"Count only the happy hours." - Vivec

For centuries before the eruption, the island had been a haven for the wicked and rejected of Tamriel. So when the cannibal priestess Eola took her first steps out of the rowboat, warm ash shifting beneath her feet and blasted air burning her lungs, she felt in good company. The volcano loomed above, swallowing the horizon, spewing poison into the sky. The sight was horrible and wonderful. This is where our true work will begin.

"Not so sure about this place," Banning muttered. Next to him, the others were still trying to get their bearings. Hogni Red-Arm coughed heavily, nearly collapsing, and all of them had tears running down their face from the ashfall. The potions she'd made them consume only went so far. Lisbet, ever faithful, kept her chin high.

"Fear not, my coven," Eola said with a smile. "Lady Namira has led us here for a reason." The only way they'd made landfall through the boiling seas and endless craggy rocks poking out of the sea was from the wise guidance of the Daedra they served. They were the first to step foot here, where the greatest devastation had been wrought. On the other side of the island the small town of Balmora had been rebuilt, but like the small outposts of Telvanni scattered across the eastern shore they were irrelevant to her plans. For now.

Hogni cursed, wiping his eyes. "Ya know I'll follow you to the ends of Nirn, Eola. But Markarth was a good place for us. We had a steady source of meals, and gold to fund our little feasts. No one's lived in this ruin for a hundred years. We ain't gray skins. How are we supposed to pay tribute while chewing on old jerky, hm?"

"Our lady has blessed me with another vision." She turned her head so the others could see her empty eyesocket, the original cause of their diaspora. Removing the organ had been painful, yes, but it wasn't as if the blind eye had been doing her any good. And with some salt and herbs, it made a delightful breakfast. "Someday soon, elves will return to this doomed island. Among them will walk the rarest meat in Tamriel, an individual the Lady of Decay has long been watching. She has promised me once this powerful soul lays on our feasting table, we will ascend to new heights of enlightenment."

The others looked entranced at her words. I knew they'd come around, once I shared my knowledge.

"What'll we do till then?" Banning tried to hide his glances back at the vessel floating in the murky waters. She grinned knowingly. You don't have to repress your hunger, my brother. Not any longer.

Eola gestured. "You and Hogni return to the ship. Begin to unload our cargo."

On the road out of Markarth, they'd encountered a Khajiit caravan in the night. The cats hadn't had time to rise from their bedrolls before her coven sent them beyond with teeth and blade. After that, it had just been a matter of loading up the meat and casting a few preservation spells. We'll eat well for some time.

"And me, Eola?" Lisbet looked eager for instruction. Although the young shopkeeper was the newest member of their coven, she was also the most loyal. Eola had grown quite fond of her.

"You will come with me, sister. Nearby is a cave that will shelter us from the poisons of this land. It is there we'll wait, and build our preparations."

Later on, as the sun set on Vvardenfell, the Cult of Namira held a feast for the first time in the dim light of day.

"No, serjo. We don't carry any creams or ointments. I'm not sure any shop in Raven Rock does."

"That's fine," Gelebor replied. "Thank you for checking."

"I'd think an Altmer would travel with his own supply." The Dunmer merchant raised his eyebrows. "Especially one as pale as you."

"Wise words," Gelebor said with a strained smile. "I've exhausted my reserves sooner than expected. Ash appears to fall from the sky every day here."

As if to mock him, the clouds above the town began to darken, and thunder rumbled on the horizon.

"That's the way o' life on Solstheim." The merchant glanced up at the sky, and began to shutter his stall. "You ought to book a ship to Skyrim, friend. If the ash bothers you, you've come to the wrong island."

Gelebor opened his mouth to reply, but the merchant had abruptly closed his shutters as the first wisps of gray began to fall. He sighed, looking around the suddenly abandoned marketplace as the other shopkeepers followed suit. After two months in Raven Rock, the ash storms still seemed to sneak up on him. Perhaps one day I'll develop the sixth sense these natives have. He wasn't sure if the idea of eventually adapting to this wasteland brought him more hope or sorrow.

Auriel preserve me. Gelebor pulled his hood up and walked swiftly down the street, trying to shield his face from the unrelenting ashfall. Only the swinging paper lanterns on the sides of the road signaled he was heading the right direction. After all this time, the clay dwellings of the Dunmer still looked the same when covered in the gray dust. He only knew the Retching Netch by the Redoran guard posted outside. Gelebor wasn't sure if it was the same guard every day, or if they switched out every now and then.

