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.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Day Eighty-two: Something to be lived with

Before I left Ald-ruhn this morning there were things I had to know. I found out. I don't like what I found, but it is better to know than not. The Redorans do not give the latitude to the Cammona Tong criminal syndicate that it enjoys in Hlaalu territory, but it does operate here. While none of the Dunmer merchants are openly involved there is some level of sympathy present. The tong also runs much of the gambling, and it is they who were shorted in the Sarandas affair. When the tong, who had not been paid, contacted the merchants who had, it is safe to assume that I was mentioned by one, some, or perhaps all; innocently or not.

Apparently summoned by the Cammona Tong, the assassin arrived by guild guide from Balmora. Erranil remembers him. No one realized he had stepped into my room to cast a mark spell. I can't fault them. The guild guides get a lot of traffic. The assassin was staying at the Rat In The Pot. He apparently talked about joining the Thieve's Guild, but had not. He came and went frequently, in hindsight watching the comings and goings at the guild hall; watching for me. I walked right by him while I was making my delivery. I have gotten lax.

Tonight I am sleeping in an Ashlander camp in the remote wilds of the West Gash. The three Ashlanders, who I suspect are the only others to even know of this camp, are dead. I feel sorry for them. I'm sure the spread of the blight accounts, at least in part, for their preying on unwary travelers. I could not allow my sympathies to slow my hand when they attacked however. Their corpses are rolled in their bedrolls. A marauder in the night will see four targets, not one, and I ringed the camp with trama vines. The entangling vines and thorns should snare any interloper, slowing them enough to give me warning.

Searching for Mamaca seems an endless task, but at least it will keep me out of sight for a while. Eventually it will bear fruit. It would go faster perhaps if I stopped at the various caverns and egg-mines I have found, but I want no mention made of my passage.


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