A/N: Zaryth Velani originally appears in my other story, Accidental Disciples, but this two-part story is completely stand-alone. Enjoy.

Mzuleft, Sheogorad Region

3 Sun's Dawn, 4E 05

As she descended even further into the depths of the noticeably bare ruins of the Dwemer settlement of Mzuleft, Zaryth wondered if she were simply wasting her time here. Up until about four years ago, the ruins had been overrun by a clan of Orcish Malacath worshipers and the young Telvanni mage came in with the expectation that the site had been picked clean of anything that looked remotely valuable. Zaryth was mostly correct in her assumption. Oh, if only they could understand that the most valuable treasure of all was that of knowledge, of being able to connect together pieces of an even greater mystery. But of course they couldn't. They were Orcs.

Yet disregarding the lack of salvageable artifacts, Zaryth always felt calm when inside these ruins, especially when she was alone. There was something about the whirring of endlessly running machinery, the humid warmth emanating from the steam pipes.

The first locked door that Zaryth encountered was enough to get her heart pumping with excitement again. Her fingertips began to tingle as she raised her hands for a master-level Alteration spell she was rather proud of. She was a Telvanni mage, but she could secretly pride herself at being better at opening locks than most thieves. Not that she would ever allow someone to compare her to some degenerate skooma-addicted plunderer. She was in the process of drafting her projected seven-part series on Dwemer history, and needed all of the information she could get, whether it was through deciphering Centurion schematics or the examination of Merethic-era Limeware dinner platters.

Though the lock consisted of levers and tumblers and would have required a bitted key (or careful hours with a lockpick at the risk of activating some sort of trap), Zaryth's unlock spell was a success and she heard the satisfying click of the bolt shifting.

Knowing the door was also likely trapped, Zaryth rummaged through her pack for a probe. Carefully, gingerly, she guided the thin, pronged device through the narrow octagonal opening, finding the switch to disable the trap. Immediately taking three steps backwards as a precautionary measure, Zaryth waited five seconds, which was the average time for a delayed reaction for traps of this particular make; early first-era mass-produced security devices. Nothing fancy, but the lock was already complex enough to deter most thieves.

Carefully opening one of the half-moon doors she was immediately greeted with sweltering heat. Indeed, a boiler powered by thermal energy from magma deposits stood in the far end of the room. Thankfully her Dunmer skin allowed her to tolerate quite a bit of exposure to extreme heat, and she was mostly unaffected save for a few drops of perspiration forming on her brow. She imagined that when the Dwemer were still alive, they used frost salts to keep the room cool. The vaporizer on the table likely served that purpose.

It must have been a laboratory, judging by the boiler and a few untouched alchemy apparatus. Zaryth assumed the part of the ruins she had been traversing had once been an institution of higher learning, and this was simply another classroom, complete with desks and chairs. Yet the first thing that caught her immediate attention was not the assortment of ancient alchemical instruments but the nearly pristine hardcover book laying on one of the desks.

Though the cover of the book was damp with condensation from the steam, the pages were surprisingly intact. But Zaryth knew better than to translate something of this length on the field, as tempting as it may have been. It didn't stop her from peeking at the title and author.

Edft Zchind, or rather, The Egg of Time. More important than the ambiguous title, she recognized the name of the author, Bthuand Mzahnch, as one of Kagrenac's tonal architects and a controversial figure who openly supported the use of the so-called 'profane' tools on the Heart of Lorkhan. This could be the proof she was looking for!

Zaryth could hardly contain her eagerness to translate this book as soon as she returned to Tel Fyr. Yagrum Bagarn would always reiterate that before his race's mysterious disappearance, the Dwemer were divided on their beliefs. Some argued that the use of the Heart of Lorkhan would only better their race, but others believed that the risks involved were too great to justify its use. The tonal architects held notoriously long debates on the subject, sometimes lasting days on end.

Zaryth wanted to prove to the rest of Tamriel that the Dwemer were not the universally evil and thoughtlessly cruel race that they were characterized as by most scholarly writings (and the most popular un-scholarly material was too moronic to even deserve a mention). This could quite possibly be the first primary source to back up Yagrum's claims!

