "

Nim’s cheeks flushed. "As I said Fathis, we weren't good people. My sisters did meddle in those villagers’ lives. Not all the rumors were true, but not all were false. We did terrible things to people, and I- I didn't want to spend the rest of my life like that." She buried herself deeper in the furs, pulling them around her, concealing herself from his wide, red-within-red eyes. It grew hot in there with her shame and the heat of the wine in her blood, but she did not dare peel them away, and sometimes she wondered if she should have burned with them. "I told the villagers what we were. I told them what we had done. I lied, I told them they’d kidnapped me. I was scared of becoming like them, spending the rest of my days spilling blood and ruining lives for a Daedra that only made me sicker."

Fathis was silent, silent for a long while. So silent it began to sting.

Please say something, Nim thought, and when he did, she struggled to swallow back her sigh of relief.

"Well, I bet Mephala got a real kick out of that." He let out a low whistle and refilled his glass. "I bet not even she foresaw such a turn of events."

"Maybe," Nim said meekly. "I wonder if I amused or angered her more."

"If you angered her so terribly, I imagine we might not be having this conversation."

"I wonder about that. Perhaps she's still coming for me.”

“Doubtful,” Fathis said with a snort. “No offense, Nimileth, but I think a Daedric Prince has more important things on her mind than where one stray follower wandered off to. Besides, you escaped because of the lessons she taught you. Let's assume you made her proud. And then what happened?"

"And then I was once more alone,” Nim said. “I returned to the only other place I knew, the streets of Leyawiin. It was a pretty city on the surface, but as soon as you crossed into the wrong neighborhood, you were forced to see it for the ulcerous sump it was. Do you know what it’s like to live in a place where those in power openly detested half of its citizenry?”

“Oh, do I ever,” Fathis said.

“Oh. Right. Well, it was riddled with crime, poverty, and hopelessness. A festering cesspool ripe for the skooma trade."

“That doesn’t sound so different from how Leyawiin is presently,” he noted.

“You’re right. Leyawiin was just as soggy then as it is now, and  the Count is still a useless horker and the Countess is still a bitch.”

"Oh. Strong feelings then, I see."

"I spent too much time in Leyawiin," Nim sighed ruefully. "Saw a lot of things I probably shouldn't have. I grew up fast. Things really changed for me there. I met someone who—" She paused. How to go on? How to put him into words?

Fathis leaned in eagerly. "You met someone who what?"

"Uh, there was this person..." She stalled again. How could she explain him in a way that would do justice? Too many words in the Cyrodiilic language and still not enough. She started over. "It was then that I met—"

Fathis groaned, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Don’t tell me it was because of a man,” he said and shook his head, unabashed in his displeasure. “How anticlimactic.”

Feigning indignation, she rolled her eyes.  “Well, I was young and pubescent. I hadn’t had any social interaction with children my age since I left Kvatch and didn’t know the first thing about controlling my impulses. I fell in love with the first handsome scoundrel that would give me the time of day, J’rasha. He was a skooma runner for the Renrijra Krin, but hells, I think the danger made him all the more alluring.”

"Renrijra Krin?" Fathis raised his brows in high arches. “J’rasha?”

“What? I might not have the best taste in character but if you saw him— phew! Eyes like tourmaline and hair as gold as Magnus at its zenith. He was a real sight for sore eyes.”

“A Khajiit?”

“Do remember that you’re in Cyrodiil now, Fathis. Try to be more progressive.” 

“Alright, I was just— never mind." He held up his hands in defeat. "Tell me more about this Khajiit of yours then.”

"Stendarr, I didn't own the man. This isn't Morrowind. Goodness gracious."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Nim smirked. "J'rasha was... well, he was a trouble-maker. A thief, a swindler. Handsome and charming and he knew it. That type. He was part of this operation that ran out of the east side of town. Cut-throats but with good intentions. Sometimes. I mean, in the grand scheme of things. They're probably all dead by now, and I'll admit he was a terrible influence on me.”

“And Mephala was not?” 

“Are you going to bring this up again?” she asked and when Fathis shook his head, she moved on. “We made a life together. It wasn’t much, but I wanted to have what he had. Money sure, but it was the freedom that drew me in. Falling into his way of life was easy. He had family in town, an aunt, two cousins, and a younger sister who all lived together. We stayed with them sometimes and bounced around other houses, staying wherever there was an empty bed that night.

"And then he showed me how to really live, how to get up when everyone keeps beating you down. I kept watch when he ran heists. He taught me how to pick a lock, how to tread lightly to avoid making sound, how to take back what you want when others kept taking from you. I was decent with numbers so I balanced the books for his skooma operation. I learned how to brew it too. I learned how to brew it well."

"Are you bragging about how potent your skooma was?" Fathis’ lips curled, a repulsed sneer. He looked vaguely ill. "That stuff is destructive, deadly even when not consumed in fatal doses."

"What can I say, I've always had a penchant for alchemy."

"I imagine your product made its way north too. Perhaps we have you to blame for the sudden spike in addicts roaming the streets of Bravil."

"Oh, I can't take credit for that," Nim said and quickly shook her head. "I'm certain it's not my recipe they're swilling down these days. Skooma brewers don't stay in the business for very long, whether they'd like to or not. Means the recipe changes all the time."

"You know a lot about it, don't you?"

Nim nodded. "Renrijra Krin thugs, as I said."

"Did you ever sell it?"

She looked away, scratched at the back of her head. She hadn't spoken this candidly with anyone for a long time, perhaps ever. "Sometimes," she confessed. "If we were low on men or had to move stock quickly. I knew a few charm spells. I could bring in extra gold if I spoke the right kinds of words. J'rasha said I was good at selling because I was pretty, but he didn't know the truth. I'm far more proficient in illusion magic than I am at the art of persuasion."

"Doubtful," Fathis said, "Magic can only lift so much weight. Illusion and charisma go hand in hand. They feed off each other, and I imagine a strong will plays its role in successfully manipulating someone sans arcane interference."

"Well, I don't know about charisma, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't good with my illusion. I was hesitant at first. I... I'm not a monster. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was also earning my own keep. For the first time in my life, I wasn't depending on anyone else to take care of me. And J'rasha was supportive of it. That man, he truly did have a way with words."

“A true gentleman,” Fathis said. “Getting you safe, secure employment. Putting a stable roof over your head. I can only wonder how a monotonous, dreary man such as myself might hold up in comparison.” 

“Well, you do have a much finer taste in wine," Nim admitted, "but considering I haven’t learned a single drop of conjuration from you, I’d say your skills as an instructor pale in comparison."

Fathis took the critique with a gracious shrug. "Okay, that’s fair."

"J’rasha taught me to fight too," she continued. "I was decent enough with a bow, but he taught me how to wield a blade."

"Skooma distillation. Daedric magic. B'vehk, next you'll be telling me that you know how to wield a claymore."

"Nothing like that. Just small blades. J'rasha, he was very skilled in the most intimate forms of combat.”

“Intimate, eh?”

“I mean he was a Khajiit, natural prowess in close-quarters."

“Is that a euphemism for—”

“No.” She reached out with the corner of the bear pelt, slapped it playfully across his arm. “I was talking about short-blades and daggers. He taught me how to wield a dagger.”

“See, when you say it like that my mind still wanders, and I can still interpret it quite licentiously.”

“Oh, no. On the contrary, he was very well endowed.”

“And is it true what they say about Khajiiti men and their… their barbs?”

“Why yes it is, you dirty old man,” she said matter-of-factly. “I thought you would know this already, being the curious Telvanni wizard that you are. What was it you said? Anything for knowledge. Don’t believe me, go investigate yourself.”

Fathis let out a raucous laugh. Nim joined in on the tail-end and concluded that she was indeed drunk. Gods, how could she have told him all that, and why was she suddenly so relieved to have done so? At least the leftover tension from their earlier conversation had dissipated. She didn’t like Fathis nearly as much when he was so serious. It was intimidating, made her feel small and... and bad.

“Ah, but it wasn’t enough to keep you around," Fathis said, waving a finger in the air. "I’m guessing the romance fizzled out.”

“Not exactly. Neither of us had a choice in how it ended.” 

“Skooma trade caught up with the two of you?”

“No, the Countess did.”

“The Countess? Alessia Caro?”

“The Countess—” Nim bit her tongue to keep from hissing, spitting, from rattling off how she truly felt about that woman. “The Countess was and is to this day a staunch bigot who values only the Imperial-centered way of life. She favored a barbaric agenda that persecuted her own people. Have you heard?”

Fathis nodded. “Leyawiin has been in a state of transition since the Empire acquired land from Elsweyer. There are many upset parties, and rightfully so.”

“‘Acquired,’” Nim repeated with a scoff. “Confiscated, you mean.”

“Well." Fathis cocked his head to the side, "the Mane settled the deal with Count Caro. It was a legal agreement.”

“And murder is a legal agreement when done by the Morag Tong.”

“Hey, I thought we agreed not to bring this up.”

“You must understand why those two things are different. The land that Count Caro purchased was forcibly cleared of its inhabitants, people who had been living there for years, all their lives. Many fled eastward to Leyawiin. What choice did they have? But according to Alessia Caro, that brought far too many 'beasts' into the city, and everyone knows it’s the Khajiit and Argonians who bring the crime. As if the skooma trade hadn’t always been there. As if the people of Leyawiin weren't living in squalor before. She was inhuman, the Countess, the way she treated those people, instructing the guards to arrest first and question later. J’rasha, he was among those who were caught.”

Fathis looked questioning. “You did admit he was a skooma runner for the Renrijra Krin. Guards often question suspicious people in suspicious places.”

“Oh, the Skooma trade is a symptom of a larger disease," she said. "The Renrijra are trying to give back to the people. They're trying to take what was stolen from them. You don’t think J’rasha would have preferred a safer, more legitimate livelihood? He was orphaned at seven. The only family left to take him in were dirt-poor, their land stripped away by the Empire. How are you supposed to make a living on swamp water and cypress knees? You scrape by to feed your baby sister. You sell your body to put clothes on your child’s back. You take any job that pays, even if it puts your own life at risk. J’rasha was born suffering. He didn't know any other way of life. He did what he knew how and he did what he did well. Everyone, they're simply trying to survive. 

"And that’s not the worst of it. The Countess wasn’t just arresting criminals, she was arresting the innocent as well. Beggars, the impoverished, new immigrants. Anyone with no voice who was powerless against her. And it’s so much worse than just that, Fathis. There’s a chamber in the castle. It’s only accessible if you know where to look. There’s a chamber where the Countess takes her prisoners to interrogate them. For what information, who can be sure, but the people that enter never leave.”

Fathis recoiled. “What are you talking about?”

“I think I was quite obvious.”

“Are you really claiming that the Count and Countess are torturing their own townspeople, that they’re murdering them?”

“Of course that’s what I am saying. You’ve admitted to what the Telvanni do.”

“Yes, but that’s Morrowind. That’s the Telvanni.”

“And is it really so unbelievable that cruelty can exist beyond them too?”

Fathis wrinkled his brow in thought. “Well, I’d prefer to think it doesn’t,” he said. “Look, Nimileth, I’ve lived in Morrowind most of my life. I know that racism is alive and well, not just in my homeland. Throughout Tamriel. But the Count of Leyawiin torturing innocent civilians without reason?” Fathis shook his head. “It’s improbable that they’d risk such a scandal if nothing else.”

“A risk!” she chortled. “How could it be a risk if they never face any consequences? Would you believe me if I told you I saw it with my own eyes?”

"You what?"

“I did.”

Oh no. Why did you say that? Why did you choose to relive this again? Nim regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. Tonight, all wounds came reopened, wounds she’d thought had scarred over, healed. They stung now. Stung something fierce.

“Our den was busted," she said, and a lump formed in the back of her throat, growing larger. "I got sloppy one day. I was selling to a new customer and didn't vet them well enough. Turned out she was an informant for the city guard. They came and raided us, took only the Khajiit. They didn't touch any of the humans, not even the elves. Alessia Caro says she and her husband are trying to bring the iron fist to the crime and banditery? It's all a front. They want to rid Leyawiin of the people who have lived there and limped there all their lives. J'rasha was supposed to have a trial, but when the day came, he never showed. He went missing. No one could tell me where he was and the guard pretended he didn't exist. I set out to find him myself."

"I'm sorry," Fathis said. "You don't need to—"

"I had heard the rumors about the castle, the room” she said, her lips thoroughly loosened, and despair really was quite an intoxicant in itself. Here she found herself wallowing in it, drowned in it. “I went looking for it and found a hidden passageway in the basement. The room it led to— it was everything the rumors said and somehow so much worse.

“The smell hit me first. Sickly-sweet. The smell of decay. It had been brewing for days, and the blood… the smell was so strong I could taste it in my mouth before I even reached the door. When I entered, I found six bodies. Some were hung to the walls in chains, some were strewn across the floor. One was…” NIm paused, her voice cracking, returning even more thin and watery, " … just a child. An argonian boy younger than me, and his mother was right there next to him. Fathis, if you saw it-  Gods her face, her—”

Grimacing, Nim screwed her eyes shut. Her breath shuddered in her lungs. A familiar burning flared behind her eyes. She choked it back. “J’rasha was there," she said slowly. "They’d been pulling out his claws one by one. He was cut all over, missing toes, missing teeth. It wasn’t swift. He must have been in agony for hours before Arkay reclaimed him.”

Fathis stirred in his seat, looking at a loss for words. Words did nothing to bring J’rasha back now. Words did nothing to bring justice to his murderers.  “Nimileth, I’m sorry,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulders. “I didn’t know.” 

“Yes, he was a Skooma runner, but he was also a brother who wanted nothing more than to take his sister away from all the chaos. He was a caring nephew who loved his family. After mass every Sundas, he cooked for them. He was a good cook too. Nothing made them happier than to see them all together at the table. J’rasha taught me more than the unsavory skills of thieves and bandits. This world wronged him, and he still tried to find the good in it. He still laughed and he still smiled. He taught me how to love.

"Anyway, I asked around after that. Always the same story. People disappear into the castle and never return. They say Alessia Caro does it out of pleasure. She enjoys it, Fathis. She hurts those people for fun. I couldn’t stand to stay in that city any longer after what I’d found. The guards were in on it, I couldn’t tell anyone. His family blamed me, at least partially. They knew what business we were in, and even if they said they didn’t,  they never looked at me the same after J’rasha was gone. To be fair, I couldn’t either. The thought of telling them what I saw in the castle left me physically ill. 

“So, I was alone again. By that time, I had a little money saved. Some I earned, some from J’rasha, enough to get far away. I stole a horse from the stable and rode it north for the City. My mistake. I don’t know anything about horses. It was obvious she wasn’t mine. Some richy-rich’s horse too, just my luck. By the time I reached the Capital, the Watch already knew to look for me, and when I couldn’t pay the fine, they threw me in prison.”

“Ah, I didn’t realize I was speaking to a convict. And you were still granted admission to the Arcane University with a prison record?”

“Well, I don’t actually have a prison record,” Nim said, "I was thrown in on the night that Uriel Septim died. He fled the City through my cell. Let’s say things got chaotic.”

Fathis face twisted, and he blinked quietly as if anticipating the rest of a joke. “You’re kidding right? You saw the Emperor on his last night?"

“I saw him die,” she said. 

Fathis digested this in silence.

Soft rain pattered the mezzanine outside the door and somewhere far beyond the walls of the stone fortress, the wind whispered gently through bare trees. Nim sat cloaked in the stillness of the room, blood-smeared images racing through her mind. Her arrest, the long humiliating stroll to the prison in cuffs. The strip search, the grasping hands too forceful and prying to be professional. Standing frozen above the Emperor, the light in his eyes waning, his smile unfurling. The blood spilling from his mouth—

 Floating to the surface, Nim saw the Amulet of Kings. It now lay stashed under the floorboards of Methredhel's shack, and she was forced to recall the broken promises she had made to him that night, how she had failed him, let him die. You coward—

"Nimileth, I've got to say, I find all of this incredibly unbelievable." Speechless, Nim turned to him with a blank stare. “Either way, it’s been incredibly entertaining, and you know what? If it’s a lie, I don't even care.”

“W-what?”

“That was by far the most absurd tale I've heard in… mmm, half a century." He downed the rest of the wine in his glass and promptly poured another. He motioned to Nim for a refill. Perplexed, she accepted.  “If what you say is true, the Gods certainly are smiling on you.  I guess you really are as lucky as you’d like to believe. And so what then, you repented, joined the guild?”

“Uh, yeah,” Nim said. “And now I’m here.”

"And now you are here."

"You really don't believe me?"

“Oh, you’re a sneaky little minx, you. I believe it. I don’t doubt that you’ve spared some details, rearranged your truth. But I believe you.”

“Umm. Good, because for once I’d actually told the truth.”

“Of course you did,” Fathis grinned. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to know about this Necromancer business then?”

Nim nodded. “That’s assuming you indeed know anything about them.”

“Hah,” he said dryly. “I may be out of touch with the current state of the weather in Cyrodiil, but necromancy stretches far back in Morrowind’s history. The Telvanni are exceptional at it. While still a part of the house, I saw a great many unspeakable things.” Fathis walked across the room to one of the cabinets against the wall and bent down to pull out the bottom drawer. Nim watched curiously as he rifled through the drawer, pulling out books, scrolls, and soul gems. “Here.” He returned with a thick leather-bound tome and placed it on the table between their chairs. “I don’t know if it will be of much use to you. I borrowed it from a cousin of mine. Who knows where he acquired it. It documents the creation of black soul gems, ones powerful enough to trap the souls of greater mortal beings.”

Nim picked it up and wiped the dust from the spine. Necromancer’s Moon , it read. Leafing through its pages, she found detailed illustrations of the ritual preparations, runes, and spell geometries necessary to raise the dead.

The God of Worms watches over our Order, read the inscription on the inside of the cover. He will deliver us from these troubled times on the Day of Reckoning. Goosebumps travelled up her arms. 

“Thank you, Fathis. I’m sure this will be useful to my research, but…” she took a shallow breath, wondered how to tactfully frame her question. “Why do you have this exactly?”

“Uh, listen, Nimileth.” Fathis shifted. He  looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable standing in front of her. “I practiced, briefly. Not all necromancy is evil in nature. It’s certainly not for the faint of heart, but some might describe it as a form of restoration. Posthumous, sure, but it has aided the discovery of cures to countless diseases. For centuries, it’s been used to understand the anatomy and the mechanics of the body. In some parts of the world it’s a method of divination, used to communicate with loved ones and familiars from the past. Traven may be right to ban it, but that doesn’t mean it’s never had value. Does that make sense? I am not a necromancer, but I’ve practiced. I learned a fair bit in my time."

"It makes sense," Nim said. "Anything for knowledge, as you said."

“Yes, said. Past tense.” Fathis scratched his head. "I'm not particularly proud to admit it. I come from a line of wizards that have survived for centuries all because of one founding principle— Our research, our ambitions come before all else. It is the Telvanni way. Success above everything. Though I never sought to master necromancy, I was exposed to it, and  I tried to understand. I was urged to learn how it could be done. Personally, I found the practice vile, yet it was a long established convention, and the people I was acquainted with didn’t understand my revulsion as much as I didn’t understand how they could be so customary.”

Nim nodded her head. “Well, it would be foolish to spend so many years with the Telvanni and not learn anything from them.”

“Indeed,” he said. “And I hope you understand the need for discretion.”

"Absolutely. Discretion is my middle name.”

Nim smiled dumbly, drunk as she was. Standing to her feet, the bear pelt draping behind her, she shuffled to the door and peered out into the courtyard of the fortress. The sky was dark now. Thick clouds shielded the light of the twin moons, and the rain poured heavily, blurring the night into an indigo haze. 

A crack of thunder split its steady drone, the preceding lightning too far away to even see. “Damn, storm’s only getting worse,” Nim said. And it was getting late. All she’d done was talk and talk. She hadn’t even acquired what she’d come for. 

“I suppose you would like to be heading back now,” Fathis said, and he sighed, somewhat reluctant. "You know, it's not often that I have guests these days. Even boring guests."

Nim whipped her head around. "Was I boring?"

"No,” he laughed. “Far from it. Shall I walk you back to the castle?"

“Well, not before I finish this wine.” Nim scurried back to the table and split the remaining wine in the bottle between their goblets. She handed one to Fathis, brought hers to meet it with a soft clink .

“You could stay a bit longer," he said. I have plenty more to drink."

"Hmm. Tempting. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it back to the guild hall if I drink anymore,” she said, shaking her head and indeed continuing to drink more.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“You’re a filthy old fetcher, Fathis Aren,” she laughed. “Tell me, is that why you’ve brought me all this way from the castle? Was that your ploy all along?”

“Honest?” He paused. “No, but perhaps it should have been. If only you were a century older. I may be Telvanni by blood, but I'm not a lecher.”

“Tsk tsk,” she tutted, casting a long glance at him up and down. "You're lucky you're handsome otherwise I'd be calling you a creep." 

“How fortunate for me. Don’t forget that I’m also incredibly intelligent and incredibly wealthy, and my success makes me all the more appealing."

"Yes, and humble too," she said. “You know, you look like just the kind of man who would break my heart.”

“Oh, I think it’s quite the opposite, Nimileth. I also think I;m quite drunk. Forgive me.” He finished his wine and removed the bear pelt from her shoulders.. “Come then. Allow me to escort you back to the castle.”

“Fathis,” she said before he could pull away completely. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“S'come to my knowledge that you’ve acquired a unique Ayleid artifact, an arrow to be precise.”  

“And how would you know about that?” 

“How does any collector find out about what they want?" She shrugged. "I asked around.”

Fathis frowned. “Umbacano told me it would be anonymous. Dirty n’wah. How typical of him.”

“Oh, don’t look so sullen. I’m not surprised he’d be willing to sell it.”

“Hmm, why’s that?”

“There are distinct breeds of collectors," she said. "There’s people like my date, Lazare Milvan, who pay top gold for pretty trinkets to keep in their trophy cases. People like Umbacano, extremely knowledgeable, eccentric, a bit obsessed with his possessions. And then there are people like us.”

Fathis indulged her. "And how do you define ‘ people like us ?’”

“People who keep taxidermied two-eyed mountain trolls as the centerpiece of their study,” she said, pointing at the abomination on his desk. “So basically, um, I’m asking that you consider parting with that arrow.”

“Hah!” Fathis snorted. “You have some nerve coming in here and making such demands.”

“I need it for my research. I think I’m onto something.”

“Onto what? Onto swindling me out of all my possessions?”

Free lessons, free wine— if I leave with an Ayleid relic, I’d say that’s a pretty good day for me.”

“You’re lucky I’m drunk, or I might be more offended that you think me so easy.” Fathis walked across the room and knelt beside a chest. He waved his hand over it, unlocking it with a quiet mutter of a spell, and when he returned to Nim, he held a small black arrow-head in his hand.

“You know you’re a little sleazy,” he said. “But very beguiling. Odd that I find myself respecting it.”

A flood of relief washed over her as he offered the  arrow head to her. “You’re alright too. For a dirty, old Telvanni wizard.”

“Well let’s go before you ask for anything else then.” With a grin, he picked up his copy of Necromancer’s Moon and offered her his arm. Accepting, Nim followed as he led her out into the courtyard and down the spiral stairs. 

Could the evening have gone smoother? Of course, but Nim was oddly content. She’d achieved what she’d come for and more, met a very interesting man in the process. How was it that Fathis could be so blase about all she’d disclosed? Product of his upbringing? She supposed it helped that his past was not entirely spotless either. 

She glanced up at him and giggled. Truly a lovely evening. Or maybe that was just the wine speaking. In the morning, she might feel more guilt for taking advantage of him as she had. 

“So tell me, Nimileth,” he said, “why did you really come to visit me?”

“Honest?” Nim waved the arrowhead back and forth. “I only came for this.”

