An ill wind blows through the heights of the city of Molag Mar, thick with the scent of ash and rot.  It sends the merchants and outlanders and commonfolk scurrying to their burrows within the waistworks, and leaves but a small assemblage to greet the arrival of the blessed Justiciar.  A casual observer might be forgiven for thinking it an odd entourage, in truth, for the welcome of such a personage.  The presence of the crimson-cloaked scion of House Redoran is certainly of no surprise; nor the trio of guards, in armor well-worn and serviceable and weapons casually close to hand.  Far less usual is the fifth individual, an Argonian stoop-shouldered and gray-scaled, clad in only a ragged loincloth and an iron bracer that glows dullish red with cursed magelight, and who the others present eye constantly with distrust.  And yet its presence at this meeting is perhaps not unexpected after all - for its actions are the very reason why all are gathered here.

Hearken, now.  The Justiciar approaches, striding confidently upwards from the promontory where the silt striders rest themselves.  Her features are ageless, shaped by the luminous red-black eyes and gentle swell of the lips that mark the truest blood of the Dunmer; her garb, though travel-stained, is of fine weave and adorned with the most intricate of embroidery.  The blade at her hip is worn with the easy grace of the experienced warrior, and the medallion of her office glistens from its proper place just below the hollow of her neck.  She accepts the obeisance of the freedmen present with an easy nod and wave of the hand; the Argonian must be goaded to do likewise with a none-too-gentle blow of a spear butt against its shin.

Nothing but silence and the howl of the wind then, for a moment, and then the Justiciar speaks.  "This is the accused?" she asks, indicating with one elegant eyebrow the Argonian, and the nearest of the guards offers a brief, almost curt nod in reply.

"Indeed, Lady Ordinator," confirms the Redoran youth, and if the Justiciar notices the subtle insolence he offers by choosing to address her by her temporal rank rather than by the higher honor of the office she holds and is present to exercise, she gives no sign.  The Tribunal, too, has its place.  "This is the slave you have been sent here to judge."

"I understand," she answers, her voice calm, still working through the forms.  The need for judgment will come later.  "And what is the crime?"  She knows the answer, of course, has known since before she left the Holy City.  But there remain to work through the forms.

What comes next is most certainly not in the forms.  Is expected by no one.  And shows that the need for judgment can sometimes come far sooner than anyone might suspect.

"I killed his father."  The words are a croak, coming from a throat that has long been unused, and through a mouth not suited to the cadence of civilized speech, but are understood by all present regardless.  "Carved a knife-blade from bone, waited and watched.  Then drew it 'cross his fat thr-uuuuh!"

"Silence, snake!" It is the leader of the guards, the one who forced the Argonian to its knees earlier; now he brings his fist back from a strike against the slave's belly, and upwards to cuff its pain-contorted face.  "We need no words from your filthy tongue!"

"Wait."  The Justiciar holds up a hand, something unreadable playing about her features.  "Let it speak."  She waits a moment, as the guardsmen master their scowls and step away from the groaning slave, and the Argonian masters its pain to look upwards once again.  "You confess to the deed?" the Justiciar asks, when reason has returned to the slit lizard-eyes and the forked tongue tastes the ashwind once more.  "At this time and place, before the authority of the Tribunal and Imperial Law?"

The Argonian's answer is accompanied by a dry, rasping laugh, more felt than heard.  "Should I remain silent, then?  I know what I did.  And what you will do to me for it.  It was worth it, mer."

The face of the Redoran scion is contorted with rage, the guards' knuckles pale where they grip their weapons, but the Justiciar ignores them all, her gaze intent on the slave at her feet.  "Why, then?" she asks, and the simplicity of the question hangs echoing upon the air.

"He called me fated to be a slave, and forced perversion upon me," comes the answer, "but I was never born to this station.  I was hatched in the warmland swamps of the south, and brought to these cursed lands only through the treachery of nest-kin.  And though you kill me for my crime, I will die knowing I was born free!"

