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You stand in a large room.
It's familiar. A banquet hall, the far wall lined with tall windows caked with ash and dirt, cracks spiderwebbing across the glass and the panes warped with unfathomable age. Through the dark tint of them is another familiar sight - the slope and peak of a looming mountain, black smoke spiraling lazily from its point, backlit by a sun turned bloody crimson-orange by haze. Silken decorations trail across the walls, banners and garlands and tapestries stained by time and neglect, fluttering weakly in an intangible wind. Tables have been pushed to line the edges of the room, set with bouquets of rotting flowers, and a crowd of shades, of corpses, their faces obscured by jewelry and veils and glittering finery, gathers in the center. Some of them, many of them, are familiar too.
They look to you with sightless eyes, and reach out to you with cold, clawed fingers that catch in your clothes and send shivers down your spine.
You look down, and you're arrayed in white silk, loose pants and a long, flowing jacket with an open chest. A ring graces the third finger on your left hand, a band of refined ebony set with a glittering square-cut ruby; it catches and throws back a light without a source. Your arm is hooked through that of a tall man draped in a matching outfit, a golden mask covering his face, gleaming as if polished. Just visible behind the edges of his mask are his ashen skin and his long black hair, tied back with gold chains and more rubies.
There's laughter, cheers, from the crowd of the dead. Someone congratulates you on a long-awaited wedding; impossible to tell who when no lips move. The man at your side laughs, the sound deep and rich and echoing, and tugs you closer, reaching with his other hand to brush your hair back from your face. His ragged nails leave scratches against your cheek, and as much as you want to, you can't recoil. Something holds you in place, bound to his side as surely as- as-
"Long overdue, is it not, sweet Moon-and-Star?" the man croons, his voice low and deep and you know it, you know it, you know him, somewhere so far down into your soul you can only grasp the certainty of it. "At last, we give the Sixth House cause to celebrate."
You try to speak, but the words tangle in your throat like thorns, and he shushes you, and it would almost sound gentle if not for the cold way the mask muffles and twists the sound. "Come," he says. You shiver again at the tone of his voice, and try to breathe in to settle yourself, but your chest is frozen, held in place like a vise. Or perhaps you're just as dead as the corpses around you, waiting for the rot to set in. "Let us present ourselves to our loyal followers."
This feels wrong. It feels- it feels…you shudder as his conviction settles around your shoulders like a blanket, heavy and warm, a comfort and a constriction both. This is wrong- or is it right? It's suddenly so difficult to tell.
A name rises unbidden to your lips, sweet and bloody. But the silence of undeath is not one you can break. You can do nothing but be led through the crowd, this empty mockery of a celebration, and with every step a heartbeat grows louder, brighter, wilder, echoing in your head, your ribs, the pit of your stomach, a drumbeat as deep as the world.
The seizing in your lungs eases. You breathe-
Sirisare opens their eyes to their quarters in the Balmora Mages' Guild (the room to themself being the only real consideration they'd gotten for their University position) and groans. Three months since their arrival in Vvardenfell, and they haven't managed to have a single night free of strange dreams since - but usually the dreams are just dreams, frequently featuring that man they'd seen before, Voryn. They have enough details written out in their journal now that they can't help thinking that if he was a real person standing in front of them, they'd want nothing more than to take his hand and ask him to talk more about the magic they seem to always be ignoring in their dreams. Which is obviously nonsensical; they've had strange dreams on and off their whole life, but usually not ones they could remember this clearly, and while they would never deny the meaning inherent to dreams and visions, they've never been one to experience true ones. Which means this is probably just some odd coincidence, or so they desperately want to believe. Until they can find any kind of evidence it isn't, they refuse to take it as anything more than stress-induced fantasy.
Except. This dream they've just woken from would be far more accurately termed a nightmare, and now that they're awake, they're nearly certain the mountain through the windows had been Red Mountain. And the Sixth House they've heard mentioned once or twice in undertones at local taverns, not that anyone would speak of it to an outlander. They've picked up enough about Morrowind's culture and general standing to know that everything, save the Ashlander tribes, is organized in terms of major and minor Houses; if it means anything, which they'd like to believe is a big if, they suspect a Sixth House would have to do with that, somehow. It sounds like it's meant to go right along with the five Great Houses that form the Grand Council and control the majority of the land in the province.