Fathis roared and carried onward. Nim laughed too, feeling triumphant and full of wonder, and maybe it wasn’t so bad, this life she lived. Maybe there were people out there who could look at her in her darkness and still find something worthy to befriend. 

Buoyant in her mirth, she travelled down the grotto, babbling on about the Orrery, insisting Fathis must come up to visit it. He gladly agreed, and she was happy, stupidly drunk, closer than she’d remembered ever being to a stranger before. 

“Write to me sometime, will you?” she asked when at last they stood before the castle doors. 

“Of course,” he said, patting her shoulder gently. She stood to her toes, kissed him on the cheek, and he flushed purple, his smile blindingly bright. “Get back to the Guild hall safely.” 

And as he watched her disappear into the driving rain, Fathis couldn’t quite shake the nagging suspicion that somehow he’d just been conned.

Chapter 11: Rumors and Hastily Scrawled Notes

Summary:

Nim makes a suggestion to Raminus regarding her findings from the Necromancer's Moon

Chapter 11: Rumors and Hastily Scrawled Notes

Nim awoke in her bed to a raspy hand shaking her into consciousness. Eyes flying open and heart leaping into her throat, she was halfway to weaving a paralyzing hex before she met Amusei’s red-scaled face peering down at her through the dark of the inn room.

“Stendarr’s balls!” Nim cried, prying his hand off her shoulder. “Stop breaking into my room in the middle of the night! Why can’t you wait until morning like a sane person?”

Amusei cocked his head, genuinely confused, as if these witching-hour visits were perfectly polite. “What do you mean? The Gray Fox says it’s urgent.”

“Of course he does. Mudcrab-fondling son-of-a-guar has nothing better to do than call on me in the dead of night. How did you even know I would be here? I’m usually at the University on Turdas.”

“Asked around. The beggars are always watching you. They say you study here sometimes.”

“Well,” Nim said and hiked the blankets up higher. “That’s not unsettling at all.”

“You’re to meet him at Ganredhel’s house in Cheydinhal.”

“He can never come to me, can he?” Amusei shrugged, and Nim sat up to rub the sleep from eyes. “Yeah okay. Let him know I’ll see to it then.” 

“And are we still up for drinks on Tirdas?” Amusei asked, backing off the bed. “You've been missing the last few times Methredhel and I have gone. Very rude.”

"University stuff. You know.”

“It’s tradition.”

“I'll be there."

“You said that last week.”

“Well, I mean it this time.”

"Good, because you owe me a round.”

Nim snorted. "What? Since when?"

"Since you spilled my drink all over me two weeks ago. Not once, I should say, but twice." Nim blushed, overcome with a hazy memory of tripping over a chair and several of the Bloated Float’s patrons. Amusei chuckled impishly. "Did you forget?"

"Was that me?" she mumbled weakly. "I could've sworn it was—"

"You were wasted, weren't you? Blessed Sanguine, and I thought Methredhel was the light weight. It's all that studying and that prancing around with the floozy mages. It's making you soft, isn't it?" 

"Oh, piss on a mudcrab," she snapped back. "Not all of us are gifted with an innate resistance to alcohol. You drink it like a fish drinks water, bloody Argonian."

"Well this bloody Argonian is still owed a round, and I better be getting it from you on Tirdas."

"Or else what?"

Amusei flashed a smile full of pointy, white teeth. "Or else I'll bang pots and pans inside your room when you're trying to study, and you know I'm good on my threats."

"Amusei, no!" she whined, for she knew all too well that if he said it, he'd follow through. "Don't do it! I have exams!"

"Then come to the Bloated Float with us on Tirdas, and you won't have to worry.” 

"Fine! Fine, I'll be there on Tirdas, I promise."

Amusei snickered, quite satisfied with himself, and Nim shot him a withering look that only served to amuse him further. "Until then. Shadow hide you, my featherweight friend. Try not to dream of me when you go back to sleep.” 

Nim stuck out her tongue, but his back was already turned as he made to leave. To get her message across, she threw her pillow at him, but Amusei was too quick and swiftly slipped through the door and shut it behind him. The pillow slammed against it with a thump.

Sighing, Nim mourned her lost sleep and stood to her feet to get dressed. Though she was happy that Amusei was well-paid for his efforts, she thought he took his job as the Gray Fox’s personal messenger a little too seriously.

No use keeping the old coot waiting , she decided and packed her bag. She’d spent the evening doing her research here at the inn and away from the prying eyes at the University. Being caught with a book titled Necromancers Moon would look awfully bad for her at a time like this.

But wary eyes were not the only reason Nim had for seeking privacy. A day after she’d arrived back from Bravil, she’d learned of a ghastly rumor spreading among the other first-years.

‘Nimileth and the Bravil court wizard, have you heard? They’ve been having an affair.’

‘Who?’

‘Nimileth, that Bosmeri illusionist.’

‘Ah, you don’t suppose that’s how she rose in rank so swiftly. A court wizard must have some influence. I heard he belonged to House Telvanni too.’

‘Maybe. I wouldn’t be surprised if so. Have you seen her mysticism? Her wards are quite atrocious…’

Apparently, someone in Bravil had a very big mouth, and whispers of a late night in Fathis Aren’s tower turned into rumors of a lovers tryst. As Fathis had mentioned, rumors had a tendency to compound on their journey down to Bravil, and Nim quickly learned they became equally as twisted on their way up to the Arcane University. Nim had narrowly missed Bothiel as she ran from campus, but the gossip would reach Bothiel eventually. It always did, and she would inevitably flood her with a flurry of meddling questions. That woman sure loved to talk.

Even worse, however, was the thought of running into Raminus. He would be too polite to say anything, but what would he think of her then? She’d told him she was visiting for lessons in conjuration not lessons in… other things. Would he be disappointed, think her unprofessional? Would he look at her differently in light of such a trivial scandal? And how did she want him to look at her, she wondered?

By Dibella. He is your superior, and you are utterly hopeless.

Nim had already admitted to herself that she harbored a girlish infatuation with Raminus, but she’d thought, in truth, that by now such an idle fantasy would have sputtered out like the dying, forlorn flame it was. Yet here she stood, thinking about him alone in the night, his vibrant eyes, his silvery voice, the blush creeping to his cheeks whenever she drew too near...

Perhaps it wasn't such a fantasy. She’d seen him looking at her too. Perhaps there was something of a mutual attraction, interest that extended beyond his concern for her safety. What if she just… asked him? Would that be unprofessional? Nim entertained the thought for far longer than was wise.

Get a grip, woman!

Pining and in denial, Nim threw on her pack and focused instead on the Gray Fox’s orders. She left the inn, her thoughts scattered like the rats scurrying in the predawn dark of the city streets.

---

Nim left Ganredhel's house and headed to the Newland's Lodge across town. Boots. The guildmaster had asked her to retrieve a pair of boots . A dead thief’s boots, no less— what was his deal? Scrying stones, arrow heads, enchanted footwear? Who did he think he was, a prophetic archer? 

When Nim had delivered the arrowhead to the Gray Fox, he’d had the gall to be disappointed. “ Where’s the shaft?” he’d asked and had been less than enthusiastic when she’d suggested he use his own. Nim kept the conversation short afterwards, answering with nods and grunts as if she were some species of mountain troll. Fortunately, Ganredhel had two dogs, and Nim had spent much of the meeting wrestling them to distract herself. It kept her calm, mostly because she’d decided to pay little attention to what the Gray Fox was saying, and still it might have been their most productive meeting yet.  

Sipping a beer in the tavern, Nim waited for Deetsan. They’d made plans to meet for dinner when Nim stopped by the guild hall to say hello and ask how she was handling the new weight of leadership. Nim didn't often visit the Cheydinhal chapter, as it was not a place she regarded fondly. The first time she’d been there to ask for a recommendation, Falcar had nearly drowned her and it didn't help that every time she passed the well right beside the building, Vidkun's lifeless, bloated body floated to the surface of her memory. So too did she remember the burden of Falcar's ring draagging her down, the water rushing into her lungs, the fear constricting around her throat…

Yes, understandably, that place was a bit too much to bear at times, and with her old abrasions still scabbing over from her chat with Fathis, she decided not to reopen any more wounds today.

That didn't mean, however, that she’d miss the chance to speak with Deetsan. Nim had questions that only she might answer, questions about Falcar that had bubbled up to the fore of her mind ever since she cracked open Necromancer’s Moon. "So I've been doing a little investigation for the Council," Nim said halfway through dessert.

 Deetsan raised a forkful of lemon pie before her lips and leaned in eagerly. "About?”

"Necromancer stuff. Have your ever heard Falcar mention ‘ the shade of the revenant?'"

"Hmm," Deetsan hummed. "Maybe. What is it?”

“Well, remember how I found black soul gems in his room? I think there’s a special ritual to make them. I think Falcar was trying, or perhaps had succeeded, in creating his own.”

“The shade of the revenant,” Deetsan repeated.

“It’s some sort of celestial phenomenon.”

“Ah, not that you mention it, I do recall him taking a trip down to the University to speak with Bothiel about some planetary conjunction. At least I think that’s what he’d said. Bothiel would know better. She's the astronomer. Anyway, he said it was for his research, and he returned with a rather large sheaf of notes. I think they’re still in the basement with the rest of his things. Perhaps I could look for them tonight and bring them over to you in the morning."

"Oh, Deetsan, you're a gem!" Nim beamed, and fortunately for the both of them, the rest of their conversation was refreshingly necromancer free.

---

After the morning temple service, Nim strolled onto campus and found it empty, as was typical for the weekend. Heading for the Arch-mage’s tower, the paths were quiet save the rustle of fresh green leaves in the beech trees that decorated the courtyard. No glares from her peers. No whispered rumors. Sighing with relief, she entered the lobby. 

Nim waved to Bothiel who caught her eye from across the room where she stood in a circle of other mages, chatting idly. She scurried over to Nim at once. 

"Hey,” Nim said. “Is Raminus around?”

Bothiel grabbed her firmly by the wrist. “Is it true?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement and her mouth split into a large toothy grin. 

Nim pulled away, startled by her fervor. “What do you mean?” she asked, feigning ignorance. Casting a cautious glance around the room, she became quite aware of the perked ears of the other mages, now chatting more quietly than before.

“Ah, you sly fox. Don’t think you can pull one over my eyes.” Saying nothing more, Bothiel led Nim back into the courtyard and sat her down on the stone wall of the central walkway. A group of senior scholars walked past, headed out into the city for brunch. Nim tried very hard not to meet their eyes. “Fathis Aren,” Bothiel said. “Are the rumors true?”

Fire rose to Nim’s face. “By the Nine, Bothiel. I can’t believe you even have to ask. You think I’m out there throwing myself at older mages? I told you I was visiting for Conjuration lessons.”

“And wxactly what were you conjuring up?” Bothiel pursed her lips, attempting to conceal a cruel snicker. 

”Ugh. I thought University mages would have more important things to concern themselves with.”

“Don’t look so sullen,” Bothiel teased. ”A young, talented mage. A dashingly handsome and powerful wizard. It’s not that hard to believe. I’m sure many have entertained similar fantasies before.”

"Oh, don't make me retch. It wasn’t like that. We spent an evening together, so what? All we did was talk and drink wine. I enjoyed his company.” Bothiel's lips curled devilishly. “Not like that, I said!”

“Well, either way, good for you," Bothiel said, patting Nim tenderly on the thigh. "Sounds pleasant. How kind of you to keep an elderly man so entertained. I’m sure he must get so lonely in that castle. Is he as good looking as I've been told?" she asked.

Nim shrugged with measured indifference. "He's certainly not ugly. Go look for yourself next time."

"Mhm. Perhaps I will."

Another group of students walked by. Nim’s stomach turned and tightened. Were they scowling in passing? No, surely she was making it up. They probably weren't even looking at her. They probably didn’t even know who she was.

Idiot, Nim. So full of yourself. Vain, conceited, Nim. How typical!  “Does um... does Raminus know?” she dared to ask.

“He’s probably heard the rumor, but who hasn't? Campus is small.” The reply was not what Nim wanted to hear, though she’d already expected as much. Her stomach knotted again at the thought.“Oh, don’t look so flustered. Rumors pass. This is nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing,” she said. “I’ve heard the other students gossip. They’re saying maybe I’ve climbed the ranks by… well, not by my own merit. I care about what Raminus thinks of me. He's been so kind to me, Bothiel. I don't want him thinking I’d take advantage of that.”

“Raminus would never think that about you," Bothiel assured her. "He speaks quite highly of you. We all do. You’re a rare talent in these parts, Nim, and you've certainly put in more time than I’d be willing to into running errands on behalf of the Council."

"You think so?"

"Of course," she said as though it were abundantly obvious. "Don't be glib.” She then looked over Nim’s shoulder, her grin broader, more mischievous. Nim cocked her head and had barely enough time to manage out another word before Bothiel waved her arms wildly in the air. “Ah, speak of the scamp— Raminus!” she cried out, “Over here!”

Nim craned her neck to find Raminus staring awkwardly, one hand on the lobby door. Surprised to find Bothiel beckoning to him, he looked over his shoulder, making sure she wasn’t calling to someone else..

Slowly, he shuffled near. "Hi Bothiel. You called me over?"

“Yes, we were just talking about you.”

“Oh?”

"Bothiel!" Nim hissed quietly, but not quiet enough to keep Raminus from quirking a brow in confusion. They locked eyes. Her mouth ran dry, panic spreading from her gut to the distal most tips of her limbs.

“Hi, Nimileth," he said. "It’s good to—” 

“Hi!” Nim cried out and stood to her feet so fast she grew light-headed and nearly toppled backwards over the stone rail. “You’re, uh, just the man I was looking for.”

“Oh?” he said again.

“Are you free now? I’d, um, like to have a word.”

Raminus gazed up at the clock tower. Nim looked too. It was nearly 12 O'clock and he seemed to be thinking. Did he have somewhere else to be?  

“Of course I have time,” he said.

“If you have somewhere to be, I—”

“No, really it’s fine.”

Bothiel yawned, watching their awkward shuffle with very little interest. She stood to her feet and made her way back to the lobby. "Right then. Be seeing you.”

“Heading to the city?” Nim asked him. “I’ll walk with you.”

“If you would like.”

“I would.”

Nim and Raminus made their way through the tall gates of the University, down the city isle bridge and towards the Arboretum. The air between them was unusually tense, and all Nim could think about was the stupid rumor. She wondered what Raminus was thinking about her, and her heart sank. She wondered if he was thinking about her at all.

“So I did a little digging over this past week," she said, breaking the silence first. 

“Digging?”

"Following a lead. I found something that could be helpful for your investigations. I think I know how the necromancers are creating black soul gems.”

“You what?” Raminus paused, and Nim turned around to find him frowning, his tall dusky figure stark against the backdrop of the clear sky. "Where on Nirn did you get that information?”

“A book.”

“Where’d you acquire it? You didn’t put yourself in harm’s way, did you?”

“No, I was quite safe,” she assured him and chose to ignore his first question. “It’s called Necromancer’s Moon, and it mentioned a celestial event called the ‘shade of the revenant.’ I spoke with Deetsan in Cheydinhal and she said Falcar had asked about it too. She gave me some notes on it, and they’ve confirmed my suspicions. He was partaking in the ritual himself, trapping the souls of man and mer. There’s mention of an altar and… and anchorites? I don’t really know what most of it means.”

Raminus had grown paler by the time she finished describing all that she’d found. “Nim,” he said, shaking his head. “I never meant for you to feel like this investigation was your responsibility. I know that because of what happened in Skingrad—”

“It really wasn’t that much extra work,” she cut in. “But I thought it might help. The more you know, right?”

Raminus’s eyes remained questioning, doubtful, but he took up a slow pace again and walked astride her. “So Falcar was interested in this revenant as well?"

“That’s what Deetsan said.”

“If he’s connected to the necromancers who have been attacking our mages, it’s possible they’re all engaged in the same ritual. Did you read anything about where this event is supposed to occur?”

“Um, yes. Falcar noted a few locations that are said to have altars actually. Fort Istirius, the Dark Fissure, Wendelbek—”

“The Dark Fissure. I recognize that name. It’s a cave in the mountains south of Cheydinhal.”

“I can check it out,” Nim said. “Confirm. Observe. When the shade happens next, I’ll be there to scout. 

Again, Raminus halted mid-gait. She felt the weight of his eyes a bit more strongly now. Looking up at him, she was overwhelmed by the concern she found, the way his gaze rested upon her with such unfamiliar intensity. 

“Nim, I can’t ask you to do that," he said. "I appreciate your eagerness to help, but I’ve already placed you in too much danger. Anything you were to discover would be of no use if you were killed.”

“How much worse can it be than what I’ve already seen?” She shrugged, trying to keep her tone light, even playful. 

But Raminus only shook his head again. “No, Nim,” he said sternly. “I think we’ve only scratched the surface. We’ve no idea how powerful these dark forces are.”

“Well, somebody has to check it out. Why not me? The Council had no problem with it before, and I’ve already faced a few necromancers alone. I can take them.”

The grooves of Raminus’ forehead deepened at her insistence. He must have known it was true, a part of him. She knew what to look for. She’d fought them before. Releasing a hoarse breath, Raminus tipped his head back and stared off into the bright blue of the sky.

“You know the Council wouldn’t mind,” she said.

“But I mind. We shouldn’t be sending you traipsing off into danger like this. By Magnus, you’re a University student , and you deserve to be one . You should be studying, working on your alchemy. I shouldn’t be giving you more responsibilities.”

Nim squeezed his arm gently. “Don’t look at me like that. I can handle it.”

“Nim, that’s not what I—”

“Then come with me if you’re so worried. If it’s as bad as you think it is, you’ll be there to help me. If not, then I’ll be able to show you that I can take care of myself.”

He sighed again. Moss green eyes, so full of worry— Nim couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her this way, and it was so easy to pretend she saw something else there, buried beneath all that concern.

“I’ll need to consult with the Council,” he said. 

"Really? Do you consult with the Council about everything?"

"Yes. It is my job to do so." 

Nim pulled away and by his ever deepening frown, she guessed he knew his answer had displeased her. “Fine.”

“But I’ll do my best to convince them. I’ll do everything I can.” 

“Alright,” she said dryly. “But don’t think you can stop me. If you don’t convince them soon, I’ll go myself.” 

And with that, she turned back toward the University, leaving Raminus to himself on the bridge.

Chapter 12: Beneath the Necromancers Moon and Stars

Summary:

Raminus and Nim share a tender moment and a little bit of violence.

Chapter 12: Beneath the Necromancer’s Moon and Stars

It was a warm, clear day for late Rain’s Hand. Walking beneath the late morning sun, Raminus felt a little overdressed in his thick robes, but it was bound to be colder in the Valus mountains so he’d opted for the wool over the cotton. At least he hoped it was colder there. He didn't want to find himself uncomfortably sweaty during the journey to the Dark Fissure if he could avoid it, especially not while Nimileth was there. Thinking carefully on the uphill climb that would take them eastward into the mountains, Raminus doubled back to his quarters and slipped on a lighter garment. 

Newly dressed, when he finally reached the University gates, he found Nim waiting on the wall of the city isle bridge. He greeted her with a small wave. 

She eyed him curiously as he approached her. “You’re wearing that?”

Raminus glanced down. He was dressed in his blue mage’s robes, the same ones he wore most days. “I always wear this.”

Nim, on the other hand, was dressed hide leggings, leather boots, a loose cotton shirt stained with flower dyes and a rust colored blotch that was likely blood. A bow was strapped to her pack and a small dagger was sheathed in the belt around her hips. Raminus, looking at Nim and her knitted brows, felt suddenly a little more self-conscious.

“Okay,” she said, sounding unconvinced and making no attempt to conceal it. “As long as you can move deftly and avoid catching yourself on fire.”

“They are enchanted for such scenarios,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Nim shrugged. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she gazed up at the sky. “I’d say we have about eight full hours before nightfall. Should be enough time to make it to the Blue road before we need to find an inn. You've got your toothbrush?”

Raminus nodded. “Lead on.”

Raminus, expecting to be led through the city to a carriage house, took several steps down the bridge toward the Arboretum gate. One, two, three steps later, he paused when he noticed that no footsteps trailed behind him. Pivoting backwards, he found no sign of Nim and when he peered over the stone rail of the bridge, there she was, scaling down the face of the cliff to the rugged city isle below.

“What are you doing up there?” she called out to him. “Come on!”

Before Raminus had a chance to reply, his legs had carried himself over the railing and onto the soft hillside beyond. He slid along loose soil, walking as gingerly as he could, and as he descended the steep hill, he regretted his choice of footwear immensely.  For such an educated man, one might have thought he’d have known to wear shoes with better traction. It had been some time since he last left the University for some field work. That much was all too apparent.

Nim watched his heavy-footed descent from below, her expression one of increasing concern. When at last Raminus had reached her, she turned back to the trail with no comment, and Raminus thanked her silently for sparing him the embarrassment. Together, they walked down the path until they reached the shoreline of Lake Rumare.

"I made this trek on the way to Vahtacen," Nim explained, skirting the water’s edge. She seemed to be searching for something. A narrow stretch to cross, perhaps.

“The lake’s not too wide here,” Raminus said. “We can cross unless you know of a specific ford nearby.”

“Mmm, there was a shallower channel somewhere around here. I’m hoping the rains didn’t flood it. I hopped across the rocks to reach the other side."

"You hopped?" Raminus echoed. "I should let you know I'm not particularly skilled at balancing on one leg. I think I'll stick to water-walking. Why don’t we cross here?"

Nim made an awkward grimace but didn’t otherwise reply. She turned back to the water. "I swear that channel is around here somewhere..."

Up ahead, he spied a large gated tunnel— one of the entrances to the imperial sewer, he figured, from the stench of rot seeping forth. Out in front of it stood a rickety wooden pier with a row boat tethered to the moor. "What about up there?" he said, pointing. "By the sewer entrance. There appears to be a boat. Should we row?" 

Staring at the entrance to the sewers, Nim had suddenly gone pale. "No," she said, grabbing Raminus by the arm and walking swiftly in the opposite direction. "No, it's broken."

"How do you know? It looks—"

"Let's go this way."

Nim led him down another stretch of beach. A group of mudcrabs scurried by, leaving small cross-hatched tracks across the sand as they made way for the approaching pair. Nim stopped at the shoreline of a relatively narrow channel and took off her pack. She bent down, began to unlace her boots. Raminus watched her in confusion.

“Are we crossing here?” he asked, turning his attention back to the lake. 

The water lapped gently at the bank, but beyond that it looked at least several feet deep. Nim nodded and lifted her pack above her head as she took a step into the water. She seemed intent on walking in further, and though it was indeed shallower than where they’d previously stood, the lake was easily waist deep for a woman of her height.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Nim glanced at him over her shoulder, gave a shrug as if it were already abundantly obvious. “I’m going to float my pack across and then wade through to the other side."

Raminus shook his head and stepped up onto the surface of the water. He extended his hand to her. She did not take it immediately and instead stared with with wide, unblinking eyes.

“I don't know that spell," she muttered and sounded a little embarrassed. 

“I can see that,” he said and once again motioned for her to take his hand. “It’s not very difficult. Let me show you. Take my hand for support.”

Nim stared into his palm. “Umm, you should know I’m really no good with alteration."

“Then I will show you. I’m not going to let you wade across the lake and soak yourself."

"'S'fine. I'll dry off."

"Come on. It's not that difficult a spell.”

After a moment of contemplation, she launched her pack across the water with the aid of a telekinesis spell where it landed on the opposite bank with a graceless thud. Hesitantly, she accepted his hand.

“Now, I want you to focus on the interface between the soles of your feet and the water," Raminus began. "Alteration is different from illusion in that it still abides by the rules of nature."

"Mhm." Nim watched him with pursed lips, her big, dark eyes full of sunlight.

