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Tales of The Elder Scrolls: Chapter Two

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With a high wail, the Strider fell. Sander Vothrani leapt off his guar just in time. The great beast kicked up dirt as it landed, picked up by the wind blowing the black dust of Vvardenfell, perhaps all that was left of Vvardenfell, at their backs. 

Sander lowered the thin cloth over his face, pulling his wide-brimmed hat down, and tied it to the neck of his shirt before turning back to face the wind. Even with his protection, he could taste the death and fire behind them. As quickly as he could, his guar braying in pain before dying, he and some of the other survivors converged on the fallen crates and bags of food as well as, far more importantly, the barrels of their very carefully rationed drinking water. 

I was told there would be lakes, Sander thought. There had been, after a fashion. When they had at last managed to get off the living hell of the island he had passed them. They were all covered with a thick, choking layer of the black dust, the last curse of Dagoth Ur, as he had come to think of it. Even when they slopped through it, every guar they let drink had fallen ill.

We can't get to the mountains, he realized. A dull coldness settled in his chest. We really are going to die out here. Three hundred years was a long life for a warrior, but to die of thirst and hunger, to be buried in this evil storm unblessed....

Sander felt the hilts at his hips. On his right was a long, thin sword he had taken from the first Breton he had ever slain, used for stabbing and precision through armor that he had named Exactitude. On his left was all that remained of his former life as an Ordinator, the ebon mace Devotion. 

As he stood there, the blackness climbing up his ankles and the others bustling around him, hefting supplies, he lifted red eyes to the red horizon, then squinted.

"Shelter!" he shouted over the blowing wind. "Shelter! To me!"

There, impossibly, was somewhere to sleep safe. Against the ruddy light that bled through the clouds, Sander saw the twisting, angled spires of a Daedric shrine. The dim sillhouette of sturdy walls heartened him, and he ran to a barrel, grabbing a figure by the shoulders and shaking.

"Shelter! Shelter! To me! Gather what you can!"

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Lewin blearily raised his head at the Dunmer's cry. Shelter. Perhaps the gods hadn't forgotten him after all. He feebly tried to shield his eyes against the sheets of wind-blown ash and peered through the storm at the distant shrine. Daedric, by the look. Well, Stendarr works in mysterious ways.

The Altmer stooped to pick up a crate of dried meats and staggered under its weight. Gritting his teeth, he fought his way through the ashstorm toward the jagged walls. Around him, Mer and Man laboured side by side in the same desperate bid for safety. Even with such a terrific storm rising up to smother them all, the priest was moved by the singularity of purpose among the refugees. The Red Year had caused many people to reconsider old hatreds and motley bands such as his own were increasingly common. Those survivors left by Vvardenfell's eruption reached out to one another and bound themselves to a communal goal: survival.

To be sure, tensions lingered and old hatreds can never truly die, but it was in this way that the world changed. Step by step. If only the priests back at Sumerset could see this. Lewin paused as he watched a Nord help a fallen Dunmer to his feet. There can be peace. I am seeing its seeds planted before my eyes.

The elf bowed his head and trudged onward, occasionally blasting the air around him with brief warding spells to keep the worst of the ash away. Eventually he found himself within the shelter of the twisted Daedric walls. He set down his crate of supplies and turned to help the others when he heard a sound like a sigh come from behind.

He glanced back into the shadowy shrine. It was of circular design with a thirty foot tall wall surrounding an enormous disc of cracked marble. Where Lewin stood, the walls curved outward and provided a narrow entrance to the interior. At the center of the circle stood a jagged spike of some black stone that rose several feet above the top of the wall. From its tip extended eight dark chains that each was secured to a twisted crenellation on the outer wall. Adjascent chains were further bound to one another by four shorter lengths, each at a point incrementally further away from the central spire. The floor of the shrine mirrored this pattern with a carving of four circles drawn across eight intersecting lines. The inscription was stylized, with the curves adorned with wild thorns and barbs curled and swirled in an eerily mesmerizing arrangement.

Lewin tore his gaze away from the floor and saw that embedded within the central spire was a heavy iron door. There was nobody there.

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 “Grab the damned rope! Tie it down, damn you! Tie it down!” bellowed Chamrys, the wind beating against his words. Atop the cart, a bosmeri hireling struggled with thick cords of rope, tugging them across the heavy cargo. The piles of crates, stacked and tied on the cart, lurched ominously beneath the weathered tarpaulin, threatening to break their bindings.