Why would they dream of that? They know very little of Morrowind politics, and have no desire to learn more-
Their cheek stings.
Sirisare lifts a hand to brush over it, and their fingertips come away wet with blood. They mutter a curse and sit up, padding barefoot across the rough floor to the vanity set against the far wall, and bend to look at themself in its mirror, unease twisting in their stomach. Across the plane of their cheek, just in front of their ear, are three long scratches, jagged and only breaking the skin in places, like they'd come from some claws. They're in the exact same place the man had touched them in their dream.
"What," Sirisare mutters aloud, "the fuck?"
It feels really like the only appropriate thing to say.
They stare at the scratches a few minutes longer, uncertainty and some sense of foreboding churning like nausea in their gut, and then let out a breath they'd hardly realized they were holding and cast a minor Restoration spell. The cuts burn for only a moment before the warmth of magic and magicka slips across them, closing them until nothing but faint marks that will be gone within a day remain.
If only the trepidation would vanish as easily.
This isn't something they can avoid. One dream with an impact on the waking world isn't a pattern, and they'd laugh off any of their colleagues for using anything similar as the basis for any kind of conclusion - they want to laugh off their own worry. But the sight of their own blood on their fingers had sent something cold running down their back, and when combined with the other odd dreams they've been having…it's just dreams, but no mage studying the sort of esoterica they are can afford to believe the metaphysical is less binding and defining than the physical.
At the very least, they think as they dress for the day, in one of their favored half-tunics with a very deep neckline and a loose cloak as an overrobe, they can ask around about the Sixth House, and see if the Guild knows more about it than the cornerclubs are willing to admit to.
(They prefer the Guild anyway. Their fellow mages understand, for the most part, their desire to spend most of their time reading and researching, and within the guildhall's walls, no one reacts strangely to their birthmarks. Outside on the town, the mark on their chest mostly escapes scrutiny, but the moon and star on their neck draws stares and occasional comments muttered mostly in Dunmeris, which they speak no more than a few phrases of, though they've been begrudgingly expanding that vocabulary recently. They'd tried covering the mark with powder and body paint just to avoid the looks, but the moment they'd seen themself in the mirror with it hidden they'd felt such a strong sense of revulsion and wrongness they'd had to wash the paint off immediately.
Which means suffering the discomfort of stares. And…hadn't the man in their dream called them by that same appellation? Moon-and-Star. That, of all things, doesn't feel like a coincidence.)
But none of their fellow associates have much in the way of useful information - yes, they've heard the name once or twice, Sirisare hears over and over again, but it's not relevant to the Guild's activities, they should try asking around elsewhere if they think it's important. It's frustrating, and they're fairly sure Ranis, the steward, knows more than she's letting on, but she isn't willing to say it, for whatever reason. They could maybe convince her if they brought up their dream, but there's some instinct telling them that's a bad idea, and they aren't keen to ignore it.
After a fruitless few hours of asking questions and perusing the library only to find nothing helpful, they find themself sitting around considering the potential benefits of going down to the cornerclub and trying to get information out of the locals. It's not likely to go well - they're as proud and sharp as any Dunmer, which doesn't help them much - but they don't have any other connections…wait.
Unbidden, their thoughts turn to Caius Cosades. The Blade and spymaster who'd tried to - succeeded at? - conscript them, who'd been so certain they'd come crawling back to him for whatever reason. Just the memory of his sarcastic, superior attitude has familiar anger rising in their chest and one hand clenching into a fist, and out of spite they're almost tempted to just declare the whole dream unimportant, but…if anyone would know anything, it'd be a spy, and he might actually be willing to tell them if he thinks it'd get them on his side. Maybe.
Is this important enough to swallow their pride?
They would greatly prefer to say no. One dream isn't a pattern. At the very least, they could wait until they have a few more data points - but they were lucky this dream only left them with easily-healed scratches. If the dreams continue, if they escalate at all…damn it.
The hike across Balmora gives them plenty of time to think about how they want to approach this. They'd rather not give Cosades anything more to hold over them than they have to, and they're already dreading the smugness he's sure to flaunt as soon as he sees them outside his door, but they have to talk about this with someone that isn't the silent pages of their journal, and as frustrating as it is, they want information. They want the context to understand what in Oblivion is happening to them, if anything is at all, and this isn't just their mind snapping under the stress of everything, which they suppose is possible.