"Instead of reshaping reality in the mind of the target as you do with illusions, you must manipulate the properties of the physical world to do as you command. With a water walking spell, you will alter your buoyancy. This does not necessarily mean that you must make yourself lighter than the water but rather less dense. Think of how a ship—”

“Mhm,” Nim said again, and this time her lids had shuttered closed. Her face was scrunched in concentration. Concentrating on what? He’d yet to explain the spellwork required.

“Are you listening to me?” Raminus asked her.

“Yes. I’m focusing.”

Water rippled around her feet. She kept her eyes shut as she squeezed his hand, then slowly— ever so slowly— Raminus watched her rise. “How did you do that?” he asked. "I hadn't finished explaining the spell."

“Hmm? I felt you cast it. I read the weave of magicka in your palm.”

"You... read my spell?"

Nim opened her eyes and stared at him as if she had no idea why he was confused. Raminus had heard of mages who claimed to possess this ability, but never before had he met one in person. He blinked at Nim, watching her test the ball of her foot on the surface of the water in front of her. Her foot sunk for a moment, and she clenched his hand in panic, but just as soon, she floated back up.

Raminus could only stare at her in surprise. Strange gifts were abundant in this world. This much, he knew— eidetic memory, synesthesia, clairvoyance, for example. Far be it for him to question Julianos’ blessings.

"What if I..." Nim took a shaky step forward and nearly fell through the surface of the lake. With a squeal and flailing arms, she descended quickly. Raminus managed to catch her.

"Easy," he said, and she flushed a coral pink. "You know, they say members of the Psijiic order can learn spells by feeling them." 

"Do they?" she asked, testing another step forward, and this time she remained afloat.

"I've never met someone who could do it in person."

"It's faster that way, builds muscle memory. That's how we learned it in my cov—" With a strangulated cough, Nim cleared her throat and suddenly grew quite distracted by the mudcrabs walking along the bottom of the river beneath their feet. "Anyway, this water-walking spell, it's just as you were saying. Make myself less dense. Like an ice cube."

Raminus stared silently as she took another cautious step forward. She didn't sink, and when she took one more step and remained standing firmly atop the lake’s surface, she peered over at him, beaming victoriously. 

“I thought you said you were no good with alteration,” he said. "You seem able to pick up on it just fine." 

“I am not,” she insisted. “So please don’t let go of my hand otherwise I might fall back into the water.”

They crossed the lake slowly. Raminus did not let go.

---

The night passed uneventfully at a roadside inn, and it took all of the following afternoon to reach the mountains south of Cheydinhal. It was for the best, Raminus thought, to remain on the paved roads for the sake of his shoes and sure-footing. The hike itself was pleasant enough, shaded by the canopies of the oak. The cool fragrant air of the wooded path was a welcome relief from the direct light of the sun, but as Magnus began its descent, the forest grew dark. And fast. 

Eventually, when they’d reached the last stretch of the Blue Road, Nim pulled off into the wilderness. Guided by a crumpled, weathered map onto which he had marked the location of the Dark Fissure, they carved their way through hardwood and pine. Nim kept a slow pace along the incline, said she was hesitant to put too much physical strain on him when the unknown still lied ahead. Taking only mild offense, Raminus informed her that he was not that old , simply out of shape, and to his credit, he did the best to keep up as they maneuvered over fallen logs and up the steep mountain foothills. 

Mild crispness sharpened to sibilant, chilly winds that forced both he and Nim to reach for their cloaks to stave off shivering. The further they climbed, the sparser the vegetation, giving way to fields of short grass and stands of bristlecone, shrubs that could tolerate the altitude and rocky soil. A few more miles, and they found themselves winding up a crude mountain path carved by machete and light foot traffic. It grew clearer. Clearer, until Raminus spotted the first sign of a necromancer’s lair.

There was a stench on the wind, heavy where the air was otherwise thin. A weight to it ripe with decay. Nim slowed her pace, pointed up ahead to two rotten, flesh-stripped bodies strewn across the face of the cliffs. Some were nailed into the sides of rocks, a deliberate display of gore. But why?

“Oh that’s horrible,” Raminus eked out, holding his cloak over his nose to mask the stench.  He shuddered as they passed the grotesque arrangement of corpses— pieces of corpses— and made note that Nim did not.

Not much further up the path, they could see the cavern entrance. Beside the door was a wooden spike lined with skulls. It stood proudly, some sort of signage, but what it signaled beyond profanity, Raminus couldn’t say. More bodies. Everywhere he looked, more bodies and scattered bones decaying half-corpses hung from metal hooks that had been nailed into the stone. None of them looked particularly fresh.

“Yeah,” Nim said with an affirming nod. “You best get used to it.”

“Why do they… why do they do this?”

“This is their clay, their canvas, their paints. Looks like they’ve left it out a bit too long, huh. Guess it’s mostly just decoration at this point. Gratuitous, if you ask me. Like, what are they trying to prove?” Raminus scrunched his nose, concerned by her nonchalance. Nim offered him a rather disconcerting shrug. "Eh, it's whatever. You've seen it once, you've seen it all."  

“Oh. Okay.”

Nim said no more and jogged ahead to survey the site. Raminus raced after her.  "Look," she said when he’d caught up. She gestured to a large stone slab a few paces from the cavern door. "The altar’s here, alright."

Raminus approached it cautiously. It looked like an ornate marble coffin, and sliding the edge off one corner, he wafted the air within for signs of decay. Nervously, he peered inside, relieved to find it free of any more bodies. Pushing the lid off a little further revealed the altar was completely empty. “Nothing,” he said, turning to Nim.

Calling forth his mysticism, Raminus cast a broad detection spell and gazed out at the rocky landscape before them. Nothing alarming, no sentient life beside the mage beside him and a smattering of birds in the nearby copse of pines. 

"We're alone," he said. "At least on the surface."

“Comforting. I suppose we wait now. The sun’s setting. What about we setup over there?” She pointed toward a tall rock a few meters down the slope of the hill. 

“They could easily spot us if they approached from the trail.”

“Not in the darkness. And it would be even harder with an invisibility shroud.”

“We're well within range of a strong detection spell if they come from inside the cave.” 

“Hmm, good point. What about up there?” Nim pointed toward the hanging corpse and the large outcrop behind it.

Without waiting for his answer, she clambered up the rocks and shoved herself into a narrow crevasse. She beckoned Raminus over with a wave of her hand.

“It’s going to be a tight squeeze,” she said. Raminus furrowed his brows, concentrating deeply, performing the mental puzzle as he imagined how the two of them would fit within such a small space. “Unless you’d rather we split up. I can find another spot to hide in.”

“Let’s find something just a little more spacious.”

Nim clambered over the rocks, quick as a cockroach. “Over here,” she said and directed him to another small crevice-like gap.

“Alright. Well… I’ll go in first.”

Sliding down into the narrow nook, Raminus situated himself as comfortably as he could. He’d give to her— like this, they were well hidden from anyone looking up from the trail. However, their view of the ritual sight was largely obscured by rocks and the legs of the hanging corpse. Raaminus did his best to pretend it wasn’t there, which he found admittedly very difficult.

“Make sure you’re comfortable,” Nim called down to him. “Who knows how long this may take.”

She kept watch as Raminus shimmied himself into place. Once settled, he cleared his throat, drawing Nim’s attention. “Alright,” he said with a nod. “I’m in position.” 

Nim lowered herself down, preparing to slide feet first into the crevice.

“Would you like some assistance?” he called up to her. 

“No, I’m quite alright.” She dangled a leg down and stared intently. Stare and stare, as if she concentrated hard enough, she could extend her limbs down to the bottom without needing to leap. Hesitantly, she pushed herself forward.

Raminus’ hands spasmed upwards. She looked like she was slipping. He stepped forward, attempting to guide her down, and when he did, she slid right through his grasps until his hands were wedged firmly into her armpits and he was holding her an inch above the rocky ground.

“Cozy,” she said quietly as he lowered her.

“That’s not quite how I’d describe it.”

“The view isn’t great but we can see the altar. Or a part of it at least.” She turned around to peer through the cracks in the rock before. ”With a decent detection spell, we can see how many necromancers are present before we decide to move. Being down in a crevice does put us in a compromising position if they see us first.”

A compromising position , Raminus repeated in his head. The space between them was so small that he could feel Nim’s chest expand against his own with every breath. He had never been so close to her before, and her wispy hair tickled just beneath his nose. She smelled of blackberry and soap and freshly turned soil. A compromising position. His stomach fluttered. 

“Nim, I don’t…” he began, flinching at every movement she made. No matter how he tried to contort himself, she was always touching him and it was distracting at the very least. “This spot is not—”

“You’re right,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “This will never work. I have a better Idea.”

Without a blink, Nim had climbed out of the crevice and was scaling the rocks along the top of the cave until she sat right above its mouth. Raminus followed after her, albeit less elegantly. When he reached the top, he found Nim sprawled on her belly as she looked down upon the altar below. A sheer mountain face stood proudly behind them, offering protection from anyone approaching from the rear. From their position on top of the cave, no one could sneak up on them from the sides either, not without being spotted first.

“Better?” she asked with a small smile. He nodded as he sat down beside her, taking a moment to stretch out his legs. Throwing her pack behind her, Nim pulled off her bow and set herself to work on restringing it. 

Raminus watched her. “You’re going to kill a necromancer with a bow?” he asked.

“We’re all flesh and blood. It’s how I took down most of them to be honest.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I assumed you favored destruction.”

Nim laughed softly. “A fireball is hardly inconspicuous. Also it’s tricky with mages. You can never be sure what charms they’ve cast upon themselves that might cause your own spell to backfire, you know?”

“Hmm, I agree it is harder to deflect a well-placed arrow than a— hang on. What do you mean, ‘ it’s tricky with mages? ’ Are you… are you frequently attacked by other people? Not just the necromancers?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say frequently,” Nim replied, not taking her eyes off her bowstring. 

Raminus looked her over and couldn’t imagine her attacking anything other than wild game. Who else could she be fighting out there? Why was she fighting anyone out there?

“Uh…” he muttered, at a loss for words. Raminus had long been under the impression that Nim was an alchemist by trade and couldn’t think of any ingredient so precious that its collection would put her face to face with highwaymen on a regular basis. Not even the rare ones. 

Nim strung her bow and reached for her quiver. He realized then how little he knew of her, and the thought left him more than a little sad.

---

Night fell in an indigo shroud littered above by thousands of shimmering stars. The bright bellies of Masser and Secunda shone down to cast the two mages silver in the moonlight. Raminus lay on his side, refreshing his detection spell, and listening for footsteps amidst the distant winds that swept the foothills. FIltering out the auras of the night birds, he found the coast clear and allowed himself to relax, if only slightly.

Beside him, Nim was also keeping guard, watching movement in the brush, one hand always on her bow. He felt surprisingly safe, secure to have here. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Sitting up to crack his back, he gazed over at Nim and  caught her renewing a cantrip, eyes aglow behind a mask of deep blue. “How can you use that?” he whispered, recognizing the night-eye spell. "Isn't the blue cast unbearable?"

“You don't use night-eye?" Nim asked in wonder. Raminus shook his head. “But then how do you get around at night?”

“An oil lamp, a candle," he said with a faint chuckle. "That blue cast is so unnatural. It makes every object harder to differentiate, and besides, I haven’t many places to be once the sun sets.”

“But that’s so many extra steps."

Raminus laughed again, this time a little louder, and Nim shot him a pointed look at which he lowered his voice. "Step one," he said, "obtain your candle. Step two, light the wick."

"Very funny. But then you have to worry about the wind. What about a starlight spell? Don't you use starlight?”

Raminus shrugged. “An oil lamp is equally effective. And starlight bears that strange green tint. It's eerie."

"You and your tints," Nim scoffed. "Your world must look so dull at night. Hmph."

"To be honest, I never much cared for illusion magic. I’ve forgotten most of the advanced spells I was required to learn for classes right after they were taught to me. They just don’t get much use in my line of work.”

Nim recoiled, and even in the dark Raminus could see her brows furrowed in disdain. Realizing what he’d said to someone who fancied herself an illusionist, his stomach turned with shame.

“That pains me greatly," Nim said and turned away from him. "I’ll pretend you didn’t say it.” Raminus shifted awkwardly. As did Nim, and after only a brief stretch of silence, she looked back at him over her shoulder, eyes eager and inquisitive. “So what’ve you got against illusion then?”

“Well, nothing personal," Raminus said. "I have been trained in the school. I know the basics and fundamentals, the theory. Sure, I've made use of calm spells here and there, even some of the more crafty hexes while joking around with my friends. But as I've learned more about magic, I’ve found the school very… well, insidious."

"Insidious? What’s insidious about a starlight spell?"

"It's not really the starlight spells I take issue with. Altering the reality of your own mind is one thing. Altering the mind of another is cruel. It’s unethical regardless if the spell is to pacify or enrage. The mind is a delicate thing and to tamper with is akin to burglary.”

“Okay,” Nim chortled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Is it? I’ve read of the way illusion has been used to exploit and influence the will of men. Magic like that— it’s never settled well with me. I have no use for it in my life.”

“Ah, I've heard this argument plenty of times, often from mages who favor schools the layman would consider more unsavory."

Raminus shrugged. "Well, everyone is entitled to their own opinion." 

"I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear it from a Master Wizard." Nim turned herself around to face him, to look at him straight on. "Of course, there are ample opportunities to misuse a frenzing or a charm spell, just like there are plenty of ways to abuse an alteration spell. If you only focus on the harm an ammoral spell-caster might cause, why not consider the conflict that can be avoided, the conflict that could be resolved by a responsible user? I mean, look I don't consider myself a saint, but I've never done anything unspeakable with my magic.”

Raminus said nothing, merely nodded and let her talk. 

“Any school of magic can be corrupted," she continued. "It’s all about the intent of the mage. Say I wanted to commit an actual burglary, break into your house and steal all of your silver. I could levitate myself up to your window, unlock it, and float all your cutlery out into my sack without needing to touch anything myself. And if I really wanted to go at it, I could burden you and render you immobile while I pile all of your possessions into my bag with the aid of a feather spell, then leave without a trace. All of that with just alteration spells. And let’s not even begin with the topic of trapping souls, which I might add, falls under the school of Mysticism. That’s the entire reason why we’re here.”

Raminus thought that an awfully specific account, and yet it was a valid argument. “None of the spells you mentioned are inherently malicious," he said in rebuttal. "I agree with you– the intent of the mage is key. Of course, we trust that mages within our guilds use all of their spells ethically. But let’s take a look at some of the spells within the school of Illusion. Command spells, demoralizing hexes, paralysis— none of those are used benignly.”

“And when am I going to use a health draining spell benignly?” Nim puffed.

“Destruction is inherently a weapon," he said. "You wouldn’t call a sword nefarious for being used to slay an enemy.”

“The same could be said for illusion. It’s equivalent to any shielding magic or ward or defensive enchantment. Is it so bad to charm, demoralize, or pacify an opponent if it avoids direct conflict?” Raminus only smiled. "What?" she asked, and by now she sounded irritated.

"I just... nothing," he said. "You make a decent argument. It's obvious you’ve spent time thinking about the how and why you use your magic the way you do quite deeply. Not enough mages do so."

"But what else do mages think about then if not how they use their magic?"

"Power, often. What it can bring them. To some knowledge for the sake of knowledge is enough."

"Like the Telvanni?"

"Oh, that is a whole other animal in its entirety," Raminus said. "I'm not trying to dissuade you from your practices, Nim. Nothing like that.”

“I know.”

“But I have a few extra years worth of experience that has shown me the kind of trouble a rogue with a few good charms can cause."

"I'm sure the empire has plenty of illusionists under their employ," she said. "And I bet they make good spies. I don't hear you complaining about how subterfuge and sneaking has played a hand in keeping your borders safe."

Raminus chuckled but quieted himself quickly. “You needn’t agree with me, Nim. I know you favor illusion, and I certainly trust you to be practicing with the utmost virtue and honor. If it makes you feel any better, it's not just illusion I take issue with. Personally, I find the whole concept of conjuration objectionable. I learned it as a student, but I use it rather sparingly. Likewise, I’m sure there are schools of magic that you are not so fond of too.”

“Not out of any sense of moral obligation.” She cleared her throat sheepishly “I mean, except necromancy, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I’ve heard it wasn't always used for evil."

"Hmm, that's true. And yet the Arch-mage still felt his decision to ban it was the correct one. As do I. Do you?"

"I— to be honest, I don't know. Surely not all necromancers are attacking innocent people. It can't all be for power can it?" Nim looked away and let out a small sigh. "I suppose there is still quite a bit of magic that I don’t understand.”

“Maybe in ten years or so you will change your mind about what you value. Maybe you won’t. Neither is necessarily right and neither is wrong. As a fellow practitioner, I encourage you to form your own philosophy. Mine just happens to include a reluctance to incorporate certain schools into practices. I find there are too many moral greys to consider with their use.”

"Everything's a moral grey depending on the doctrine you espouse," Nim said.

"Well, I try to steer clear of magics that can be used to deceive."

“Uh, deceive , ” she groaned. “That's exactly what Fathis said.”

Raminus' mouth twitched at the mention of that name. When Nim caught the small gesture, a spark of panic burst alive in her eyes. He’d all but forgotten about the rumored affair and wished it could remain that way for a while longer.

“Umm, " Nim whispered. "Raminus, can I ask you something?”

Raminus directed his attention to the stars. “Yes?”  And though he was not looking at her, he could see the glow of her aura, the dark silhouette of her slight figure inching closer in his periphery.

Nim leaned in. His stomach fluttered, turned violently. “Did you... did you hear the rumor?” 

“What rumor?” he asked and swallowed down dryly and hoped the guise of ignorance was strong enough to conceal how poorly he was lying.

Raminus knew exactly the rumor she referred to. He’d heard the whispers a few days ago at dinner, a couple apprentices muttering between themselves at the far end of his table. His ears had perked at her name. He’d caught only a handful of stray words. Fathis Aren. Nimileth. Bravil. Together.

It had hit him like a blizzard wind and such a visceral reaction had made no sense. She was free to make whatever decision she wanted in her private life. Raminus was no one too her but an advisor, and after a few seconds of letting it steep, he’d felt so guilty, so lecherous and irrational that he’d lost his appetite entirely. Dismissing himself, he’d retired to his bedroom and proceeded to stare at the walls.

Raminus wished he could be back there right now. “It’s not true.” Nim's voice pierced his thoughts. “I don’t want you thinking less of me. I don’t want you thinking of me like that.”

“Why would I think less of you?” He shook his head, disregarding it. “It’s nothing. Just rumors.” Though a part of Raminus wondered… how did she want him to think of her? 

“I heard the students talking. They were saying things about my advancements and ranks, how I earned them. I just wanted you to know it didn’t happen.”

“You needn’t worry," he said, a bit too dismissively to sound genuine. "Even if—” he started again but trailed off. “You’re a talented mage, Nim. People will try to take that away from you. You shouldn’t let them.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Raminus wished they could return to silence. He was growing hot, uncomfortably hot. Nim smiled a crooked smile and sat back on her knees to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears. In the light of the moons, he could see only the vague, dark of her eyes. They roamed his face, the curve of his profile, lingering on him for far longer than he felt was publicly appropriate.

“I really care about how you perceive me,” she said.

Raminus looked over at her shadowy shape and stared at what he thought was her face. He could hardly make out its edges against the night. “You shouldn’t,” he said. “I’m just an old mage with conservative beliefs.”

“No.” There was a gravity in her voice that he hadn’t been expecting. “You’re much more than that to me. When I arrived at the University, I wasn’t expecting such kindness. I thought I was going to be just a nameless face amongst the ranks, and I didn’t think anyone would ever hold as much confidence in me as you have. I know that you want to keep me safe, and though I resist it sometimes, I—” Her voice quivered somewhere deep in her throat. Was she nervous? Why? Raminus’ throat clenched. “I really appreciate it.”

“Well... it’s just part of my duties as a member of the Council,” he choked out. The words left his mouth slowly.

Was she smiling, he wondered? Was she as nervous as she sounded? Or was it all a figment of his imagination, just his mind running wild to paint the tone he wanted to hear against the backdrop of scraping winds on the mountain face?

Raminus wanted to slap himself.

What on Nirn was he doing, sitting here in the dark thinking about his colleague in such flowery melodrama? They were on a mission to scout for necromancer activity. In fact, they should have been on the lookout at that very moment. Yet here he was, his mind wandering away. Wandering to places they ought not to be.

“No,” Nim said again. “No one has ever done that for me. I’ve never really felt… safe before.” She reached out and laid her hand flat against the back of his palm. Raminus stared at it, and he hoped his hands weren’t as clammy as the rest of him felt. “You make me feel safe, Raminus.”

"I- I only want what's best for you." 

Nim shifted forward slightly, and he forced himself to scan the landscape, to look away from her. Alone in the mountains on a mission from the Council— If another mage saw them in this position he would surely be reprimanded. He outranked her. They were on official guild business. He was eight years her elder. There were a million reasons why they should not be sitting so close, why he should not be feeling any amount of her skin’s heat.

Yet Raminus sat frozen in place, unwilling to pull away. He turned his hand over, hooked his thumb around hers, weaving their fingers together. He squeezed, stroking the length of her thumb mutely. Nim inched forward again.

“Raminus, I—” she began with a stutter. “Sometimes I feel like we—“

The loud creak of a wooden door split their moment in two. It silenced Nim immediately. Without a second to even blink, she rolled away from Raminus and back toward her bow and quiver. Disappearing beneath her invisibility spell, she hid herself from view and pulled up to the edge of the overhang. Raminus fell forward onto his belly and concealed himself under an invisibility spell as well. Nim’s pink aura peered back at him. He imagined she was scowling, hypocrite. He was, but he hadn’t said anything untruthful. In his day to day life he had no use for Illusion. Now, perched atop a necromancer’s cave, spying on their secret rituals while the clouds shifted eerily above, Raminus was experiencing a very minor deviation from his daily routine.

A beam of watery light shone down from the dark sky, illuminating the altar in a crimson haze. A cloaked figure, medium height and human in his profile, emerged from the cavern, and Raminus watched beside Nim with bated breath as her slid open the altar and slipped something inside. 

Muttering an incantation, the necromancer weaved a bit of spellwork impossible to distinguish from as far away as he was. He dropped before the light-drenched altar, praying, pressing his magic against the marble cover. Raminus looked over to Nim for a signal— What do we do now?

He found her crouched on one knee, bow raised and directed at the necromancer’s head. Raminus reached for her. “What are you—”

A groan from below. A half-decayed corpse shambled out from the cavern to stand guard before the necromancer. Nim released her shot, hitting the thrall in throat, the arrowhead bursting through the other side of its neck. She nocked another arrow and aimed at the necromancer who had since leapt to his feet, hands sparking with flame. Raminus’ heart leapt to his throat, he  wished she would have warned him. He wished he had asked what he was supposed to do now. 

The necromancer leapt aside and the next arrow flew right over his head, bouncing off the jutting cliffs with a thunk . A ball flame came hurdling their way, searing the night in a scorching trail of red. Nim rolled aside and scrambled down the rocks. A very startled Raminus followed swiftly.

Hissing in anger, the necromancer waved a hand, sending his dark magic coiling through the rotted bodies strewn across the rocky landscape. The newly raised thralls stood to their bloated feet faster than Raminus would have expected for necrofied corpses— three of them, each lumbering toward them. 

Nim’s next arrow landed in the necromancer’s shoulder. The necromancer’s next fireball singed Raminus’ hair. Shocked, fueled only by adrenaline, Raminus released a burst of shock magic from his palm and sent it splintering through the air to strike the necromancer across the chest. Screeching, the necromancer staggered, bumping into the altar. He loosed a fireball at Nim who leapt aside and narrowly missed it. Attempting to stifle the blood loss and the lingering shock of Raminus’ spell, the necromancer doused himself in a wave of healing light and scrambled backward for cover, retreating to the cave. 

