This is the autobiographical journal of Arvil Bren, a somewhat reluctant hero who has been placed on an unknown quest by powers that he barely knows exist. Follow his journey as it is updated daily, Monday through Friday, and enjoy! These are the most recent entries in Arvil Bren's third journal; Politics of the Redoran. His first journal can be found in its entirety here. His second journal, Trail of the Archmage can be found here.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Day Thirty-four: Armorer's fair

I am beset by doubts. Today I clung to safety, but I have no confidence in my grip. I have friendships. I have wealth. But whatever glimmers of security I have built for myself are just that, glimmers. The false lights that shine from baited gold, and lure men to their deaths. Men like my father.

The man I called my father would have been proud of me today. I teleported to the Balmora temple at first light and gathered all the armorers together. Like a carnival barker I made promises that had their eyes glowing with anticipation. They knew they would be bidding against each other when I reappeared, but I had built their spirits over a cheerful breakfast and they stood joking amongst themselves as I cast my recall spell to return home. I reappeared minutes later, laden with bundles of swords, stacked breastplates and greaves, and bags brimming with odd bits of armor. The auction went well, fulfilling my father's strongest guidance; "take their gold and leave them happy." If only I had followed that advice more often. The armorers bought me lunch at the Eight Plates, each claiming to have gotten great deals while jokingly ridiculing the others for their purchases. In truth they probably all overpaid, but such a good time was had by all that they are eager to do it again.

After lunch I ran to the ruins of Arkgnthand and slipped quietly through the massive portal. From high up on the cavern wall I watched. The Redguard I had seen before was again in the main cavern, with a companion. They were overseeing the operation, talking to others who came and went through massive doors on the lower level of the building. Occassionally they would take some item of particular interest to the upper level and through another massive door. From snatches of their conversation I gathered that they in turn were reporting to their boss, Creto, who was apparently beyond that door. I am comfortable that they are nowhere near moving on from the ruins. There is no rush to claim the cube from them, if they have found it yet.

They are looting a Dwemer site, and clearly criminals, but they are no worse than I used to be. They are working hard, and as I now know they are facing extraordinary risks. All in pursuit of wealth. Again my mind wandered to my father as I clung on the ledge. He took me in when my unknown parents left me abandoned in the streets of High Rock. I saw the good in him every day, but under that good was the heart of a rogue, and he met a rogue's end. Gold he really didn't need but couldn't resist, ambushed by townsmen who honestly wished it had been someone else they caught, and a jail cell that could not confine his roving spirit without killing him, which it promptly did. Now here I am. Prison contained me without killing me. I have enough gold that I could easily spurn any bait that is presented. The townsmen of Balmora call me friend. Father laughed off the oracle who shreiked that I was a child of destiny, congratulating her on the drama of her presentation, but I seem destined to meet my own rogue's end.

I left the ruins and walked back to Balmora in time for dinner at the guild hall. Good company can purge memories, and I enjoyed the evening, but as night closed in and the quiet settled I resolved to transport myself home. My melancholy seems unshakable tonight. The bait that lures me is security, but for me the only security calls for continuing forward, further into danger.


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