#ascadian isles

[aod4909]

been a while ♥

[kaptaincnucklz]

[darkelfguy]

Hlaalu Farm in the Ascadian Isles

[cedarnommer]

Fields of Kummu

[ervona]

everyone should be fucking everyone in here even though it'd be more problematic than making two straight couples is an idea that applies to Hunter's Blades and (executed before I could finish the pos

[wawhii]

With every day I get deeper into Morrowind, the fandom gets wronger and wronger about the characters.

[new-eyes-extra-colors]

Character Design Asks: stillness, night, arms, alternate

Stillness: How does your OC act while still?

Nora is very fidgety; she has trouble sitting still. She plays with her jewelry or her hair a lot, and drums her fingers on whatever's nearby. She does dissociate sometimes, and tends to sit very still then.

Ace generally sits very still except for bouncing their leg. They're a pretty big person so it tends to shake whatever they're sitting on. They also hum or sing to themselves, or play their harmonica.

Night: What does your OC wear to sleep?

Nora wears a tank top and underwear, and adds leggings if it's cold.

Ace is a boxers-only sort of person.

Arms: Does your OC have any weapons? What weapons do they carry, and how do they wear them when they’re not fighting?

Nora carries Danse's laser rifle Righteous Authority and a 10 mm pistol. Later, she switches the pistol out for Deliverer and the rifle out for a gauss rifle found in a DIA cache. She carries the pistols in a shoulder holster on her left side, and the rifles slung over her shoulder with the barrel pointed down and to the right, so she can pull them into firing position quickly.

Ace's main weapon is a .357 magnum revolver, Lucky. When they get to New Vegas, they purchase a shiskebab called Gehenna. They carry Lucky on their left hip, and Gehenna on their back with the hilt positioned over their right shoulder.

Alternate: What would your OC’s alternate universe look be?

Here they both are as Elder Scrolls characters:

Nora would be a Cyrodiilic ranger; top skills would be archery, stealth, illusion magic, and alchemy. She'd live in the wilderness, tend her garden, and give helpful potions to travelling adventurers.

Ace would be a Redguard mercenary; top skills would be long bladed weapons, destruction magic, alteration magic, and armor/weapon repair. They'd still do courier work--they like bringing people things.

[thefloatingstone]

Morrowind - Bitter Coast

[popsartattic]

Illustration of a stoneflower harvested from the Ascadian Isles region of Vvardenfell. Part of a series of sketches and illustrations of various plants and alchemical ingredients in the Elder Scrolls series

[trickstarbrave]

hi im on my bullshit making up random aus again

this is steren! not his main story either. i might write up his main story in bits and pieces at some point. but this is an au bc i wanna see him happy with his parents.

so he's getting dropped in @mulberrycafe's vivi's world. sorry kid, azura will grant your wish but not how you're thinking

obligatory picture of steren and some background info from this post. and bonus baby picture.

this is just part 1. part 2 will be the gang dealing with an unconscious dunmer who fsr has a moon and star ring of his own and nerevar's sword. which will be uh. concerning.

(also i didnt proofread this :'D)

--

Falling to his knees, Steren coughed up a bit of blood, willing the last of his magicka into a healing spell to keep his organs stable. 

It hadn’t been an easy battle, both physically or emotionally. 

Dagoth Ur, after all, had at one point been his father. 

Fate was cruel like that. His first lifetime he spent his whole, although very short, life chasing after his father and his legacy. He felt alienated in House Indoril, and when rumors stirred he might be of an unsavory bloodline no one dared name, things became more complicated for him. When he was a young adult--when he should be just spreading his wings and leaving to the world--he had found documents that were to be burned from the sinful Sixth House. 

Documents that clearly defined that he was born from Voryn Dagoth. Born from a supposed fling he refused to name and died shortly after childbirth that the Lord of House Dagoth refused to let rot and instead welcomed as a legitimate son with open arms. It seemed to go along with his memories too--hazy, faint things from when he was such a young child. Memories of a golden skinned mer with long black hair that would hold him close, laughing with mirth and pride, calling him ‘little star’. 