“We got him!” Nim shouted, and darted ahead, dropping her bow and reaching for the dagger at her side. Meanwhile the thralls lurched closer to Raminus. All around, a chorus of harrowing moans.  

Raminus fired a burst of flame into the nearest one. Nim ran behind it, reached around its neck and severed the rotted head with a whip of her blade. Its body burned on the ground, sizzling, spitting, and Raminus ran past it, headed for the escaping necromancer. He lobbed another shock bolt into his chest.

Body clenched and seizing, the necromancer stumbled on the jagged rocks and hit the ground with a sickening crassh. Nim reached him before Raminus did and plunged her dagger into his throat. She stabbed him again. Again. Five times, then he stopped moving, a crumpled, crackling mass of flesh upon the ground.

Raminus could not peel his eyes away from the necromancer whose aura was dimming second by second. When at last it winked out of existence, the life force slipped from the thralls, and they fell, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles, their distended flesh splitting, their fluids oozing onto the dirt. 

Nim walked over and set them ablaze. "Were we supposed to kill him?" she asked, shaking her dagger free of the straggling bits of burnt flesh. "Sorry, I probably should have clarified earlier."

"I uh, no, I... I think this is what we wanted." 

Had he…. had he killed this man? Raminus had never killed anyone before. The sound of a lapping fire filled his head like white noise. The blood in his fingers grew cold.

Raminus stood there, dazed. Burning flesh flooded his nostrils, a stench foul enough to drive off even buzzards. With startling swiftness, he grew queasy, weak in the knees. A stream of bile surged up from his belly and lingered on the back of his tongue. Everywhere he looked, sizzling skin and bubbling innards. He walked to the cavern door and braced himself against it, struggling to regain control of his breath and keep from retching.  

Nim approached the charred necromancer and kicked his side to ensure he was dead. She reached down with her dagger and began cutting through his neck in long sawing motions, grunting as she did so. Raminus watched her in revulsion as she moved on to his leg, and when he opened his mouth to protest, it filled with thin, watery saliva. He spit it out, heaving and coughing. He was going to be sick. He was going to— 

“What?” Nim asked, tucking away her loose bangs which were by now blood-drenched, bearing bits of rotted meat. “This is a ritual site. His friends are going to come back for him. They’ll want his body. He won’t be of much use as a thrall without these.”

Steadying himself against the cavern wall, Raminus vomited. 

“Oh, gee,” Nim said. “Are you okay? Do you want me—”

“No,” he retched out, and vomited again.

Leaving Nim to dismember the bodies on her own, Raminus gathered his strength and climbed up to retrieve their packs. He wanted to go home. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. A man could only handle so much emotion at once. Raminus didn’t care if they travelled through pitch blackness with the aid of that bloody Night-Eye, all he wanted to do was sleep for a week and forget what he had just witnessed. First he would bathe. A nice hour long soak until all of his skin was as pruned as a raisin.

Gazing over the ledge, he looked down at Nim and shuddered. She had completed her task, leaving a pile of body parts unceremoniously stacked beside the collection of corpses they’d found upon arrival. She set it ablaze with a stream of fire and dusted off her hands. After her encounter at the Wellspring, the ambush in Skingrad, he’d believed her competent at fighting necromancers. He didn’t know she was this competent.  

When Raminus returned from the top of the rocks, Nim was struggling to push the lid off the altar. She reached in, unphased by the amorphous black ooze on her sleeves that once formed the flesh of a human being.

“Huh,” she mused as she held up two soul gems, each as black as void. “I guess that solves that.”

Raminus watched as she wiped the bottom of her boots off on nearby rock, leaving it streaked with dark brown gristle. She looked over at him with a satisfied grin. He offered a meek, faltering smile and did his best to keep from retching again.

Chapter 13: House Hunter - Cyrodiil

Summary:

Nim closes in on the deal of a lifetime

Chapter 13: House Hunters - Cyrodiil

One dining chair later and Nim had smashed open the window, tumbling through in a shower of sparks and glass. She didn’t have time to be discreet, not while the manor burned around her. Who would have thought that the dead thief the Gray Fox had asked her to steal from was really an undead thief? The kind with pointed teeth that itched to bite. 

By the breadth of a hair, Nim had made it out of the crypt beneath the Earl of Imbel’s Talos Plaza manor without getting bitten or beheaded by one of the many vampires who dwelled there. She had none other than a lucky fireball and some rather desiccated corpses to thank for that. So many dry, withered bodies littering the floor of the catacombs— a fortunate thing, if not morbid, that they’d gone up like tinder.

Smoke billowed out from the manor's windows, thick and dark and angry. Within, the fire roared on, licking at the walls, gnawing on the rafters, wooden furniture crackling, turning to nothing but black ash. Coughing out a lungful of smoke, Nim pocketed the new pair of enchanted boots and a pouch full of vampire dust that she couldn't resist collecting for later experimentation, then walked briskly away from the scene of the crime before such destruction inevitably drew the attention of patrolling guards. Another close call on behalf of the Gray Fox. With her task now completed, she padded off to the Waterfront to retire for the night, and already, she dreaded the journey back to Cheydinhal to meet with him. The Gray Fox’s requests were becoming increasingly absurd, and she was in no way looking forward to hearing his next. One would think he was after the Amulet of Kings itself by the lunacy in his eyes, and really, Nim had half a mind to think that he was looking to get her killed. 

But before she journeyed back to Cheydinhal, Nim first needed to attend to a very important matter of personal business. It was now the end of Second Seed, and her twentieth birthday had passed with a whirlwind of emotions, wine, and a chocolate cake rich enough to purchase one's entire family. Only Methredhel and Amusei knew what this date meant to her and the kind of celebration it had called for. Their staggeringly drunk rage throughout the Imperial City had also been a goodbye. Nothing permanent, of course. Nim preferred to call it “a promotion. ”

Now twenty and no longer penniless, she could purchase property in her own name according to the Cyrodiilic law, and she had her eye on one such property indeed. The house was known to local residents as Benirus Manor, named after its original owner, sitting at the end of the main road of the quaint seaside town of Anvil, right beside a glittering pond. Over a year of scrounging and saving, and she’d at last amassed enough gold to secure a bid on the house. One week after she’d put the offer in, it had been accepted.

Arriving at Methredhel’s shack, Nim tiptoed to her bedroll, careful not to wake the other women sleeping nearby. She stared at her packed bags. All she owned could fit in one trunk, and tomorrow, it would be sitting in a carriage as she rolled her way to the Gold Coast.

It was strange, the thought of living alone, having a home, privacy, material proof of how far she'd come. As much as she valued her peace and quiet, she’d never been completely on her own unless she counted the months wandering the wilderness after she’d fled Kvatch. Even then, she’d always imagined someone had been looking out for her, keeping her inches away from death. The Gods perhaps.

A flash before her eyes— red and red and red. At her ear, the Webspinner's hymn. 

The Gods, or perhaps something worse.

---

The carriage rattled along the Red Ring Road. Bump, bump, bump, jostling Nim up and down and up and down on the plush, cushioned seat. 

Is this how nobility travels, she wondered? Such exciting texture to the excursion! Rarely did she have enough spare coin to to travel by carriage. Perhaps she ought to more often.

To pass the time along her journey west, Nim unpacked and repacked the possessions she had stuffed into her trunk, double checking that all was there. Her alchemical tools took up the most room, the rest occupied by an armful of worn books and the little clothing that remained after she had disposed of her stained and ripped shirts. Now that she was a certified home-owner in a new town where she’d make new friends, Nim had made the conscious choice to restyle her wardrobe into something a little less… tattered. 

Rummaging through and folding up her outfits, she spied a black robe that she’d stolen from a house in Bruma nearly a year prior. It was suspiciously enchanted with a number of useful fortifications. The only one she could read however was an augment for illusory suspension. Still that had been enough to tempt her. It was practically calling out to be stolen.

Nim thought fondly of those early days of sneaking and thieving, the rush that filled her after a successful heist, the heady joy of a full coinpurse after parting from her fence. When she was stealing for the Gray Fox, for whatever cryptic schemes he had in mind, it didn’t quite strike the same. She regarded the black robes again. This was a particularly valued treasure, one she’d refused to part with despite Ongar’s lofty price. Rich silken fabric, black as midnight. Too conspicuous to wear out without drawing strange glances her way. It looked like something a cult member would wear. And a fancy cult member at that.

Still the robes were very, very soft. Impossibly soft. She’d stolen a pair of matching gloves too. Nim slipped them on and held her hand up to the window, splaying her fingers as the flaxen sunlight sieved through. Perhaps she could use it as loungewear or repurpose the fabric for a skirt. She unfolded the robes to take in the dimensions, and a loud thud drew her eyes to the carriage floor where a book had tumbled out, covered partly by a black hood. She picked it up.

The Five Tenets, the book was titled. She lifted the cover.

Tenet 1: Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

Tenet 2: Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

What in the godsdamned is a Sithis, Nim wondered? He seemed awfully pugnacious.

A yellowed envelope stuck out from between the pages of the book. Nim pulled it loose. The red wax seal was broken. Laying it flat revealed the image of a hand, fingers spread. Inside was a torn letter, most of the body obscured by splotches of dried blood.

Dearest Brother, it read. 

The Black Hand once more requests your services...

Nim gulped down an uncomfortable swallow. Ah, but she remembered now why she didn’t wear those robes, why she’d kept these items in secret. Last year, the Black Horse Courier had run a story about a man who’d been arrested for performing a ritual to summon the Dark Brotherhood. They were a band of assassins rumored to carry out murders in exchange for gold, and she had stolen from one of them. She read the letter again.

The Black Hand?  Who were they? They sounded important. Some sort of ruling body in this guild of assassins?

Nim stuffed the envelope back into the book and rewrapped it in the robe before shoving it into the bottom of her trunk. No, surely she hadn’t robbed the house of a high-ranking assassin? Surely, she hadn’t kept those items after all this time. With her belly turning, she made a mental note to dispose of them the next time she lit a fire.

The carriage driver rapped on the front window, informing her that they were now turning onto the Gold Road and would stop in Skingrad for the night. Nim decided to finish reorganizing her trunk so she could relax for the remainder of her journey. Maybe she'd pick up a new book to read while in town.

While sifting and refolding, a few more skeletons from her past made a reappearance— an oversized cotton shirt that had once belonged to J’rasha. It still smelled of him when she closed her eyes, like sunlight and moon-sugar, his musk and her first sip of wine. One of the wrought iron cuffs that had bruised her wrists on the night she was thrown into prison. She didn't know why she kept those, what they were supposed to remind her of besides weakness and the mysterious working of Lady Luck.

A golden chain lay trapped beneath a pile of books. Nim tugged it, and there, hanging from her fingers flashed the glistening Amulet of Kings. She caught her reflection on the face of the ruby centerpiece, wrinkled brows and lips pursed tight in disgust. Turning it over, she forced her reflection away. 

Why did she still have this? Nothing good could come of keeping it. Shouldn't she just deliver it to that Blade in Chorrol? Better yet, she could toss it out the window and forget—

Forget what? That you’re still a coward? That you failed him like you failed J’rasha and your sisters? Good thing you’re going so far away from your friends. Everyone around you ends up dead, so go on and give it to that monk. Fail him too.

"Shut up," Nim said, squeezing the amulet in her fist. The gemstone insets dug into her palm, leaving small moon-shaped indents in the flesh. It's not my fault. I'm not the hero he thought I was. He mistook me for someone else.

Nim chucked the amulet back into the bottom of her trunk and dropped the Dark Brotherhood paraphernalia on top of it. She covered them with her books, tossed her folded clothes in next, laid down a tarp and her alchemy equipment on top of that. She slammed the lid closed, latched it shut with two locks for good measure.

What happened in that prison cell, the horrors, the prophecies Uriel Septim had foretold of her future— all of that had died too when the assassins drove the blade through his heart. The Emperor was old, desperate, and wrong. Nim had never been a hero. She was just... Nim. And her life was hers and hers alone to lead.

Nim turned to look out the window, ignoring the shame bubbling inside her. The carriage bumped and thumped its way across the countryside where few reminders of Winter's cold bite remained. Basswoods and black cherries swayed at the forest edge, white blossoms scattering from their racemes. The flowers drifted down to sprinkle the Gold Road, pirouetting through the air like fat flakes of snow, but they didn’t melt, simply gathered, and everywhere she looked, the West Weald thrived. 

Squinting up at the road ahead, Nim watched the flax dance with the mild breeze atop rolling hills of green fescue, and all around her, spring flourished in full force.

And why, she thought, shouldn’t I?

---

It was late into the evening of the following day by the time Nim arrived in Anvil. With her belongings safely stored at the Mages Guild, she made her way to the Count’s Arms. It was a clean, well-lit establishment on the main thoroughfare that featured the occasional lutist or harpist on weekend evenings. Today, a single bard stood in the center of the room, picking at a lyre as he crooned his pleasant little song. And today, Nim was buying her first house.

An hour later, she sat at the table in the far corner of the tavern, clutching a stack of papers and reading through the neatly inked lines for what must have been the thirtieth time. Nim was still in a state of disbelief. Could she be certain this Velwyn Benirus wasn’t trying to swindle her? She looked up at him over the top of the house deed, and he shifted a little but kept his smile small and inconspicuous as he mutely sipped his wine. He was in his early twenties, probably only five years or so older than her. When she first spoke with him to inquire about the house, he’d claimed that the manor belonged to a great uncle. It had been left to him after the passing of a relative. The rest of his family had left Cyrodiil years ago, and so he had been the only one left to handle the sale of the estate. 

When Nim had asked why the house was being sold for so little, he’d explained that he had no desire to remain in Anvil to see to the restoration. It was true, the house was rather unsightly and had fallen into disrepair, but it came furnished and it didn’t take a master thief to see that the price was a complete steal. Anyone who thought otherwise was foolish. All she needed was a hammer and two hands to pull some weeds. 

“Does everything look alright?” Velwyn asked. 

“You’re absolutely certain about this? No take-backs?”

Velwyn cleared his throat and nodded his head. He was fidgeting again, pulling at his collar and rubbing at his wrists. She’d seen mudcrabs sit still for longer. “As soon as the deed is signed, the house will belong to you.”

“And should I need to contact you some weeks from now, how can I reach you?”

“Why would you need to contact me?” 

Nim shrugged. “In case I find out you’ve swindled me.”

Velywn laughed nervously. “I’d never.”

“Maybe I want to renovate and need to know something about the architectural history of the home."

"I've left you the prints of the layout. Show them to your foreman."

"Well, what if I have other questions? How does the house respond to cold weather? To the rain? Any leaks?"

Velwyn shifted uncomfortably again. He was trying too hard to force a smile now, so hard it was making Nim uneasy. "It doesn't really get cold in Anvil," he said. "Doesn’t rain much either.”

“Never had termites?”

"Erm... well, I haven't actually lived in the house, you see."

“So what if I find something in the walls? Do you want me to return it to you?”

“What would be in the walls?”

“I don’t know. Treasure. Or like, a body? You sure that’s not why it’s so cheap?”

“Er,” he said, fidgeting again. “If you find anything in that house, you can keep it.”

"Look if it’s a murder house, you can tell me. I’d still buy it. A little blood will clean up just fine. I’ve seen worse.”

“Nimileth, I- I…”

“So let's say the house is haunted then. What if I need to know who died there to lift the curse? How will I find you then?”

Velwyn bolted up from his seat, and the screech of the chair legs scraped painfully against the tile floor. “Just a minute now, wh-who told you that?” 

Nim recoiled back against her chair, preparing to defend herself. “No one!" she said, waving her hands in front of her. "I just want to make sure I’m not getting scammed. Good Gods, man, you're tense!”

Velwyn swallowed dryly, coughed, then averted his eyes from the onlooking tavern-dwellers. Slowly, he sat back down. “Nimileth, I think I’ve been very fair and patient with you. The sooner we close on this deal together, the sooner we both can begin our new lives. In your hands is the deed of ownership.”  He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and slid them across the table. “Here are the keys. Now sign when you’re ready, and I do hope that is soon.”

Dipping the quill into the ink, Nim then scribbled out her signature. She took the keys, folded up her copy of the deed, staring skeptically at Velwyn all the while. His cheap smile had returned and if it failed to convince her of its sincerity before, it reeked of artifice now. 

“Wonderful,” he said. Nim stood when he stood. “Now, I’ll just file away my copy before I leave.”

“Velwyn, it’s been a pleasure. Good luck wherever you go.” He shook her hand gently. In his eyes, immeasurable relief.

The spring night was mild, the breeze ripe with the smell of brine. Nim tried to remain level-headed as she left the inn, certain by now that there had indeed been some grisly murder in Benirus Manor driving its value down. Despite her reservations, however, her heart swelled. So large it grew that it hung heavy in her chest, dragging her down with each step she took. No longer was she a street-urchin bouncing between abandoned buildings to put a roof over her head. She was a homeowner. She had a bedroom, a balcony, a study, even space for a garden. The world was at her fingertips. All she needed to do was reach.

What would her home look like in a few months? Oh, she could see it now— every morning the sun spilling through the curtains, warm on her face while the tile pressed cool against the balls of her feet. She’d walk the winding staircase down to her very own kitchen and keep it stocked with anything her heart desired. Maybe she'd throw a house-warming party. She could learn how to host, make tiny pastries, mix fancy cocktails. The harder she thought about it, however, the harder it was to imagine all of her friends gathered together beneath one roof. She imagined Fathis would find the odd assortment of guests riveting.

Nim had left her trunk in the guild hall, and though she planned to begin moving in come morning, she needed to see the house now and with her own two eyes. She quickened her pace until she reached the frontyard fence and hopped over to stand at the foot of the manor, the grass shriveled and brown and dry against her shins. Gazing up at the house— her house—, Nim had never been happier to feel so small. 

She scurried up the steps to the green copper door, unlocked it, pushed it inward, and entered the foyer. Stale air funneled down her lungs. Nim found herself hunting for breath.

As soon as she stepped into the dark of the foyer, a chill climbed down her nape and raised fine hairs that grew on every inch of her limbs. The air within the house was musty, lifeless, colder than even the breeze outside. She threw up an orb of starlight, frightened to peer around, certain she’d find some gnarled creature in the corner, but with the room illuminated, she saw it was empty. The barren hearth yawned along the far wall. Nim stared deep into its maw. 

In the foyer, the furniture had been draped in white cloth and appeared in good condition save a healthy coating of dust. The walls and tiles were otherwise clean (no bloody scene to be found) and free of cracks. No cause for alarm, yet Nim felt on edge. Something was wrong here, and she didn’t dare walk deeper until she could pin the sinking feeling in her belly. Surely there was a logical explanation . It was late. She was tired. She was still thinking about Velwyn’s furtive glances. 

But knowing better than to ignore a gut hunch, Nim took a reluctant step backwards and locked the front door to her new home. She felt for the deed in her back pocket. Still there.

---

The following morning, Nim awoke in a spare room at the Anvil guild hall, and when she spied the house deed on her nightstand, she took a deep, uneasy breath. The sinking feeling of the night before had not been burned away by the daylight, and it left her muscles stiff and heavy as she got dressed. Last night hadn’t gone as she expected, and despite the excitement she’d felt for that very moment in the weeks prior, she dreaded returning to the manor down the road. 

Perhaps I am coming down with a flu , she told herself, it is that time of year, and so she wandered down to the kitchen where she intended to brew a pot of tea and make her feel a little more like herself.

“Nim! Oh, thank Julianos I’ve run into you.” 

Down in the kitchen, Nim turned to find a worried Carahil approaching her. “Hi,” she said, rubbing at her eyes.

"Thaurron was just telling me you’re planning to purchase Benirus Manor. I’m not too late, am I?”

Too late? Nim’s heart crashed into her belly. “I actually signed the deed yesterday," she said. 

Carahil’s face contracted into a grimace. “Eyes of Magnus," she said, a huff of breath that sounded more than vaguely distressed. "I hadn’t even realized it was for sale again. You haven’t been inside yet have you?”

Nim nodded. "Just last night."

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you… did you find anything odd?

Gods what an idiot I am .

The low price, Velwyn’s strange demeanor, the chilling presence in the foyer…

I knew it was too good to be true.

Nim removed the water kettle from the heat of the fire as it began to whistle. She steeped a pouch of fresh mint and explained the events of the night before. “I was hoping I came down with some fever or something," she said. "I can try to put it into words, but I was there last night, and it felt all sorts of wrong. Like... I was clammy and cold and kind of scared. Does that make sense?” Carahil nodded sympathetically. “There’s something sinister in that house. A presence. I just... I could feel it.”

“Oh Nimileth, I would have told you had I known.”

“Told me what?”

Carahil wrung her hands and motioned to to the nearby table. They sat together. Nim blew at the steam rising from her  tea. “Lorgren Benirus, the original owner of the house, was a member of the guild many years ago,” she began.  “He was human, sickly, and as he got older in his years, he grew obsessed with finding a way to prevent aging. He turned to dark magics, forbidden magics, hoping to prolong his life.”

 "Oh dear," Nim said. "He was a necromancer, wasn't he?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he was."

"I can't get away from them, can I?"

“Another mage caught him stealing bodies from the crypts beneath the Chapel of Dibella,” Carahil said with a lopsided frown. "Our suspicions were solidified then. Necromancy wasn’t banned then, but Hannibal threatened to report his behavior to the Council.”

“Hannibal? Like, Hannibal Traven? The Arch-mage?”

“He was the head of the chapter here in Anvil before he served on the Council,” Carahil said. “I’ve no doubt what he witnessed here persuaded him to take such a strong stance on necromancy. Lorgren grew desperate then. We knew what he was planning. After deliberation among ourselves, Hannibal and I lead the mages to his manor to confront him. He attacked us. We had no choice but to kill him. Amid the chaos and the fighting, his body vanished.”

Nim sipped her tea, burned her tongue, and let out a gasp. “Vanished? Where could it have gone?”

Carahil shrugged, a bit ashamed, and shook her head. “I wish I had the answer. No one has set a foot in that house for decades. Only his nephew. Logren was preparing to turn himself into a Lich. I’m sure he enchanted the house in preparation for the rituals. Perhaps he cursed it, trying to ward new inhabitants away. I believe, somehow, his body is preserved within that house."

"What do you mean preserved? Like its in the walls?"

"Or under the floorboards. A crawlspace. Some sort of secret passage that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. Before he died, he must have teleported himself somewhere else."

If Nim wasn’t sick before, by now she was beginning to turn green. Just her luck! Not only was her home owned by a necromancer, but his mummified body was still in its very walls. "Ugh," she retched out, disgusted. “What a bastard. That Velwyn sold me a haunted house."

Carahil could only nod.

"I suppose I'll need to check for it then,” Nim added. “I've slept in some miserable conditions before, but I am not about to sleep in a house with a dead body laying about.” 

There was just no break from this necromancy nonsense, not even in her personal life. Stendarr have mercy, on me. I think I’ve aged a dozen years. And I was just beginning to set standards for myself too. 

Well, there was no way Nim was going to move backwards now. If there was a necromancer squatting in her walls, she was going to see it evicted with the same hospitality she had shown to all the others who had crossed her.

“I could send word to Hannibal Traven," Carahil offered. "Lorgren was a powerful mage. I have no idea how serious this curse could be nor what kind of danger you could be in by investigating it. Hannibal is more than familiar with Lorgren’s transgressions. I’m sure he would be willing to help.”

Nim’s eyes flew wide open. Carahil didn’t really expect the Arch-mage to come down for the soul purpose of cleansing her house of evil spirits, did she? Nim had yet to meet the Arch-mage and certainly didn’t want her housewarming-exorcism to be the first time they did. “I appreciate it,” she said, “but there is no need to get the Arch-mage involved. I’ve fought my fair share of necromancers. What’s another notch on the belt?”

Carahil, looking disturbed, raised a brow. “Well, you won’t protest to my coming with you at least? I need to see this through to the end.”