Refugees milled past the caravan without a care, rushing frantically towards shelter as the hot ash buffeted them from all angles. But Chamrys remained, the dunmer’s hood pulled tightly about his head, his red eyes on the cargo. He put his hand into the small jar of peony seeds cradled in his arm, settling one between his teeth. 
 
"It’s no good! It won’t stay!" squealed the bosmeri hireling to his employer below. The elf threw himself off the cart, landing with a dull thud. "This isn’t worth dying for. I’m getting out of here…" The wind howled mercilessly behind him.
Chamrys exhaled grimly, splintering the seed in his gritted teeth. Oblivion, but I miss slavery. Cheap labour just isn’t what it used to be. The merchant’s gloved hand fell to his belt and clasped the hilt of his dagger. It was out in an instant, glaring the worried bosmer in the face. The hireling stopped, and gulped, eyes flashing fear. 
 
‘Listen here, sw’it. You aren’t leaving this damned cart ‘til I see it tied down cosy. These here crates,’ he gestured flimsily with the dagger, ‘are all that’s important. We clear?’ The hireling nodded quickly. Chamrys lowered his dagger, spitting out the peony seed, watching it scuttle away into the dust.
 
It was taxing work, but by the efforts of the two of them, the cart was finally anchored down to the dry earth, moored like a ship in a harbour. Entrenched. Safe. You could almost call it a good days work, thought Chamrys. If you discount the fact Vvardenfell has been ignited from shore to shore.
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Enkur leaned against a particularly non-spiky slab of stone, letting his shark-like stare roam over the ruin, tracing the intersecting angles to their focal point in the center of the chamber. He unwrapped his scarf and fixed the high collar of his once elegant overcoat, the pristine black threads now stained with a rusty patina of the ashes of his homeland. A cursory glance told him no one was particularly paying attention, and while the peasants scurried about their chores, he began wandering the twisted halls.

There would be business later, when the bean counters had finished counting their beans, now he wanted for something more entertaining.

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 Sander rolled a water barrel against one of the slanted black-and-purple walls. In the shadow of the stone curtain, the ash whipped harmlessly overhead. He pulled the veil off of his face, dusting what had gotten through from his many wrinkles. 

Instinct took over. He knew what to look and listen for. The round, tall oval door was laying in the dirt. The dim magelights that hung from the roof were still letting their blue smoke drift down, casting the wall spikes in long, jagged shadows. 

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly. Dimly, at the very edge of hearing, was the long low thrumming of a Shrine. 

"Some Prince protects this place," Sander said to no one in particular. He was not sure how he felt about that. 

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"Indeed," said a voice behind Sander, "this shrine is alive. Good to know I'm not the only one who noticed." Another dunmer stepped froward to stand beside the ex-ordinator. His leather boots made little noise as he moved across the shrine's marble floor. His hands, similarly adorned with worn leather gloves, were crossed over his chest. The newcomer, a former Telvanni wizard called Lorvis, gave Sander a curt nod as he came into view.

 

"I've ordered my apprentices and some of the more able-bodied among us to watch the entrance. Anything else seeks shelter here, we'll be ready for them, friend or foe." Lorvis didn't say it, but he expected Sander was thinking the same thing he was. Friends were in short supply these days, and enemies could be found around every corner.

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 Sander scowled and looked Lorvis up and down. "'Alive' isn't what I'd say. Mind the shrine. If there are any worshipers here, whether or not they attack visitors usually depends on what Prince they bow to and what the visitors do to the offerings."

Sander wondered if there were any devotees in the ruin. There were large chunks of the wall fallen across the floor of the hallway, but the state of disrepair was never a reliable indicator. He smelled that strange mix of incense and old flesh wafting up from the shadows, but that could cling for quite some time before dissipating. 

"We should be wary," Sander grunted before walking into the oval entryway. The sound of the blowing ash winds died as soon as he passed the threshold, and the low thrumming grew louder.

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Lewin looked up from his work tending the ill and wounded. He got up and strode after the two old Dunmer. "So this is a Daedric shrine, is it? Well, it's a blessing regardless. We wouldn't have lasted much longer in that storm. Can you tell which Prince held court here?" He glanced around. "At least I hope and presume that I am correct in saying 'held.' Surely this fossil isn't still active? We're in the middle of a wasteland."

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Lorvis stopped just beyond the threshold to usher Lewin into the shrine.

