The wind screamed as it cut across the land, driving up billowing rust-colored clouds the size of small mountains. It was no use trying to make his way back to the city. He would have to seek shelter.

Reves turned away from the wind. He ground the gritty ash in his teeth, ash that had gotten through the eye slit of his closed helm. He worried he may have already contracted blight.

He knew he shouldn't have stayed out as long as he had. He had only himself to blame; when he spotted the beginnings of the storm, a scarlet stain on the horizon, he ignored it. After all, it had been a good haul. Two hapless merchants and an adventurer too cocky for his own good had fallen prey to Reves the rogue, and now his bag was full of stolen gold and merchandise.

A good haul indeed. His hand fell to his bag, where he felt a large lump. One of the merchants had been carrying an object of Dwemer design. Naughty, naughty, Reves thought, smiling. He knew nothing about Dwemer artifacts, only that they earned a pretty drake or two on the black market. It was definitely worth the storm.

Without much hope, he trudged through the ash, one hand held to his brow, his eyes on the only thing he could see through the thick ash storm; the mountains. They seemed to loom larger as he slowly drew closer. When he was upon the mountains, he then began to travel alongside them, looking for a cave, at best. At worst, a crevice to squeeze into.

At first Reves did not recognize his good fortune. He almost passed the crooked, shoddily crafted door that lay at the end of a narrow valley. Stalagmites that some force of nature had exposed to the surface world stood erect at either side of the door like a pair of fangs. Reves blinked, then broke into a trot for the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled- there was a moment of resistance, then he heard a loud SNAP as the door swung open. He stepped into darkness and shut the door on the raging storm, its voice hissing through the cracks.

Reves's eyes adjusted immediately to the murky light in the cave, though he had previously taken the interior to be black as tar. He could see now the torches in brackets lining the walls. He noticed also a small rug beneath his feet, bearing an unshapely-looking beetle that looked as though it might have been an ink stain rather than an intentional design. This cave was inhabited.

Reves drew his knife, a silver blade half the length of his forearm with a menacing curve to it. He made his way slowly down the hall, passing over another rug laid across the stone and earth floor. At length he reached the end of the hall, light bleeding in from the room just around the corner. He held his breath and looked.

The room was rounded, cheerily lit by several candles. The walls were covered with tapestries done in the same art as the beetle, sporting shapes that looked like large ink blots. Across the floor was a large, plush rug in emerald and sapphire colors, a design of a white flower in the center. Surrounding a glowing fire were a plump, overstuffed chair upholstered in scamp leather, a wooden rocking chair, a bookshelf, and several sitting pillows in colors corresponding with the rug beneath.

Sprawled languidly in the rocking chair was a young woman, sunk deep into the cushion, arms flung lazily over the armrests. She wore a long, vermillion skirt of silk that pooled around her bare ankles; rather than a blouse, she wore yellowed linen wrappings that hugged her bosom and wound up her arms. Her face was concealed beneath a flowing red veil. Only the eyes were visible; white eyes, alien and forbidding. And they were looking directly at Reves.

Reves had the inane impression that he had stumbled upon a vampire. But no, that could not be so. In the stories, vampires always lived in dark lairs; this was clearly a comfortable sitting room, odd though the choice of a cave was. And she saw him, but made no move to attack. In fact, she made no move whatever. Reves lingered a moment, then put his dagger away and stepped into the light.

The young woman's eyes did not blink or flicker. "Ah," she said in a voice that was soft and light, with a barely perceptible hollow resonance. "A visitor. Did you pick my locks? Or did I forget to lock my door?" She sounded amused. Reves was suddenly aware of the musical sound of trickling water coming from somewhere beyond the room.

Reves's first impression of the woman still lingered in his mind, but he made an attempt to compose himself. He took off his helmet and smiled, hoping he looked trustworthy.

"I'm afraid I broke your lock in my desperation to get inside," Reves said, keeping his tone light and apologetic. "You see, there is a bad blight storm going, and I had to seek shelter."

"I see," said the woman, her arms stirring. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. A small ruby on her finger sparkled like a drop of blood.

"So that's what all the noise is about. When there's a storm going, the strangest moans squeeze through cracks in the ceiling. You'd think you were hearing the sighs of the jilted dead." She paused, and her eyes seemed to smile, though they looked no less forbidding. "Very well. You may stay here until the storm has passed. Do sit down."