Nim replied with a resigned shrug and took another scalding sip of her tea. 

---

Velwyn Benirus, that worm!

Nim clutched the scrap or Lorgren’s diary all the way back to the Imperial City. It was abundantly clear that Velwyn had known the manor was haunted when he sold it to her. A simple warning would have been greatly appreciated, and she probably would have bought the damn thing anyway! If she didn’t need a true-blooded descendent to open Lorgren’s portal, Nim would march right into the King and Queen Tavern and roast that wretched imperial on a spit.

“Velwyn Benirus!" Nim stormed into the tavern, slamming the wooden door so hard that it rattled on its hinges. "You! You pile of scrib jelly!”

She marched straight for Velwyn, who had just tripped over his chair and was standing in the center of the room attempting to lock eyes with any of the other patrons, anyone beside Nim. None came to his aid.

“I- I’m surprised to see you all the way out here in the Imperial City,” he stuttered, not even attempting to feign a smile now.

Nim jammed her finger into his sternum, causing him to flinch backward. “Did your mother lobotomize you as a child, or are you stupid enough to think I wouldn’t find out you sold me a cursed house?" She rammed her finger into him again. "You’re lucky I’m not dead, you bastard, otherwise I would be haunting you for the remainder of your miserable little life!”

Ley Marillin, the tavern proprietor, attempted to call Nim over and calm her down. “Enough of that, Nim. Have a drink, on me!” But Chancellor Ocato could have been calling her name at that moment, and she wouldn’t have heard.

“Say something, you spineless sload!” Nim shoved her palms against Velwyn's chest. He stumbled backward, catching himself on the edge of a dining table. The patrons seated there scattered quickly.

“I- um, I suppose you think I am responsible for the curse?” he said. Wrong move.

Nim whipped her cloak back, flashing her sheathed dagger.  She leaned against him, her breath low and hot, snarling like a rabid dog. “Think very carefully on your next words, Velwyn. Or they may just be your last."

Velwyn blinked. He said nothing for a long moment then took a seat. “I suppose you’re right," he said and slumped over to hang his head in his hands. “I knew there was a curse on the manor. That is why I sold it for so cheap. I should have warned you. I suppose I assumed you would lift the curse and be done with it, being a mage and all. I hope you weren’t hurt badly in that horrible place.”

"Ugh, don't pretend you care!"

But when Velwyn looked up at Nim, his face drooped, eyes heavy with something Nim was not inclined to believe was true remorse. No, she was feeling particularly uncharitable tonight and met him with a fiery glare. Whether he apologized for it now meant kwama-egg to her. He knew it was haunted all along! 

“I fear greed has gotten in the way of my better judgment," he said. "My family told me that I could move here to the Imperial City once I tied off all loose ends in Anvil. The manor— that was the last loose end.”

“Son of a scamp," she hissed. "I am your loose end now.” Nim unsheathed her dagger and plunged it into the wooden table between Velwyn’s fingers. “Tell me, do I look tied off to you?”

A loud gasp sounded from the once silent tavern-goers. Velwyn stared at the blade, the color draining from his face.

“Now Nimileth," Ley said as he hopped over the bar counter. "I don’t know what this young man did to hurt you, but if you’re planning to cut him up, you best do so outside and not get any blood on my floor. You promised it wouldn't happen again.”

Velwyn’s pale face froze, sagging down like an icicle. At once, panicked eyes shot towards the door then to the window, desperately searching for an escape.

Nim pulled her dagger out of the table and took the seat beside him. She placed her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “Velwyn, I will not kill you, but the only thing preventing me from doing so is that I won’t be able to lift the curse without you. You’re a young man with a long life ahead of you. We can sit here and have a nice chat over some beer or you can try to run away, and we’ll have a much shorter chat as I cart your paralyzed body from here to Anvil in a trunk. What say you?”

“The former please,” Velwyn replied, his voice much smaller than it had been a moment prior. “How- um… how much do you know about Lorgren?”

“A fair bit.” She patted his thigh, released him. “I did some research. What do you know?”

Lips trembling, he managed out a saccharine little smile, much like the one he’d given her back in Anvil. It made Nim want to punch something. "I'll tell you all about it," Velwyn said, "But say, why don't I buy you a drink first? Lighten the mood. I owe you, don't I?"

"That you do," she said and turned to Ley, raising two fingers into the air.

Chapter 14: Where Spirits Have Eviction Notices

Summary:

Nim and a team of mages work to remove the curse from Benirus Manor

Chapter 14: Where Spirits Have Eviction Notices

Nim and Velwyn Benirus sat in the Count's Arms once again, quietly sipping their respective drinks. The soft melody of the lute player floated over them, and Velwyn rocked back and forth in his seat, looking ready to expel the contents of his stomach. Nim eyed him with a sidelong glance, rolled her eyes, and continued drumming her fingers across the table as she waited for the rest of their company to show.

Though Nim trusted that she and Carahil could handle whatever lay in wait at the manor, Carahil had suggested reinforcements, another mage to join them as they lifted the curse, to watch their backs. Nim supposed it made sense. It had taken a team of mages to slay Lorgren the first time, and still he’d managed to survive in a somewhat non-corporeal form trapped somewhere within her walls.

When Carahil had suggested assistance, Nim’s first thoughts had been of Raminus. Surely, he’d want to help her if he knew she was in danger. Wasn’t that why he’d joined her at the Dark Fissure? Besides, it’s not like this task was strictly personal. Lorgren's death had been at the hands of the local Mages Guild, and his potential revival directly threatened Anvil. But over the past week, Raminus had been acting strangely towards her, shifting away whenever she approached, freezing in her presence, and every time she left the room, he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Nim couldn’t for the life of her pin it down to why. So many things could have tickled him the wrong way on their mission together. Was it her oversharing? The handholding? The dismemberment?

Deciding not to introduce any more discomfort into Raminus’ life, Nim had written to Fathis regarding the haunting at Benirus Manor instead. During their conversation in Bravil, Fathis had made it clear that although he was painfully unaware of the rise of necromancy within Cyrodiil, he was well versed in the subject from his many years among the Telvanni. Fathis wrote back swiftly, all too eager to join her cause.

Of course, the letter read. I knew you missed me.

It wasn’t untrue.

And now she waited.

They’d decided to meet at 6 o'clock. Fathis arrived only a few minutes after Carahil, and greeted Nim with a tight embrace that suggested they were lifelong friends and it had been years rather than weeks since their last (and only) meeting. He was dressed in finely wrought armor— studded leather and barely used— and carried a staff on his back. A silver-hilted sword sat sheathed at his side.

“Fathis Aren, it’s been a while.” Carahil greeted him with a firm handshake. “The last time I saw you must have been… Vivec City four decades ago? You were still with the Telvanni then, weren’t you? Planning out the construction of your own Tel, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, that was me,” Fathis replied with a nod and welcoming smile that did not at all acknowledge the judgement in Carahil’s voice. “Much has changed in the interim, I assure you.”

“How I’ve heard.”

“You, however, haven’t aged a day.”

“Mhm.”

Carahil regarded him warily, her expression cool. If they were acquaintances all those years ago, Nim didn’t get the impression that they were very close. Or very friendly.

“And how do you and Nim know each other?” Carahil asked, inquisitive, but her eyes, which remained locked on Fathis, were positively scrutinizing.

Fathis and Nim gave different answers at the same time.

“Conjuration lessons,” Nim said.

“Ayleid research,” said Fathis, "er, I mean conjuration lessons."

Carahil stared unblinkingly at the two of them. “Curious.” 

“Well then,” Nim said, taking the loss in their staring contest. “This is Velwyn Benirus, grandson or something of Lorgren Benirus. He is the one who sold me the manor like a gutless little worm, and he will be helping us lift its curse.”

Velwyn gave a weak wave to the surrounding mages and rocked forward on his chair, still clammy and looking sick with fright. “Nim, I- I don’t feel so well.’

NIm simply ignored him. “We’re all introduced now, let us waste no more time.” 

Carahil motioned toward the door. “Lead the way.”

Nim let them into the manor. None of the diffuse light from the twilit sky outside entered the windows, leaving the foyer shrouded in a dusty gray. Nim staved off the prickles that climbed her arm by rubbing them away, not scared so much as she was furious. Ghosts in her home? The gall!

A broken cupboard lay in pieces on the floor, a consequence of the scuffle she and Carahil had encountered with the manor's ghosts when they’d last investigated. Nim knelt down beside the cupboard and pointed to a shattered urn amidst the rubble.

“See, look at that,” she said and kicked at the skeletal hand that lay tucked beneath the broken ceramic. She’d found it there along with a page of Lorgren’s diary, a scrap just detailed enough to confirm what Carahil so feared. 

“What is it?” Fathis asked.

“A hand.” Nim picked it up and gave it a little wave. Immediately a thunderous crash came from the floor above.

Fathis unclasped his staff and took a step down the hall. “What’s upstairs?” 

"The bedroom and the study," Nim said. "Maybe a ghost."

"I'll check. The two of you remain here."

Carahil nodded and with some reluctance remained with Velwyn while Nim led Fathis through the kitchen and to the stairwell. He summoned a Dremora and sent it up the stairs first, climbing up slowly at its heels.

“A Caitif seems overkill, no?” Nim called out to him, but he was gone through the bedroom door, his focus elsewhere.

Nim supposed it could have been worse. He could have summoned a flame atronach, and she silently prayed that her house would remain standing after tonight and not crumble to a pile of soot.

A sudden cry from the foyer. Velwyn. Nim raced back to the foyer, but as suddenly as she rounded the kitchen corner she was struck by a cold, sharp tingling blast. The cold spread from her shoulder down the length of her arm, stinging like needles. Another blistering blast of frost struck her square in the back, and she fell forward, seething through her teeth, crashing forcefully into the wall.

Rising shakily to her feet, Nim whipped around to face her assailant. A pale, translucent figure floated from the starwell into the kitchen, moaning its low, terrible wail. Nim cloaked herself with a quick reflection spell and sent a blast of flame into the specter. They danced about each other, fire mixing with ice, water splashing across the walls. A hazy steam filled the kitchen until at last her fireball had engulfed the ghost and sent it screeching back into the afterlife. All that remained was a shimmering pile wet goo upon the floor.

With a new-found surge of energy, Nim charged into the foyer to find two more ghosts had emerged from the walls to corner Carahil and Velwyn. With one hand, Carahil shielded Velwyn with a ward. He sat cowered behind her, offering no assistance, and with her other hand, Carahil directed streams of shock magic into the attacking specters. The air sizzled.

Nim approached from the rear, lobbing fireballs into the ghosts. One and then another, and on the third her magical reserves oozed slowly through her blood. Fire sparked at her fingertips. She could scarcely light a candle with it. Magicka drain— she had done it again! When was she going to learn?

Failing to draw out more fire, Nim reached for her short-sword only to realize it was made of steel, therefore useless against the ghosts. She needed silver, something enchanted. Carahil shouted something indecipherable above the sizzles and snaps of the shock spells. Nim didn’t know how to aid her. With her blade useless and her magicka spent, she glanced helplessly around the room. Amidst the rubble of the collapsed cupboard, she spied a silver plate and assorted cutlery. Silver blades worked against wraiths and phantoms— why not a silver spoon? 

Arming herself with a plate and fork, Nim approached the attacking ghosts. She stabbed at them, right in the nape, bashed her plate into their backs as forcefully as she could against something without a physical form. Stabbing and stabbing again, her fork pierced into their plasm. They shrieked, long translucent arms waving wildly as they swatted at her. Was it working? Nim didn't have time to question it, and so she stabbed again.

The biting cold of the ghosts’ plasm left Nim’s hands numb and her fingernails blue, but the ghosts withered before her, their pained wails growing weaker. With a final gasp, the apparitions faded away, and with the threat eliminated, Carahil peeled away from the wall. She brushed off her robes, looked down at Nim, and shook her head.

“Sloppy work,” she said and then turned her attention to Velwyn who was still crouched down in the corner and shaking like an aspen lead. "There, there," she said, patting at him the way one might a small dog. 

Fathis appeared behind her not long after. “Innovative,” he said, an approving nod directed at the cutlery she still clutched in her hands. “You’re lucky Lorgren had fine taste in tableware. Imagine if that was pewter.”

The party descended down into the basement without any further interference from the manor’s ghosts. How deep did this basement go? Nim swore they’d been walking for five minutes before they reached the end. She could hear Velwyn’s labored breathing behind her. She could hear it from even ten feet away, heavy and coming quicker, so rapid it nearly choked him when at last they curved around the final corner. There along the far wall was a hideous, gruesome sigil that had been carved into the bricks and painted over in red.

“What the fuck?”

“By the Three,” Fathis said. “What in Oblivion is that?”

"A lock." Carahil inspected the sigil, running a finger down the etchings. "It’s the door Lorgren wrote of in his journal. He must have hid himself behind it when he died.”

Fathis walked closer, casting his magelight. The red runes of the portal glistened. “You didn’t think to check behind the glowing red door after Lorgren’s body disappeared?”

Carahil flashed him a pointed look. “Obviously, we would have had it been here at the time,” she snapped. “Only a full-blooded Benirus can open it. I think Velwyn’s presence has made it finally appear.”

Nim stared at the sigil. It emanated something wicked. A menacing aura of magic pulsated through the air, slithering in her blood like an eel. She shuddered.

“Wh- what am I supposed to do?” Velwyn asked.

“Maybe we need some of his blood.” Nim held up her silver fork, ready to plunge. 

Carahil shook her head. “Approach. Make contact. Visualize an open door. Lorgren left no incantation behind so your presence should be enough. Go on, touch the seal.”

Velwyn did as was told, tracing the lines and curves of the sigil with his hands. Slowly, the bricks in the wall began to quiver. They folded backwards, collapsing in on themselves to reveal the tomb that had been hidden away. Inside was an altar on which lay a withered body enrobed in a gown emblazoned with more mystical runes.

When Velwyn saw the corpse, he bolted. Nim let him go. He had opened the portal as promised. His use had been exhausted.

The remaining elves entered through the hole in the wall. The same sigil that marked the entrance of the tomb had been engraved on the stone pillars surrounding them. Rotted wooden coffins lay stacked against the walls and everywhere Nim turned, she found more bones, dismantled skeletons. Lorgrens experiments? 

The air here was cold, even colder than the house upstairs. Nim rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms as her heart lurched forward in her chest. These bodies, these people— these were the poor souls who now haunted her house, and they were angry for being stolen from their resting place, angry for being used to fuel this mad man’s schemes. It wasn’t their fault that their final peace had been disturbed. Nim would see them returned. 

Carahil crept closer to the altar while Nim and Fathis surveyed the perimeter of the crypt. A dusty tome sat on the desk against the wall. Nim reached out to tilt up and read its spine, pausing only when she met Carahil’s sharp eye.

“Don’t trust anything you find here, Nimileth,” Carahil warned her then returned her attention to the robed skeleton resting on the altar in the center of the room. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s Lorgren.” 

The faded cloth covering Lorgren’s remains bore stitched patterns of arcane symbols Nim didn’t recognize. Caarahil did however. Her face twisted in disgust as she inspected it.

Stepping closer, attempting to read the runes, Carahil crossed the circle that encompassed the altar. The circle, a thin orange line painted on the floor began to glow.

" I desire the chance to atone for my sins, ” said a raspy voice from nowhere. 

"What was that?" Nim said, whipping her head about the room searchin for the source of the disembodied voice. Carahil waved her into silence.

"The things I've done to the people of Anvil, the horrible, unspeakable acts I've committed… after so many years, they demand repentance .”

" Lorgren,” Carahil hissed under her breath.

Fathis’ tightened his grip on his staff. "Take my sword," he whispered to Nim. She accepted it with a nod.

“Carahil, you were justified in your actions," the disembodied voice continued, filling the chamber, sending vibrations from the ground up through her legs. "Slaying me was the only way to stop the madness. I have accepted that fate. Now, so I may make my final peace with the Nine, please rejoin my hand to my body. Only then, when I am complete, will this eternal nightmare end."

Carahil pointed to the skeleton’s left arm. It ended at the wrist. "Do as he says."

Nim retrieved the skeletal hand from her back pocket (which she only just noticed was held together suspiciously well despite the withered ligaments). She placed it beside the body. Lorgren’s voice returned with a horrible, throaty cackle.

"It never fails to amuse me how easy mortal man is to manipulate. You've assisted me in completing the very thing Hannibal and his cabal sought to prevent all those years ago... my ascension to immortality.”

"Fool, Benirus!" Carahil shouted above the maniacal laughter. "Your arrogance remains even in the after life!”

The voice continued its raving, it’s laughing, but Nim had shut it out. Instead, she stared at the growing orb of orange light that rose from the ribcage of the skeleton on the altar.

"Um, do you see that?" she asked, nudging Carahil. "I feel like maybe we weren't supposed to give him what he wanted." Clutching Fathis' sword, she swiped the blade across the face of the altar, scattering the bones to the floor. 

The bones danced on the ground, jumping, popping. They were moving closer together, uniting once again. A clear blue mist gathered behind the altar. Iit drew Lorgrens remains into its swirling haze. 

“He’s coming,” Carahil said, her hands sparking with shock magic. “Ready yourself.” 

Nim did. The sword was heavier than the one she was used to, but her magicka was still sluggish, ripe for only the measliest of fireballs. Slowly, the spectral mist cleared to reveal a skeletal shape. The scattered bones had since reknit themselves together, forming legs, arms, a spine supporting a skull that was cracked at the temple.

Fathis directed his staff at the floating mass of bones which was now taking on an even more physical form. Withered gray skin began to stretch over its skull and spread down across the bones like a web of slime mold. 

“What are we waiting for?” Fathis asked. “Shouldn’t we… you know?”

Before their eyes, the spirit of Lorgren Benirus was returning to the flesh as a lich. Fathis was right— what were they doing standing here, watching? And without waiting for Carahil’s reply, Nim leapt onto the altar and shot her fireball right into the lich’s chest. Lorgren’s dry flesh crackled at the heat, but he laughed, throwing his ghoulish mouth open. Fathis and Carahil followed suit, sending streams of shock magic into him, and soon the air was filled with a buzz of electricity that sent Nim’s hair standing on her skull. 

A cloud of steam formed in the air, shrouding the lich as it cried out with an inhuman wail. Nim drew her sword back, preparing to swing, but the lich swatted her across the face with such force, it sent her flying off the altar and onto the stone floor below.

“Argh,” she choked out, the wind knocked from her lungs. Her cheek stung. Cradling it in her hand, she found the skin there split in a thin line. Blinking through the pain, she hobbled to her feet to watch as Carahil and Fathis dodged the ice shards and frost spikes that Lorgren lobbed across the room. 

A spike of ice shards splintered against the pillar behind her. Nim ducked down just in time. From deeper in the crypt came the sound of shambling bones. Raised dead? A skeletal guardian?  Nim didn’t have the time to look  as Lorgren turned his attention to her and lashed out with his gnarled talons.

Raising her blade, she blocked his attack. Lorgren bellowed out a bark of cruel, bloodless laughter, He floated higher into the air. " You will not have this house, " he said, charging up another blizzard of magical frost. " This is my manor, my kingdom..."

When Nim parried his next attack, Logren turned to Carahil and sent the glacial stream of magic her way. A sphere of ice crystals burst across the room, and Carahil shrieked, its sharp needles piercing her skin. Fathis, who had crept around the room to assault from behind, raised his staff and shot a stream of fire into Lorgren’s back. The lich roared and twisted, beating back the fire with a dispel charm. Nim took the opening and climbed onto the altar again. 

Meeting the floating lich on a level plane, she raised her blade over her shoulder, knees bent, squeezing the hilt with all her might, and swung down upon her enemy. The blade connected with flesh, slicing clean through as Carhil and Fathis sent another jolt magic arcing through the air.

Lorgren screamed. Steam erupted from his mouth, his empty eye sockets, the gash in his face where his nose had once been. When it cleared, Nim looked down. He was dead again at the foot of the altar, his headless body burnt to a crisp, robes charred by the magic. Fathis kicked the head over to her. She jumped when it hit the back of her boots.

Clearing her throat, Nim turned to her companions with a shrug. “That was slightly anticlimactic," she said. "I thought he might fight with a bit more vigor after being dead for so long. Seems he was mostly talk.”

“This is not to be taken lightly, Nimileth.” Carahil raised a boot and crushed Lorgren’s bones beneath it, stomping them down as one might an annoying little scrib. She doused the cracked pieces in fire. They went up like dry reeds, and the trio gathered in silence to watch the skeleton burn away.

With a tired sigh, Carahil turned to face Nim and gestured to the pilfered coffins around the crypt. “I suppose there’s no way to know who these remains belong to now that they’ve been moved from their resting place,” she said regretfully.

“They won’t ever be disturbed again,” Nim said. “I’ll speak with the Primate at the Chapel of Dibella and ensure they receive a proper burial on the cathedral grounds.” It was the least she could do for them, even if they had attacked her. Wherever they were, she hoped they found their way to Aetherius with no further interruption.

Carahil nodded in agreement and turned towards Fathis, who was now sifting through the pages of the dusty book on the nearby desk. Nim walked closer to peer over his shoulder, squinting at the intricate symbols and daedric lettering. Leafing through the pages, she caught a flash of text that referenced a ritual of ascension. 

“This could fetch you a fair price in the right markets,” Fathis stated matter-of-factly. He flipped another page.

“Don’t you dare, Aren,” Carahil growled and ripped the tome from his grasp. She tucked the book under her arm and scowled. “Godsblood, how did they even let you into the guild? This is going straight to the University archives under lock and key. I won’t have any more deaths or liches on my conscience, no thank you. Now let’s leave this place. I sense that our work is done. Remaining here any longer is going to give me a headache.”

---

They left the basement soon after. In the open salt-misted night air, Carahil took Nim aside, and worry sprouted in her stomach, branching into a great oak of dread, positive that she’d just shown Carahil how incompetent of a mage she truly was. Maybe Carahil would rescind her offer of an apprenticeship. Nim swallowed down a hard lump.

“Thank you for letting me join you in lifting this curse,” Carahil said. Nim loosed a long sigh of relief. “I set out to destroy Lorgren long ago and failed. Tonight I righted my mistakes. His unholy craft will no longer threaten Anvil. Well done.”

She left after that, and Nim slumped against Fathis, tired, hungry, but triumphant. “Thanks for coming,” she mumbled. “Hope you got to stretch your legs a bit.”

“I can’t decide if you’re one of the luckiest women alive or one of the unluckiest.”

“I think they kind of… cancel each other out?" she said. “At the end of the day I’m just neutral.”

Fathis offered her his arm. “Come, let’s go see if we can find this Velwyn fellow. I’m sure he’s probably pissed himself in fear. The least we could do is offer him a drink.”

“The least we could do! This is entirely his fault!” Nim glared at Fathis only find him grinning smugly. “I think you should buy me a drink for even implying such a thing.”

And Fathis did. Several in fact. They found Velwyn at the Count’s Arms and after plowing him with several beers, convinced him to join them as they took their celebration down to the docks where the miscreants and sailors spent their late evenings.

Shaking loose the lingering aura of that vile curse and the dusty stench of the undead, they made their way to the Flowing Bowl where Nim and Fathis managed to start a bar-fight with the entire crew of The Serpents Wake. Who would even choose to start a fight with a man clad in armor and wielding a proper staff? Yet they threw punches, the lot of them.

As dawn broke, Nim found herself slumped against the shore listening to the call of the early seabirds with a plump lip and the taste of iron on her tongue. Velwyn and Fathis were snoozing in the sand beside her, painted all shades of bruise from the blue of Fathis’ normal dunmeri complexion to the purple of the darkest star-free night. A blurred recollection of kissing Fathis flashed across her eyes. Or was it Velwyn? Or was it Fathis that had kissed Velwyn? Her head pulsed at the thought, hoping neither she nor her companions would remember come daylight.