"Good evening," he greeted the bonemold-clad elf. As always, the guard made no reply. That was the way of these Dunmer: rough, unyielding, but sincere. In a way, they reminded Gelebor of what the sterner members of his own people had been like.

Gelebor entered the inn, taking a deep breath of the relatively clean air. The Retching Netch was always the most busy when the ash storms raged, and this evening was no exception. Pleasant music filled the tavern, along with the spicy fragrance of sujamma. Several of the Dunmer gave him unfriendly glances as he went down the stairs to the lower level, shaking the ash from his cloak. Slitter and Mogrul were among those on the upper floor. He pointedly avoided eye contact with them.

"And so returns our local priest of Akatosh," Geldis Sadri greeted him with a smile. Gelebor didn't yet know Dunmer faces well enough to ascertain whether the expression was genuine. "Just in time to pay his rent."

Some of the elves seated at the bar left, perhaps sensing the awkward situation. Most of the patrons of the Retching Netch went about their business, as was the way of their kind, but a few newcomers who had never seen him gawked curiously from their tables.

"Geldis, my friend," Gelebor began, trying to force a smile of his own. "I'm afraid work has been a bit scarce recently."

"We've been here before," Geldis chided. "You know I can't give anyone special treatment, mate. I'm a fair elf, but enough is enough. You've already had three days extra to pay what's due."

"You're right, of course." Despite himself, Gelebor felt humiliated standing in the inn with scarcely a coin to his name. Never before I have yearned so fiercely for the white halls of the Chantry. "You'll have your payment by sunset tomorrow, Geldis. I swear this by the grace of Auriel."

Geldis sighed. "Akatosh, Auriel, whatever you want to call him, doesn't have to maintain this place and keep the sujamma flowing. I'm sorry. I'll have my gold by morning, or you're out on the street."

Gelebor's head fell, his hood shifting forward. "Very well."

He left the bar quietly, feeling stares on his back. The room he rented was a small one, tucked away from sight at the far corner of the building. Geldis had been using it as a storage closet before. Gelebor liked the space well enough. In the Forgotten Vale, he'd had no space of his own at all; only his armor, mace, and the light of Auriel shining down on him. The ground had been his bed, and the stars his ceiling. Strange that he yearned for those days.

As was the case with many places on Solstheim, his room was far too hot. Gelebor slipped off his cloak as soon as the door was securely shut, throwing the garment on a hook next to the door. Besides for the hook, the only furnishings in the room were a small bed and a chair. Gelebor sat down, as he had many times before, and began murmuring his mantras to Auriel.Normally, he didn't begin this ritual until later in the day. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Gelebor's pale eyes were drawn to the space under the bed, where his only items of value were securely hidden. First was the ivory armor set he'd received upon swearing his life in service to Auriel. Thousands of years had passed since his vow, but Gelebor still recalled fondly the feeling of pride as the other knight-paladins welcomed him into their ranks. How I miss my brothers and sisters in arms. The armor was invaluable, irreplaceable, and undeniably dangerous to wear in public.

If even one scholar knowledgeable of the Falmer caught sight of the ancient engravings and telltale workmanship of the set, Gelebor would surely be exposed as the last living member of his race. Not even he was naive enough to believe there weren't those in Tamriel who would take that news as a challenge.

What was hidden next to his armor was perhaps less practically useful, but the artifact was nonetheless one of the few remaining connections he had to his past. The initiate's ewer. For centuries, Gelebor had handed the receptacle over with good wishes to adventurers certain they'd emerge later with Auriel's Bow as their prize. On nearly every occasion, Gelebor ended up finding the hunters lying dead somewhere in the Forgotten Vale, pierced with the arrows of the Betrayed more often than not. Only two had ever successfully returned the silver ewer to him, with the weapon of his lord in their possession and his fallen brother's blood on their hands. Every now and then, the pair had returned to visit him in the Chantry. I suppose I'll never look upon either of their faces again, now.