Part of them can't help but feel like this is too convenient for Cosades. He'd been utterly convinced they'd come back to him; he can't have known they'd start having these dreams, unless he's a damned good mage or consorting with daedra, the latter of which feels unlikely for an Imperial agent. But he clearly knows something they don't, something that has to do with that damnable letter they delivered him, and he was right and now they're walking right back to him. He couldn't have manipulated this situation, but it feels like he did, and they don't like the way that sets them on edge.
But there's nothing to do but knock anyway, once they reach his house.
He answers more quickly than before this time, cracking the door open as they're considering knocking a second time, and his eyes widen in some surprise to see them on the doorstep. "Huh," he says, rubbing at his eyes like he's not convinced he's seeing them correctly. "You were pretty convinced you wouldn't be back here, last time we met."
Sirisare grits their teeth. "I need information, and I can't get it from the locals," they say as evenly as they can manage. "Are you going to let me in?"
Cosades shrugs, then steps back, opening the door further, and the sickly-sweet smell of skooma wafts out - not so strong as to suggest he's smoking right now, but definitely implying he had a pipe out earlier. They grimace, pinching the bridge of their nose. Hopefully they'll be out of here before it gives them a headache.
The room is just as messy and dilapidated as it was three months ago. They perch awkwardly on the edge of the bed, for lack of anywhere else to sit, and Cosades shuts the door behind them and then turns to look at them, a frown pulling at his lips. "So. Tell me what you're looking for, and we'll discuss it."
Well, at least they weren't naive enough to expect him to do anything for them for free. They have a sneaking suspicion he'll want them to do a job for him as any kind of favor, but what other choice do they have. "What do you know about the Sixth House?" No point in beating around the bush.
His gaze sharpens on their face immediately, something wary and cautious, almost, in it. "Where'd you hear about that?" he asks, and they sigh, brushing loose hair out of their face.
This is a moment of truth, probably. Admitting it happened out loud makes it feel real, and he'll either call them crazy or believe them, and they aren't truly sure which one they would prefer. "I had a dream last night," they say finally, and his eyebrows creep high on his forehead.
"A dream." His voice is flat, and as empty of inflection as it is, they can sense the judgement in it. "Well, keep going, then."
"Just waiting for your permission, spymaster," they retort, and one eyebrow inches higher. "I'm an experienced mage and I'm over a century old, Cosades, I'm not wasting your precious time. I was in some dirty, ancient banquet hall somewhere on Vvardenfell - I could see Red Mountain through the window. The context of the dream isn't important-" mostly because they don't want to try to explain that it'd been, for some reason, a wedding celebration among the dead- "but there was a man with a golden mask who spoke to me, and he mentioned the Sixth House. I wouldn't have taken it for anything important if I hadn't heard the name a couple times while out in town."
They sigh, gaze shifting away from Cosades and unfocusing, as if they can see that filthy room again, the man on their arm leading them through the dead, the warmth in his voice as he spoke. He had been repulsive, but they had been drawn to him too, for reasons they can't define. "He called me Moon-and-Star," they add after a moment, one hand drifting up to brush over the mark on their neck. "And he left Nine-damned scratches on my face that were there when I woke up, which is what actually concerns me. I have no proof of a pattern, but I'm also not going to wait until dying in my dreams kills me when I'm awake to start doing research. So can you give me anything, or do I need to start trying to figure out how to get the locals to like me?"
"Given your charming personality I doubt that'd hurt," Cosades says, but for all the sarcasm in the words, his face hasn't changed - he's frowning, and they'd almost call the look in his eyes concerned if they didn't know any better. "It just so happens that I've been wanting to get more information from a contact of mine in the Fighters' Guild about the Sixth House and another local superstition, the Nerevarine. But he'll want a favor from me in exchange. One I shouldn't be seen doing. Do the job for me, and I'll share everything he sends me with you. Think you can handle that?"
If they hadn't expected him to turn the situation to his advantage, they'd be angry; as it is, irritation and suspicion flare in equal measures in their chest. "Convenient timing," they say, and he inclines his head to one side, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why are you looking into the Sixth House?"
"Prove you aren't going to turn around and spill my secrets to the highest bidder out of spite and maybe I'll tell you."