Zaryth hid the book away in her pack, though even if this were the only thing that came out of her entire expedition, she would be happy. There were many other artifacts in this room, but nothing as intriguing a find as a copy of a book written by a tonal architect. The other object she gravitated towards was a curious cylindrical-shaped object made of metal, with two long, thin appendages sticking out on both sides, much like the antennae of a shalk. Master Fyr had a broken thing that was very similar to it. He called it a "coherer." He claimed the Dwemer had been able to use it to communicate messages across great distances without the use of powerful magic. It was all incredibly fascinating. This one was in perfect condition, though she hoped the condensation from the steam had not damaged its parts. As Zaryth took the device from its table, the ground beneath her began to tremble. Her initial thought was that she had activated some sort of trap.

The metal of the desks clanged against the floor. The sound was ear-splitting.

She ran out the doors back into the hallway. The quaking grew more intense and her body was slammed against the wall. The coherer clattered to the floor as it slipped from Zaryth's hands. It felt akin to being inside of a metal box that a child was shaking mercilessly so that they could guess what was inside. Scrambling to her feet, she accidentally hit her head on the snaking metal pipes that lined the walls.

After extensive research and firsthand data gathered in the field, she was indeed able to conclude with finality that the Dwemer cities in Morrowind were powered by geothermal energy from Red Mountain, transported as steam through this enormous pipeline. She could also confirm that it did indeed hurt quite a bit when she banged her head on it. Right now she gripped these pipes to keep herself grounded, the tremors only subsiding for an instant. The metal was warm and damp with droplets of water. She held on tighter, closing her eyes.

It lasted around fifteen seconds, the worst of the rumbling.

Seismic activity was not uncommon in Vvardenfell, but normally the quakes were not of this magnitude. She hoped the inn she was staying at in Dagon Fel was not damaged.

Yet there was something strange going on with the pipes. Zaryth's hands were still clamped around the metal, but it began to radiate more and more heat until it became painful to hold on to, even through the thick gloves she wore. She let go, backing away on unsteady feet, trying to make her way towards the ramp that led back to the room from whence she came. In the distance, the machinery began to whir quicker, louder, as if it were receiving... a much greater volume of energy from Red Mountain.

Zaryth understood she had to get out of here. Something was horribly wrong.

As she briskly jogged through the snaking corridors and tunnels of Mzuleft, Zaryth heard several distinct popping sounds all around her, followed by a loud, continuous hiss.

The pipes were bursting from the steam pressure.

What was happening at Red Mountain to cause this?

A thousand thoughts were running through the Telvanni's brain but all she could focus on was how to escape. She felt the tremors again, only this time she couldn't hold on to the pipes for support.

She could hardly see through the vaporous air and it was difficult to breathe.

An immensely powerful subterranean shock reverberated across the bronze-gold walls. It felt as if the very foundation of the world were shaking. Tables and chairs were overturned completely, tossed around in all directions. Zaryth lost her footing again and was slammed against the wall.

When Zaryth awoke with a groan the first thing she noticed was the sharp pain in her head and the smell of sulfur. The second thing she noticed was that she could hardly breathe from the steam hissing out the broken pipes. That shock from earlier had passed, but was now replaced with a steady rumbling.

Red Mountain was erupting.

Zaryth didn't have time to dwell on this. The thick gasses in the air were choking her. Ignoring the throbbing in her head she pulled herself to her feet and tore towards the exit.

Nothing in her life – not even what had transpired during the months she spent traveling with the Nerevarine – could have prepared her for what she saw when she emerged from the ruins of Mzuleft.

The sky was black. Yet it was still midday. This was not some Oblivion gate she had walked into. This was Vvardenfell, midday, and the sky was black. A monstrous cloud of ash shrouded the sun, billowing into puffy shapes like a noxious fabric.

Zaryth ducked back into the ruins to avoid the constant barrage of tiny rock particles, but the poisonous, strangling air inside Mzuleft was no better.

There was ash in her hair, her mouth, her eyes, her nostrils. Zaryth cast a fire shield around herself and placed a gloved hand over her nose and mouth. This reminded her of the Blight storms before Dagoth Ur's defeat on Red Mountain.

A fissure had opened by the west tower, and lava consistently sputtered out of the cracks. The molten rock coiled into a fiery moat around the ruins of Mzuleft.

She heard indecipherable, frantic screams all the way from Dagon Fel.

Every breath feeling as if she were swallowing hot coals, Zaryth ran. Her boots thudded against the Dwemer metal bridge, just before an enormous tower gave way and crashed behind her. The vibration rattled through to her bones, but all she could do was keep running.

The air would be toxic to breathe if she were not a Dunmer. Sweltering, scorching, volatile gas all around her. It smelled strongly of rotten eggs. Sulfur, she thought vaguely as she continued to run.

It took about twenty minutes for her to reach Dagon Fel. Her eyes were watering from the debris and her lungs were on fire.