"Traitorous slime!"  The Argonian is beaten into silence once more, and this time the Justiciar lets the blows fall, until the slave is tucked fetal and trembling, arms and tail wrapped close to protect its face and spine.  She is thinking, instead, her face drawn, and several long minutes pass before her eyes open fully once more and she turns to speak to those assembled, her voice solemn and pitched low.

"The duty of justice is clear," she begins, "for though the particulars of the crime were uncertain when first I left the Holy City, forcing the intervention of Imperial edict over what would otherwise be a simple matter of House law, the accused has since freely confessed to the deed.  And spoken, moreover, neither of madness nor remorse.  There is no need, therefore, to judge innocence or guilt.  Yet there remains the question of punishment."

A pause, then, on an indrawn breath, and the Justiciar speaks again.  "For your crimes, Argonian, you are banished from the kingdom of Morrowind, to depart from the lands under its dominion as quickly as you may.  Past sunset tonight, no law, no custom shall provide you with shield or right, for you are slave no longer, but exile and outlaw.  Owning nothing save what you carry, claiming aid and succor from no one."  A choked gasp arises from the Redoran youth as the Justiciar's words strike home, but she ignores it, pressing on with the particulars of her sentencing.  "Your shackles shall be removed, and none here shall bar your passage, but from this day forward you can trust only yourself while within the kingdom of Morrowind, and shall live or die as your own fate decrees."

"You can't do this!"  The Redoran scion has found his voice, and is apparently held in place only by indecision as to whose throat he should spring at first.  "That piece of scum murdered my father, bled him like a guar, and you're letting it go free!  It should die for this, it should die a dozen times over for this!"

The Justiciar's gaze is calm and unyielding as she responds to the Redoran youth's plea, her voice measured with the cadence of scripture.  "'If a slave has eyes, let it see, and remember.  And if it has a mouth, let it speak, and beg for succor.  And if it has breath in its lungs and blood in its heart, let it hope for freedom, and a better life.  Else they are but automata, and we but Dwemer who heed not the gods.'  You called me Ordinator when I came here, young Redoran, and you did not speak falsely.  Though I come here for justice, I remember the teachings of the Tribunal as well.  The Argonian cannot die for this crime."

"The Tribunal's teachings?  Pah!"  The Redoran youth's voice is twisted with hatred and contempt, barely remaining words rather than the pure rage of a beast or Daedra.  "Hide your milk-soft mercy behind whatever lies you like - that filthy piece of slave-scum deserves to die for what it did to my father.  If you won't kill it, then I will!"

"No!" It is the guards' leader who intervenes, his voice anxious but tinged incredibly with a hint of triumph.  "Stop and listen, young master, stop and think!"  The Redoran youth is pulled up short, blinking in shock, and the guardsman flips a contemptuous hand down to indicate the Argonian.  "Look at this creature, young master.  Look at what its future holds.

"It has nothing.  No coin, no weapon, no friends, no home.  No potions or scrolls or provisions, and no way to acquire any of them.  How many hundreds of miles lie between it and its southland kin?  How many days' travel through trackless wilderness, how many outlaws, how many cliff racers and alit and kagouti?  It is dead, a slow death that simply has not come yet, and fitting vengeance for the shade of your father.  And moreover," and with these last words the guardsman turns his head, to bestow a cold, cruel smile of approval upon the Justiciar, "the Imperial dogs cannot blame us for any of it."

The assembled personages go their separate ways then.  The guardsmen to their barracks, behind their eyes an emotion more ugly than satisfaction.  The Redoran scion to his family's chambers, behind his eyes something more vile then hatred.  And the Argonian to parts unknown, behind its eyes something more pitiful than hope.

And the Justiciar remains, for a measure of time, and behind her eyes is something more beautiful than faith.  For she alone realizes that the tale is not over.  May not, indeed, have properly begun.

One last time she quotes the scripture, her words but a whisper, though none save the ash-traced wind can hear.  "'For who can claim to say in truth, which of a man's breaths shall be his last?  Who among us born of mortals, can tie off the thread of the fate of another?  And who would claim to be a burden and curse, the priceless pearl of a second chance?'

"'The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.'"