As much as they want to argue with that, they grudgingly have to admit it's a reasonable request, so they sigh, fiddling with one of the large hoops threaded through their ears. "Tell me what you know about the Sixth House and the Nerevarine first. I want to know what I'll be getting myself into if I agree to do your legwork for you." Besides selling their soul to the Blades, because once they do one job for him they're sure he'll find reasons to get them involved in another, and another, and another. But what choice do they have?
Cosades sighs as well, in an echo of their own frustrated resignation. "They're local cults," he says. "I don't know much about either of them, and the Tribunal Temple suppresses information on them, which is why I need you to go look into this for me. But the Nerevarine cult's one of the few things I know about the Ashlanders - started out there, rumor has it. A belief that an orphan and an outcast, a youth born on a certain day to uncertain parents, will one day unite the various Dunmer factions under one banner, drive the invaders - that's us - out of Morrowind, and reestablish the ancient customs from before the Tribunal ascended."
He furrows his brow, shaking his head. "They call this supposed hero the Nerevarine, after a belief that he'll be the reincarnation of the Tribunal saint and Hortator, Indoril Nerevar. You might've heard the name if you've been around any of the faithful." For just a moment he pauses, eyes dipping down to their neck. "It's widely-known that his banner was the Moon-and-Star." …what. "As for the Sixth House, all I know is what one informant managed to send me. That it's a secretive cult associated with some strange happenings lately, and connected somehow to the Nerevarine prophecies.
"So there you have it." He straightens, dropping his hands to rest one on his hip. "Sounds like all our concerns are related, doesn't it? My contact, Hasphat Antabolis, fancies himself a scholar and knows a good bit about Morrowind history, so you might even learn something else useful by talking to him."
"What do you mean, Indoril Nerevar's banner was the Moon-and-Star?" they ask, something cold settling in the pit of their stomach. Sweet Moon-and-Star, the man had called them. Is it the same as the mark on their neck? If so…one dream isn't a pattern. But. But.
It feels like…an unlikely coincidence.
Cosades shrugs one shoulder. "Any history of Morrowind ought to cover the First Council," he says. "Ask Hasphat. He'll know where to point you if you're looking for a comprehensive volume on the subject."
They want to accuse him of fabricating this - like they'd said earlier, everything is suspiciously convenient - but he already knows they're suspicious of him, there's no need to belabor the point. Instead they sigh. "Fine," they agree grudgingly, because they can't see any other options. They aren't a fighter, but they know enough magic to defend themself in an emergency, and hopefully whatever favor Cosades refuses to do on his own won't be too violent. "What's the favor?"
"I don't know. But it's best I'm not seen doing work for either of the Guilds." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully, watching them. "I doubt he'll work you too hard, given how obviously you aren't one of his."
Which is, they're sure, a polite way of saying they don't look like they could hold their own in a fight. Not entirely wrong, admittedly, but he's never seen them cast. They nod an acknowledgement and stand, adjusting their overrobe, and as they step past him, he says their name in a different tone from before, something more serious, an echo of that almost-worry they'd seen in his eyes present in it. They hesitate, tilting their head sideways in a silent question, and he exhales slowly.
"Listen," he says. "A word of advice. In Morrowind, they take dreams and prophecies much more seriously than we do in Cyrodiil. And the Temple's always watching. If you have disturbing dreams, the Temple calls you crazy. And they want to lock you up. And if you have disturbing dreams and they think they mean something? They call you a prophet or a witch or a heretic, whatever fits their agenda best, and they want to lock you up." He pinches the bridge of his nose, a grimace on his face like he's been personally victimized. "So keep quiet about these dreams of yours that affect the waking world, if they turn recurring. Don't ask about the Sixth House around anyone I haven't vetted. And don't, for the love of Akatosh, bring up the fact that someone called you Moon-and-Star."
"I'm not an idiot - which I feel like I've told you before." They want to be frustrated. They are frustrated. But they can recognize a genuine warning when they hear one, and it's valuable to know that the Tribunal Temple may not be an ally in this. "I haven't told anyone else - including my fellow mages at the Guild. I did ask them about the Sixth House, but I at least have a reason why that isn't because I've been having weird dreams. I'm not going to get myself arrested a second time."
"Good." He gestures with one hand. "Off you go, then. Try not to get yourself in trouble. It'd be inconvenient."
Uh-huh. Sure.