While she had never been particularly fond of the backwater fishing village populated mainly by Nords, it was peaceful, almost idyllic.

From the earthquake alone, Dagon Fel had been completely swallowed by the Sea of Ghosts. The quaint thatched roofs, the little fishing boats along the coast, the old remaining Dwemer towers inhabited by necromancers and other degenerates. All of it was gone.

The painted green sign for the End of the World Tavern bobbed above the water. Zaryth saw a few scattered survivors floating on larger wooden planks. A male Nord was desperately calling out the name "Hjotra!" in between coughing fits. He was shirtless, as Nords in Vvardenfell often were, apparently as stubborn to adapt to the climate as they were with any other change, and his hair and beard were coated with ash and mud.

Hjotra... Hjotra... Zaryth knew that name. Hjotra was that crude Nord woman who ran the renter rooms at the End of the World Tavern. Zaryth had found the woman tasteless; opting to use animal furs to decorate the rooms as if this were some kind of hunting lodge, importing mead from Skyrim only to resell it at exorbitant prices to all the fools who would actually pay for that cloying swill ("The only tavern you can get a proper drink in Sheogorad, maybe even Vvardenfell" according to the Nords, yet Zaryth was less than impressed).

But then Zaryth realized that none of that mattered. It was all so petty. The night before, Hjotra had made that bawdy joke about the hagraven and the peasant girl, nearly causing Zaryth to lose her appetite, but now she was dead and wouldn't be telling any inappropriate jokes any longer. The innkeeper was dead, the inn was splinters and timber along with the rest of Dagon Fel. Perhaps even the rest of Vvardenfell.

How could such a thing happen? Baar Dau had been a looming threat, but the priests would always say they still had more time, there was still more time... enough time for Nils to return from Akavir to find a way to find a permanent solution to that problem. What could have possibly gone wrong?

"Hjotra!"

The Nord's hoarse, brassy voice cut through her stupor.

He would only find Hjotra in Sovngarde. But Zaryth was still very much alive and had to make certain she stayed alive.

If she could just find a way to get off of Vvardenfell... find a ship heading to Solstheim, perhaps, even Skyrim or Cyrodiil. Anywhere but here.

Dagon Fel was the only settlement on Sheogorad, and there was nothing left for her. She had to go somewhere else to find a ship.

Zaryth did not even need her compass to direct her towards Rotheran. She needed to reach the propylon chamber that connected it to all the other ancient strongholds across Vvardenfell. Zaryth had painstakingly copied the text of the obelisks to replicate each of the indices, but she never thought of its usefulness in an event like this.

As Zaryth ran she had to shake the ash off herself several times so that she wouldn't be buried alive. She ran past a corkbulb plantation. The workers that were still standing were knee-deep in ash, attempting to pull out the ones that had fallen, but Zaryth could not stop. She was still on her feet. If she crouched to help another up from the ash, she too would be buried. Red Mountain showed no mercy, and neither could the lone Telvanni if she wanted to survive.

Rotheran was still standing, albeit buried in ash. The stone fortress would not be so easily destroyed.

From all the running, the heat and friction greatly wore out her netch leather boots, and the soles were burning her feet. She hoped she wouldn't have to take them off soon.

The inside of Rotheran was calm enough, but the foundation still shuddered and threatened to fall on top of her. Zaryth spent this time coughing and sputtering, trying in vain to expel the ash and rock particles from her throat. She was no expert in restoration magic but she cast a few weak healing spells on herself to take away some of the burning pain in her lungs and chest.

The ancient enchantments of the propylon chamber were thankfully still functional.

As she stared at the two glowing obelisks, Zaryth realized she had to make a critical decision.

Rotheran linked to Valenvaryon and Indoranyon, but the catch was that if she took one portal, she would have to go through the entire propylon cycle to return to her starting location. If she took the portal to Indoranyon, she would be closer to Tel Fyr, if there was anything left of Divayth Fyr and the rest of the companions she spent the majority of her life with. Even if he was there, what viable options did she have after that? She had to move on. She was alive. She wanted to stay alive.

If Zaryth took the portal to Valenvaryon, which led to Falasmaryon and then Berandas, Gnisis was a stone's throw away, and far more likely to have an intact ship. Her dear friend and intellectual companion Baladas Demnevanni was also in Gnisis, as he had been for centuries.

Zaryth placed one hand on the index, and one hand on the obelisk that led to Valenvaryon.