Reves's reservations slackened somewhat, and he seated himself in the plush chair. Up close he noticed there was a tear in the leather, through which a racer feather was sticking out. He glanced at the bookshelf. It was crammed with books, a few skulls used as bookends. Upon closer inspection, he saw that each skull had jewels in its eye sockets. The skull on the top shelf had diamonds in its eyes. The skull on the second shelf, rubies. The third skull had emeralds.

Reves could feel his fingers begin to itch, but he also felt the young woman's eyes still on him, so he forced his gaze back to the countenance of his veiled hostess.

"I'm Reves," he offered. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"Not at all, Reves," came the woman's voice from behind the veil. She waved a hand dismissively in a slow, drifting way, her fingers fluttering like kelp submerged in water. It was perhaps one of the strangest gestures Reves had ever seen.

"If you need anything, let me know," continued the woman, apparently unaware of Reves's thoughts. "Would you like something to drink? Flin, perhaps?"

Reves licked his lips, realizing how thirsty he was. Eating ash and drinking wind tended to make one thirsty. "That would be wonderful, thank you," Reves said, inwardly wincing at his polite words. Since when did Reves the rogue have to mind his manners around anyone? He supposed he was still a little unnerved by the woman's appearance. Did fangs lie behind that veil, a bloodthirst lurking within that delicate, torpid manner?

The woman rose from her seat in one motion, her silk skirt rippling, giving the appearance of a waterfall of blood cascading down her hips. She made her way gracefully around the other side of the rocking chair. She grabbed a small table that had been leaning against the wall, and dragged it over into the middle of the room. Then she opened a shelf that was built into the cave wall (Reves could see it was of the same amateur workmanship of the front door) and retrieved a silver flask and two goblets. With her back turned to him, Reves could not see what else she was doing, but this concerned him little as his nimble fingers fished the jewels from the eye sockets of the skulls and dropped them into his pocket.

The woman returned and set a tray on the table. Reve's eyes fastened on the limeware tray and matching goblets. Why was a woman of such apparent wealth living in a cave in the Ashlands?

"Here you are," said the young woman, handing him a goblet full near to brimming with whiskey. Reves sniffed it surreptitiously, and then took a sip. It was real flin, imported from Cyrodil. The same question voiced itself again in his head.

"I'm sorry, I just realized. You never gave me your name, did you?" he asked instead.

"Hmmm," noised the woman, her eyes gone half-mast. She seemed drowsy and bored. "You may call me Charity."

Then she lifted her goblet from the table. Reves watched intently as she slipped the goblet beneath her veil and closed her eyes, apparently drinking. He felt a throb of annoyance. What was she hiding? When she replaced the goblet on the tray, it was empty.

As Reves's hostess, Charity appeared to have no interest in making conversation. She had resumed lazing in her chair with all the indifferent self-assurance of a jaguar stretched across a branch. She seemed content to study Reves, which irritated him because it made him uncomfortable.

Reves gritted his teeth, and then took a sip of whiskey to conceal it. "I have to ask," he said, wiping his lips. "Why live in a cave?"

"To avoid property taxes, of course," the woman called Charity yawned.

Reves hesitated, and then chuckled. "Of course," he repeated.

The conversation ended there. Reves let his eyes wander around the room, taking in the luxury. There was a book on the shelf with a gilded spine. He could sell it.

"Now that I've quenched my thirst," Reves said, thinking quickly. "I notice how hungry I am. I don't suppose you have anything to eat?"

"Of course," said Charity, standing from her chair once again and leaving the room through a door Reves had failed to notice before. He caught a glimpse of another torchlit hallway before her skirt whispered over the threshold and the door shut. Reves waited a moment, listening to her receding footfall, then sprang into action. He took the book and slipped into his bag. Looking around, he found silk napkins, silver spoons, and a matching set of jeweled cups. He took all of these things, and as an afterthought, even stripped one of the odd inkblot tapestries from the wall. He was back in his seat by the time Charity returned with a plate bearing flat cakes of a kind Reves had never seen before.

"I hope this will do," said Charity, handing him the plate and a knife and fork. Reves said nothing, but took an experimental bite. The cakes had an odd texture; they were gelatinous on the inside and dry and coarse on the outside. Reves swallowed a mouthful of crumbs and forced a smile. "Good," he said, quickly grabbing his goblet and washing down the cake.