 

"Never underestimate the devotion of daedra worshipers," Lorvis said. "This place may be a ruin in the middle of nowhere, but that means little. We should be wary, as Sander said." The wizard hooked his hands through his belt and looked the interior of the shrine over with a critical eye. "As for which Prince holds this place, I can't yet say." He stood silent for a while before realizing he knew nothing about the elf he had been speaking to. "And you are...?" he asked without breaking his stance or turning to look at the altmer beside him.

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"Sorry. The name's Lewin. I joined in with you lot a week or so back. I've been helping the weak and injured, mostly, so you probably haven't seen much of me." There was no reproach in the High Elf's voice. He recognized the need for soldiers as well as healers. It was simply a statement of fact.

 

Lewin frowned at the darkness within the deeper shrine. Something about the shadows made him profoundly uneasy. He turned to the two grey-skinned elves. "I won't lie, whatever Daedra guards this place, it makes my skin crawl. Stendarr is merciful for giving us shelter in our time of need, but this is an evil place. I won't presume to tell you your business, but I'd say we're best moving on as soon as possible."

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 "A shrine, you say?"

Chamrys walked towards the group, clumps of ash unfurling from the merchants ragged coat as he moved. His gaze lifted upward, scaling the hallowed walls. Opportunity.

"Bound to be ebony idols or the like around here, if it's Daedric,' he muttered, raising a hand over the grim surface of the shrine. "Valuable things, them ebony idols. Very valuable. More so in times like these. I don't suppose you folk have come across any, have you?"

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 "You'll never find anyone to buy it in..." Sander started, then stopped. This was not Vivec. There was no Vivec anymore. His brow furrowed. "The idols are always the first things to go."

Sander glanced down into the gloom. There were a number of offshoot tunnels. Some would lead to rooms where worshipers would keep food and supplies, at least one would lead to the main shrine, and any quarters would be scattered without a definitive plan. "If a Shrine is abandoned, it can still last as a place to speak with a Prince for years, but if the devotees left of their own volition, they take the most valuable things with them. If they didn't, well." Sander let the statement hang. He had never stolen from the Shrines he had cleaned, but many of his brothers had considered it a worldly reward for the services they had done in the name of the Three.

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Chamrys burst into laughter at this; his harsh, dry chuckle echoing off the tall grey walls. "I don't reckon we'll be speaking to the Prince any time soon," he muttered, turning to Sander.

"See, there's no voice here. There's no voice anywhere! Don't know if you noticed, but the Daedra have left Morrowind. Shoved ash and smoke down our throats and left us to choke. And they've taken Vivec with them." The merchant shook his head in dismay, reaching into his jar of peony seeds.

"It's all to ourselves, now. I reckon we take a look around, and fetch ourselves something shiny to find faith in."

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 Sander sneered. "One who puts faith in the glint of gold has a hollow life." 

He felt a cold rage well up in his chest, but he pushed it back down into the blackness. His anger was his own, and it would not be controlled by some fool. The dismissal of Vivec had struck deep.

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Lewin spoke up. "Put your faith in the Eight. Or the Nine, if you'd prefer. The Daedra and Tribunal may amaze men and mer with their tricks and lies, but the Eight and One remain, eternal and solid. Strong. Daedra betray their faithful and the Tribunal abandoned your people when they needed them most, but the Aedra will always be there for you. Patient, loving and waiting for you to come back."

The elf knew the wound of Vivec's disappearance was still raw in the minds of many Dunmer, and that reminding his companions of the false god's fallibility would likely provoke them to anger. Having said his piece, then, he bowed his head and withdrew to where the sick and injured still needed his attention. Let them take his words or leave them, he only asked that they hear.

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 Sander stared at the retreating back, his hands held rigid at his sides. The bodies of his gods were barely cold and already the vultures of other faiths were circling. He continued to push the anger down.

"I tire of this." He said, his voice flat and even. "We need to take inventory and see what may be down here."

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"By the Eight and One will this storm ever end?" coughed Tiberius. Upon arriving in Morrowind he began to wonder whether his crusade was worth it.

What am I thinking, he thought, anything in the service of Gods is well worth the dangers, even a little ashstorm. Using his shield as a windbreak he continued onward towards his destination, a daedric ruin called Atunatatar, then he saw the fallen Silt Strider. Moving closer gave him a better look at it.

"Poor thing must've been claimed by storm." he concluded, "Couldn't be dead more than a few hours." He then noticed that it had fallen on top of a saddled guar. There were also several crates of food and other items surrounding the two creatures.