Nim rolled over to watch the receding shore through her tilting, drunk eyes and smiled. For a house-warming party, this wasn’t half bad.

Chapter 15: Rewriting History

Chapter 15: Rewriting History

Blink. Don’t laugh. Blink.

Nim stared through the Gray Fox, past his frenetic hand waving and the ghastly cowl, past his empty promises of glory and legend immortalized.

Don’t stand up. Don’t walk away. Blink.

They sat on the ground floor of an Imperial City townhouse, speaking about the Palace, something about the Old Way and the Glass of Time , while Nim counted the yellow threads in the tapestry behind him, tip of her tongue held firmly between her teeth. An Elder Scroll. The Gray Fox wanted her to steal an Elder Scroll, and if the man was mad before, by now he was certifiably insane! 

"You will have to travel the Old Way," he explained. "It’s a secret passage beneath the city that was once used as an escape route for Emperors. It has long been forgotten, but…”

Forgotten my left ass-cheek. Not that place. Anywhere but there!

Fear and recognition spun a tangled web inside Nim, and she knew immediately what tunnels the Gray Fox referred to, for she had walked them that night , the Old Way, escaping through the prison with the Emperor’s blood still wet on her hands. The Gray Fox slid a worn key across the table, remembered when Baurus had given her the same one. 

"This key will unlock the gate to the sewers. I picked the pocket of Ocato himself to get it."

"You what?"

The Gray Fox smirked, sly and self-satisfied. Truthfully, she had thought him all talk when all he seemed to do was drone on about scrying and demanding respect she’d not believed he’d rightfully earned. Until this moment, she hardly believed he’d stolen a damn thing in his life. 

The Gray Fox unrolled a map on the table, pointed to the black inked lines that illustrated the secret passages beneath the city that led into the palace. For the first time since she’d met him, Nim was speechless and not simply because she was biting her tongue. Savilla’s stone, the boots, the arrowhead— now it all made sense. She needed these items to sneak through the palace and open the secret entrance to the Ayleid ruins beneath it. The Gray Fox had even arranged for her to take the place of Celia Camoran in the reading room where the monks would give her the scroll. Perhaps she had been wrong about him all this time. Few could draw up a plan as elaborate and meticulous as this.

But even fewer could pull it off.

---

Nim tracked a long trail of mud across the pristine floor of the reading room, on the heels of the monk ahead. The monk welcomed her to a sumptuous armchair, all crushed velvet adorned and tasseled cushions, and all the while, Nim could feel the sweat gathering in her palms. The flickering of the braziers did nothing to calm or cool her. Briefly, she debated mollifying her nerves with an illusion spell; surely the monks puttering about the towering archives all around her could sense the rapid beat of her heart, blind or not, as it was currently beating so loudly, she feared it might break through her chest. 

Nim fought the urge to pace and took her seat as the monk disappeared up the spiral staircase to retrieve the artifact she’d come for. A minute or perhaps a lifetime had passed by the time she finally saw the white blur of his robes sweeping back into her periphery. Descending from the archives, the monk carried a large scroll wrapped around a broad wooden handle. Nim realized then that the Elder Scroll was a literal scroll. What else had she expected? A stone tablet? A tome? Somehow not something so… banal.

“Celia Camoran, the scroll you requested.” The monk placed the scroll on the table before her, and Nim stared at it, remembering the Gray Fox’s orders: Don’t say a fucking word . But by now, Nim’s chest was so heavy with nerves, she wasn’t sure she could will herself to speak even if she tried.

The Elder Scrolls were said to be of unknown origin, bearing magic that could tell the future and see into the past. Moth Priests could read them but only after years of practice and not without the sacrifice of their ordinary eyesight. Grasping the handle, pulling the scroll closer, Nim ran a trembling hand across the yellowed paper. She expected to be overwhelmed by a magical aura, some inexplicable power yet unnamed, but beneath her fingers, she felt only papyrus. Nim peeled at the edge of the scroll. If she read its contents, would she too go blind? Curiosity compelled her despite the storm cloud of fear brewing in the depths of her gut. She opened it.

On the scroll lay row upon row of a strange runic script, or were they columns? They weren’t written in Daedric, that much she knew. Radiating out from the center of the scroll was a series of concentric ellipses bisected by lines that looked somewhat like constellations, a celestial orbit, a map of the cosmos, and none of it made much sense. When Nim looked around the room, her eyesight remained as it was. Crystal clear, not so much as a new floater in her periphery, and she felt relieved, quite relieved, but so too a little disappointed.

Clutched in her sweaty hands, the scroll was surprisingly heavy. That or she’d simply grown weak with nerves. Standing as silently as she could, she made her way toward the exit and pressed her back to the hall outside. Once the priests realized she was missing with the scroll, they'd send the guards for her, and with the entrance to the Old Way now sealed, she had to find another escape from the palace... and soon. 

Glancing around the hall, Nim spied a latticed window. The Gray Fox had mentioned that the enchanted boots would protect her from falls, but he hadn’t specified how long a fall she could survive. Dare she risk it? A conveniently placed window or balcony could take her to the lower levels of the palace, but when she looked out, all she found was a fall to the streets tall enough to leave her dizzy.

Nim traversed the palace with her invisibility spell, making it a few floors lower before she encountered a patrolling guard and ducked into the first room she came to. Though adored with oil paintings and rich red rugs, the furniture here was sparse: only bookshelves and looming file cabinets, a single desk of dark wood against the far wall. Some sort of office, she assumed, and passed through the door on the far side of the room. It led into a bedroom. Nim checked the windows again. Still a long drop. “Rats,” she cursed.

And then she heard a shout, muffled through the walls, the scraping of iron boots racing up the hall. Guards. The priests must have realized she’d fled with the scroll, and the time to leave was half an hour ago. Looking around, growing increasingly desperate, Nim noticed an empty fireplace in the wall and approached it. Dropping to her knees, she held her nose to the floor grate. No smoke, only the acrid smell of ash. She could protect herself with resistance spells if necessary, but the scroll… she might be a thief, but she was still a scholar. Carrying an Elder Scroll through open flame seemed reckless at best, needlessly barbaric at worst.

But seeing no other option, Nim pulled off the grate and tucked the Elder Scroll under her shirt. She dropped down the flue and into the rushing darkness, sightless as the Moth Priests she’d stolen from once again. 

---

As if lugging an Elder Scroll across the capital wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, the trek to Anvil after delivering it was one of the most exhausting experiences Nim had ever endured. Not a minute went by where she wasn’t glancing over her shoulder. Every voice, every footstep, every shadow, a guard approaching with a warrant for her arrest. Though she was certain no one had seen her in the palace during the heist, the idea of being wanted by the law awakened childlike terror from the deepest recesses of memory. Once within the safety of Benirus Manor, Nim barricaded the door, just in case.

She was not yet done with the Gray Fox’ requests. He had one more task for her—  to take a ring to Countess Millona Umbranox, to note how she reacts. Nim didn’t know what the Gray Fox wanted from this, but she’d never thought to ask before, and exhausted as she was, she simply couldn’t handle the mental strain of coming up with an explanation for it herself.

Nim collapsed onto the bed. Sleep found her quickly, but only a handful of minutes passed before she jolted awake. A vision flashed before her, searing like a brand: a guard breaking down her front door and hoisting her away. For an hour, she thrashed violently, grappling for relief.

Restless, Nim stared at the ceiling. I can’t keep doing this. This can’t be my life anymore. And it wasn’t good for her, all this crime that only riddled her with anxiety, left her feeling like a well-wrung rag. Perhaps it was time she retired from thieving all together. She had her house now and a proper rank in the Mages Guild. Finding respectable employment couldn't be so hard now she had the credentials to back it up. 

Nim let herself drift into dreams of a different life and entertained the idea of becoming someone better. Now that she had space for a garden, she could grow her own plants for her potions. She could dedicate more time to alchemy, make a name for herself as a free-lance merchant. That was right— once she was done with this Gray Fox nonsense, she would repent, give up her criminal ways for good!

In the morning, Nim flung open her wardrobe and chose a suitable outfit for her visit to the Castle. She settled on a gown of green silk, finely embroidered with a modest cut, and while, yes, it was stolen, she might as well make use of it. What else could she do now, return it? New life starts tomorrow, she reminded herself, and if she was headed to the castle, she might as well blend in.

Things are going to change around here, she thought as she locked the front door behind her. Life is going to get better. What’s that saying? The world is an oyster. Or something.  

---

Milona sat silently on her throne in the County Hall. Being a Countess was not dull business by any means, but it had its peaks and lulls as any other occupation did. Anvil was a prosperous town. She ran it smoothly, and rarely did citizens seek her audience to express grievance. Rarely did she have visitors of any sort, and she’d grown used to the spells of emptiness by now.

But Millona remembered a time when she did have visitors. When friends came to call, when this hall had been alive with mirth-filled laughter. So too did she remember when those same friends came to console her, grieve with her, to hold her head while she mourned. They’d stopped visiting after the second year. Now twelve had gone by and those friends, while true to her, had moved on with their lives. How she envied them.

The front gate of the castle wailed open, and a woman approached the Great Hall. Milona didn’t assume that  she’d come for her audience. Dairihil would have told her, and besides, these days she had few guests, if any. But the woman approached, walked right up to the dais, and bowed before the Countess. An elf. Young. Milona didn’t recognize her.

“Good afternoon, Countess Umbranox,” the woman said

Millona bowed her head respectfully. “Good Citizen, what can I do for you?”

Unprompted, the young woman ascended the steps and presented an open palm. On it lay a gold ring encrusted with small diamonds, and when the firelight flashed, Milona caught a glimpse of the Colovian engravings that rimmed the inner surface. Nostalgia flooded her in a nauseating fog. 

Milona picked up the ring unprompted. “I-I don’t believe this. This ring belonged to my husband, I know it. Corvus. He’s been missing for over ten years. How…”

Long-drowned emotions surfaced within Milona, bobbing in her belly like a bloated corpse. She’d told herself she’d come to terms with Corvus’ disappearance years ago. She’d heard the rumors, that he’d been attacked by bandits while travelling to the Capital, enamored by a young courtesan, whisked away by a secret lover. Just last year, she’d heard that he’d been spotted in Skyrim, presiding over a lumber mill with a younger, pettier wife and a pack of children that Milona could never give him.

Millona didn't care into whose arms he’d fled. All she wanted was to stop wondering. Didn’t he owe her that, even if he never returned? But the rumors never stopped, and as much as the words resplit the cracks in her heart, Milona didn’t have the luxury to grieve any longer. She was the only standing ruler of Anvil, and she’d done what she’d been raised to do. She reassembled herself, the shattered pieces he’d left. She still had a county to run.

But now... now, twelve years later she clutched his wedding band between her fingers, the first piece of him she’d seen since he vanished that night so long ago. “How did you get this?” she asked, rubbing her fingers against the diamonds, feeling them press sharp into her skin. “Do you know him? Do you know his whereabouts?”

The woman shook her head apologetically. "I don't."

Millona peered deep into the mer’s dark eyes, looking for something more, for anything else. The elf’s stare was blank. She was young and bosmeri, not young enough to be Corvus’ rumored illegitimate child. She didn’t look like him either. Not at all. 

“Why are you showing it to me? Why have you brought this here?”

"I’ve been asked to give it to you.”

“By whom?" Millona squeezed the ring in her fist and willed herself not to cry. "I never thought to see it again. Oh, Corvus. What I wouldn't give to see him once more."

A creak from the other side of the throne room. Both Milona and the woman looked over to find a man dressed plainly, rising from a bench. Milona hadn't even seen him sitting there, so distracted by the ring, by the memories that washed over her. But this man… he looked familiar, strangely familiar, and when he raised his arm, the room was flooded with blue light. Milona opened her mouth to scream but couldn’t.

---

“By the power of the Elder Scrolls, I name Emer Dareloth as the true thief of Nocturnal’s cowl!”

A flash of light left Nim temporarily blinded, and without thinking, she threw herself in front of the Countess, one hand on the hilt of her dagger. The stranger fell to his knees, hood tumbling from his hands, and when he looked up, Milona shrieked with atavistic fear. Nim regarded him swiftly. Grime-covered, middle-aged, blue eyes that sagged at the corners, the mien of a droopy old dog. She’d seen him before. She knew this man. In fact, she’d seen him recently.  “What in Oblivion…”

The man stood slowly. From behind her, Milona gripped Nim’s arm. “It can’t be you!” The Countess cried. ”I’ve been betrayed!”

The man worked his voice loose. Nim could hear the strain in it, the barely contained desperation as he pleaded, “It’s me, Milona. It’s me. Your missing husband.”

“But you…” Milona’s voice trailed off as she stared at the gray hood on the ground. Nim looked too. Blue Daedric runes flashed between the eye slits. It couldn’t be… the Gray Fox’s cowl!

Nim’s eyes went wide. “Wh-why do you have that?”

“Corvus.” The fear in Milona’s face melted to sorrow. “Twelve years, it’s been. Why were you hiding from me?” She was still gripping Nim’s arm, and despite the fact that Nim was certain neither were thinking much about her presence, she didn’t dare move.

The man, Corvus, or whoever the hell he was, bent down to pluck up the cowl. “I am the Gray Fox,” he said, “but you have not been betrayed. Twelve years ago, I inherited this cowl from the former Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild, thus becoming the Gray Fox and having his curse thrust upon me. Whoever wears the cowl shall have his name stricken from history. Once I wore it, no one in all of Tamriel could recognize me. Not even you, Millona.”

“I don’t understand. You were unable to return to me?”

Corvus took a step forward and reached out to his wife, but Millona pulled away, squeezing Nim's arm even tighter. Corvus looked away in shame

“I stood right next to you and you didn’t even know it," he said softly. "I cried out to you ‘Here I am! It’s me Corvus.’ And you looked right through me.”

Finally, Millona released Nim. Head high, she steeled herself before her husband. “You have broken my heart for a second time,” she said. “I cannot let an infamous criminal, the Gray Fox, sit on the throne beside me. If you try to announce yourself as Corvus, I will deny you! I will deny you before the Emperor's grave if I have to!”

“I knew you would react so strongly to me, Milona. This is why I brought my friend along.”

"What?" Nim locked eyes with Corvus, a cold chill strangling her veins.

“From this moment forward, I renounce my life of crime forever. I am passing the Gray Cowl to the next Guildmaster. From this day forward, you shall lead the Thieves Guild.”

Nim staggered backward, taking a step behind Milona, eyes wide as Corvus approached her. She looked down to the hideous cowl in his hands as she circled the Countess, refusing to allow him near her. And they circled the poor, fretful Millona for a few revolutions until eventually Corvus stopped chasing her. His face fell, sinuous with confusion, as he reached out to Nim again, dangling the cowl, beckoning for her to take it.

“The Gray Cowl is now yours," he said. "I am passing it you as the new Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild.”

Nim responded with a firm shake of her head. Corvus furrowed his brows, let out a mealy chuckle.

“The curse no longer remains with the cowl.” But the confusion on Corvus’ face only increased when he realized this explanation did not stop Nim from shaking her head. He cleared his throat again, the sound hoarse and mucosal. “Don the cowl. You will find that no one will notice the change in leadership, and unlike the Guildmasters before you, you can remove it and still be recognized as yourself.”

Corvus raised the cowl once more, motioning for Nim to accept, and she stared blankly at him for several seconds before bursting into a bout of maniacal laughter. The shrill sound rent the brittle silence of the room. 

"Oh, no fucking way. You've got to be kidding me!" Nim laughed again, and both Corvus and Millona shared a brief look of discomfort as they listened to her dry heave while attempting to regain her breath. “Uh-uh,” Nim said and waved a hand dismissively. She smiled at the Gray Fox, anticipating the punchline of a great joke because no matter how hard the Gray Fox shook his cowl at her, she was not going to accept this gift . “I don’t want to be the Guildmaster. I do not under any circumstances accept those terms.” 

Corvus stood, dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. “But—“

“Godsblood, you can’t be serious. You didn’t think you could just wash your hands of the guild and push this responsibility on to me? I said I would help you, not that I would lead the bloody guild.”

Nim watched the surprise spread across Corvus’ face. His droopy eyes were the largest she’d ever seen them before, so utterly bewildered, and in that moment, Nim realized he’d never once thought this a possibility, that he really thought he could dump the cowl onto her, wash his hands clean. Nim’s stomach turned. After all she had done for him, all she had risked, he never once considered that she might decline, that maybe he should have planned for an alternative.

“Nimileth," Corvus began, a placating smile on his thin lips. "The power you will wield is greater than most men can dream of."

"Power?" she spat. "This is Daedric magic, not meant for mortal kind. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel it’s dark and terrible weight? You are a fool to think Nocturnal will let you go so easily. Your soul is cursed for wearing it, and I will bear no more marks upon mine."

A flash of something like panic in Corvus' eyes, then anger. "You are the Guildmaster now. This cowl will serve you as it served all before you." He grit his teeth, bared a smile, then proffered the cowl once more.

“Don't wave that thing at me!" Nim snarled. "Who do you think you are barking orders and such, Uriel Septim?  This cowl can only be used for evil. I don't want it. I don't want to be Guildmaster. You’re certainly not a count anymore, and you hold no more sway over me.”

Corvus blinked. “I-I admit I find myself shocked,” he stammered. Milona shifted, took a step away. “I don’t think you understand the power I’m granting you. I didn’t mean to lord my position over you. I only—”

“Lies," Nim hissed. "All you've ever done is lord your position over me! You didn’t think to ask me, bring it up as a possibility? A ‘ maybe this might interest you, Nimileth ’? Something as simple as ‘I’m thinking of giving up my position as the Gray Fox. What say you? Any suggestions? ’ Simple as that, and now you stand here a fool in front of your wife who you— need I remind you, Milona— abandoned for the sake of Daedric power, and still you’re too incompetent of a leader to even secure a replacement!"

Nim's voice had steadily grown to a powerful timber, and she was now shouting loud enough for her words to echo off the castle walls. Milona’s eyes darted to the entry of the throne room, the questioning sentries peeking their heads through the arch.

"Have you no loyalty to anything beyond yourself?" Nim asked Corvus, eyes full of venom. "You have used me for your personal gain for the last time. I refuse. Ask Armand, ask Skrivva, anybody else.”

“I chose you because you are the most competent thief.” Corvus spoke in a soft voice, as though hoping to calm her, to help her see reason, but Nim saw only blood. “Anybody in the guild would agree to that. We all trust you with the future of the guild, Nimileth. I thought you would be thrilled!”

“Being a great thief does not make you a great leader,” she growled through gritted teeth. “Perhaps if you reflected on your past for a single fucking moment, you would understand that. I have responsibilities to myself and to others, and accepting this damned cowl would make that quite difficult for me. Maybe it’s easy for you to run off and create a separate life to play guildmaster in, but not me.”

Corvus' eyes flared, the whites visible around the pale, vacant blue of his irises. Gone now, any facade of calm, civility. "How dare you suggest I didn’t suffer for the sake of the guild! You cannot imagine the things I gave up to ensure the guild thrived under my leadership!”

"That's not my problem. It never was."

"I spent the past decade working to reverse this curse so that I could return to my wife. Nothing will keep me from this. Not you, not the guild. This is what matters most.” Corvus reached for Milona’s hand which hung loosely by her side.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, pulling her hand to her chest. “I don’t know what to say, Corvus. Where do I even begin? Twelve years it’s been, and you think you can just walk back into my life?”

"I tried to return before, Millona! I tried!"

“This is absolute rubbish,” Nim scoffed, pointing an accusatory finger at Corvus, who puffed up his chest in defense. “You needn’t say anything to this man. He abandoned you."

Corvus barreled forward. "You will not speak of what happened between my wife and I!"

Nim held her ground, glaring, eyes as narrow as the edge of a freshly whetted dagger. "I live in this town too, and I’d rather watch the Abecean swallow it whole than see this man sitting in the County hall.”

“That’s enough!” Corvus shouted, as if he held any power here, but Nim whirled on him, jabbing her finger into his chest.

“Enough? You spineless, mudcrab-fondling sload! You encouraged me to murder a Court Wizard! You paid me to steal from blind Moth Priests! You had me steal an Elder Scroll from the Imperial Palace! Is there really such thing as enough for you?”

“Corvus!” Millona shrieked, eyes brimmed with horror. She shielded her face behind her hands and wept into her palms. "You are not the man I married!"

“Millona, I did it for you! Only so I could return to you!” Corvus fell to his knees and clutched the hem of her skirt. Nim looked on in disgust.

“Is this the man you trust to stand beside you and lead Anvil?" she said, prodding at Corvus with the tip of her sandal. "You don’t know half the wicked crime he’s responsible for.”

Millona pulled out of her husband’s grasp once more. Empty-handed, Corvus turned to Nim, looking ready to strangle her. "I bestow the cowl unto you," he seethed. "The identity of the Gray Fox is now yours whether you want it or not. I wipe my hands of it."

"I—"

"I bestowed it upon you. I spoke it into the annals of history. You have no choice."

Nim’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned down, snatching the cowl up from his feet. “You are nothing," she hissed. "Less than worms, less than dirt. You hold no loyalty to the guild, no loyalty to Anvil, no loyalty to your own wife. What a pathetic little man you are. In your selfishness, you have stolen the past twelve years of marriage from the countess and in bestowing the cowl to me, you have stolen my freedom.

"But know this," she said, staring into those pathetic, drooping eyes, "every item you have asked me to steal, every breath you have taken to get back here, to put me where you want, has a price. And you have not paid. Think well on what you have done, Corvus Umbranox. You have wronged me unforgivably.”

Then Nim vanished, leaving the two nobles alone in the empty hall. Corvus stared at the empty air, his eyes wide in disbelief, and in all of his time scrying with Savilla’s stone, Nim bet he’d not forseen this outcome.

 

Chapter 16: Anvil Anxieties

Summary:

Nim learns the power of Nocturnal's Cowl

Chapter 16: Anvil Anxieties

Nim walked briskly away from the castle, and when she reached the bridge connecting to the eastern gate, she stopped to peer out across the mercurial waters of the Abecean sea. So calm, so quiet as it lapped along the coast line. Such a beautiful, peaceful morning and yet she felt like her veins were trying to strangle her from the inside out. She glared over the edge of the bridge railing to meet her reflection with a quivering, trembling pout. And then she shrieked.

Why had the Gray Fox chosen her as his successor? Why had she been forced to accept his cursed cowl? All she wanted was to be left alone and start her life anew, to leave her criminal past behind. She had escaped Mephala's web, and what would accepting Nocturnal's vile artifact cost her? Yet another piece of her soul, no doubt.

But she had been tying to change! She was becoming someone different, someone better! It wasn't fair! Nim felt like crying, like curling into a ball and making her self so tiny she disappeared. She had finally begun to take control of her life, and now she watched it slip away. With a grunt, she kicked a stone over the edge of the bridge, shattering her pitiful reflection into a dozen concentric ripples. Turning, she walked home in silence.

Back in her room, Nim launched the cowl against the far wall and threw herself onto the bed. She blinked her tear-brimmed eyes and stared out the window as the curtains billowed softly, letting the errant light of day bathe her face in gold. Why is it that everyone uses me? What am I doing wrong?

Even the Mages Guild had done it. The Council had willingly sent her into a trap with no forewarning, and if she was any less skilled a mage, she would likely be dead at the hands of necromancers. Only Raminus had apologized afterwards. If she died on that mission, it was clear that her loss would not have been mourned. And yet she returned to the University, ready to serve the Council despite their unapologetic betrayal. And why? Why did she feel so indebted to them when it was only a matter of time before they sent her out into the fray again?

She had tried so hard to change for the better over the past two years. She had found an honest occupation, strived for the pursuit of knowledge, built friendships based on mutual interests that did not include pick-pocketing or drowning in mead. Perhaps that's why she tried so hard to curry favor with the Council, to present herself as the hard-working, virtuous woman she was not and had never been.