Steren then went to Vivec for answers. They were all on the first council when the war broke out. It was impossible the living god didn’t know his father was Voryn Dagoth. He demanded answers--why was his father killed? Who was his mother? Was she really dead? Did she miss him? Did he have any other relatives--aunts and uncles in other houses who knew who he was? Why had his whole house been destroyed and they shoved him into Indoril in secret? 

But Vivec had refused to answer. 

When Steren was young, the warrior-poet was oddly close to him. He still lived in Mournhold, having not yet built his temple in the Ascadian Isles, and welcomed Steren almost like a mentor. Encouraged his magic and swordsmanship, and assured him there was a place for him in the world. But when Steren knew the truth, the god’s eyes had gotten cold and hard.

“What good would come if I told you everything?” Was Vivec’s answer. “House Dagoth fell because they were traitors. Voryn Dagoth had betrayed our people and fought against us in the war that destroyed parts of Vvardenfell. Even Red Mountain spewed fire in anger.” His words only fanned the flames of resentment more and more for the young dunmer in front of him. “If there were relatives who could take you, I would have gladly let them. And no matter how much I tell you of your birth, of that accursed house, it will not undo that tragedy. It will not bring your parents back.” 

It was the truth, in a way. A painful truth Steren had refused to accept. He grew up isolated and lonely, wanting nothing more than to belong. Wanting nothing more than to know his history. Something to call his own. A relic from his parents. A memory to cling to. Proof that, at some point, in some way, he was loved like he always craved. 

And Steren chased answers until he died tragically, killed in a landslide as he tried and failed to get into an old House Dagoth outpost to look for hints of the stronghold’s location. He had barely gotten married and had a son himself, who no doubt had to grow up without him. 

And in Steren’s second life that tragedy never really ended. 

He was orphaned in Cyrodiil, not even knowing who his parents were, kicked out once he was the age of majority for a mer. And with little life skills, he had resorted to taking whatever work he could. He hadn’t intended to get mixed up in anything illegal--that would be stupid. But the imperial guards didn’t much care about his ignorance when they rounded up everyone involved in the smuggling operation. Steren pled his innocence: he thought it was just unloading cargo off a ship. How was he supposed to know it was smuggled goods? But the law didn’t care much about it at the time. He was to serve his sentence of five years since he had no money to pay a fine. 

Only to, after one year, be shipped off to Morrowind, unknowing what events would unfold. 

Another cough, and a bit more blood spilled onto the volcanic rock. He felt so warm here. The lava below was making him sweat like when he had corpus fever, but he didn’t have the strength to stand up and leave. 

“Steren,” Nerevar’s voice spoke to him, kneeling beside him and trying in vain to wipe his brow. It wasn’t entirely unappreciated; while Nerevar couldn’t really touch him, the spectral presence gave a faint, cool sensation on his sweaty skin. “It’ll be alright--” Nerevar was always quick to reassure and help him. “Do you have a potion or two?”

At the very least, in this lifetime he found the answers he sought--his other parent had been none other that Nerevar. Steren had been born of a fling--a quiet, drunken affair neither of the two had expected anything else from. Nerevar had told him as such, but that they both loved Steren very dearly regardless. That Nerevar had loved Voryn, even if he couldn’t say so openly. The hortator had run off after discovering the pregnancy, ignorant to what the dwemer were getting up to, to have Steren in secret under the excuse of going on a pilgrimage to Azura, and handed Steren off to Voryn to raise. 

And after his death Nerevar couldn’t bear leaving his child alone. Reincarnation and prophecy be damned; his son was alone in the world. Nerevar had wanted Voryn to raise him so he was always looked after and loved by at least one of his fathers, and now with Voryn dead Nerevar would take up that role. Yet, he was powerless to speak to Steren--to answer his questions and protect him like he always wanted. And with that regret he continued to watch over Steren’s child. Then Steren’s child’s child. All the way until Steren was reborn to a dying mother fleeing persecution in the Illiac Bay. 