Upon further examination of the beasts and the surrounding area he surmised that they were part of a caravan that was caught in the storm. Seeing no visible bodies he moved his head back and forth, looking for anything that might provide shelter for any survivors.

Then he saw it. The spires of a daedric ruin jutting into the sky not far from where the remains were.

Instictively he moved his right hand to the hilt of his blade, which he named Nine's Justice. Made of folded silver and ebony, it was a longsword worthy of his rank in the knightly order he was proud to serve.

There, he thought, that's where they must've gone. Holding his shield up to keep the ash out of his face he moved toward the ruin. He quickened his pace as he got nearer, both out of the desire to get out of the storm and at the anxiety that he may have finally reached Atunatatar.

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As Lewin threaded his path between crates of supplies and clusters of whispering refugees, he caught sight of a figure approaching through the billowing ash outside the shrine. He deposited two vials of freshly brewed potion in the hands of an apprentice healer, and walked quickly to the entryway.

 

"Well met, stranger. If you mean us no harm, and can carry your weight, we would be glad to offer you shelter here from the storm. If you wish us ill, well, I'd advise you to reconsider. Some of my colleagues are a touch on edge as it is. What do you say, then? Are you friend or foe?" Lewin curiously examined the stranger's raiment. He carried a heavy shield and a beautiful longsword hung at belt. If it came to it, he looked like the sort of man who could hold his own in a fight. The elf prayed that it wouldn't come to it.

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"Well met friend and blessings of the Eight and One upon you," Tiberius greeted the elf, who seemed to be a priest by the plain robes he wore, "I mean no harm on you. I am Sir Tiberius Antonius of Cyrodiil, Knight Commander of the Kights of the Nine, pleased to meet you."

Relaxed and relieved to find a friendly soul he offered out his free hand to the elf, "If you'd have it I'd be more than happy to offer aid to you and care for any wounded you may have, I have a few potions with me and know a few spells of Restoration. Tell me, are these the ruins of Atunatatar? I'm on a crusade to clear the ruins of any worshippers and foul daedra that may inhabit it."

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Lorvis' apprentices had spotted the approaching man and alerted their master immediately. Out of sight, they had trained their eyes and hands on him, ready to let spells fly at the first hint of trouble. When the newcomer proved friendly, for the time being at least, they stood down and resumed their watchful stances. By the time the stranger had entered the ruin, Lorvis himself had been alerted and was there to greet him, dipping in a low bow and then righting himself to stand arms akimbo, thumbs hooked in his belt.

 

"I'm Lorvis, once of House Telvanni," He said in response to the newcomers introduction, "and I've been guarding and guiding these people since we left Vvardenfell." There was no hint of a threat in Lorvis' voice as he told the stranger his duty, but his eyes were a different matter.

 

Upon hearing of the stranger's mission however, he chuckled and said, "Congratulations then. Your quest is over. Far as we can see, this place is clean as a priest's conscience. If you need healing or supplies before setting out again, we're glad to help." Lorvis made no mention of the lower levels and their unexplored nature. He fully expected them to be as empty as the upper chambers, but he wouldn't need this stranger's aid to find out for himself. If he didn't hurry, he figured Sander would charge in on his own and steal all the fun.

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"Aye, we're glad to help. Long as you're paying, of course," added Chamrys, crunching down on a peony seed. He regarded the newcomer with more disdain than welcome between his narrow eyes. 

A bad joke the Princes left us, he thought gloomily to himself. Imperial money's dried up, their soldiers are gone, but their bloody preachers are still clucking like always. Fat lot of good their prayers have ever done 'em. The merchant cleared his throat.

"The wizards is right; it's clean. Spose you can take a look with us at the lower levels, if you're inclined. We'll be claiming any valuables of course, but who knows?" He smiled thinly. "Maybe there'll be a Daedric pillow or somesuch you can exorcise."

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 Still choking back the bile, Sander stormed deeper and deeper down. Long years of exploring like ruins on Vvardenfell had honed his sense of direction and even in the dim light he kept himself from being turned around.

At last he found a deeper darkness, a void of a room opening in front of an angular door. He closed his eyes, ran his middle finger and thumb over them, and opened them again.

The colors were washed out, as they always were under this spell, and the lines were too distinct, but he could see. The room was by far large enough to accommodate most of the refugees. The steps led up to a flat, short altar. Unlike most Daedric Shrines, where the statue of the god was huge and prominent, this ruin's statue was only a meter tall. 

