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 01, 2005

Day Sixty-two: The conjurer's apprentice

I wanted to spend a little time away from Vivec City, and tonight I am far away indeed. Maar Gan is a small Redoran outpost in the Ashlands, on the slopes of Red Mountain itself. Standing on the wall that surrounds the main part of the town I can see the ghostfence glowing dimly to the east. What an incredible artifact! The ghostfence completely surrounds the crater area of the ancient volcano, containing the blight curse of Dagoth Ur. Mostly containing it anyway.

I spent the evening drinking here at the tradehouse, a rough and ready establishment run by Manse Andus. The food is adequate but not memorable, the drink abundant enough that I might not remember it much either. Drinking with warriors and crusaders demands a certain constitution that is not a part of my Breton heritage. It was an honorable company though, and I gave my best.

Maar Gan is sorely beset by the blight. Blighted creatures roam into town on an almost daily basis. The Ashlander natives are running short of game, and are beginning to prey on caravans and travelers. Horrible ash storms blow over the town intermittently, blotting out the sun. The faint of heart have fled, but there are few of those among the Dunmer of House Redoran. The few who left have been more than replaced by the heroic contingent from throughout Morrowind that has answered the call to support the local guards. That's not what I came for, though in passing I did contribute.

I actually came to Maar Gan at Edwinna's request, motivated as usual by my own concerns. As the steward of the guild hall in Ald-ruhn, Maar Gan is her responsibility. When reports of trouble came in I offered to investigate so she could continue her research. Hopefully she will finish with the book I borrowed from Sirlonwe by the time I return. The disturbance did not take long to quell, but I may walk back to Ald-ruhn tomorrow. Tonight's revelry may not sit well with the rolling gait of the silt strider.

When I arrived it was quite simple to get directions to Huleen's hut. The Argonian is, I suppose, the only mage in the area, and is well known among the townspeople even though his house is outside the walls. Getting to his house was another matter. A scrib, bloated beyond the capacity of its six spindly legs, writhed on a nearby hillside, and I stopped to still the poor beast with a well placed shot from my bow. Climbing up to make sure the creature was dead took me out of sight of the town.

The Ashlanders are well attuned to their arid homelands. I did not see the attack coming until the axe fell. I was saved by the black chainmail I wear under my clothes. My shirt hung in tatters from the serrated edges of the weapon, which was made from the chitinous shell of what appears to be a large insect, probably a beetle. Had my attacker known the resilience of my armor he would probably have aimed for my head. I grappled him and we rolled down the hillside in a tangle of arms and legs. When we skidded to a halt I was on my feet first, with shortsword in hand. I hoped that he would surrender, or at least flee. I saw no need to continue to the death with a man driven to desperation by hunger. I suppose to the Ashlander it was too late to stop; a question of honor. After a brief exchange of blows he lay dead in the dust, his honor more intact than his skin.

When I found Huleen's hut the cause of complaint was obvious. The brief outcries were mixed with the sound of crashing glass and splintering wood. I don't know where Huleen is. His apprentice, Listien Bierles, said he would be back in a few days. The apprentice has a lot of cleaning up to do before then, and a lot of explaining to do after. The scamp that he conjured locked him in a closet and fairly well destroyed everything in the house. Fortunately it did not escape, though it had clawed about halfway through the heavy wooden front door. I suppose if it had gotten free it would have just been a small addition to the problems facing Maar Gan.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Congratulations on yet another brilliant days adventuring. You continue to capture just the right atmosphere that I imagine must pervade Morrowind; a sense of destiny, mixed with lots of fun and plenty of fear and trembling !!
Thank you for continuing the saga, I love reading Arvil Bren's rather dry humour as he describes his often hair-raising day's experiences.

- Angela

12:47 AM  

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