Mournhold, god-city of Almalexia, Mother Morrowind, Dunmer god of Mercy-as-long-as-its-convenient-to-whim-and-wish, lies in the fertile fungal veldts of Morrowind’s Deeshan Plains. Like the cities of the god of Makes-Us-Women and the god of Nobody-Really-Cares-Untill-It’s-Too-Late, the Mourning Hold is a mirror of its god-ruler’s fancies and nature. It is a glorious city, beautiful and lush, thick verdant carpets of grass extend between stepped terraces and virile mushroom trees loom over clan houses, markets and many clear fountains. Time spent in Mournhold’s stacked patios and verandas banish the megrims of a life spent running. Decadent house-mer travel in layers upon layers of brightly colored robes, kin tassels glinting in the sun. Guar graze languidly about the gates, only bellowing when prodded by their Hlaalu masters. It is starkly different from the ash wastes of the north but no less dangerous. The city reflects its god, beautiful yet deadly. How quickly the moonstruck mother’s fancies turn! Not like mother Morwha’s chiding, inconsistent with morals, which even I have. How quickly, too, will her city destroy you. There is danger under every surface, Morag Tong assassins and depraved nobles, slave masters and unhinged Telvanni mad-mancers go about their debased businesses, some with impunity in the daylight. The only true crime here, heresy. There is an unsettling feeling of being watched. How does one steal under the nose of a walking god and sleep at night? How may an outlander evade the pervasive evil-eye of her brass-faced orphan elite? They cut an intimidating silhouette, arraigned as they are in brass armor with the balls to match. One croaked an ill omen as I passed him yesterday, “We’re watching you, scum.”