Who was she trying to impress? Here she lay now, a hypocrite who had allowed evil to reenter her life freely. Corvus may have lifted the curse from the cowl, but he had burdened her with its possession. In owning this mask imbued with Her blood, was she bound to Nocturnal forever? What would be asked of her now that they had entered this pact together? What must she steal to please the Prince of Shadows, and what would be taken from her in return?

Nim feared for her soul. Mephala had already claimed a shard of it upon initiation into the Cult of the Spider. Nim wondered how much remained untainted. She wondered if any of it was pure.

She loved the Nine, didn't she? Hadn't she tried to help others in need when she could? Didn't she pray and give alms, offer food to the needy? Why was that enough for some people but not for her? Damn it! Damn it all to the sixteen hells! Why was she born with nothing? Why was she punished for trying to scrape by? And she wasn't a bad person, was she? Just a thief. A petty thief and—

A coward.

Nim curled into herself a little tighter. She had run from Kvatch, from the coven, from Leyawiin, never seeking justice, never seeking retribution. And when given the chance to repent, she had hidden. The Emperor's blood had turned to rust on her hands.

Surely, the Nine saw her sin. That was why nothing in her life could proceed as she wished it. The Nine watched her worship in vain and so they had punished her as they saw fit. Though she could lie to herself, they knew.  She had brought this upon herself.

Nim wept into her palms. You ruined yourself with your greed and your fear. You let them die. You weak, stupid child. You failed everyone, and when they died, their last thoughts were of hating you.

She pulled her knees to her chest, pressed her burning eyes into the fabric of her gown. You don't deserve another chance. All you do is destroy. Do the world a favor and disappear.

Curled against her pillows, Nim let an invisibility spell conceal her and tried to pretend those things hadn't happened.  She laid in the warm light of morning as nothing, as air, just the gentle, fluttering of the breeze. She shuttered her eyes closed through her tears, and when she had finally stopped weeping, she pretended she did not exist.

---

By the following day, Nim was a feeling slightly less weighed down by the misty-eyed thoughts that had dragged her into slumber. The dreamless sleep did well for her mental clarity, but she remained as unsure as ever about what to do with the cowl in her bedroom.

Was she to become the Guildmaster? She couldn't even remember the last time she had planned a heist that wasn't for the Gray Fox's demands. For the moment, she decided to throw the ghastly looking thing into her trunk and pushed it beneath her bed with the other unmentionables she had begun to horde.

After brewing a cup of coffee, she wandered out to her balcony to replace the plate of mud-crab meat she had left out for the neighborhood cats. Now, after keeping up the habit for a few weeks she was getting a couple of regular visitors. One orange cat with white socks and a scabbed right ear. A tortoise shell with multi-colored eyes and a fearsome hiss. A black cat with a piercing yellow glare that rubbed its head into her palm whenever she made an appearance. Nim was most fond of that one. Sometimes that cat would sit on her lap and purr as she read a book. Nim appreciated the affection and eventually let the cat wander inside her home when she was present. She liked to pretend something loved her every now and then.

It was strange, being alone. Nim had always thought she'd find peace in solitude, but what she found more than anything was a wandering mind and maudlin, self-deprecating thoughts. She missed the Imperial City, missed her friends from the Waterfront and the University. She looked down at the spell-drinker's amulet that she wore around her neck, and thought of Raminus. She missed him too.

Rather than enroll in another class quarter as the other first-year students had done, Nim formally accepted Carahil’s earlier offer of an apprenticeship to study illusion. She was a Magician now, and while it wasn’t uncommon for mages who had advanced this far to seek guided training with high-ranking mages, most Magicians at the Arcane University were third-year students at least. Nim had moved through the ranks swiftly due to the Council's increased demand on her time, and while she enjoyed feeling needed, she realized that she never experienced life as a normal University mage.

She hardly knew the other members of her cohort and kept mostly to herself between classes. It wasn't like her. It saddened her, in truth, for she wasn't particularly introverted in any other facet of her life. She had always lived with others, ever since the coven, and following her relationship with J'rasha, she was used to forming close companionships with the people she worked with. Aside from Bothiel and Raminus, however, she had distinct trouble making friends among the mages at school.

Was it because of her pedigree, waterfront rabble and an orphan at that? Did she really stick out so sorely? She thought her mages robes had hidden her lack of wealth, thought that admittance into the University alone would have served as some form of social equalizer. Maybe it wasn't that. Maybe she hadn't made a big enough effort to engage with those around her.

But it wasn't her fault! Or so she told herself. How could she be entirely to blame when she was always scrambling between the Council's missions and her coursework? She didn't mean to come across as distant or unsociable, but it was exactly her absence that the other members of her cohort had interpreted as aloofness. And that stupid rumor of her affair with Fathis had only stoked the flame.

Egoistical. Self-absorbed, she would hear the students say. She thinks she’s the Gods gift to creation just because she slayed a necromancer.

The other first-years whispered her name amongst themselves, it was hardly a secret to Nim. While it had hurt at first, now that she was removed from all the chatter and gossip, she was having a harder time finding the energy to care.

Was she really missing out on so much, she wondered? Her brief time on campus had been filled with solitude when she wasn’t pestering Bothiel or Raminus, and none of them were here now. Only the solitude remained. She supposed she'd just have to get used to it.

 

---

Since uprooting to Anvil, Nim had sadly discovered that her fellow mages in the local chapter were not nearly as experienced drinkers as her friends on the Waterfront had been. After throwing a few beers back with Thaurron, a fellow Bosmer Magician at the guild hall, she had learned that his tamed Imp, Sparky, possessed a much higher tolerance for alcohol than the man himself.

After many lonely weekends splayed out in front of her fireplace with a bottle of wine and volumes II through IV of A Brief History of the Empire, Nim decided she had enough of her moping. She'd find a friend here who could distract her, a drinking partner at the very least, and if it was the beggar down the street then so be it!

Nim slipped on her sandals and made her way down to the harbor to explore the taverns where the sea farers and pirates spent their evenings while docked in Anvil. Carahil had warned her against it, claiming that all the bars on the dock smelled of seasickness and foul breath. Instead, the Altmer suggested the Counts Arms, a much more respectable establishment for a young mage such as herself. Nim was looking to toss back a few pints of mead and fight someone, not sit still and be respectable, and so she wandered down to the harbor without so much as a second thought.

The dock was an old salt-crusted structure lined with barnacles and small, splintered buildings that appeared to lean with the blowing wind. Along the marina, sailors were moving cargo, finishing up their day's work in the twilight hours, and over head white gulls screeched across the sky. Nim could hear shouting from inside the buildings, a roar of sea shanties that blended into the sound of the rolling water beneath the quay.

She entered a tavern, the Flowing Bowl, a barnacle in itself, and as she shut the rattling door behind her, she wondered how it was the building was even standing. She slipped her way through the taproom and elbowed up to the bar to secure a bottle of mead then retired to a small table in the corner to watch the night unfold. The tavern smelled of salt-water, pipe smoke, and the metallic twinge of blood. A good sign, Nim thought. Perhaps things would get exciting.

As she nursed her drink, a woman sauntered near, dark-haired, distinctly Imperial aquiline nose, about a decade older than Nim. She was dressed in a red blouse and skirt to match, a rather brazen cut along the neckline that dipped low enough to a cause a scandal from the pews of a chapel hall. The woman was decorated in gold cuffs and ruby earrings, and she looked terribly out of place amidst the grime of sailors and plain-faced tavern wenches. Nim sipped her drink and appreciated the change in scenery.

She continued watching as the woman drew closer, and when she eventually stopped in front of Nim's table and looked down with a smile, Nim could only blink in surprise.

"Never seen you here before," the woman said. "You're new in town right?" Nim answered with a nod. "A bit of advice, this isn't the place for fine young women."

Nim felt her cheeks grow warm but held a blank stare. "Pardon?" 

The woman gave her a conspicuous glance over, then reached out and grabbed her shoulder, squeezing it lightly, as though sizing her up. She released but a moment later, looking satisfied. "Then again, you look like you can handle yourself in a fight," she said.

Uninvited but not entirely unwelcome, the woman took the seat across from Nim and scooted in to the table. She smelled of jasmine perfume, a blend of clove and amber beneath the light, flowery notes. Nim found herself tempted to lean closer. 

"The name's Faustina," she said. "And you're not a fine young woman, are you?"

"I'm alright," Nim said over the rim of her mead, wondering if she should feel insulted.

Faustina chuckled through a sly grin. "That's good. You strike me as someone who knows how to get what they want and keep it. What's your name?"

"Nimileth," she replied. "Nim for short."

"Well, say Nim, I'm sure you wouldn't mind making a little extra money."

Nim's face remained immutable. "I might mind."

"Wary, are we? I like it. You are just the kind of talent we're looking for."

Nim could do nothing but blink in confusion and stare awkwardly as she sipped her mead. "And what is it you need talent for?"

Faustina smiled slowly, a languid confidence in the way it unfurled, like the assuredness of night stretching across the sky. It gave new dimension to her deep, brown eyes.  "I've put together well... a gang."

Nim let her vacant expression slip, genuine incredulity peeking through. It was her turn to size the woman up.

A gang?

The woman was larger than Nim, but then again, so were most women. She was full of figure, but she didn't look particularly well-muscled or strong. Her hair was immaculately done up in curls and her eyes were rimmed in kohl, lips painted, and cheeks rouged. Who exactly was she fighting? She didn't even have a dagger at her side, but of course, there were always places to hide one. Or was she a mage? Nim looked on, puzzled. Just what kind of business was this gang involved in?

"It's not what you're thinking," Faustina said, beckoning her closer so they could whisper. "We make money by luring fools out to the middle of nowhere and robbing them blind. Our targets? Weak willed men who are easily fooled into believing they'll have their way with us." She snickered behind her palm, each fingernail perfectly lacquered in violet paint. 

"You seduce them?" Nim asked. Faustina nodded. "And do you... finish the job?"

"Kill them? Or do you mean sleep with them?"

"Both."

"Neither."

Nim wondered why Faustina approached her of all people. She looked like the complete opposite of the woman in front of her with her disheveled hair, bare face, and spindly little limbs. Hardly a portrait of seduction. 

"I don't think I'm the best face for your brand," Nim said, pulling off her bottle. Faustina waved her hand dismissively. 

"Don't sell yourself short, kid. You're the perfect blank canvas. You couldn't ask for a better start, really." She plucked up a strand of Nim's hair and brushed it over her shoulder, and once more Nim felt her cheeks suffuse with heat. "Besides, there's nothing here that a little haircut and makeup wouldn't make better. We'll take you to Signy. She'll know what to do with you."

"Hey, hey," Nim protested. "I didn't agree to anything yet."

"But you seem smart," Faustina said, propping her arm up on the table and leaning into her palm. "I think you'll come around." 

Nim twisted her bottle back and forth and wiped at the condensation that had beaded along the sides. "And if these men report you to the guard?"

"Here's how it works," Faustina said with a touch of pride. "We case the Flowing Bowl for a likely subject. Namely, we look for a married man who drinks a lot."

"And since they're married, they're less likely to report it," Nim wagered a guess, "lest their wives find out they had intention to stray."

"Precisely." Faustina flashed another brilliant smile. Nim was unsettled by how much she enjoyed it. "See you get it! I knew you were a smart one. When we find our mark, we send one of our girls in to charm him, and then we get him to come out to a secluded location. We have a farmhouse not far from here, and when he gets there, we make him take off all his clothes, which is very easy by the way. When they're helpless, that's when we spring the trap. So far, we haven't had to draw one drop of blood, and the best part of the whole thing is that the men are so embarrassed, they won't tell the guards!"

Faustina looked down at Nim's bottle and realized it was empty. She a waved a hand in the air, signaling for one of the bar-maids to come take her order. "What are you drinking?" she asked. "I'll get you another."

Nim began to protest with a shake of her head. "Oh, it's fine, really—"

"No, I insist," she said and continued waving. "What is that, Honningbrew? I must introduce you to something finer. I'll get us some Sylph mead. It's from the Glister Vale Hiveworks in Auridon. Delicious. Have you tried it?

"No, I—"

"Oh then you must! Perhaps the finest mead I've had south of—"

"Hey." A new voice, deep and masculine. "You lassies need a drink?"

Nim looked over her shoulder to see a pair of sailors leering at them from a few tables over. They were Nords, tall, blonde, their accents as thick as honey. They bounced their gazes between her and the woman beside her, settling mostly on Faustina. Nim couldn't really blame them. She was quite easy to look at.

"If you don't mind gentlemen," Faustina said, proffering a dainty little pout. "We're awfully thirsty." 

The two men exchanged triumphant looks, and as though under a command spell, they left their seats and made for the bar. Nim watched, awe-struck. How did some women make it look so simple? And she hadn't even used a spell!

Faustina turned back around, wrinkling her nose when the men were out of sight, "We won't worry about them," she said, her voice hushed. "Good for free drinks, and that's all. Maybe a little entertainment. They're not our usual type of target. So, like I was saying, the bottom line is you show a little skin... just a tease, no one touches you, and you get paid. What do you think?"

"Sounds like fun," Nim said as she looked over her shoulder. The Nords were making their way back through the crowd, each with both hands clasping a glistening bottle of mead. They may not have been Faustina's first choice for a target, but Nim knew a thing or two about swindling sailors out of their hard earned septims.  "Are you a betting woman, Faustina?" she asked.

"Depends. What's the wager?"

Nim reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of dice. Guar bone, loaded, as polished as Masser in full. She turned to the woman with a full-bodied smirk. "Why don't I show you how we do things where I'm from."

---

While waiting for her next assignment from the Council, Nim spent the majority of her free time tending to her home. Early mornings were dedicated to prayer and working in her garden to remove weeds and gnarled roots that likely hadn't been tended to since the decade Lorgren Benirus was still alive. She planted fresh vegetables, berries, and plum saplings in the salty breeze before the heat of the sun drove her inside. In the afternoons, she poured through furniture catalogues and rearranged her study to fit all the shelves she had purchased for her books, alchemy equipment, and ingredient jars. Her private study was finally a fully functional alchemy lab, and onto brewing she went.

Evenings, she spent at the Flowing Bowl. Faustina didn't even mind that Nim had turned down her offer, not when they had another means by which to swindle their way into the pockets of unsuspecting men. She had met the rest of the gang members too, the Sirens, as they called themselves. They were an additional two women, Signy and Tsarrina, who were both so lovely to look at it would have driven most women mad with jealousy. Nim found it hard to be jealous of beautiful women. She wasn't jealous of beautiful men after all. Both made the vista more pleasing to the eye, and so she simply stared and thanked Dibella for the gift of the female form. In their company, Nim learned a thing or two about how to style herself in a way that commanded the male gaze, and fortunately for her, it did not seem to only inspire the male gaze. How dull would that have been, she thought, and in Anvil of all places too. Such a limited supply to choose from as men came. Sometimes, Nim found herself puzzled by people who were only attracted to either men or women when there were so many appealing qualities to both.

Nim spent more time learning from the Sirens, learning things other women had never taught her. She had let Signy trim her hair while Tsarrina helped her find flattering shades and cuts of cloth to fit her body. Nim had to admit that she liked how she looked with a little adornment. She had never seen herself like this before, never knew she could look this way if she only put in a little effort. It did, however, feel excessive at times, the routine, the dedication it took to maintaining appearances, and though she enjoyed dressing up when she was with her friends, by herself, she found it drew too much attention. Nim still hadn't quite nailed down the mannerisms that the other women had been trying to teach her. She was a bit too brusque in conversation and got irritated easily when the men she talked to were particularly annoying or dumb. Which was often. She didn't indulge them like Faustina did, didn't coddle them or offer unwarranted praise. But she found, some men liked that. Some men wanted a bit of a game, a chase, and so Nim let them pursue.

All in all, Nim found that she was taking well to her life in Anvil, and with her many walks along the beach and hours sun bathing in her garden, her skin had begun to tan a deeper shade of brown. The rich color reminded her of earlier years, memories filled by long swims in the Panther River with the other women of her coven,  J’rasha sunbathing beside her on the shore of the Topal Bay, the humid streets of Leyawiin as she darted along looting the pockets of unguarded shoppers. All in all, things were going well.

But soon Mid-year had come and gone, and no word from the Council had arrived. The silence from the Arcane University grew unsettling. Though she made great use of the new-found freedom from classes, Nim began to grow anxious.

She had expected to be diving head-first into new research on the necromancers practices by now. She had sent a letter to Raminus asking if she could study Lorgren's Tome of Unlife before it was sent to its permanent storage in the University archives, but he regretfully informed her that the Council had decided against it. Nim didn't understand why, and she had half a mind to do it anyway. The Council had been willing to follow her hunch when it came to investigating the source of the black soul gems at the Dark Fissure, so what was the problem now?

Has the Council forgotten about me? She wondered whether another mage was being sent on her assignments now that she was no longer within arms reach. Was I only ever a convenient option for them?

Or perhaps the Council finally had enough of her relentless criticism and impingement upon their plans. Now that she was off University grounds, they could wash their hands of her and return to twiddling their thumbs and burying their heads in the sand.

The days flew by. Nim was not called upon. She was no longer anxious. She was angry.

To further fuel her irritable mood, she had been experiencing horrible dreams and nights rife with insomnia. She attributed her sleeplessness to the presence of the sinister cowl beneath her bed. She could feel Nocturnal's anger. The Daedra didn't like it when their gifts were squandered.  Some nights, Nim awoke in cold sweats after dreams of falling endlessly down the chimney flue she had escaped the Imperial Palace in. As though watching from above, she’d see both her body and the elder scroll in her arms combust into a pillar of black flame until only a scattered cloud of ash drifted down amongst the darkness.

This was the Daedric influence plaguing her, she was certain. She had experienced such visions before, back in the coven when Mephala came to her in dreams. But what coul Nocturnal want from her now? Hadn't she been stealing for years? Hells, she cheated a man out of his last weeks wages two nights ago. Shouldn't that keep the patron Prince of Thieves satisfied?

But the weeks stretched on and the nightmares grew darker. She'd see herself in a field, alone, the night as black as void above. But then the firmament would move, and she would see it was not a a night sky at all but a flock of black ravens so broad it eclipsed the sun.  They would descend down upon her, pecking and pecking at her hands until all flesh was gone and her eyes were empty socks. Of her body, only bone remained.

It was the Evergloam, Nocturnal's plane of Oblivion. She was sure she had visited it in her sleep. The Lady of Shadows was not pleased with her servant.

Another week. More nights of restless sleep. The nightmares were beginning to grow taxing. 

In her studies with Cairahil, she could barely concentrate for more than an hour at a time before a throbbing headache would build behind her eyes.

Another day spent in a haze. Another night spent in fear. The pain was maddening. Nim felt her will begin to crack, a break looming on the horizon.

At last, the final straw came from a copy of The Black Horse Courier that she had picked up from the market.

Count Umbranox – Returned!  

She read the title amidst a pounding migraine. Corvus had weaseled his way back into the Anvil court and into Milona’s arms without justice. They played his absence off as though he had been kidnapped by marauders on the border of Valenwood. Corvus, vowing to return to his beloved wife, had finally escaped. An act of true love and heroism. In Milona’s own words, his reappearance could only be attributed to a blessing of the Nine.

A miracle.

Nim wanted to retch up her left lung.

“You blasted rat,” she cursed into the void as she paced across the upper floor of her home. “You lie to me, you lie to the papers, but I know the dirty sload you are! Useless, ugly slug!"

Nim balled up the article and hurled it into the wall with a screech. The black cat in her bedroom scampered away from her in fright. 

"Gutless worm! You can’t shove your duties onto me and parade around as nobility! What about my life? What about how you've cursed me?”

Donning the cowl seemed more and more appealing as she paced up and down the stairs. Maybe it would make the headaches go away. Maybe if she became the Gray Fox, Nocturnal would stop haunting her in her sleep. Corvus had said the cowl granted mystical powers. Could they really help her achieve something great, something besides grand theft.

That night, she heard it call to her from beneath the bed.

Wear me, it seemed to whisper through her aching, addled mind. Wear me. Claim Nocturnal's secrets for your own. Let me show you all the power you possess. Come to me. Return home again.

But that wasn't Nocturnal's voice. No, Nim knew it too well. That could only be her old mistress spinning her into a tighter web. How far would the Webspinner push just to watch her unravel? Nim didn't want more secrets. She had far enough already.

But your tapestry grow pale, my little spider, the voice in her head spoke. I give you thread, yet your loom lies still.

Nim slipped from her bed and pulled her trunk from beneath the wooden frame. She opened it just a crack and stared at the hideous grey thing. Its runes flashed in waves as it caught the light of the moons.

Wear me, the cowl purred. Let me show you all you can be.

She lifted it from her trunk, rubbed her fingers over the coarse hide and felt desire course through her. Was that her hunger or the will of the Daedra? Did she want to put it on or was it Nocturnal itching to claim her? Or was it Mephala, Mother of Secrets, wishing to drive Nim to further despair?

Nim laid the cowl on her dresser, propped it up to face her, and stared at it as she returned to bed. 

After one more sleepless night, she put it on, and the last thing she remembered was her visioning turning to black.

---

 

When Nim came to, she was standing in a dark room peering down at two unclothed imperials through hooded eyes. A man and a woman lay next to each other with a blanket of cream-colored silk draped loosely across their bodies. They slept soundly, blissfully unaware of her presence lurking above. She watched as their aura rose and fell with slow breaths. In her hand she clutched the hilt of a dagger.

Nim bit her tongue to keep from shrieking as she stumbled backwards. When had she entered this room? Gazing around, she recognized it as the private quarters of a castle. Castle Anvil? She looked down at the sleeping bodies, saw none other than Corvus and Millona Umbranox.

Nim pressed her hand to her face and felt the stiff wool of Nocturnal’s cowl beneath her fingertips. She didn’t even remember putting it on.

A groan. A rustle in the sheets. Millona shifted in the arms of her husband. What would they do if they caught her standing above them with her hands on her blade?

Nim moved swiftly across the room to the balcony door, as a jingle jangle and clink clank of metal followed in her footsteps. She pause. Silence. Took a step forward. Jingle jangle. Clink clank.

Nim reached behind her and felt a pack on her shoulder, noted that the leather was stretched to full capacity. Strange, she thought. It didn’t feel like she was carrying much at all.

Nim gripped the handle of the balcony door and cast her Night-Eye spell, preparing to enter the darkness and get the hell out of the castle's private chamber. She took one glance back, trying to will herself to remember how she had arrived here, and the scene that lay before her brought a jolt of surprise.

The doors of the wardrobes and drawers of the dressers were flung wide open, their contents strewn across the tile floor. Books and plates, scrolls and pelts, quills and baskets of yarn and cloth, all were scattered around her. The tapestries and curtains on the wall were torn to shreds, and many ornate wooden frames hung around her void of pictures. Had she thrown the room into shambles without waking anyone? Bu why?

Startled by the chaos of the room and the unspent adrenaline in her limbs, Nim quickly fled the bedroom and scaled down the side of the balcony, clinging to the thick vines rooted into the grooves between the brick. She returned home and let her bloated pack fall to the floor of the foyer behind her as she secured all three of the locks on her front door.

She slipped the cowl off her head and breathed a sigh of relief when the headache did not come flooding back. With a snap of her fingers, she called forth her flame and lit the wall sconces in the entryway. Once more, the state of disarray in the surrounding room threw her into a state bewilderment.

On the floor of her living room lay bundles of rugs, decorative clay urns, paintings, pelts, silver carafes—

Nim froze.

Where in Oblivion did these come from? Did I—

She looked down to her hand and found the cowl staring back at her, it's Daedric runes winking in the flickering candle flame. Shadow hide you, it read. Nim shivered and promptly dropped it to the floor.

Rubbing at her temples, she sat down on her sofa in front of the empty fire place and forced herself to slow her breathing.