Steren had a feeling his dad was going to have to see him die all over again, once again helpless to stop it. The Moon-and-Star ring let him speak with and see Nerevar, but there was only so much a ghost could do.

“I used the last of them…” Steren admitted. He had just enough to barely survive the fight, gulping them down while he dodged attack after attack. 

“Recall amulet?” Nerevar replied, and Steren tried to get the energy to dig through his pack. If he could pull out an amulet or scroll he could use that to get into town--limp his way to a healer or general goods seller for a few potions to stabilize himself.

But then there was a spectral blue light that didn’t match the golden glow of Nerevar, and a woman’s voice spoke to him. 

“Well done.”  She was smiling affectionately, but Steren kind of wanted to curse her out. “With this, Morrowind has been saved. And Nerevar’s soul might rest.”

“Azura--” Nerevar scowled in response. 

“It has been over three millennia, hortator.” Azura’s smooth reply came. “Are you not tired of this tragedy?”

“My son still needs me--”

“Your power wanes even now, and you know this.”  Azura’s reply came. “A soul should not be as active as yours is, haunting the living. You do not rest in the home of your ancestors. You do not rest even in Moonshadow.” Steren’s eyes widened. “Through force of will you have continued on, but I know internally you weep for the sharmat’s death.” Nerevar looked away now, still scowling. “Your soul cannot survive much longer without a rest. You will cease to be.” 

Steren didn’t want to say goodbye either. Tears were running down his face at the news, but he nodded his head. 

“Go.” Steren forced a smile. 

“Steren--”

“I don’t want to be responsible for the death of both of my fathers.” He had admitted. “If you leave now, it won’t be goodbye forever, right?” 

The look Nerevar gave him was indescribably painful. 

“I’ll see you again one day, right?” Nerevar wrapped his arms around him, trying in vain to hold him tight. “And I’ll give you a real hug then, Dad.” He wanted to hold Nerevar back in return, but he had long since learned he couldn’t. Only in his dreams could he. But the cool embrace was oddly soothing. 

“Of course.” Nerevar shook with sobs himself. “I’ll be waiting for you, little star. With open arms.” 

With that, the golden light faded, as Nerevar pressed his hand to his cheek, smiling at him the best he could through his own ghostly tears. 

And then it was just Steren and Azura in the chamber now. 

“You have done well, righting the wrongs of the past.” Azura smiled again. “You are truly a precious child to undertake this monumental task. And to you I am eternally grateful.” She should be, honestly. Nerevar couldn’t be reborn to do it, so here he was answering for the sins of his fathers, correcting their wrongs and setting everything back on course. He got the divine disease, went through hell and back, and had to kill one of his fathers with his own hands and blasphemous tools. 

“I can grant you whatever wish you desire.” Azura’s presence was even warmer as she came close, though given the heat of the heart chamber he wished it wasn’t; he missed the cool, spectral touch of his father already. Yet, despite the pain clouding his senses, he tried to think. A daedric prince offering a favor was a big deal. Many would wish for pleasures beyond their wildest dreams, or fame and future. His whole family line had been cursed with rotten luck, and he could finally make something of himself…

Yet, none of that had any appeal. To be honest, before being shipped off to Morrowind he had no idea what to do with his life. Given he hadn’t even reached his 100th year and was still barely an adult by dunmer standards, he thought he would have some time to figure it out. And now that he saw his past life and finally learned all he wanted to and more…

Well. He didn’t know what he wanted from life. How was he supposed to go on alone, even with wealth and fame? All he would be thinking about is, in the afterlife his fathers might be waiting for him. 

“...I just want my parents back.” Steren admitted after a few moments of silence.

“You know I cannot bring back the dead.” Azura frowned. 

“I know.” Steren replied. “Instead I’d rather… Just be with them.” It was unspoken what he was asking for, but he thought he implied it well enough:

He was asking for Azura to finally let him rest too. To put him out of his misery. He had done his part, and the kindest thing she could do for him is to finally let him rest peacefully in the presence of his parents. He already made peace with his death on the long trek up Red Mountain, though he never told Nerevar that fact. 

