I stop in at the Fighters Guild to see if anyone there can tell me how their own project has been going, translating an encoded journal found on a dremora woman. Mirroring the Mages Guild branch, the Fighters Guildhall also has fancy windows in it, except these are golden rather than blue, with green vines around a red Fighters Guild emblem. (Wait, it might be more of a green-gold color for the vines. Is it the same color that just looks more green against the gold glass? I don’t feel like running back and forth to compare them.)

Elden Root’s resources apparently drew Sees-All-Colors here too, and she’s gotten the journal deciphered. She tells me how the journal indicates the dremora in question was after some sort of artifact hidden in a Dwemer ruin with a name starting with M.

I’m impressed that this Argonian even tries to pronounce the Dwemer name, and don’t bother telling her that she’s pronouncing it wrong. It hardly matters anymore and I don’t care. It’s not like I didn’t mangle plenty of Dwemer names in my time, either. Dumzy—my old friend, not my axe—used to poke fun at me endlessly for it. People who aren’t Dwemer always like to put enough vowels into words that they don’t bump quite so many consonants into one another, but the Dwemer were too good for such silly concepts as vowels. ‘Gaps of tonal harmony in between percussive spaces’, one of them described them as. Dwemer vowels weren’t just vowels, but tones, and they never bothered to write down anything about the nuance in their language. (Probably intentionally; they’re bastards like that.) I really, really don’t envy any archaeologists trying to study them today.

“Neralion?” Sees-All-Colors interrupts my line of thought. “Are you paying attention? You look distracted.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Just thinking about the Dwemer. I’m something of a scholar of them, you see.”

“I never took you for a historian,” Sees-All-Colors says.

I chuckle. “Yes, not everyone who studies history wears a robe. It turns out that many historical locations are full of pissy ghosts, skeletons, constructs, or bandits.”

“Good point,” she says. “Are you familiar with the location we are heading to? It’s located in the mountains of Hammerfell.”

“I’m afraid not,” I say. “I’ve never been to Hammerfell before today, when I took a portal there on an errand for the Mages Guild.”

“Well, we’ll be taking another portal back there.” She chuckles. “I am also familiar with portal magic, so I will be opening it.”

“Oh, that’s excellent,” I say. “I’ve been learning some teleportation techniques lately, myself, but it’s been tricky. I haven’t yet gotten the knack of teleporting with my clothing.”

Come to think, it probably doesn’t actually take a century to perfect if humans and Argonians are capable of doing it. They’re probably smarter than elves, though. Elves can’t learn to put on pants in less than a decade.

“Do you want to do this just with us, or should I gather my party before venturing forth?” I ask.

“Let’s just keep it to us,” Colors says.

Aelif and Merric, the Khajiit and Redguard I’d encountered before, are also here but aren’t coming along with us. I wonder aloud if Colors had simply been waiting for me to show up to do this. I can understand that the Mages Guild couldn’t find anyone else willing to go to the Shivering Isles (“You went where?”) but I’m guessing I must have just had good timing or they really didn’t trust anyone else for this job.

I like Aelif’s snark, but not her disdain for the necessity of fighting Daedra. She’s also a bit miffed that Colors refused to share anything she learned from the journal with her.

“It did take a while to get the journal decoded and acquire the information we needed,” Colors says. “I tried sending Bera Moorsmith to you with a message but you were always moving around. Then I got word you were seen at Haven and figured you’d be here soon enough.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “I was busy saving Auridon from racist bandits and sea elves. Let’s go, then.”

Colors opens up a portal, and we step through into a Dwemer complex. It’s… eerie seeing a place like this. I haven’t been in a Dwemer ruin before, and it’s spine-chilling to look around and think that it wasn’t so very long ago, these halls echoed instead with the voices of the deep elves, living their lives and plying their trades. And then in the blink of an eye, they all vanished without a trace, not even leaving bones behind, or so says all the books that mention them that I’ve run across.

