Nerevar Redoran is furious. So furious he has yet to sheath his blade, much less clean it. He had drawn it from his bedpost when the attacker made his fatal wrong step. It had remained drawn when he interrogated Hetman Guls and Captain Pullia about where the intruder could have come from. It is still drawn now, as he searches with them for the source of the breach.
No writ.
They carried no writ.
That Orvas Dren would send assassins into his home - his home, the home of the savior of Morrowind, without whom he would not even be alive to murder, steal, and seize litters of Khajiit from their homes - is a sign of utmost desperation in itself. But he understands it. Welcomes it, even, for it is a sign of his fear and respect for his Hortator.
But the Camonna Tong, for all their bluster, all their talk of Morrowind-for-the-Dunmer, has sent these assassins with no honorable writ of execution, defiling thousands of years of Dunmer tradition. He had thought such a thing was beneath even them. They had profaned his home, the home he had built, the home where he would one day raise his children, with the blood of the lowest kind of mercenary scum. Who carried no writ. Make no mistake, the Morag Tong would hear of this.
Lord Nerevar has spent much time of late in Bal Isra. It is his home, his sanctuary, and at the very least he must know its defenses. So he is instantly aware when, not for the first time, he finds himself very suddenly in another place.
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, as he leaps into a defensive stance. Someone has taken him here - a sorcerer, no doubt. But a sorcerer in whose employ?
There is only one possible answer to this question.
Garyn Balvadares, the Nerevarine | The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind
No writ.
They carried no writ.
That Orvas Dren would send assassins into his home - his home, the home of the savior of Morrowind, without whom he would not even be alive to murder, steal, and seize litters of Khajiit from their homes - is a sign of utmost desperation in itself. But he understands it. Welcomes it, even, for it is a sign of his fear and respect for his Hortator.
But the Camonna Tong, for all their bluster, all their talk of Morrowind-for-the-Dunmer, has sent these assassins with no honorable writ of execution, defiling thousands of years of Dunmer tradition. He had thought such a thing was beneath even them. They had profaned his home, the home he had built, the home where he would one day raise his children, with the blood of the lowest kind of mercenary scum. Who carried no writ. Make no mistake, the Morag Tong would hear of this.
Lord Nerevar has spent much time of late in Bal Isra. It is his home, his sanctuary, and at the very least he must know its defenses. So he is instantly aware when, not for the first time, he finds himself very suddenly in another place.
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, as he leaps into a defensive stance. Someone has taken him here - a sorcerer, no doubt. But a sorcerer in whose employ?
There is only one possible answer to this question.
"ORVAS DREN!" he bellows. "SHOW YOURSELF!"