After a moment of silence, Azura closed her eyes. “I see.” She approached even closer. “I can reunite you with them then, if that is what you wish.”

“It is.” Steren was certain. Even if she didn’t take his life here, he didn’t expect to live much longer with the injuries he sustained anyways. 

“Are you truly prepared to leave this all behind?” She asked again. “There will be no going back.”

“Positive…” Nerevar would lecture him, cursing him to the deadlands and back, but Steren was so very, very tired. He would take the lecture, comfortably in his father’s arms once again, before finally having a nice, long rest. 

“Then that shall be my gift to you.” 

White was the next thing he could see. All encompassing, painful white, as he quickly went from feeling far too hot to feeling frigid. 

And then he was falling. And falling fast. Seren scrambled, activating his slowfall ring, his heart accelerating and lungs still burning. Still, the enchantment could only cushion his fall and try as he might to flail around in the air, to get to dry land he could see, he ended up falling into the water. 

“Fuck!” Steren swore. The cold felt like knives digging into his skin, and before he knew it he felt like he was gasping for air, suffocating despite his head being above water, as he continued to flail towards the beach. He climbed himself out of the frigid waves eventually, shivering, now soaking wet. 

Azura had promised him he’d get to see his parents, but he never expected Moonshadow or the ancestral realm to be… Cold and snowy. There wasn’t a whole lot of snow in Mournhold after all. Yet here he was, now soaking wet and freezing, snow on the hills he could see. 

If he was dead, did it matter if he was cold? That was a question he had. It sure felt like a pressing issue though, so he continued to swear and curse, trying to think. How should he keep warm? He wasn’t used to the cold growing up somewhere subtropical and then being shipped to Vvardenfell where the volcano kept the climate oddly warm compared to the neighboring country of Skyrim. 

So he pressed on. Maybe Nerevar wanted to retreat to a colder area of Moonshadow. All Steren needed to do was find a place to warm up and find him. 

That was easier said than done though. 

He had underestimated the problems with wet clothing. His robe froze, forcing him to discard it, along with a chunk of his armor still stuck to it. He pulled out a cloak, trying to keep warm, but the wind seemed to seep through the fabric to the wet silk under it and still left him shivering. He wandered and wandered, his hands going numb and his head aching like he had a terrible migraine. 

And then he started feeling oddly feverish, like he did back in the heart chamber. His clothes felt like they were wet from sweat, trapping the heat against him until it was burning. He would have stripped down more, except he was afraid if he did he would stop moving. He had to keep moving forward. One step after the other. His dad was here, and he didn’t want to stop.

Faintly, he heard people talking. His ears perked up as he blinked. His vision seemed blurry and blown out, stinging from the harsh glare of sunlight on pure white. Yet, over a small hill, he could make out two familiar faces:

A golden skinned chimer in House Indoril armor, white hair, and blue eyes. A dunmer with long, black hair and red eyes, a third eye on his forehead. He knew their voices too--he couldn’t possibly be mistaken. There were other people there but Steren didn’t pay them much mind; his fathers being here, together, was much more important.

“Dad!” Steren called out, his voice hoarse, before coughing again. Sucking in the air to yell felt like needles were pricking his already injured lungs inside and out, but he was so close--! Just a bit further. He willed his numb legs to push him forward through the heavy snow. 

Nerevar gave him a confused look, before Steren wrapped his arms around him. 

“Woah--” Nerevar stumbled slightly as Steren threw all of his weight onto Nerevar. “Oh gods, he’s freezing!” 

“His hair is frozen--” Voryn said, confused and equally concerned for the strange dunmer who seemed delirious from the cold. Yet, Steren could barely even understand the words coming out of their mouths. All he could do was cling to Nerevar, relishing in the fact his dad felt solid and warm under his touch rather than ephemeral and cold. 

“Here,” Nerevar unclasped his cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders. “C’mere, let’s get you someplace to warm up, alright?”