When Gelebor held the initiate's ewer and closed his eyes, sometimes he could picture himself standing once more in the Inner Sanctum, Vyrthur beside him free of the vampiric affliction that had led to his ruin. But such wishful thoughts were for children taking their first plodding steps in the snow. Vyrthur was dead and buried next to the rubble of the Inner Sanctum he'd once taken a vow to protect at all costs. For all Gelebor knew, the rest of the Chantry was now in a similar state. Sometimes he wondered if their sovereign had forgiven his brother in the end, or if Vyrthur was writhing in torment in Coldharbour, a victim in life and death of the merciless Molag Bal.

Come, now. To conjure such horrors in your mind in the midst of worship is unbecoming. Gelebor murmured a quiet prayer of forgiveness and continued his mantras. The small room had no windows, so he only knew the passage of time by the dwindling light from the candle next to his bed. Before the flame had burned out completely, there was a cacophony of knocking on the door.

Gelebor's eyes flew open, and he rose. The portal opened, and Slitter stood in the doorway. The Dunmer mercenary had small and cruel eyes like a slaughterfish. Upon their first meeting, Gelebor had thought: this is a being who has never known kindness. On Slitter's back, an elven battleaxe gleamed, and past the weapon Mogrul stood watching. The miserly orc had an enchanted axe of his own hanging from his hip.

"Time to pay up, elf." Mogrul grinned, his gold teeth dull in the dimly lit hallway. "Two hundred gold, or you're going to get a lot closer with your god."

Gelebor's eyes narrowed. "This matter between us has been settled, I believe. My debt was forgiven when I did that vile favor for you."

Mogrul slid past Slitter, and made a farce of peering around the small room. "Hmm. I don't see any contract here to support what you say. Maybe we should ask one of the guards outside to help look for it."

Half of the Redoran guard in the city owed Mogrul money. If the orc asked one of them in here, Gelebor was likely to end up in jail with his few possessions seized. This situation is becoming untenable.

"Gold, or blood." Slitter stepped in, and Mogrul shut the door behind him. "You'll be spilling one or the other for us in a moment. Your choice."

Gelebor's hands tightened into fists. He had no weapons, but he could still incapacitate or even kill these vagabonds easily. But what would that accomplish? He'd have to flee the city, hide out in the wastes of Solstheim with nothing more than the clothes on his back. And all the blood would make a dreadful mess for Geldis to clean up. That would be no way to repay the innkeeper for his generosity.

He sighed. "Blood it is. Do what you will to me. One day, my sovereign may shine the light of forgiveness on you."

Mogrul chuckled. "Oh, no, you're not getting off that easy. Slitter, tear this place apart. I'm not leavin' this stinking tavern empty handed."

"Wait," Gelebor said. He stepped forward, blocking Slitter's path. "Please. This is a place of worship. Do you hold nothing sacred in your heart, Mogrul?"

Mogrul rubbed two of his fingers together. "Coin. Go on, Slitter."

The mercenary drove a chitin-clad fist into Gelebor's stomach, sending him coughing to the floor. Mogrul chuckled as the elf fell forward, his hood falling off. Slitter kicked the bed against the wall and began tossing aside the scant possessions.

Gelebor's hair fell over his face. He managed to steady himself and rise. Mogrul regarded him with disgust.

"You're some kind of freak. Thought from your skin you were just sick, but your hair's white as bone too. No wonder you're a priest. No one else would take you, lookin' like that."

"Mogrul," Slitter said. He held up the initiate's ewer.

"Ooh." Mogrul pushed past Gelebor and seized the pitcher. "This is real silver. And damned old, too, from the looks of it."

"An ancient trinket," Gelebor said. He pushed the hair back from his eyes, watching the two bandits wearily. "Worthless, unless you're a devotee of my lord."

"Nah, think I'll melt it down."

Gelebor took a step towards them, and Mogrul's fist flew forth a green blur. Gelebor found himself looking up at the ceiling, blood trickling from his lip. A second later, Slitter's armored foot obscured the view, and pain followed. He covered his face with his arms, doing his best to block the blows. Mogrul stood near the dying candle, admiring the initiate's ewer. That little pitcher is almost as old as me. How tragic both of our journeys will end here, in a place so far from the Great Chantry.

The door slammed open. Slitter turned to find a loaded crossbow an inch from his face. Geldis aimed the weapon with steady hands.

"Get out of my bar, scum."

