Vvardenfell, Ald'ruhn

Day 14 (Year 427 of the Third Age)

There's something deeply unsettling about a fortress built from the dead and manned by the doomed.

Ald'ruhn is the center of power of House Redoran, stoics who believe themselves to be the defenders of the good folk of Morrowind from corruption within and without. To the left, the massive fortress of Redoran looms. It is, I am told, the carapass of an improbably large crab-like creature known in myth as Skar. In essence, they have hunkered down inside the skeleton of a beast, anticipating a war at any time.

The other buildings imitate its organic style, leading to Morrowind's most distinctive style of architecture. As a city, it is striking on the rare days that the sky is clear. Normally choked by silt fromMorrowind's central volcano, the city's full glory was revealed by today's strong wind from the west. Within the hour, the wind is expected to weaken, and the storm to resume.

Redoran's politics are very much those of a house under siege. As stubborn nationalists with a militaristic tradition, they see enemies everywhere. In a way, they are right: at the time of my visit, a war is being waged in the shadows between religious conservatives and a hidden cult of heretics (sometimes called the Sixth House or HouseDagoth). But most who pledge to House Redoran believe in their threat whether it exists or not. Soon (chronologically, some months from now), the Sixth House will fall, and it won't have any effect on HouseRedoran.

This is because belief in a threat is often a more powerful force than the threat itself. After peace with the Empire and the destruction of the Sixth House,Redoran will remain vigilant, anticipating another attack "any day now." This vigilance, while commendable, has nothing to do with reality. Redoran will man the walls as long as it stands at a House, because it is certain that it will come under threat.

Here's a secret: they're right. In just seven years, this city will be totally destroyed.

Being a tourist on the New Periphery is sometimes disorienting because you not only hop between worlds, but back and forth in time within a world. And past visits to this world's future revealedAld'ruhn's doom to me. Daedra will swarm from another plane of existence to attack mortal holdings, and the great shell of Skar will be sundered. As someone free of the constraints of this world, I am also powerless to stop it. It has, in a sense, already happened.

Imagine being in Stalingrad (now Volgograd) in 1935, and knowing it would be the site of the costliest battle in human history (well over 1.5 million casualties, eight times the loss of life caused byWWII's atomic bombs). Imagine knowing you couldn't stop it. We are lucky, as humans, not to have the kind of foreknowledge. Because the lesson of HouseRedoran is this: given enough time, there will *always* be conflict. Perhaps not a war, and perhaps not within your lifetime, but some day.

I don't hold Redoran's surliness against them. Their duty is driven by enormous grief of knowing that war is coming. They know that, one day, they or theirdescendants will die defending this city. They know this as a matter of faith. If it weren't true, it would make them zealots. Knowing that it is true, it's difficult for me to see them as anything but tragic heroes.

Vvardenfell, Shrine Of Boethiah

Day 10 (Time: Year 427 of the Third Age)

One of the great pleasures of exploring a place is discovering unexpected surprises. It's as true on the new periphery as it is anywhere else. Even if you know you're not the first person to find something, there's still a moment where it is your discovery. The more obscure, the better: bragging rights go to those who really comb through a place for those little discoveries.

Which is why I'm about 50 feet underwater, off the Bitter Coast.

This is the shrine to the Daedric Lord Boethiah. Daedra are basically demonic entities, but like the legions of the Underworld, some Daedra are more civilized than others. The Daedric Lords, in particular, embody a variety of philosophies, ranging from the demonic to angelic. All have agendas among mortals, and happily assign tasks to those who would aid them. In fact, in true Dispater-fashion, Daedra pay awfully well.

Boethiah, however, has a problem. Neither truly good nor evil ("contentious" is the best word for him), his worship in Vvardenfell has suffered because his shrine sank below sea level in an earthquake. Without a vessel to communicate through, he can't get the word out to worshipers that he needs a new statue built: classic Catch-22.

On my first visit to the region, I certainly combed the landscape, and was thrilled when I discovered a shrine submerged off the coast. Its obscurity, concealed as it was by Morrowind's splendid ocean view, guaranteed that finding it was "special," a reward for thorough diligence. It sprang right to the top of my list of "favorite discoveries," and remains so today. Now, having hitched a ride from my digs in Balmora down to the coast, I hiked from a small town to the chain of islands that lead out away from the mainland. Sure enough, Boethiah's shrine can still be found at the end of that chain, trapped in a watery prison.

Let this be a lesson to would-be world builders: design with explorers in mind. Too often, people get all worked up over two or three "easter eggs" hidden in an otherwise unexciting world. The real world has surprised under every rock and behind every facade. Film makers understand this: you make the best set you can for the budget you have (even if parts of the set never get filmed) because every detail counts. This is even truer in world-building. Unlike a film, you can't control where your audience is going to end up. So fill every corner with detail and give every location depth. The more there is to find, the longer people will spend in your world, making it their own.