Throughout the evening, Charity said little, and even then only because Reves asked her questions. In an attempt to charm her, he asked if she was married, with a smile he had practiced on women before, with some degree of success. The results were confusing; he only wished he could see the rest of her face. Trying a different tact, he told a joke about the offspring that resulted from the pairing of a kagouti and a guar, with equally ambiguous results. The only thing Charity seemed interested in was supplying Reves with more whiskey; no sooner than the goblet left his lips was she filling it again. This didn't strike him as strange- he supposed she was lonely, holed up in her splendid little cave. That may also explain her behavior. Her social skills had obviously gone to pot during her time in isolation.

After finishing a story about a fisherman who'd been kidnapped by Dreugh, Reves yawned, wondering how much time had passed. Surely the woman had to go to bed sometime. Then he would take the chance to go through the remainder of her valuables. He had run out of jokes to tell; now there was only silence. He wondered if he was on his fifth goblet of flin, or his ninth.

"You'll be wanting to go to bed now," Charity's voice cut through Reves's half-drunken haze.

"Yes," said Reves, surprising himself. He'd only just now noticed how exhausted he was.

"I'll show you to your room," Charity said, standing and then stooping to pick up the tray. Reves gazed pensively at the exposed flesh between the hem of her linen shirt and the base of her neck. When Charity had put the flin and goblets away, she led Reves (who was feeling strangely compliant) through the door and down a dark, winding tunnel.

They seemed to walk forever. Reves drowsily noted a subterranean waterfall feeding a small basin as they passed by it, connecting it to the sound he'd been hearing in Charity's sitting room. Finally, they took a turn and entered a bedroom that was as comfortable and welcoming as the sitting room had been. A canopy bed was the centerpiece of the room, which was lit by a candelabrum with shivering blue flames. Beside the bed was a nightstand with a bottle of wine and twin silver goblets standing on it.

"Here," said Charity, walking up to the bed and pulling the curtains aside. "Get in."

Reves obediently shuffled over and staggered into the bed. His limbs felt very heavy, as though he were underwater. He felt cool sheets slide over his body, and with some difficulty, turned over.

"Wait," he said, flinging an arm out and catching ahold of Charity's red veil. "Your face... I want to see..."

"What lies beneath this veil is not for your eyes," the woman's cold, hollow voice seemed to come from very far above Reves's head. The last thing he saw was the veil coming free in his hand. Then a blue fog lowered over him, and all became dark.

Reves slept fitfully. He had this prevalent sense of urgency, as though there was something he had to get up to do before it was too late. But he simply could not will his limbs to move. His eyelids seemed to be glued shut. Several times throughout the night he heard things, things that later he could not recall, only that he had heard them. The times he managed to force his eyes open, he saw sights that could not possibly be real. Skeletons walking in and out of the room, carrying out menial tasks. Replacing the bottle of wine on the nightstand. Sweeping. Bringing things into the room and taking other things out.

He dreamt that he was in the Ashlands still, sitting in the middle of a vast desert. There was nothing but ash as far as the eye could see. No trama shrubs, no rocks. The sky above was red, and a cold wind caressed his face. A skeletal, clawed hand came from behind him and touched his thigh, and then it slithered away. "You bad, bad, boy..." said his mother's voice from somewhere above.

Reves opened his eyes, his vision swimming. He could still feel a cold breeze on his face, a breeze that blew and then withdrew rhythmically. His vision cleared somewhat and his first sight was of a mouth full of small, sharp teeth, inches away from his face. He tried to move or shout, but he was just too tired. His limbs felt heavy as lead. His mouth opened and closed noiselessly, but he could not feel his lips.

Something soft pressed against his chest. He was reminded again of his mother. "Go back to sleep," whispered a sibilant, resonant voice.

"M..." Reves managed.

"Sleep," repeated the voice, cold lips pressed to his ear. The blue fog descended once again.


Reves sat up and swung his fist into the air, shattering the image of pale eyes and rows of sharp teeth. His knuckles hit air. It took Reves a while to realize it had only been a dream. It took a while longer for him to notice that he was sitting in sand, feeling extremely cold. And there was sunlight beating down on him from above.

Reves tried to jump to his feet, but all he managed to do was topple over onto his side. He groaned. He had never felt this groggy before, not even after a night of heavy drinking. He could move, but it felt like there were weights strapped to his arms and legs. His head was throbbing.