Think, she willed herself. Closing her eyes, she retraced her steps.

She had gone to bed staring at the cowl and failed to fall asleep. She had put it on and then... and then what? Slipped into some fugue state that led her traipsing off to Castle Anvil?

She concentrated harder but could recall nothing. Had she really stolen all of this in the span of one night?

“It's okay, Nim," she said, taking deep long breaths. "It's okay. It's just one of those things you'll forget about later. It's fine.”

Recollecting herself with a stern nod, Nim stood to her feet and gazed around the room at her treasure trove of stolen possessions. It began to make sense, though she wasn’t sure how many trips it took her to get all of these items into her house. More confusing was the thought that she accomplished it without being seen by anyone. But even if she had been seen, the cowl concealed her true identity. Nim was unsettled to find that this fact gave her comfort.

 She leaned down to unroll one of the rugs out of curiosity. Lavish was the first word that came to her mind. Hand-woven silk with wool fringe. Even in her fugue state she had good taste.

She dragged her pack across the floor to join the other piles of loot, finding It much heavier now than when she had entered. Inside she found books, velvet garments, a handful of precious gemstones, and an entire jewelry box, still locked.

“It's okay, Nim,” she said again. How was she suppose to feel about what she had done?

Prideful? Hardly. This was the work of an enchanted cowl, not her own prowess as a thief. There was no way she could lug all of this across town without magical aid. Guilty? Again, not really. She seldom felt shame for stealing from those who were already wealthy. The Countess and her beloved husband could always buy more, and besides, Corvus owed her. But what of her vows to the Divines? What of Zenithar's law?

What about the fact that she had held a blade to Corvus Umbranox's throat?

By the Gods, she really was losing it, wasn't she?  She could have killed that man. A part of her had wanted to kill that man, but she wasn't a murderer. Sure, she hated him but enough to steal his very life?

Nim brought her hands to the chain of her amulet and pulled it back and forth around her neck. She stared at the green gemstone, turning it to catch her reflection. 

"Who are you becoming?" she asked it, tapping the face of the emerald as though it might respond. "Is that you in there? What are you doing?"

Nim didn't know how much of this she could attribute to Mephala's influence and how much of it was her own making. All of it? None? Which answer was easier to swallow?  Sighing in resignation, she surveyed her spoils, and with a sinking feeling, acknowledged that a non-insignificant part of her was satisfied with what she had done. So sickly satisfied.

Nim decided she would keep it. All of it. There was not much else she could reasonably do with a house full of stolen goods. A house warming present to herself, perhaps, but the cowl had to leave. She did not appreciate the power it granted and the recklessness with which she used it. This is exactly what she had tried to tell Corvus – it was a not a strength she would use for the benefit of others, only abuse for her personal gain.

The memory-loss, the sleepless nights, the grand theft and plot to murder- This was not the person that she wanted to be! It was the cowl, yes it was cowl, and she had to get it out of her house and out of her possession. She would take it to the Waterfront, to the Garden of Dareloth where she would pass it on to Armand. She had always admired the Doyen’s leadership. Without a doubt he would make a fine Guildmaster, orders of magnitudes better than Nim could ever hope to be.

And after she handed off that cursed artifact, she planned to embark on a pilgrimage and meditate on what she most valued in life. Mephala's teachings would not persist within her and she would rid herself of them once and for all. Her soul had been too heavy these days, and though her new treasures had certainly lifted her spirits for the time being, she remained unconvinced that it wouldn't just as soon drag her down into an endless, swallowing hole. 

Nim looked around at the mess she had made and tutted. If one thing good came of this, it was that the paintings and sketches she had swiped were gorgeous, Rythe Lythandas originals.  She made a mental note to put in an order for new frames and then sauntered up to her bedroom where slept blissfully for the first time in weeks.

Chapter 17: The Apathy in a Well Placed Arrow

Chapter 17: The Apathy in a Well Placed Arrow

Nim dangled her feet into a shallow pool at the edge of the Great Forest. She was somewhere south of Chorrol, halfway into her week-long spiritual cleanse before she was to leave the wilderness for the Imperial City. Though she loved her new manor, which by now was looking scores better than it had just a month prior, the sudden focus on such material possessions disturbed her. It felt odd to have so many things in one place after a lifetime of scraping by with little more than a blanket and dry patch of ground to claim as her own. Having this much space and so many decorations that served no functional purpose felt indulgent. It felt greedy, and despite acknowledging her sins, Nim felt the thirst for more grow stronger. It grated in her belly, churning, with teeth.

But it wasn't just items she wanted now. Not just gold, treasure, velvet and silks and furs. There was something else. Something less tangible. Something she had almost tasted when she held her dagger above the Count of Anvil. If only she had leaned in, pressed her blade a little closer. Maybe she would have learned.

No. No, no no, that isn't me, she told herself. That was Mephala's corruption. Those were old teachings, ones she no longer followed, that had been awakened by her recent brush with Nocturnal's Daedric magic, for Daedra didn't like it when souls were shared between them. Nim felt like something inside her was tearing. When she closed her eyes, she could almost hear it.

Rip rip rip, not like parchment but fabric. Something woven. A tapestry, perhaps.

By now Nim's soul was feeling heavy, leaden, and like she was carrying a mountain with her everywhere she walked. She would get rid of the cowl when she got to the city. That would unburden her of a little weight, she hoped.

Intent on finding inner peace, Nim had decided to travel the Pilgrim's Path in search of the Wayshrines, a reconnection to Kynareth’s fertile lands, and to renew her appreciation for Cyrodiil’s bounty. She had been taking advantage of it lately. Somewhere along her journey, she had lost touch with the commands of the Nine, and she hoped to find them on this pilgrimage. She hoped to find something that made her feel a little more like herself.

For now, she prayed in silence, thanking Mara for the friends she had made over the years. It was a wonder that she kept up with any of them, being as busy as she was, and even more surprising that they still entertained her when she came calling. Last night, she had stayed at the humble farmhouse of Guilbert and Reynald Jemane, a pair of brothers she had become acquainted with nearly two years ago.

She had met Reynald while having a somber, defeated drink in Chorrol on the night Teekeus had first turned down her application to join the Mages Guild. The drunk Breton offered to pick up her tab as long as she sent a message to the fellow trading on his name in Cheydinhal. As it turned out, the doppleganger he had heard about was his long lost twin brother, and they were united at last all thanks to Nim. Though she hadn’t been out to visit in many moons, they had welcomed her in with open arms.

Weatherleah, the Jemane’s homestead, was nestled between two crumbling wayshrines, one of Julianos and one of Kynareth. She marked them off on her map before leaving for her trek through the wilderness. Having gotten an early start on her next objective, she took the late afternoon to relax in the quiet of the woods. Nestled beside the pond, she breathed deeply. The air here was fragrant with the musky scent of the moss that coated the rocks around her. She leaned back, laid against the bank of the pond and sunk her bare feet into its fine, silty mud as she listened for the call of the cat-birds in the branches of the sugar maples above.

The yellow glow of the sun peeked through the canopy and warmed her eyelids as she held them shut against its rays. She focused on the golden swathes that streaked the underside of her lids and on the rustle of the fauna through the underbrush. A lizard or two in a territorial dispute, a rabbit scurrying back to its burrow. This calm she felt embrace her could never be recreated by illusion magic. Hours could have passed, and she would not have known.

---

Hours later, twilight fell across the sky, and Nim skirted closer to the forest edge, nearing the Black Road. She was looking for spiritual retreat, not looking to release her spirit from the mortal plane. There were bandits and trolls in these parts, and she had heard the rumors from traders in Chorrol that a strange town of isolated denizens occupied these woods.

Strange magics, Seed-Neeus had said. Whatever God they pray to is not one of the Divines.

Nim did not care to run into any occult rituals tonight. Another night perhaps. But not now, and so she traced the fringes of the forest for another half hour. Hopefully, she'd reach Chorrol a few hours into nightfall.

As she walked, she heard the sound of hooves against cobblestone. It came from behind her, growing louder and alerting her to the presence of approaching travelers. She dove behind a dense patch of privet to avoid being seen and peered out onto the road. It was good to be cautious when travelling alone, avoid trouble before it even saw you.

The approaching party grew closer. Nim craned her neck to get a better view. There, riding a white steed, was a woman flanked by two guards in iron cuirasses. Nim could barely see the details of their crest until they were about twenty paces away. Clarity came with a punch in the gut.

The guards' armor bore the crest of Leyawiin County. On the horse rode Alessia Caro.

Nim stood frozen. Seconds ticked by. Clop, clop, clop  went the beat of the horses shoes. Countess Caro's party rode past.

Without thinking, Nim pulled away from the brush and followed. Her eyes were glued to the Countess's face, porcelain skin almost as fair as the moonlight. She hadn’t seen the woman in nearly three years.

Three years. Had it been so long? Three years ago, Nim sat in the trial room where she'd awaited J'rasha's hearing. Their skooma den had become compromised, the guards alerted. Many of her business partners had been caught during the raid, and J'rasha had been among them. Nim remembered waiting for him to appear in court for the hearing he had been promised. He did not show.

She never saw him alive again. 

J'rasha had not received a trial. He was guilty, of course, but there had been no chance for due process, no lawful judgment passed. He would have served jail time for his offenses. Nim would have seen to it, and she have worked to pay off the fine if it had taken her all of those three years do amass enough gold. She had never even had the chance to help him. No, it was straight to the torture chamber on the Countess's orders, and Nim had been left to learn of his fate on her own. Those gruesome memories she would never be free of. 

The red room. She remembered it reeking of iron and gore. The floor, the walls, all streaked by the ghosts of bloodied handprints. Another step as she climbed up, up, up into the secret chamber, and the stifling air of death turned her legs to water at her knees. 

There in the corner was J’rasha’s body, hidden beneath the corpse of another dead Khajiit, one she did not know, one who would never be claimed. Evidence of the torture that had felled them lay around their corpses. And index and a middle finger, cleaved from his left hand, carelessly strewn across the floor of the dungeon. A pair of blood-crusted forceps and a single fang sat on the table nearby.

Nim had run to him and thrown herself across his remains, and for the remainder of her days, she would remember the feel of him like this. The fur of his forehead, matted with dried blood, pressed against her cheek as she held him and wept. His cold, rigid body sinking against her small frame as she willed it to return to her, as she begged Arkay to breathe life into him once more, once more if only to say goodbye.

That was the last time she had seen him, and she knew who had given the order. She remembered, three years ago, Alessia Caro had been there at the trial with a prideful grin on her ivory face as she sat safe in the row of Leyawiin guards.

Here rode the woman who Nim deemed responsible for all the death she had witnessed in that room. This was the woman who reveled in their blood-shed, who took part in the atrocities that left innocent lives rotting and families torn apart. How could it be? How could this woman continue on, apathetic and unhaunted after all the horror she had wrought?

And why, Nim wondered, did the Gods allow this? Why couldn't they see J'rasha for who he was? A doting brother, a loving nephew. Why did this woman, this monster deserve to live over him?

Nim felt her blood simmer. Her hands trembled at her side. What she wanted more than anything was to see that woman strung up and bled out like livestock ready for slaughtering. She would take from Alessia what had been stolen from her.

Nim looked to her pack, where the Gray Cowl sat tucked away. What had Corvus said? If she slipped it on, no one would know who she was. Know one would know what she had done. It would only be a few minutes. One well-placed arrow and—

She closed her eyes. This was murder she was contemplating. What authority did she possess to bring this woman before the Gods? But then again... Alessia Caro had done the same, hadn't she?

Ghosts lived in the crawlspaces of Castle Leywaiin, ghosts Alessia Caro had put there. Nim looked out onto the road and watched as the Countess's party carried on up the road. Her heart collapsed within her, shattered to pieces inside her chest.

She snapped back to her pack. Deep inside her mind, a sinister whisper crept forth like the glittering fog of dawn, and it spoke of justice. It spoke of vengeance. It wrapped around her like the gossamer of spider silk and beckoned her to make a choice. 

Before her lay the road to forgiveness and mercy, the path illuminated by the teachings of the Nine.

But before her too lay the road to retribution, a path darkened by the pain she wielded in the shadows of her heart.

All these years she had worked to weave a tapestry with the threads of virtue, for what? To be taken advantage of? To watch others suffer? Each moment that Alessia Caro was granted another breath felt like an insult to J'rasha's memory. Nim closed her eyes and let the whisper consume her, let Mephala's words ring in her ear like burning silver.

Pluck but one thread and the whole web unravels.

Her hands moved into action before she had even registered her plan. She slipped the Gray Cowl over her head and cast a shroud of invisibility. With the cowl to conceal her identity, her presence, her actions would be untraceable.

She strung her bow and stalked along-side the road behind the thick vegetation. Only five hunting arrows remained in her quiver. They were legionnaire steel. sSe had stolen them from the Northwest guard tower in the Imperial city, tipped them with a fatiguing poison to prevent large game from escaping. None of that mattered now. If she was equipped with only a length of twine, the Countess would still not live to see another day.

She let her arrow fly.

A pause. A pause that felt like an eternity as the arrow splintered the air. There was a sound, a thud but quiet, and then Alessia Caro choked back a scream. The arrow had struck her in the neck, and her body lurched forward in the saddle, stiff with the shock of pain. Nim shot again and ran forward, refreshing her invisibility spell as she stepped into the road just close enough to watch the Countess’s face contort in confusion.

Blood streaked her chin. A red trail flowed from her mouth to the wounds in her neck, winding and meandering like the course of river. A guard ran to the Countess and carried her body down from the horse. He shouted to his partner as he laid her on the ground and inspected the arrow lodged in her throat. Meanwhile, the second guard drew his sword, prepared himself for battle, scanning the forest edge for any sign of the attacker.

Nim did not give one. She did not hear the shouting over the thrum of blood racing in her ears. She stepped closer, closer, closer until the Countess’s head was right at her feet. The woman gasped and sputtered below, searching the sky for a sign of mercy. Her eyes, brown as oak bark, were wide in shock, and so beautiful was this sight. This fear in her eyes. Nim felt her heart leap against her sternum.

When the guard at Alessia's side shifted  his position, Nim touched his neck and released a paralyze spell. With a slight shove, he fell forward onto his face, and she directed her next spell at the last standing guard. His back turned to her, he suspected nothing. Nim would ensure he remembered nothing of this as well. 

Alone now, just the two of them, Nim wondered if the Countess knew she was about to die. Had she ever known fear like this? Was the dread she felt in these final seconds as cold and grim as it looked upon her face? Nim wondered if Alessia was praying to the Nine to forgive her. In these final moments before the darkness consumed her, was she sorry for anything she had done?

Nim reached down and pressed two fingers to the Countess’s lips. The blood she drew back was thick and warm, and she rolled it between her fingers, watching as it stained her skin with a syrupy sheen.

Now the Countess would feel true pain. She would experience all she had inflicted upon the undeserving souls in her castle dungeon. Nim pulled out her knife and sat back on her knees. She would make this last as it had for J'rasha. She would make this pain as endless as it was for her.

The minutes ticked by and the blood slowly drained. It pooled around Nim, a flowing red skirt, and she watched through the eyes of the cowl as Alessia's aura dimmed.

---

Nim split her cheeks open on brambles and branches as she sprinted through the forest, fresh blood drying on her fingers. She didn’t stop until she reached the Waterfront.

Under the cloak of nightfall, she slouched against a tree and stared into her pack. Her hands trembled as she sifted through her belongings until she felt the rough hide of the Gray Cowl. It stared back at her. She pulled it forth.

The blue runes running along the eye sockets shimmered in the moonlight as though winking at her. Nocturnal could not have intended its use for this. 

And so that bitch is slain, she said to herself in the privacy of her mind, and she would be lying through her teeth if she said it did not please her. Nim prodded at the Gray Cowl, ran her blood-stained fingers along the Daedric lettering that adorned it.

And who exactly remains?

For the first time, Nim had taken a life not in self-defense. Alessia Caro was a vile woman, but she was no necromancer, no bandit. She was a noble woman, a Countess. The roads would be swarming with legion guards by now, all looking for her. If only they knew how they wasted their time on such a waste of breath. Alessia Caro may not have been a skooma runner, but she was certainly no innocent soul.

Nim thought she’d have felt something by now. Regret, disgust, at least a sense of unease. She thought she would have retched or dry heaved or cried out to the Nine to take her miserable life before she brought harm to anyone one else on Nirn. All she felt, however, was the sting of thin cuts along her face and an empty churning in her gut. The indifference was almost worse than shame.

Standing to her feet, Nim kicked at the dirt furiously, choking back a scream as she envisioned strangling the Count of Anvil and then strangling herself.

This was the recklessness she had been wary of after donning the cowl for the first night. This was exactly the kind of power she feared would fall into the wrong hands.  Hadn't she tried to tell Corvus? There were far worthier thieves to take possession of the cowl. He should have gotten rid of the damn thing when he had his chance. Such a powerful artifact should be returned to the Daedra, not passed between the hands of men to steal shiny trinkets and slink in the shadows. 

And she had used it to take a life.

Oblivion take her, she’d never let it see the light of day again! She'd cast it into the fire and everyone would assume the immortal Gray Fox was finally laid to rest!

Nim took a few deep breaths to soothe the furnace raging within her. Killing Corvus wouldn’t change her situation in the slightest. Cowl or not, she knew it wasn’t the Gray Fox who had fired the arrow into the throat of Alessia Caro, and the Gods knew it too. 

Nim turned to Lake Rumare and undressed down to her underclothes. She shivered violently, her body still reeling from the rush of adrenaline that had carried her here. A gust of summer wind lifted off the water and passed over her. She dipped her head below the surface, and the frigid water of Lake Rumare was certainly no better than standing near naked on the beach. She scrubbed her arms, her legs, her face until she felt her skin tingle, raw and abraded. After nearly ten minutes, she emerged blood-free and blue in the lips, satisfied with her cleansing.

Nim took a large green cloak from her pack and wrapped it around her body as she made her way to Methredehl’s door. She answered and upon seeing her dripping, colorless face, immediately pulled Nim inside

“What on Nirn?" she shouted. "Get in here, you lunatic!”

Nim didn’t need to be told twice. She ran toward the fireplace and sent a large burst of flame shooting from her palms. Curled up before the hearth, she sat as close to the fire as she could without catching her cloak aflame. Methredhel took a seat beside her on a small wooden stool and offered her a blanket and half a bottle wine. Nim took both gratefully.

“Should I ask?” Methredhel tested.

“Probably not. I can’t feel my lips.”

---

Nim stayed in the Imperial City for two more days and by the end, she felt much more herself. Even better than she did before leaving Anvil. Was it the fresh air of the Great Forest? Her truncated pilgrimage? The brief bout of self reflection?

Or was it the rumors of Alessia Caro’s death that passed through the lips of the city-dwellers wherever she turned? Those whispers of carnage, of a death so unspeakably gruesome that people shuttered their eyes closed at the faintest of whispers.

Whatever it was, Nim proceeded on with her life without so much as an eye-blink of regret. The apathy had alarmed her at first. Once or twice as she lay awake at night, she had imagined what both her and Alessia Caro’s life would have been like had she chosen to swallow her seething anger and let it bubble and spit in the base of her belly for the rest of her days. Nim imagined herself sitting in one of the pews of the Chapel of Zenithar, watching as Marus and Alessia Caro strolled through the grey stone rows, perhaps with a fat, young child waddling in front of them and a pair of guards close behind. They’d pray at the altar and call themselves good Gods-fearing men of faith before returning to their secret dungeon to torture another soul guilty only of being born the wrong race.

Well, Nim would be miserable in that life, she conceded. She slept each night with great ease. 

Good men, bad men, everyone dies, she told herself. Why burden myself with regret? At least this one deserved it.

It wasn’t her first kill, only the first one she had committed without being provoked, but what did that matter if it had felt so right? Quite frankly, it was best the Countess got what was coming before she had the opportunity to strike again. Nim had done Cyrodiil a favor. Really they should be thanking her for it. And a part of her wondered if she had like it a little too much.

Nim was still deciding what to do with the Gray Fox's cowl. Hold onto it? Make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands? It was already in the wrong hands. She wasn't so delusional she'd deny that. It didn't sound like that much responsibility should she choose to hold on to it, but.. well, nothing seemed particularly worthy of stealing anymore.

The thrill of slinking across the shadows, listening for the rattle of  tumblers in a locked door, and running off with a shiny new trinket seemed a bit pale now, uninspired. Every rush she had once felt in the heat of a heist now dulled compared to what she had experienced out on the Black Road.

And that scared her, this strange craving for something crimson, a wine of sorts that bore a heady satisfaction like none other she'd drank before.

No, she reminded herself. This isn't you. You did it for J'rasha. You did it for justice, nothing more, nothing else. Nim kept these thoughts in her mind when she next went to sleep.

Days passed. The panic had yet to die down. When Methredhel mentioned making a trip to Bruma to offload some loot with Ognar, Nim decided she would tag along. From there, she'd circle back to Anvil, first passing Chorrol to say hello to Teekeeus, then stopping by the Jemane brothers for a second visit. They were running low on soap and thread earlier that week. She’d be sure to pick some up for them along the way.

And so she departed from the city, Magnus shining down brightly, embracing her in its summer glow. A good omen, she thought. Her trip would only take a few days, a week at most if she went out of her way to forage for ingredients.  

Maybe a little bit longer if she decided to murder anyone else along the road.

Chapter 18: Epilogue: Go Now with Sithis

Epilogue: Go Now with Sithis

“A new sister has been born,” Ungolim said. He sipped from his tankard and nodded to Lucien, who paused, contracts clutched in his hand. “You’ll find this one amusing.”

"Oh? What makes you say so?”

“She murdered the Countess of Leyawiin.”

"The Countess?" Lucien grinned. The news hadn’t yet broke, and it wasn't every day that a county ruler was assassinated. A memory bobbed to the surface of his mind— Uriel Septim and all of his heirs killed two years ago. Now that was a day worthy of discussion. "You don't fear she could be Morag Tong?"

"The Morag Tong care little for the feuds among Cyrodiliic nobility. Even if the gold was great, they wouldn't dare extend their reach so far west."

"So you say."

"So I know." Ungolim kept his gaze stern. He slid one last envelope toward Lucien, the seal of the Black Hand stamped proudly across its surface and adorned by a splatter of red wax.. . "A young Bosmer named Nimileth," he said. "She resides in Anvil. This opportunity couldn't have come at a more fortunate time for you, Brother. It's very important you succeed in securing new talent for your sanctuary."

"And why is the timing so opportune?"

"Do you not wish to grow your sanctuary?"

Lucien chuckled, smooth as the velvet shroud of night. Fresh blood for Cheydinhal— it was a blessed day indeed. "You mistake me," he said, his smile broad and beckoning. "I'm honored, of course, to welcome another to our family."

"Then do so. Find her. Bring her to us."  Ungolim stood and cleared his table, leaving only a roll of leather that held a steel knife and a well worn gut-hook. "That is all I have for you today.”

Ungolim lugged the dead doe that had been sitting in his entryway across his shack and hoisted it onto the table, ignoring Lucien’s lingering presence all the while. Lucien remained seated and watched as Ungolim cut a long slit down the length of the doe's belly, preparing it for dressing. Blood began a slow trickle down Ungolim's arm, drip, drip, dripping from his elbow and onto the floor. A small, glistening pool formed there before the gaps in the floorboards drank it down.

“You’re a tease, dear Listener," Lucien smirked. Ungolim's gray eyes glinted like two freshly wetted blades. "Surely the Night Mother told you more about our promised sister than that.”

“That’s for me to know, Lucien. For you to find out. Go now with Sithis.”

And Lucien did.

Notes:

So this concludes the end of part one! Stay tuned for the next installment of Nim's journey, and if you enjoyed this feel free to let me know what you thought or leave a kudos!

Thank you all for reading :)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Illusionist