With my pilgrimage to Boethiah's shrine complete, I plan on enjoying Balmora's hospitality only a short while longer before making my way north, to the stronghold of House Redoran: Ald'ruhn.

Vvardenfell, Balmora

Day 8 (Time: Year 427 of the Third Age)

It's pretty easy to peg the trait that makes Balmora my favorite city in Morrowind: moderation. The other cities are places of extremes, but Balmora is a place of rational compromise. Here, realism prevails. It figures into the architecture, which is simple but efficient. The people are frank but open to debate. It was my base of operations on my last visit, and has lost none of its charm in the interval.

Balmora is nominally the center of power for House Hlaalu, the most powerful of the Great Houses. While other houses turn inward to chew off their own legs, Hlaalu has turned its gaze outward, and from Balmora it controls trade through the ports along the Bitter Coast, the southwestern edge of the island and that closest to the empire of Cyrodiil. Hlaalu rejects nationalism and racism to embrace trade and cultural exhange.

The good favor of the empire has brought Hlaalu considerable wealth, and none of its leadership actually resides in the city. Instead, they own private estates on some of the best land on the island. This has left the city in the hands of the common folk and a sizable body of foreigners. In fact, two of the most powerful leadership positions within city limits belong to foreigners, an unusual situation in the land of Dunmer.

This isn't to say that Balmora's a perfect place, mind you. Hlaalu has a reputation for underhanded tactics, and Balmora is home to a much-feared assassin's guild. In fact, crime in general is fairly prevalent in Balmora, the natural result of weak law enforcement and plenty of local wealth. Open violence is very rare, but theft is common (even expected). The drug trade is also unusually visible in Balmora as well. Skooma, a crystaline narcotic, is dealt openly by certain shopkeepers, and the town is home to a fair number of skooma addicts.

Still, there's something I prefer to a place that embraces its faults than a place that tries to conceal its problems. While a truly progressive environment is best, I prefer a place that is honest about itself. As in the old riddle, you can bet that the man who says "I always lie" and the man who says "I always tell the truth" are both liars, so I figure, best to go with the former.

Vvardenfell, Vivec

Day 6 (Time: Year 427 of the Third Age)

I dislike Vivec. Both of them.

The city of Vivec, the largest and most influential on the island, is presided over by an individual named Vivec, who is a living demigod. Vivec (the person) is a pompous tyrant who, though merely a man who has achieved immortality, feels his words carry deep metaphysical weight and feels he is beyond error or reproach. Vivec (the city) is a fascist municipality heavily patrolled by "Ordinators," religious police who dogmatically enforce Vivec's 'divine' will. This, all in all, makes for an unpleasant visiting experience.

To make matters worse, the city's layout is exceedingly inefficient. Basically, the entire civilian population is confined to a half-dozen or so massive bunkers (called cantons, visible on the left- and right-hand sides of the panorama) that sit in open water, making further expansion impossible. Perhaps there was a time that this 'multiple shopping malls' layout had its benefits, but the population of Vivec has since grown and led to a drastic shortage of living space. The poor use of space in these cantons (dedicating the much of the lowest levels to massive sewage systems where vermin and the restless dead multiply unchecked) doesn't help.

Because the cantons are separated by massive bridges, moving around the city is very time consuming. On the plus side, each canton is commercially self-sufficient. But this is wildly counterbalanced by a weak industrial capacity, bad trade design, and the impossibility of agriculture. The city depends on a constant flow of food that is easily disrupted by weather and banditry. To make matters worse, this sea-locked city inexplicably lacks a real harbor, requiring goods to travel into the city from mainland docks just outside the city. The result is that everything (from living space to food to equipment) is overpriced, and the citizenry are accustomed to isolating themselves from one another and living in a state of constant petty rivalry with their neighboring bunkers.

This rivalry is largely driven by the political conflict between the Great Houses of Morrowind. Vivec's political landscape is dominated by four houses: Hlaalu, Indoril, Redoran, and Telvani. Indoril, the most nationalist and most devoted to the gods of Morrowind, is a house in steep decline since Morrowind's annexation by an expansive human empire. Most of Vivec's Ordinators belong to the failing house and they teeter on the edge of frenzy, like cornered animals. The other houses have distanced themselves from Indoril and now vie amongst themselves for power. Redoran (stoic, pious, and hawkish) and Telvani (isolationist, conservative, and academic) both seem at a disadvantage compared to Hlaalu (cosmopolitan, mercantile, and pro-imperial).