Images from the night before swam into his head. The veiled woman sprawled in the chair, staring at him with emotionless white eyes. The swell of bare flesh above the linen wrappings, sallow and sickly appealing. The jewels glittering from the gaping eye sockets of grinning skulls. The skeleton servants. The mouth full of sharp teeth… Reves began to shiver.

What had she done to him? Reves wondered, sitting up very slowly, then carefully getting to his feet. Rage pounded in his head, keeping beat with the throbbing of his headache. She must have slipped something into his drink. Treacherous witch.

That's what she was, Reves decided. She was no vampire- the veil was meant only to conceal her obvious ugliness. She was just a creepy little witch, lonely, starved of male companionship. What had she done, anyway? He remembered the hand on his thigh, the soft pressure on his chest. The ice cold lips. He shivered yet again.

Reves shook himself violently, then snorted. What did he care if she copped a feel? He realized he had been deposited outside the cave with his bag. He picked it up and hefted it, feeling the weight. Ah, yes. The Dwemer artifact. Feeling considerably better-tempered, Reves strolled up to the cave and tried the door. It was locked, and no amount of pulling would open it. The woman must have replaced the lock in the night.

Once he was feeling strong enough, Reves slid his bag over his shoulder and began to walk. Now that the storm had cleared, it was easy to find a path that took him back to Ald Ruhn. He pushed thoughts of the night before from his mind and thought instead of the ill-begotten wealth he was carrying in his bag and pockets. He knew just who to sell to. A mer in his group of smugglers and thieves was a fastidious collector of anything rare and forbidden, and could no doubt be persuaded to fork over gold by the pound in order to get his hands on the artifact.

With thoughts of avarice taking up his attention, it seemed that no time at all had passed before Reves was in Ald Ruhn and stepping into the candlelit gloom of The Rat in the Pot. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim atmosphere of the tavern, and alighted on a squat little Bosmer sitting at a table, drinking sujamma. He wore clothes that were obviously incredibly expensive, though they were mismatched, revealing the mer's lack of style.

"Just the mer I want to see," Reves said jovially, making his way over to the Bosmer and sitting down with him.

"Reves," said the elf. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

"My good fortune is your good fortune, friend," Reves said, setting his bag on the table and opening it. The Bosmer's eyes had already filled with greed. "In my travels I happened upon this rare artifact..."

He pulled a kwama egg from the bag. The Bosmer's expression slowly changed from incredulous to amused.

"Ho ho ho," he laughed, splashing sujamma down his front. "A joke, I see. Very good!"

Reves sat, staring dully at the egg in his hand. Where had it come from? Why was it there? Slowly but surely, it dawned on him. He shot out of his chair and turned the bag upside down, showering the table with napkins, wooden spoons, metal bolts, a heavy, rusted pair of iron shackles, some scrap metal.

"Junk! All junk!" he cried, unable to believe his eyes. The squat Bosmer eyed Reves nervously.

"What's going on? Are you all right?"

"That... that... witch!" Reves sputtered. "She robbed me blind!" And had done a good job of it, too. Every item in the bag had been meticulously chosen to have the exact weight of what had previously been in his bag. He had nothing now. Nothing he had owned remained, none of his personal possessions, nothing he had stolen that day.

Frantically, he checked his pockets. Empty as well!

"You bad, bad boy..." The voice came, unbidden, into his head. He felt again the hand on his thigh. She'd searched his pockets while he had been asleep! Even his dagger was gone.

Furious, Reves roared and swept his arm across the table, flinging the assorted rubbish to the ground. The Bosmer started to his feet with a yelp, then scurried away. Every eye in the bar was on Reves. He seized the bag and shook it wildly, hoping without hope that a single gold coin would come out. Instead, a sheaf of parchment floated out of the bag and onto the table.

Reves snatched the piece of parchment, about to crumple it up and toss it aside, when he noticed crooked writing scrawled diagonally across it. His hands shook as he read the note.

Thank you kindly for the presents. They will do nicely as recompense, I think. While it was perfectly lovely having you as a guest, I'm afraid I will not be inviting you over for drinks anytime in the future.

Generously yours,

-Charity Abused

(Oh, and by the way. You'll want to see a healer as soon as possible. You've contracted Brown Rot, you bad, bad boy.)

Reves dropped the note, and became violently ill into his bag.