[ansu-gurleht]

love this map so much, but tonight is the first time i've ever looked closely at it! it's sooooooo good man......i am a bit confused by a few things though. in the ascadian isles specifically.

you may note that it's basically two big islands (the ones to the north and east of vivec), a very small island (west of ald sotha), and a weird peninsula (with ebonheart on it). see:

there's a few "lakes" in this image. from what i can tell, lake amaya is the only one that is like.....actually a lake. lakes hairan and masobi are just like. straits is maybe the word? between the mainland of vvardenfell and the big ald sotha island? like they might as well be rivers, except i'm not sure if they're meant to be flowing or not. they're fed by the nabia river (which comes from lake nabia which is cropped out of this image for simplicity, and seems to be more of a proper lake like amaya is) but they're probably technically just parts of the inner sea. why do hairan and masobi get lake status but like. the body of water feeding the samsi river in the west gash doesn't? or any number of sections of azura's coast or sheogorad? like what's the principle here. a lake can be anything vaguely surrounded by land on some sides? come on guys

[jiubilant]

more velothi vocabulary

ama: mother

aba / ada / ata: father

the word used to address one's father varies regionally. "ata," the pronunciation endemic to the black isle, is considered the "standard" velothi pronunciation of the word (though linguists believe that it is also the most recent). "aba" is common in the ascadian isles, and "ada" is prevalent in the mainland, particularly deshaan. velothis is a language with many dialects

worth noting is that velothis (the language spoken by house dunmer) shares a root with, but is distinct from, the languages spoken by the nomadic ashlander clans. some vocabulary is shared among the different language branches—but without a language in common, be it zainabi or velothis, a hlaalu and a zainab trader would struggle to communicate

in urshilak:

am / ama: mother

pab / paba: father

in zainabi:

eme: mother

ede: father

[darkelfguy]

Morrowind - Camping in the Ascadian Isles

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

One strange day the netchiman's wife awakes in Vivec's place.

It's new and familiar to her all at once; she's been resurrected without having died. Her hands are still her own, her body and memories are still alone, and yet-- her? She knows in theory that she has not been her for a long time, that the person she was yesterday saw the term like an ill-fitting shirt. And yet, she is a her. She is the netchiman's wife.

She rolls out of an unfamiliar bedroll in an unfamiliar tent. Nerevar bought her this tent, she tells herself, matter-of-fact. Yes, and the bedroll was one she assembled last night, with the kresh-fibre blanket on the innermost layer, for she recalls that it was something she found comforting before this morning. These are memories from a personal history and as blurry as if seen through water. Briefly, she lays face-down on an unfamiliar floor. Where is she? She cannot smell the salt of the sea. Wait. Ashlands. Of course.

She searches her belongings for a dress, and then remembers she doesn't have one, and then simply dons a tunic and trousers. She combs her long white hair with her fingers and arranges it over her shoulders. She wraps a wool scarf around her face and creeps into the camp outside.

Why did she expect to be greeted by the Ascadian Isles: wide blue seas, shattered emerald islets, weathered basalt and towering humid clouds? Instead she's greeted with a smoggy dawn, an ash-laden atmosphere turned bleary and golden with the rising sun. This is a camp, of some sort-- Nerevar's camp, the fact comes to her-- and she's angry, for a moment, because what right has this 'Nerevar' to take her from her ocean and from her husband?

Then she turns to the side and sees him.

"Vivec!" hails a yawning figure in the shape of her husband. He is tall (and in the shape of her husband) and handsome (just like her husband) and he is a man older than she (as was her husband) and he is walking towards her. "Mornin'," he drawls, still yawning, covering his mouth with a visibly scarred hand. "How'd you sleep?"

She's mute. Her husband never liked her to speak frivolously. She knows she should reply but her tongue is leaden. Her husband never liked to be ignored. Nerevar is rubbing his eyes aggressively. She's frozen in place.

"Vivec?" asks Nerevar.

The netchiman's wife looks away.

A beat of pause. "Not well," says the man who she knows in theory is Nerevar and not her husband, "Huh."

"I slept fine," she says meekly.

"Oh," says Nerevar. "Good." Another awkward pause. "You feel like waking up the guar?"

