Fire magic shouldn't stink. Perhaps Martin Darkov smells the scent of daedra and death that started to faintly seep around them. That thought drives Martin Septim deeper into his delusion. "No, I can't! I have to warn them in person!" Some of the transports didn't check their netbooks often for his message to be heard.

With his hair a tangled mess, stubble growing coarsely on his face, Martin looked terrible, dazed in a manic panic so unlike him it was frightening to see. "Missing? Who said I was missing?" Try as he might, Martin can't remember just who this John is.