The favor Hasphat Antabolis asks for, before he'll tell them anything at all, is to recover some sort of Dwemer puzzle box from a nearby ruin. A ruin infested with bandits. Sirisare isn't squeamish by any means, they've had to defend themself from muggers and wild animals before; the Imperial City is only peaceful and crime-free in the sunlight, and they have traveled in the past, early in their career with the University. But knowing a few tricks to defend themself is very different from delving into a trapped and inhabited Dwemer outpost with no arms or armor to protect them - and while they've been able to eke out a salary from the Guild, it hasn't been enough to let them do more than start rebuilding their lost possessions. They wish they had a staff - recharging it isn't difficult, with the amount of magicka they have, and the Guild allocates soul gems to its members anyway - but buying one to replace the one they'd handmade as an apprentice had seemed…inappropriate.
So they fill the pack they'd purchased back in Seyda Neen with some supplies and, reluctantly, head out of the city for the first time since they arrived. They manage to convince the Legion at Fort Moonmoth to give them a bed for the night, and then the next morning they set out on the roads towards Suran, one of the same roads the silt strider had taken to bring them to Balmora to begin with.
There's a bandit on the bridge to Arkngthand, one that conjures a skeleton and threatens them the minute they refuse to pay some ludicrous toll. He makes the deadly mistake of underestimating them, thankfully, and they summon a scamp to distract the skeleton and strong shield spells to protect themself, and focus on dispelling his casts until he gets close enough they can simply cast a spell to rip the life from his body.
They don't bother doing anything with the body. The scavengers will get to it soon enough, if the Legion doesn't.
The rest of the hike is uneventful, other than being dive-bombed by a cliff racer before they manage to knock it out of the sky with a careful bolt of lightning. It gives them time to think about the exact nature of this favor Antabolis has asked of them - and to come to the conclusion that while Cosades may not have known exactly what he would ask, he'd had a good idea, more than likely. Smuggling Dwemer artifacts is illegal under Imperial law; the Arcane University's Dwemer scholars had had to obtain permits for any excavations and delves they'd done, and register all the artifacts they brought back for study, to try to crack down on black market purchases and trades. Too many rich collectors or unauthorized mages or scientists who don't actually know what they're doing with the technology who keep trying to get their hands on it.
A simple puzzle box that encodes a key to a door is fairly tame, as far as Dwemer artifacts go, but that doesn't make it legal. They might have something of an excuse, considering it was a Blade who sent them to do this, but Cosades could easily deny all knowledge and involvement if he had to - could claim he had no idea the favor would be something illegal and that he never asked them to, and they could very easiliy end back up in prison, for good this time. They aren't a fool, even if they think he thinks they might be. As soon as he finds out what happened, if he doesn't already know, it'll be a piece of blackmail; as much as they would prefer to hide it from him, they doubt they can. All he'd have to do is ask Antabolis.
Stupid, stupid predicament they've gotten themself into. They could walk away, they know. Turn their back on this whole disaster and ignore it entirely. But all their concerns about their dreams still apply, and they can't help it - they're curious. A morbid curiosity, given the way the dream still makes their skin crawl to think about - all those dead bodies pressing in around them, hands on their face they couldn't evade, chest frozen mid-breath - but curiosity all the same. They've never been able to leave a mystery alone, which is why they started studying Lorkhan to begin with, and a dream that impacts the waking world so strongly is a magical quandary they want to solve.
And that drive keeps them going, as they slip through the dark, overly-warm ruin of Arkngthand, its machinery still belching steam and magicka thousands of years after the Dwemer's disappearance. Only a small area of the ruin is actually available to explore, further passages collapsed or blocked off by locked doors; the bandits have set up camp on a level opened up by a cave-in, a few of them digging into the most easily-accessible chamber. Having three bandits rushing at them with swords and bows is, actually, a harrowing experience - they are not meant for close-quarters combat. But spells of burden and slowing on the swordsmen give them the advantage they need to duck, somewhat clumsily, out of the way of their weapons, a shield spell protects them from the arrows, and careful applications of Destruction magic handle the rest.
Still. The smell of singed clothing and hair is unpleasant and likely to linger on their clothes, they aren't all that eager to get blood on them, even if needs must, and they would really rather be casting spells at hostile enemies from a distance where their lack of armor and weapons won't hurt them.