I never really thought of myself as a hero, you know. Calling someone a hero implies that’s what they are rather than what they do, but heroism is an action, not a person. And frequently I perform this action accidentally or unwittingly. Just by being in the right place at the right time. Except when someone, like Sees-All-Colors here, insists on waiting specifically for me to come along and I’m not entirely clear why. It’s not like these otherwise competent people are incapable of getting anything done without me. And there’s something else strange about this, that I get an odd note in her voice, hesitations in weird places. She knows more about what’s going on here than she’s letting on.

I strike up a conversation to try to distract myself from my thoughts and the noise of Dwemer machinery clicking and rattling away unattended. “So, Colors, maybe you could give me some pointers on teleportation magic, from the perspective of someone who is more of a fighter than a mage,” I say. “I’ve… talked to mages about it and have attempted to listen to discussions that have all the clarity of a sulfur pool.”

“What are you having problems with?” Colors asks.

“Well, I’ve learned a technique for teleporting between two wayshrines,” I say. “I have not, however, learned how to take my clothes with me, never mind my party.”

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“Ah,” Colors replies with a chuckle. “I can see how that would be a problem. Wayshrines, huh. Yes, I can see how that would work.”

“The mages said something about ‘expanding my bounded field’ without explaining what that meant,” I say.

“Mages,” Colors says, shaking her head. “They give an explanation that would make sense to another mage.”

She goes quiet and holds up a hand as voices can be heard from up ahead. Not Dwemer voices, either. Ayleids? Here? Not so much ghosts as memories, talking about hiding a weapon. The apparitions vanish after a moment.

“What was that?” I wonder. “And why did it just appear as we were walking down the hallway?”

“It does seem rather strange,” Colors agrees. “I’ve seen this happen before. Sometimes events can leave an impression upon a place like that.”

“And they just show themselves to anyone walking in,” I say with a snort. “That would make so many mysteries more answerable if it were more reliable. Like why is it showing these Ayleids, but not a single one of the Dwemer who used to live here?”

“That I cannot tell you,” Colors says. “Let’s move on, and I’ll try to help with your teleportation problem in between hitting these constructs.”

It would appear that without their masters, the Dwemer constructs have just been left on defense and maintenance. No wonder everything that hasn’t physically collapsed is still working however many centuries later, and they’ve probably done a good job of discouraging any looters who weren’t really serious about what they’re looting. I wistfully look upon a couple of pristine schematics along the wall and politely ask Colors if she minds if I take a moment to collect a couple of things to study, and she says that she doesn’t mind if I don’t take too long. We’re on an actual mission here and not an archaeological expedition, after all.

“I think your problem is that you’re teleporting too hastily,” Colors says. “You’re focusing only on your destination.”

“That’s probably true,” I say.

“Next time you try it, take a moment to breathe before you cast, and be aware of yourself. Don’t just think about trying to carry things or people with you, but consider how they’re a part of you. You’re no true fighter without your axe, and no true adventurer without your party. All are one.”

I nod thoughtfully. “I’ll try that. Thank you.”

We open the next door, and another group of Ayleid apparitions appears before us. One of their number has died, and this is apparently a problem because they need a living sacrifice for… something.

“Sacrifices now?” I say. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“Perhaps,” Colors says, then bends down to pick up a book on the ground next to a skeleton, and opens it. “Look, they left a journal here.” She shows it to me.

I skim through it. “These Ayleids were Meridia worshippers? Huh. And something they call a Prismatic Core? I guess Meridia is all about light and colors, right?”

“Something like that,” Colors says.

We move on, with Colors marveling at the skill of the Dwemer along the way, and I suppress a sigh at my own melancholy thoughts along those lines. We run across another journal sitting next to a skeleton slumped against a wall. It sounds like these Meridian Ayleids had a desperate fight. The next memory we see is of this particular mer trying to lead enemies away from the group to buy them time.

“Heroic, but where were they going…” I murmur.

“Further in, it would seem,” Colors says. “But this complex is sprawling. It must have been a great city at one point.”