Mogrul frowned. "We've been down this road before, Sedri. I don't give a guar's arse what you want. We're staying for as long as we like."

"No longer." Geldis said. "Flee the Netch on your own two feet, or be carried. And leave the pitcher."

No one moved. Slitter stared at Geldis down the length of the crossbow, one of his feet still planted on Gelebor's chest. Mogrul looked thoughtfully at the ewer in his hands, perhaps considering its viability as a thrown projectile. Finally, he dropped it.

"We'll do it your way, this time." Mogrul inclined his head to Slitter, and the latter left the room with a growl. "But you've just made yourself an enemy, innkeep. And you'll find Raven Rock is a very small place when you're on my list of rotten bastards." He followed Slitter out, not looking down at Gelebor as he passed.

Geldis followed them, presumably to ensure they actually left the tavern. Gelebor staggered to his feet, wiping the blood from his face. By the grace of Auriel, I live another day. He picked up the ewer and found it no worse for wear. The same couldn't be said for the ruins of his bed. Or the ruins of me, for that matter. The pale face looking back from the reflection of the ewer was quickly growing purple in places.

"They've gone," Geldis said. He'd returned to the doorway, crossbow still in his hand. "But who knows for how long, sera. Mogrul has the guard in his pocket.You can't stay here."

"I want you to have this," Gelebor said. He walked forward and held out the silver pitcher. "For your assistance in saving my life."

"Come now, I won't steal from a priest," Geldis replied, embarrassed. "It was my fault those s'witsdid this to you. Musta slipped past while I was grabbing a new batch of sujamma."

"Nevertheless." Gelebor offered the ewer more insistently. "After I flee the city, you'll stand alone against them. Not to mention I owe you rent. Sell this old relic. Use it to hire protection for this place."

"Probably not a bad idea," Geldis admitted. He shifted the crossbow to his other hand and grasped the initiate's ewer, marveling. "You sure? This little beauty looks older than Solstheim. I could probably buy ten mercenaries."

Closer to, older than the Dunmer race. "I'm certain, my friend. You've been kind to me during my stay here, when all others have turned me away." He knelt, and began gathering his few possessions into the pockets of his cloak.

"We're a rough people," Geldis said. "But the rest in Raven Rock woulda warmed up to you eventually, I'm sure. You're just...a little out of place, and we Dunmer are wary of outsiders."

Perhaps if my own race had been more wary of the Dwemer, the Betrayed would walk in the light of day, their sight undamaged. Gelebor grimaced, pulling his armor out from the compartment under the shattered bedframe.

Geldis blinked in disbelief as Gelebor sat down in his chair and began to strap on the ivory chestplate.

"You sure coulda used that a few minutes ago," Geldis said. He leaned against the doorway, collecting himself. "That whole set been under one of my beds for all this time?"

"Yes," Gelebor replied. "My vestments are quite striking." He finished pulling on his last gauntlet and pulled the cloak over his head, hiding most of the armor. "I thought it best to spare the locals."

"You were right." Geldis smiled bitterly. "Mogrul would've had us both dead in seconds if he'd known you had that treasure hiding under his feet."

Gelebor nodded and stood up. He did a last check to make sure he had everything, and then made to leave.

"Wait," Geldis held a hand up. "Where ya plannin' on going?"

"I'm uncertain. I've heard of a tribe of Nords nestled somewhere in the mountains. Perhaps I could rest there for a time."

"The Skaal? They're about as receptive to outsiders as we are, friend. Not to mention you'd likely freeze to death before you got there. "

He smiled. "Unlikely. But have you a better suggestion, Geldis?"

The innkeep bit the inside of his cheek, glancing down the hallway to the sleepy tavern. As far as Gelebor could tell, they were the only ones awake at this hour.

"I know someone in need of a strong worker," Geldis said. "Her residence is a little bit of journey, but damned closer than the Skaal village. If you play your cards right, she might let you stick around for a spell."

Gelebor listened as Geldis gave him directions to this distant dwelling. Despite the circumstances, he was glad to leave the city behind. Staying too long in one place brought back memories he preferred to keep buried. And for too long he'd traveled without a goal or purpose beyond simple survival.

A few hours later, Gelebor left Raven Rock with a full pack of provisions from Geldis and uncertain hope in his heart.