Each particle of her body had to de-materialize individually. The process took less than a fraction of a second, but it was always an odd sensation to become something non-corporeal as she was whisked through space.

Valenvaryon's propylon chamber was nearly identical to that of Rotheran. Zaryth touched the stone reading Falasmaryon, inscribed in ancient Aldmeris. Again she felt as if she were being strangled just before she lost all perception at all and simply was.

This time, when her non-corporeal form hovered above the ground within the propylon chamber, Zaryth had no senses to perceive the environment around her, but somehow she knew that something was wrong. Falasmaryon was in the Ashlands. It was one of the closest places she could be to Red Mountain. Indeed, when she regained her vision and her body was still floating, now falling, she did see the fissure that had opened inside, a crack in the earth like a cauldron filled with glowing hot lava. The air was foul with sulfur. Zaryth was falling into the scorching lava below and she didn't have time to cast a levitation spell. She reached her arm out and touched the Berandas obelisk just in time, though the bottom edge of her robe was singed.

As she exited Berandas, she mentally steeled herself to expect Gnisis to be just as bad, if not worse than Dagon Fel. It was another coastal settlement, after all.

Zaryth wasn't ready for what she saw.

Indeed, most of the village had capsized. The sea itself was an unrecognizable, boiling black mess, as if the ocean had turned into a bubbling swamp.

On land, everything the lava touched turned to fire. It ignited everything in its path, burning fertile green hills, sprouting mushrooms, and clusters of pink and blue wildflowers into smoldering black death.

Another blast sent a cascade of volcanic rock in their direction. Zaryth removed the sash of her robe and tied it over her mouth and nose.

She walked along a section where the lava flow had already cooled, seeing fallen bodies in various contorted positions permanently entombed in the smooth black stone.

Those that lived were even worse for wear than the dead. They were charred lumps in the shape of mer, wandering aimlessly, senselessly. They had to hold their blistered, disfigured arms out in front of them like revenants because the pain from their burns were so great. Their faces were nothing more than shapeless mounds of black-red flesh, with no eyes or mouths. They were once Dunmer; no other race would still be alive after suffering those burns, but Zaryth couldn't even see the resemblance anymore.

Baladas Demnevanni had lived in Arvs-Drelen, the ancient Velothi tower on the outskirts of Gnisis centuries before the Imperials began to occupy Vvardenfell. He was one of the few Telvanni nobles she didn't find insufferable, though perhaps it was because he wasn't on the council. They had been... intimate, occasionally, but mainly they corresponded through letters.

He was fond of her, ever so fond of her, but Zaryth always thought she could wait a few decades before entering any serious relationship with him. She had always thought, with her long projected lifespan, she had time for everything. She was only twenty-eight; she ought to have had several more centuries of life to enjoy. After seeing so many dead and dying in one place the young Telvanni was growing painfully aware of her own mortality. Death just wasn't something she thought about all that much, but it felt very real and very frightening to her now.

This looked bleak. A sizzling volcanic rock had crashed into Arvs-Drelen, crushing half of the dome-shaped tower.

As Zaryth kicked open the door she was greeted by another cloud of ash. She heard the sound of someone coughing.

Her heart raced.

"Baladas?" she asked, muffled by the fabric over her face. Her voice startled her, for it sounded more like the croaking of a toad.

"Is that you, Zaryth? What are you doing here?"

She followed his voice. He was slumped against the wall. Zaryth crouched, staring at him. This wasn't right. He couldn't be injured. He had to be strong now. They had to get out of this together.

"It's... horrible... Morrowind is burning... all of this, I'm so afraid, I—" she began to sputter. But Zaryth stopped to catch her breath, realizing there was no point in stating the obvious. Her mind shifted back into focusing on survival. "We- we need to get out of here. Can you walk?"

"My legs are broken. I can't even stand. Go on ahead without me."

He sounded rather calm about this. As if he had already resigned himself to death, just because his legs were broken.

Zaryth shook her head, readying a healing spell in her hands. She had used so much magicka on healing herself earlier, but she could use the last of her reserves to heal his legs...

With a closed fist, Baladas hit her face, weakly. It didn't hurt, but it was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her in an aggressive way. Zaryth blinked back tears.

He called her a fool to even consider wasting her magicka on him, or some other silly things that Zaryth didn't care about. He just wanted her to leave him there to die, so that she could have a better chance at survival.

But she didn't want to be alone. If there was any chance she'd be able to save him...

Zaryth cast a feather spell on herself. She was able to pull Baladas onto her back and carry him with ease that way. The spell effect wouldn't last for very long, so she knew that she had to get him out of here quickly.