I want to tell her, badly, but I feel like she’s hiding something, so I hold my tongue for the moment. Is it just me being paranoid? It’s probably nothing, but I’ve already told more people than I meant to. However, it was absolutely necessary that I be able to trust my party, and I don’t feel like any of them are hiding anything sinister. I already know their worst secrets, after all.

Another memory. The Ayleids are down to three and one is dying. As we watch, the dying one begs her beloved to ‘do it’, and I infer that ‘it’ is soultrapping her to power this shiny weapon.

The penultimate Ayleid died a little further on, holding off a swarm of constructs to let the final one make a break for it toward the heart of the complex. Colors admires their bravery aloud. And as we’re looking around the room, comments on how creative the Dwemer were for a godless race. Something about that phrasing strikes me.

“That’s what they were doing!” I exclaim suddenly.

“Who, the Ayleids?”

“No, the Dwemer,” I say. “They were trying to build their own god!”

“You think that’s why they disappeared?” Colors asks.

“I don’t know.” I run a hand through the scruffy red hair that has grown out since I last shaved my head. “They…” I shake my head. “Never mind. Let’s keep going. We can worry about the archaeology later.”

“Right you are, comrade.”

The door is sealed behind one of those stupid crystal locks that you have to make glowy lines connect through, and I need to replace the crystals in the stands to link it up again to open it.

Finally, we see the last memory, in which the sole surviving Ayleid places the crystal containing the other’s soul inside of a steam centurion, and then is promptly cut down by said steam centurion.

“Looks like you and me and Dumzy here—” I pat my axe. “—are gonna have some fun getting that shiny thing out of that construct.”

The last Ayleid’s journal lays on the floor near the chest where he’d hidden the old book that supposedly details this weapon they’d devised. I skip to the end where it’s becoming increasingly bleak, leaving the final words as a wish that their story didn’t have to end this way.

“Hopefully the rest of them at least made it to the Colored Rooms,” I say. “Wonder what it’s like there. It sounds pretty.”

Colors is giving me an odd look. “You seem well acquainted with the planes of Oblivion.”

“Tell you what, Colors,” I chuckle. “You tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine.”

“What makes you think I’m keeping a secret?” Colors asks.

“I could just play a guessing game and see how you react,” I say lightly. “Those are always fun. But I don’t see as how that’s necessary. In any case, yes, I have indeed traveled to several of the realms of Oblivion. Most of which I would not recommend as prime vacation spots. My brief visit to Moonshadow once was the least bad of them, and I’m not too thrilled with Azura lately, but never mind that. That was a long time ago. Ugh. Actually, I don’t even want to talk about that right now—let’s just hit this thing.”

Without waiting for her to say another word, I charge in and start hitting the centurion with Dumzy while trying to avoid getting bisected with its very large slicing arms. It’s a tough fight, to be sure, but not actually a difficult one, exactly. I mean, Dwemer constructs are extremely predictable if you know how they move, so it’s just a matter of hitting them in the right spots to make them stop attempting to tear you to pieces. We hit the centurion until it stops moving and retrieve the shiny object we were looking for from it.

Colors, far from wanting to stick around and discuss anyone’s secrets, just opens a portal for me back to Elden Root and says that she needs to go somewhere unspecified to do something unspecified. A Nord voice tells me to wait until she’s gone, and once Colors darts into the portal, the ghost of the dead guildmaster appears again. He has a cryptic and not particularly helpful warning to me about how he’s anchored somewhere against his will and how someone intends to betray me, and it’s difficult to speak and he doesn’t have enough time to do anything but waste time being vague. Then he vanishes.

Right, that was less helpful than he thought he was being, clearly. I hop back through the portal before I wind up stuck there, and re-emerge into the Guildhall where I was before. Colors is already gone, so I just hand off the book and crystal to Merric.

“I hope you’re a legendary smith, because I can’t make head or tail of this,” I say.

“Well, I don’t know about legendary, but Stendarr willing, I shall do my best. I’ll get to work on reading this right away.”