Beneath the ash skies of
Red Mountain
cliff racers ride the clouds;
the rats and orcs down below,
where hunger raids the
wooden huts of slaves
with magic cuffs. (I free them when I can).

There I am with my
silver claymore and heavy armor
rating sixty-six,
picking pearls in the
bottom of the Inner Sea,
walking water magically
like Jesus could have.

Ode to Morrowind, the mysterious
land where
magic spells and ghosts
prevail - small next to
the Red Mountain of evil.

Trading with V'Racil, I
realize how cheap is the meat
I killed and how valuable
a piece of armor worn by it.

I get lost and wild guars race
to sink their teeth in,
but fall dead as my hands
reach for a flaming axe.

In this land, I can, I can.
I breathe in water for two minutes,
I open doors with master lockpicks,
(trapped doors damage me,
but I have magic potions for cure).

I summon ancestral ghosts
and bonewalkers to fight
the undead and spread
poisonous balls of flame
with my bare hands. (I feel invincible now).

Sometimes I die when
I fight things unknown,
but I wake and I kill again.
I steal and sell and trade and gold
fills my pockets and doesn't weigh a thing.

Ghostfence around the
Red Mountain is alive with
angry ancestors of Dwemer beings and
I am afraid
that this will be my doom.

~Inspired by Morrowind~