The guar. Oh. Tied up by the emperor parasol-- sleeping in the ash. Unsteady on her feet, the netchiman's wife approaches the fearsome beasts. She knows she's done this a thousand times before and yet she's gripped with fear. Didn't she do this yesterday? They are nothing like netches.

She must've stood for too long, for there is Nerevar again, coming up behind her. "Vivec," he's saying gently, "Rough night, huh?"

She tries to stammer a reply but fails. She hangs her head.

The man who is standing so close to her and so resembles her husband makes an awkward sound. "Hmm," he says. Then, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, sera," she mumbles. "I'm well. Tell me what I must do and I shall do it. Shall I wake the guar?"

"Not yet. How's your head?"

"Is it ridden with kwama-lice? I'd shave it to please you."

"I didn't mean that." The man shaped like her husband shifts on his feet. "May I ask a few questions, though?"

"If it would please you."

"Eh. Who are you?"

She blinks at him dumbly. The thoughts come as if dragged from a deep pool.

"Vivec," she says slowly, "A gutter-get. A simulacrum of a netchiman's wife."

"Who are we?"

"You mean 'you'…? You wear dusty sandals and run a caravan. You carry a netchiman's rod."

"Who rules us?"

"You, husband." And she averts her gaze.

A long and awkward silence falls between them. She thinks of sand, and glasses of milk, and crabs in the shallow water which she once chased on the tips of her toes. She thinks of kresh-fibre mats spread out on a bumpy volcanic beach. When she looks again she sees Nerevar staring with patient concern.

"Vivec," says the man shaped like her husband, "Why don't you go sit by the fire and have some breakfast? I'll wake the guar. We're in no hurry."

She has never been one to argue. Not with him; her role unto eternity is obedience to the man who is more powerful than she. So she obeys, creeps to the unfamiliar fire in this foreign wasteland of dust, sits down on the ground with her eyes closed, and tries hard to think of her home by the sea.

[glittergear]

i love your little landscapes and other morrowind mod releases! you seem to be creating mods at a fairly quick tempo, are you doing anything like setting yourself small regular modding goals or is it just as inspiration strikes?

thank for all the lovely mods you have made

Thank you! I'm glad you like them :D

Sorry for the late response; I don't check Tumblr very often.

It's mostly when inspiration strikes, but my trick is not to spend more than 5 hours on a Little Landscape. I was honestly surprised that they're so popular, considering that each one takes me 5 hours or less.

I decided on a 5 hour limit for a few reasons. First and foremost, it prevents feature creep--my Mages Guild Overhaul took me three years to make, and I'm not doing that again. Second, it keeps the Little Landscapes, well, little, since there's only so much space you can cover in 5 hours. This keeps them compatible with most other mods, which people like. And third, it helps keep me from getting burnt out.

My main sources of inspiration are Morrowind Rebirth and Unique Landscapes. As for getting the ideas themselves, I often treat Morrowind as a walking simulator, so I see plenty of places that I think I can improve.

A few of them are less inspiration and more because I intentionally wanted a creative challege. My Nix Hound Hunting Grounds is one such mod--I'm very comfortable in the Bitter Coast and Ascadian Isles region, so I wanted to challenge myself by modding the Ashlands.

And some were made by request, like my Odai River Overhaul (though Coffeebeard released a better version; use his instead). I do take requests, so if there's any place you'd like me to take a stab at, just let me know.

And some, like "Something in the Water" are both (DetailDevil and I just released version 3.0, which is a major quest overhaul). For that one, I was inspired by The Doors of Oblivion and The Well Diver, so I've been wanting to make a Peryite mod and a well dungeon for a while, but I also wanted to challenge myself by making the shrine dungeon entirely from scratch--there is not a single premade room in the Shrine (except for the Scamp and Mortal Housing cells, but those were added later). And, of course, it was part of the Summer Modjam, so I only had 48 hours to make version 1.0.

Anyway, I hope that answers your question!

[barfok]

One strange day the netchiman's wife awakes in Vivec's place.

