I awoke with the morning bells, my skin still cool from the chapel stone. The Gods had spoken, and I resolved not to waste the momentum. First things first: presentation. To be remembered, you need to leave an impression, and my dusty clothes were just not cutting it.
These Mythic Dawn robes, while striking, had earned suspicious looks. I don’t think it’s fair to say that just because I am wearing the uniform of a domestic terrorist organisation means I necessarily support their goals—I could just be a provocateur making biting political commentary. Regardless, I headed into ‘Borba’s Goods and Stores’, run by one of my greatest rivals: an Orc. Sacre bleu!
The Money Ritual of Art
I heard whispers of a disappearance: Rythe Lythandas, a painter of renown, had vanished. The name hit me like a thrown brick. My truthseeker, Aelius Joranes, had spoken with authority that fashionable painters were being used as financial cut-outs for the Deep Imperial State, laundering gold through “art sales” to bankroll satanic Daedric death cults.
"They are dumping alchemical runoff into the marshes of Black Marsh. Potions. Enchantment residue. And what happens when you do that? They are turning the frogs gay."
– Aelius Joranes, Truthseeker
Whether Lythandas was a patsy or a pawn, I decided this was my moment. I headed to the scene of the crime, barging through the front door. I was greeted by his widow, a sobbing Dark Elf named Tivela. She claimed her husband had vanished from a locked studio. Magical sorcery, she said. Satanic rituals, I corrected (internally).
An Artist Who Refuses to Dream
The paintings on the walls provided troubling insight. Lythandas displayed a deeply conservative and insecure relationship with colour. Grass is always green, sky always blue. It describes reality without interpreting it. Tepid. This is art that refuses to dream.
I headed downstairs into his studio. Resting on an easel was a peculiar painting that I knew led to the ‘painted world’. I touched the canvas and was instantly standing in a strange forest of oils and unsettling depth.
Rythe appeared, alive but ashamed. He confessed that a thief had stolen the Brush of Truepaint—a relic of such creative power it allows the artist to enter his own work. He admitted he was a two-bit fraud aided by the Imperial Elite. A tale as old as time.
The Interrogation
The thief, a Bosmer (I should have known), had been torn in twain by painted trolls. I set off into the dreamlike woods, arms ready to cast balls of incandescent fire.
Fireball. A troll caught alight.
Fireball. The skin sloughed off in ashy sheets.
Fireball. Victory.
I secured the Brush and returned to Rythe. He opened a portal, and we spilled back into reality. After the heartwarming reunion with his wife, Rythe presented me with my prize: A fucking apron.
The Breadbasket Conspiracy
Rythe begged for my silence. I demanded answers instead. He admitted to meeting in secret to stand against the Emperor’s austerity measures. He mentioned a composer named Jesan who brought a breadbasket to their meeting.
Bread. Bread. My mind raced. The cabal operates from beneath a breadshop in the Imperial City. This was not an innocent gift; it was a signal. Never trust a musician.
I had everything I needed. I bid Rythe well and left, eager for word to spread of the helping hand lent by Ripeheart the Red. Keep this up and I’d be able to charge commission.