(Should they feel something about killing, arguably unnecessarily, on an errand simply to satisfy their own curiosity? Probably. It isn't as though they enjoy it, and they would avoid it if possible, but the simple fact of the matter is that they were acting in self-defense - and if someone wants to try to kill them for the mere motive of retaining profit, they have no issues killing in return.)
The puzzle box itself is tucked away on some shelving in one of the open rooms, a former storage room, if they have any basic understanding of the Dwemer at all. It takes them a while to find it, surrounded by gears and levers and disassembled gadgets and sundry miscellaneous paraphenalia; when they do they wrap it in scraps of cloth and tuck it into the bottom of their bag, in the grim hope that no one will search them on their way back to the Fighters' Guild. They could almost certainly make some extra drakes by taking a few more pieces with them and finding a fence or a black market contact to pawn them off on, but they don't want to draw extra attention to themself, and truthfully, artifact smuggling has never quite sat right with them. If they have to participate in it this once, they will, but they won't make it worse for themself as they do.
They manage, barely, to make it back to Balmora before darkness falls, and spend another night back at the Mages' Guild (with another strange dream about Voryn, the two of them walking through a quiet camp and debating some sort of strategy they can't remember when they wake; the dream had ended with Voryn squeezing their shoulder and practically ordering them to sleep). The next morning they deliver the box to Antabolis, and in return he gives them a stack of books, primarily on Morrowind history, a few pages of written notes, and an instruction to tell Caius to ask Sharn gra-Muzgob about the local religious superstitions - I don't know much more about the Nerevarine than he does.
As they go to leave, they catch him watching them, a thoughtful, almost inscrutable look on his face. "I wonder," he mutters under his breath, as if they weren't supposed to hear, and they tilt their head to one side in a silent question. "Hm? Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud. The Empire's always sending people out to the provinces to try to 'civilize' things, and it never works. Caius says he's tired of it. Tired of fools who don't understand history and can't be bothered to learn about it. We disagree about several things, but the one thing we agree on is that history must be understood to be history to begin with." He shakes his head. "Watching you, I can't help but wonder what role you'll play in the history our experiences are writing right now. Go on. Report back. Caius is clearly looking into something important here, he won't appreciate the delay."
He turns away from them in a clear dismissal, and Sirisare frowns, but obeys. The fact that he and Cosades apparently debate each other about intellectual quandaries often enough to know each other's opinions on history suggests a side to Cosades they hadn't expected - which probably reflects poorly on them. Yes, he's a skooma addict and a spy. Yes, he's conscripted them into the Blades without the decency to even be nice about it, but admittedly, they think they'd respect him less if he tried to sugar-coat what he's doing. He's holding knowledge above their head to conscript them into working for him and by extension the Emperor.
That doesn't mean he's incapable of thoughtful, reasonable opinions - after all they themself tend to be rude more often than not - and they should probably stop assuming the worst about him without provocation.
Probably. But they've always had a hard time with grudges.
Cosades lets them in almost immediately this time, and there's a brief flicker of relief on his face, as though he was actually concerned about what they'd been sent to do despite his insistence it wouldn't be anything they couldn't handle. "You took your sweet time," he says as they hand over the books - they'd memorized the titles quickly, just in case he doesn't actually hold to his end of the bargain. "What'd you do, get lost trying to find the bookshop?"
"Like you don't know what favor he asked," Sirisare retorts, rolling their eyes. "Are you going to tell me what the notes say or are we pretending you didn't make a deal with me to get me to do this?" They'd tried to skim the notes on the way over, but they're written in a shorthand they don't know. Because of course they are.
"If you give me a minute to read them first, yes." Cosades sets the books down on his desk and picks the sheet of notes off the top of the stack, eyes scanning it curiously. "Huh. Interesting. So according to Hasphat, the Sixth House originally refers to House Dagoth, sixth of the seven Great Houses in existence during the time of the First Council. They betrayed the others during the War of the First Council - back during the First Era, in case you haven't read enough about history to know that little tidbit. The seat of their power was Kogoruhn, up in northern Vvardenfell, where the Ashlands are today. In the aftermath of the war, it seems the entire House was destroyed by the Tribunal and the loyal five."