Even if House Indoril and its religious police are in the twilight years of their political power, symbols of their abuses (and of Vivec's corruption) can be seen everywhere. At the forefront of the panorama is the entrance to Vivec's Temple Canton, beyond which lies Vivec's personal palace. Above the temple, a massive stone floats in the air, purportedly held aloft by Vivec's continual will. This is the Ministry of Truth. Unlike its 1984 analogue this "ministry" is dedicated to interrogation, intelligence gathering, and religious conversion. Nearly impossible to reach, this tiny moon symbolically watches over the city while acting as a high-security prison. Its prisoners, captured by Ordinators whose only check is the religious hierarchy, are held without trial, interrogated, and very likely tortured. Rumor has it that no prisoner has escaped and survived the fall. Likely, the little one can learn about the Ministry comes from Indoril defectors who have since pledged themselves to other houses, as the (very) select few who have been released are those who have converted (i.e. been brainwashed) into worshipers of Vivec.

Vivec proudly asserts that it is the most advanced and most powerful city in Vvardenfell, but it is riven by political strife, weakened by shoddy economics, strangled by incoherent urban planning, and haunted by the specters of its victims. Law both real and imaginary are enforced by savage and desperate zealots who will resort to anything to achieve their ends. The city's presiding power is a being who acknowledges no superiors and accepts few compromises.

Vivec is not a place I have enjoyed. I will be leaving as soon as possible, with a destination much more to my liking: Balmora.

To date, I've been traveling clockwise around Morrowind, through the mess of barren islands that is Zafirbel Bay, and then continuing around Azura's Coast. Though the fisherman whose ship I have chartered has been both helpful and affordable, none of the sites he directed me to struck me as particularly photo-worthy. We parted ways at Vivec's doorstep. Balmora promises to be considerably more to my liking, assuming it hasn't changed since my last visit.

Vvardenfell, Tel Vos

Day 1 (Time: Year 427 of the Third Age)

My last visit to the island of Morrowind was in 2002, when passage to it first became available. It was the height of summer, so my otherwise rigorous academic schedule was more or less empty, allowing me to fully devote myself to uncovering the island's secrets. I spent months exploring the expansive island, becoming familiar with its cities and landmarks, and amassing an impressive collection of local artifacts.

Like other tourists, I rode in steerage and landed, lacking any local currency, in the hole-in-the-wall port of Seyda Neen. It was built in a swamp, a town barely supported by the cottage industry of customs enforcement. Needless to say, the bureaucracy was not a cheery introduction to the locals, but I quickly found such tedium to be unusual on the island.

Eager to avoid revisiting that particular locale (and be subjected to another interrogation by port authorities), I scanned the coastline and settled on starting in the town of Tel Vos. Nominally under the control of the conservative House Telvani, Tel Vos is at once isolated and progressive. Disconnected from the main political stream, it achieves a comfortable balance between elements, a balance visible in its architecture. From there, I could skim the coastline to the south via charter ships before moving inland. I arrived discretely, and drew no unwanted attention.

To be honest, I didn't fully appreciate Tel Vos the first time I explored the island. The Telvani generally favor a gnarled, vertiginous structures, growing towers from the island's massive fungal "trees." The conservative elite rely heavily on magic, making many of their buildings impossible to explore properly without levitation. Needless to say, I found this approach inconvenient, as a tourist. One of the strengths of Tel Vos is that it combines the organic approach of the conservative Telvani with a more practical stone-and-mortar approach seen in cities like Balmora. The result is a very pleasant hybrid, at once accessible and imposing.

I selected a rooftop near the town's main gate to capture my panorama because it afforded a good view of the town's main street. While it doesn't offer a view of the docks (which lie on the other side of town), I think the town's strengths are clearly presented with this shot.

After a few days finding my feet, I hope to charter a boat to tour the eastern coast of the island, from Tel Vos all the way to Vivec.

Mission Statement

In my youth, I traveled a great deal. I have easily flown 750,000+ miles in my short life, mostly before becoming an adult. Now, the benefits of travel (novelty, cultural exposure, and the chance for exploration) turn out to have considerable costs. Plane tickets cost serious money. Hotels, too. Travel devours vacation time, something I earn much more slowly in my professional life than money.

But I remain a tourist.

Places exist that lie on no earthly map. My lifetime has seen the birth of an art form unavailable to any generation prior: world building. True, the written word has long had the power to describe, but words set down rails that guide the reader through the worlds they describe. Reading a novel comes about as close to "exploration" as being strapped into a ride at a theme park: you see only what the author lays in front of you.

World building, then, is not used here to mean the development of a rich and detail setting. Instead, it refers to the nuts and bolts of assembling tiny worlds that have no physical existence, and using an interface (such as a computer) to explore those worlds. I am a tourist in virtual worlds, whose existence, though pale shadows of reality in depth and breadth, nevertheless have lives of their own.

Recently, I discovered Autostitch, an elegant piece of software that combined the fields of vision algorithms and photo editing to create 360-degree panoramas. I realized that this software could allow me to convey more clearly the experience of immersion that I seek in my virtual tourism. By capturing these iconic scenes, and providing the commentary necessary to give them context, I could maintain a photographic travel log, revisiting the most striking places in my experience and explaining what makes them stand apart.

I want to share these worlds with you.