"I'd much prefer it if you didn't let me inconvenience you," Baladas wheezed.

Zarth said nothing, clenching her teeth as he continued.

"It's not just my legs that are broken. I tried to heal most of it, but... you're carrying a corpse on your back, Zaryth."

"I don't want to hear any more of this. Just... shut up."

Outside again, Zaryth scouted the coastline for ships. No luck. Any good ships that weren't destroyed would have long been taken out to sea by now. Briefly, Zaryth thought about her old friends. She didn't know where the crew of the Nereid's Wrath was right now, but she hoped they were far from Morrowind.

Zaryth felt another shockwave in the earth. The River Samsi swelled, swallowing clusters of flaming trees and charred trama shrubs. It was a muddy, steaming stinkpit, consuming everything too close to its edge.

Squinting towards the horizon, using her hand as a visor to protect her eyes, Zaryth saw an abandoned ship just off the coast, carried by the shock from the recent tremors. Its sails were tattered but it was otherwise eerily intact. A single-masted sloop, not meant for traveling long distances, but it would have to do. She used some of her dwindling magicka reserves to cast a waterwalking spell on herself and dashed as quickly as her sore legs would take her towards the ship.

Zaryth laid Baladas into a seated position, despite his pained protests. She used the bottom of her robe to scoop piles of ash out of the boat so that it wouldn't sink from the extra weight.

"I'm just an old wizard, Zaryth... I've lived a long, full life. But you're still so young. Leave me."

"I don't want to do this alone," she protested hoarsely, feeling tears well up in her eyes. She blinked them away, checking her compass before reaching behind her to move the tiller at the stern. "I... I just... I don't want to be alone."

She gritted her teeth and focused on the restless sea. Solstheim was directly northwest. Or so she hoped she was remembering the map at Tel Fyr correctly.

When Baladas finally spoke again, he was staring at Zaryth's hand.

"You – you're actually wearing the ring."

She smiled in spite of everything.

"How could I not? I watched you fight a Dwemer ghost to get the ugly piece of metal for me."

"Not just any Dwemer ghost, the restless spirit of Dahrk Mezalf, the prolific smith of-"

"Of Bthungthumz. I know. I know. He discovered how to refine Aetherial matter into a workable alloy. Not that any of that information is either-"

"Useful or verifiable until we find their forge, yes."

"If it even exists."

"You, a skeptic? Truly, we have entered the end of times."

"I've been consorting with too many aged wizards."

With a bit of magical intervention from what Zaryth imagined to be the last of Baladas' magicka, the wind caught the sails, slowly guiding them through the Sea of Ghosts.

"Just- d-"

Baladas was coughing. Zaryth narrowed her eyes, staring straight ahead of her. She could not bring herself to turn around to look at him. He was struggling to breathe, and his words were strained.

"You always had so much passion for everything. It... when I met you, it was astonishing. You brought this... this new energy into my research... our time together passed with the blink of an eye, but you brought...brought new meaning for me to those dusty old tomes and underground ruins... I'm just an old wizard, Zaryth. I've-"

"Don't start talking like that, don't talk as if you're going to die," Zaryth snapped, unable to hide the quiver in her voice. "We need to get out of here. Together."

Baladas didn't say anything after that. Zaryth never did turn around to look at him. She wished he would start coughing and wheezing again to give any indication that he was still alive, but he never did.

She focused on the sea ahead of her, navigating the tiny sloop around the jagged needle-like rocks and the debris from the town of Gnisis. Burned and disfigured corpses floated by, bobbing up and down in the water. Everything was covered in a thick layer of gray. Thick flakes of ash and rock still fell all around her. Zaryth had never seen snow before in her life, but she wondered if it looked something like this.

As she continued to steer the boat, she used her free hand to cast a spell to put some more wind into the sails. She knew she had to conserve her magicka, but she also needed to get out of here. Every so often she removed her hand from the tiller to scoop up more armfuls of ash off the boat.

The air out on the open sea was a bit easier for her to breathe in, despite the continuous barrage of tiny rocks and dust, even out here. At least she was still protected by the sash tied around her face. If only she had some fresh water to drink... Zaryth's throat was raw and she only tasted ash in her mouth.

Before she knew it, night had fallen. The sky wasn't so much darker than it had been before, but she felt the change in temperature. There still wasn't anything to see in any direction, not through the smoldering doom-clouds.

But if the smoke ever lifted, what would be left of Morrowind for her to see?