Black and red, it drew the eye. It's colors and lines unaffected by the Night Eye spell. One side of its head had short hair and a thick, brutal musculature. The other side had the waving locks and gentle curves of a woman. Both male and female genitalia were carved, stylized and pronounced. 

Mephala, anticipation of Vivec. Something about the statue set Sander's teeth on edge, but still he walked towards it. Slowly reaching out his hand, he touched the tip of his finger to the Prince's outstretched, waiting palms.

The Voice was calm and familiar. 

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Tiberius weighed the words of the former Telvanni, and the merchant carefully. Lorvis seems like a sensible mer, he tought to himself. The merchant however seems more, he paused in mid-thought, searching for the right words to describe him, miserly. Unlike Lorvis, who seems to want to protect those he is leading and cares nothing for anything of value that may lie in here, this merchant seems to care only of profit, not of anyone else, let alone the Gods, Aedra or otherwise.

"Well met Lorvis, you may call me Tiberius. And since this isn't the shrine I'm looking for I might as well make myself useful. I have been traveling alone for quite a long time and could use some company. In exchange for a place to rest until you set out again I'll be happy to offer what little restoration magic I know and help with whoever needs it."

With that he went to set his shield down against the nearest wall. Halfway there he stopped and turned his head to face the merchant, "And merchant, I'd be careful about looting a daedric shrine. Even though it's empty, it does not mean it is inactive." He stopped, and turned fully around this time, then said in a more serious tone, "It is not wise to mock that which you do not believe, whether it be the Eight and One or the Daedra Lords, neither are to be taken lightly."

He stood there staring straight into his eyes for the next few seconds, letting the seriousness of his message get through to the merchant's mind. Then turned and headed to the wall, set his shield down and went to the nearest wounded mer.

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Lewin had returned to his ministrations. He was in the middle of bandaging a young man's arm when he heard the same ethereal whisper that had perturbed him when he first entered the ruins. It brushed across his ears like the cobweb of a long-dead spider. There were words, this time, but in a tongue or dialect he did not recognize. As he paused in his work, the voice rose to an imperceptibly high pitch. He thought he detected a ring of triumph.

The Altmer finished wrapping the bandage around his charge's shoulder and stood up. He found Lorvis by the door to the inner sanctum. "Did you hear that? Just now, that whisper? Something's in here with us. Something's been woken up. I don't..." He glanced around. "Where's Sander?"

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"I heard nothing, healer," Lorvis said calmly as he leaned against the arch of the doorway to the inner sanctum, his mind still wrapped around the problem of the one named Tiberius. The ex-Telvanni was still cautious of allowing the knight to join them, but he seemed an alright fellow. Lorvis was content to leave him be for now, though he had tasked one of the other travelers with keeping an eye on Tiberius discreetly.

 

Lewin's mention of Sander raised the hairs on the wizard's neck, however. Lorvis may not have heard anything strange, but the healer seemed shaken, and for his thoughts to go straight to the ordinator...

 

Lorvis pushed himself away from the wall and flexed his fingers. "Keep at your work Lewin," He said, "And see that the knight does his part as well." The wizard set off with a brisk pace without waiting for an answer. As he went deeper and deeper into the shrine, he held one hand aloft and cast a spell of light. It's soft green glow radiated out from his fingertips for many paces, lending the daedric tunnels around Lorvis an eerie cast.

 

"Sander!" He shouted, and the walls absorbed the sound, leaving no echo. Unnerved, Lorvis tried shouting again. Still no echo. He pressed onward, calling for his fellow dunmer. In his mind's eye, the wizard kept track of his course. He had no idea where he was going, but he would know how to find his way back.

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 Sander removed his finger and stared at it as the statue crumbled to grey dust. He heard someone call his name. The voice sounded grey and rough and unalive after the voice of the Prince; it was hard to identify the crude vibrations of sound for a moment before he returned to himself fully.

"Down here." He called. "I've found the Shrine. It's empty. No sign of what Prince it belongs to."

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Relief came to Lorvis as he found Sander, apparently unfazed, in the shrine. "Gave some of us a scare there," the wizard said. "Next time, wait for me. I'd say you took all the action, but from the looks of the place, there wasn't any to be had." Lorvis examined the dais, noting the pile of dust. Ground gems, perhaps, or some other offering. Stepping past Sander and up the steps, the wizard took a pinch of the stuff and transferred it to a pouch on his belt.