It's new and familiar to her all at once; she's been resurrected without having died. Her hands are still her own, her body and memories are still alone, and yet-- her? She knows in theory that she has not been her for a long time, that the person she was yesterday saw the term like an ill-fitting shirt. And yet, she is a her. She is the netchiman's wife.

She rolls out of an unfamiliar bedroll in an unfamiliar tent. Nerevar bought her this tent, she tells herself, matter-of-fact. Yes, and the bedroll was one she assembled last night, with the kresh-fibre blanket on the innermost layer, for she recalls that it was something she found comforting before this morning. These are memories from a personal history and as blurry as if seen through water. Briefly, she lays face-down on an unfamiliar floor. Where is she? She cannot smell the salt of the sea. Wait. Ashlands. Of course.

She searches her belongings for a dress, and then remembers she doesn't have one, and then simply dons a tunic and trousers. She combs her long white hair with her fingers and arranges it over her shoulders. She wraps a wool scarf around her face and creeps into the camp outside.

Why did she expect to be greeted by the Ascadian Isles: wide blue seas, shattered emerald islets, weathered basalt and towering humid clouds? Instead she's greeted with a smoggy dawn, an ash-laden atmosphere turned bleary and golden with the rising sun. This is a camp, of some sort-- Nerevar's camp, the fact comes to her-- and she's angry, for a moment, because what right has this 'Nerevar' to take her from her ocean and from her husband?

Then she turns to the side and sees him.

"Vivec!" hails a yawning figure in the shape of her husband. He is tall (and in the shape of her husband) and handsome (just like her husband) and he is a man older than she (as was her husband) and he is walking towards her. "Mornin'," he drawls, still yawning, covering his mouth with a visibly scarred hand. "How'd you sleep?"

She's mute. Her husband never liked her to speak frivolously. She knows she should reply but her tongue is leaden. Her husband never liked to be ignored. Nerevar is rubbing his eyes aggressively. She's frozen in place.

"Vivec?" asks Nerevar.

The netchiman's wife looks away.

A beat of pause. "Not well," says the man who she knows in theory is Nerevar and not her husband, "Huh."

"I slept fine," she says meekly.

"Oh," says Nerevar. "Good." Another awkward pause. "You feel like waking up the guar?"

The guar. Oh. Tied up by the emperor parasol-- sleeping in the ash. Unsteady on her feet, the netchiman's wife approaches the fearsome beasts. She knows she's done this a thousand times before and yet she's gripped with fear. Didn't she do this yesterday? They are nothing like netches.

She must've stood for too long, for there is Nerevar again, coming up behind her. "Vivec," he's saying gently, "Rough night, huh?"

She tries to stammer a reply but fails. She hangs her head.

The man who is standing so close to her and so resembles her husband makes an awkward sound. "Hmm," he says. Then, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, sera," she mumbles. "I'm well. Tell me what I must do and I shall do it. Shall I wake the guar?"

"Not yet. How's your head?"

"Is it ridden with kwama-lice? I'd shave it to please you."

"I didn't mean that." The man shaped like her husband shifts on his feet. "May I ask a few questions, though?"

"If it would please you."

"Eh. Who are you?"

She blinks at him dumbly. The thoughts come as if dragged from a deep pool.

"Vivec," she says slowly, "A gutter-get. A simulacrum of a netchiman's wife."

"Who are we?"

"You mean 'you'…? You wear dusty sandals and run a caravan. You carry a netchiman's rod."

"Who rules us?"

"You, husband." And she averts her gaze.

A long and awkward silence falls between them. She thinks of sand, and glasses of milk, and crabs in the shallow water which she once chased on the tips of her toes. She thinks of kresh-fibre mats spread out on a bumpy volcanic beach. When she looks again she sees Nerevar staring with patient concern.

"Vivec," says the man shaped like her husband, "Why don't you go sit by the fire and have some breakfast? I'll wake the guar. We're in no hurry."

She has never been one to argue. Not with him; her role unto eternity is obedience to the man who is more powerful than she. So she obeys, creeps to the unfamiliar fire in this foreign wasteland of dust, sits down on the ground with her eyes closed, and tries hard to think of her home by the sea.