A traitor Great House destroyed in a war thousands of years ago. They think of their dream again, the lines of corpses, the ancient decorations, and feel a chill run down their spine. "Do you have any idea what that history has to do with the modern-day cult you mentioned?" they ask, and he frowns, shifting the paper in his hands.
"These notes say the cult is an anti-Tribunal organization. Their creed is that the Tribunal are false gods who betrayed Morrowind to the Empire, supposedly. Their goals are to overthrow the Temple through whatever means necessary and drive the 'invaders' out of Morrowind - strikingly similar to the beliefs people have about the Nerevarine prophecies, from what little I know of those. Which is specific enough that given the history of the First Council, I no longer doubt the two are connected." He sighs, wrinkling his nose in some mix of displeasure and resignation. "The leader of the Sixth House is Dagoth Ur, the Sharmat, a figure even I'm familiar with - the immortal enemy of the Tribunal, who dwells in Red Mountain. Official teaching is that he's responsible for every ill that befalls Morrowind, especially including the ash blight and corprus disease."
Sirisare can feel their heart in their throat, trembling like a hummingbird's wings, when they ask, too quietly, "Has anyone ever written a description of him?"
"If there is one, Hasphat didn't write it down. Might be in the books he lent me." Cosades frowns at them over the top of the paper, then sets it aside entirely. "You think the man in your dream was Dagoth Ur?"
He doesn't sound like it's a ridiculous concern, which is almost worse than if he'd laughed at them to begin with. They'd really rather he be an asshole about this. "I don't know," they admit, and they can't quite keep the disquiet from their tone, as much as they want to. "Something about your information doesn't sit right with me either. I can't justify it, so don't ask me to, but…" They don't know what it is that sends that little curl of wrong, wrong, wrong down the back of their neck, and without any kind of proof at all, they don't want to believe it. But the instinct remains.
"Hm." The look on his face is all somber consideration. "It's a legitimate concern. I don't trust the Tribunal Temple further than I can throw them - this is classified information, so I'm offering you a show of trust by giving it to you. Don't make me regret it, Sirisare." He waits for them to nod once before continuing. "The technology that caused the Warp in the West, by all reports we can fathom from that period, was originally given to Tiber Septim by the Tribunal themselves as part of the treaty that brought Morrowind under Imperial control."
They find themself, despite everything, thinking back to their first conversation a few short months ago. "You watch his enemies," they murmur, and he inclines his head to them, an approving expression crossing his face.
"Morrowind's a shitshow." He says it bluntly. "That's nothing you won't have noticed. I know you're smart enough to see it, even without the political context. Some of it's cultural; political violence is practically a sport to the Great Houses. Some of it's historical and religious. The Ashlanders and the Houses hate each other, and have for as long as Morrowind's been Morrowind. There's enough suspicion against the Tribunal to keep any Septim that's sat the throne from trusting them, and with good reason. The Temple does good things, things I find admirable, like their care for the wounded and the poor. But their living gods…"
"You said the Tribunal Temple suppresses all this," Sirisare says slowly. "The Sixth House and Nerevarine cults. But Dagoth Ur is common enough knowledge you know his place in their mythology. That does suggest there's something about this whole mess - if you're right about it being interconnected - that they want…if not covered up, precisely, spun in a particular way."
Cosades nods. "I agree." He sighs, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "And it's damned concerning you…well, let's not jump to conclusions. Spooky, though. I meant what I said about you not bringing those dreams up anywhere else."
And now they see why. "I wish this gave me any idea what to do about it beyond read more history," they mutter, almost absently, and he snorts. "Don't be a dick, Cosades."
"Oh, relax. I'm not. I've just got an idea." He rolls his eyes. "You go meet my contact in the Mages' Guild to ask about the Nerevarine. Meanwhile, I'll skim through these books and write out some nice summaries for you, and see if I can't get my hands on anything a little more forbidden through my own channels. I'd like to compare some different historical perspectives and see what I can find, if anything."
One of their eyebrows shoots up. "Right. And obviously this contact of yours won't ask me to do a highly illegal favor that you can then hold over my head as blackmail for the moment working with the Blades stops being in my self-interest and you want a leash?"
He smirks in their direction, then turns to pick up the first book from the stack Antabolis had sent them with. "See?" he says. "You've got more of the necessary skills than you give yourself credit for."
"You're a s'wit," they say, with all the emphasis the word feels like it deserves, and he tosses his head back and laughs.