image [https://i.imgur.com/UvduvtT.png]

Benezia was of course frantic at the prospect that I was being hunted, more out of concern for the mission than for my sorry hide. Regardless, the very next day we slipped away from the caravan. I had introduced myself only as Berry and had not mingled much with anyone outside of our party, so I was fairly confident no bounty hunters would not hear anything of my whereabouts based on just my name and the very bizarre (and incorrect) description they seemed to have.

We were far enough south by then that settlements had become scarce, and in place of the broadleaf trees we found ourselves in a slightly drier and more piney woodland scattered with the occasional hamlet which we always gave wide berth to. Abbard led us, proving himself a talented guide, as we wound down long game trails and up the mounting hills as we approached the mountain-range which separates the imperial heartland from the desert.

It was another week’s journey to where the peace summit was being held, a passage through the mountains known as Ayagozi Pass, neutral territory as it was part of the heartland, and where Governor Lucca supposedly held court with a small detachment of legionnaires. In the interest of brevity, and to keep true to this document’s intention of documenting my role in regards to the Twin Manes Incident; I will summarize this journey in brief since it generally had very little bearing on subsequent events.

Early on I mistakenly became lost one morning while fetching water, my own fault really. I had dawdled to read the treatise with the pleasant company of a babbling brook (and away from Benezia’s prying eyes) and forgot from whence I’d come. There was a ruined stone tower nearby which I recalled seeing from our camp, so I wandered towards it to get my bearings and perhaps scale its collapsed heights. A reasonable plan, and likely to work until about a dozen apparitions glowed into being, completely surrounding me.

They were ghosts, the spirits of ancient warriors who had manned the tower in centuries past against either the Akaviri invasion or the raids of the ancient Khajiit tribes. Their translucent faces had collapsed and warped into anonymity by centuries of isolation and failing memories. But their hands were real enough, biting like ice as they took hold of my shoulders and led me into the musty tower chamber to be seated at their check-game board. Their leader, once a tall faced man, explained to me that after a few centuries alone together they were desperate for any outside competition.

Against my will, I was compelled to play with them again and again. They were insatiable, and threatened to kill me if I tried to leave or ‘stopped taking the game seriously’. I was beginning to get nervous until Sorvild kicked open the rusted door, bellowing and waving his sword around until the ghosts agreed to let me go.

In the chaos of our exit I am quite sure Abbard caught a glimpse of my antimagic cuffs when one of my sleeves caught on a branch and rolled up my forearm; he made no comment but vented his ire at me on the walk back to camp. “This is getting ridiculous. Coddling amateurs when we could be making our fortune with the Mane right now! We coulda stayed with the caravan another two days, woulda saved us a lot of this travel.”

Sorvild barked: “Give me peace from your piece of input, won’t you Abbard? Benezia said we needed to go off-road, so off-road we go.”

“But you’re the boss, right? Why are you listening to that harpy?”

“A good leader listens to his people, Abbard. Something you need to learn.”

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“Yea but I’m trying to give my own—”

“And I heard it, but I don’t want to hear it again!”

Back at camp I rubbed Spinner's rock-hard cheeks as she chewed some thistle. Her chestnut eye did not seem especially excited by my return. “You too?" I mussed her mane. "Give me some time, I'll grow on you."

The only other incident which may provide you with useful context is my first encounter with a Khajiit. What happened was that I’d long since finished the meager ration of booze Benezia’s allowance had bought me before we had left the caravan early. It had not been an issue at first, but sure enough my dreams eventually returned in such intensity that Benezia found the rattle of twisting chains as I writhed to be disturbing to her beauty rest. My very minimal complaints as we rode each day may also have been a factor in her decision. As such we decided to visit a small village we discovered amongst the wilderness.

There was a bit of a hubbub when we arrived, I supposed we looked a bit like bandits at a distance, but after a brief conversation between their steely eyed militia captain and our fearless beer bellied leader, things were set aright and we were given free reign of the place with the warning that we would at all times be under the keen eye of a militiamen in the watchtower.

It was a nice enough place, a ring of cabins on a stockaded hilltop, an island of humanity in the shadow of Mount Ayagozi. Solid frontierfolk all around, reserved but welcoming. As the militia captain gave us what little tour was warranted, he warned that the country was rife with banditry since the recent unrest just south of them in Elsweyr had begun.

"What kind of bandits?" I asked.

He turned his head, it was the first time I'd spoken as I walked behind him and Sorvild. "Khajiit outcasts mostly, we've always had a few of those, but there’s a lot of refugees now too. One of the Manes, the western desert one, he's been cracking down on Daedra worshippers like nobody's business. I respect that—I’ve always said it’s a black mark on the empire that a province, even a beastfolk province, would tolerate that sort of thing. Still I wish he did a better job of rounding them up rather than letting them flee into the heartland."

"But are they violent?" asked Sorvild.

"Desperation’s the main ingredient of violence in my experience, and these people have lost everything. We do our best to keep ‘em moving."

This disturbed me greatly. Elsweyr was known for its relatively lax laws on Daedra worship, an eminently reasonable policy, more so than the single annual days of state approved propitiation for each known Daedra lords as is lawful in most of the empire.

I was further disturbed by the sight of the dozen Khajiit refugees we were to share the village green with that night: pitiful piles of rags clustered against the rough hewn logs that formed the watchtower’s base. They did not stir at the sight of us until we began raising our tents and Abbard called out my first name while cursing me for a shallowly dug tent stake.

One of the refugees, a mangy calico grandmother type, rose and staggered toward us. Abbard and I paused as she stood over us. Even her whiskers sagged pitifully.

“Its name is Berry?” she growled, more so out of the throat and mouth dimensions of her race than any intent.

I swallowed. “How can I help you?”

“Is that a common name for men?”

“Common enough.” I forced an uncomfortable laugh. Abbard was squinting at me now.

“It's a cursed name here. It shares a name with the usurper’s pet, Berry the Longfellow.”

I was about to thank her for the warning and shoo her away when Abbard interrupted to ask what the hell she meant.

“Berry the Longfellow is a hunted man. An idiot-savant as tall as an araw tree they say, a stammering fool that somehow mutters the darkest of magics to aid the desert pretender.”

I raised my hands. “Well obviously that’s not me… as you can see I am clearly a mercenary.”

“Hunted by who?” asked Abbard.

“By the true Mane, and also by Daedra,” she said, eyes widening to show slit-shaped pupils. “I met one in the wilds—furless like a man but pale as a worm. But its movements… it was not right. This one feared she would be eaten, but when it saw her the monster only asked where the Berry the Longfellow was.”

“And what did you tell it?” I asked.

“At the desert pearl of Dune, at the walking paws the false Mane.”

I tried to stammer out some rationalization but Abbard had already excused himself to talk to Sorvild. My true identity was at the very least suspected by now.