 

"For study," he said with a grin as he retreated back down the steps, away from the altar. "Wizarding business, you know how it goes. Might mix up a potion with it, if it's any good." Lorvis intensified his light spell, allowing it to invade every corner of the shrine, and went around the room a few times, eyes scanning every detail. At last he came to back to Sander's side, one hand still aloft emitting the green glow, the other scratching his stubbled chin thoughtfully.

 

"Not much but rock and dirt left down here, unsurprisingly. No sign of the Prince either, as you say. Usually these places have a monument to their patron, but I guess some team of thieves was desperate enough for money they filched that too." The wizard gave the room a final appraising glance, then let his spell fade slightly. "This room is big, deep underground, mostly clean. Great place for shelter, as I'm sure you figured already." He stepped backwards towards the exit and said, "I'll be gathering the others to bring them down here. You should come. You've got a way with handling large, unruly crowds." Lorvis avoided pointing out that this was due to the fear many felt for the imposing ordinator, downtrodden as he may be.

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 "If any of you can fish, check some of the tunnels for streams," Sander said. "Sometimes underground rivers can carry glowfish. You can eat them if you pry the lights out first. Make sure to keep a hand on the wall or leave a trail. These ruins can get confusing if you aren't used to how they bend."

Sander made his way out of the room and past the ramp out into the dry, withering heat. Some of the black anger diminished at the relief of not having the ash blowing on him. He kept his veil down.

"Everyone inside! We have somewhere to stay until the storm lightens up! Bring in whatever you can carry, I want all this in by sundown!" As much as we can tell the difference, he thought.

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Lewin relaxed slightly as Sander emerged from the darkness inside the ruin. At least he's accounted for. He scanned the crowd of refugees again. Whatever dark presence resided within the ruins, the others seemed oblivious to its voice. None had stirred at the whispered exultation he had heard a moment ago. Some racially heightened sense, perhaps? He was the only High Elf in the party. In the past, he had treated the traditional Altmeri claim to superior physical and mental composition with an amiable contempt. If he was the only one able to hear that voice, though...

Lewin shook himself. Nonsense. The gods have simply granted me truer hearing, for my faith. He looked around for the newcomer, the crusader from Cyrodiil. Perhaps a fellow servant of the Eight - that is, the Nine - might shed some light on the matter.

The man was nowhere to be seen, obscured by the press of refugees eager to get out of the blistering heat into the tempting cool of the Daedric shadows. Lewin sighed and gathered the supplies and potions with which he worked into his satchel. I'll seek him out inside the shrine. For now, duty calls. He helped an elderly Dunmer to his feet and walked him through the grim portal.

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Chamrys leant crookedly against one of the stone walls, clearly exhausted. Some of the more amiable refugees had volunteered to help him unload the cart, and were now carrying the hefty crates of valuable food into the dark bowels of the shrine. On the surface, it looked a rather promising scene of unity of cooperation on the part of the volunteers. But a disgruntled Chamrys had caught more than one pinching kwama eggs from the crates they carried.

Not that I'll stop 'em, he mused. Half the stuffs probably contaminated by the droops anyway. Though it still brought him a measure of annoyance. He had been a factor in a mine back on Vvardenfell, before the abolition of slavery had crushed business. The slaves there had a sight more self-discipline than these refugees. 

"If we ration this stuff, we won't starve any time soon," muttered Chamrys, to nobody in particular. "But we better hope these bloody tunnels turn up some fresh water. I don't fancy our chances when the thirst kicks in..."

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Before the commotion caused by the command to move further into the ruins, Tiberius thought he had heard something that sounded like a hushed whisper. After a moment's pause he moved it to the back of his mind and finished healing the shoulder of the Dunmer female he was currently with. Tiberius had to turn to old-fashioned bandaging, giving the few healing potions he had to those with less-than-serious injuries and expending his magicka on trying to calm down a stubborn Nord so others can work on him.

"Okay," Tiberius spoke in a calm, assuring tone. "Now I'm going to put a bandage on it. What you need to do is keep pressure on it until a more capable healer can get to you." The Dunmer nodded and expressed her thanks before moving onward deeper into the ruin.

After seeing to it that she could walk without falling down and getting trappled on, he grabbed his shield and went for the nearest crate. Placing his shield and a few other smaller, lighter boxes on top, he picked it up and followed the throng of people deeper into the ruin.