Hello everyone!

This is a story that I began years ago, and was originally published in part on the official Elderscrolls Forums. I figured it would find a better home here, and I would greatly appreciate your insights, comments, and advice.

Special thanks to Treydog, who has been my editor for this tale during it's sporadic (and still ongoing) updates!

So, without further ado.....

Stolen Destiny:
The Story of Stitch

Heroes can't be Thieves.

This is a universally accepted truth among most law-abiding folks. In order to become a good, upstanding person in society, one must obey the rules and follow the laws. Children are to mind their manners, stay in school, and share their toys. Nothing is taken; everything is payed for. Good morals will be followed, bad morals will be disregarded.

For this reason, the Heroes portrayed in history are those who are generally noble and virtuous: Knights, Crusaders, Legionnaires, and so on. A Thief embodies those values which are seen as morally wrong: selfishness, greed, and a disregard for civil law. Thieves are not heroes, but enemies, and should be regarded by history as such.

I have told these things to myself many times over the years. These ideas, these rules, are what kept me from telling the story I am about to tell. It was a decision I made on my own, influenced by nobody else. Just as a Thief is supposed to do, I selfishly stole and then guarded what I viewed to be my possession.

But as the years go by and I start to reach the age where life takes away from me more than it gives, I realize that the possession was never mine to keep. It's a strange thing for a Thief to say, but some things must be shared with others. The thing I am referring to in this case, is history. Not the history that is read in the schools and libraries of today; the history I speak of is the True History, the history I stole from the people to protect myself and my way of life.

In the year 3E 427, history records the start of the journey taken by Balen Andrano, a Dunmer faithful of the Tribunal Temple who would eventually be acknowledged as the Nerevarine and change the world forever. That history is the wrong history, and with the next few strokes of my quill I will give back the Truth I stole in that same year:

Balen Andrano is not the Nerevarine. I am.

CHAPTER 1

The year 3E 403, outside of Balmora, Vvardenfell....

The rain was steady this night; not too hard, not too soft. Except for the quiet sound of the raindrops on the window and roof, it was completely still in the tiny home situated a few miles north of Balmora. The two Khajiits who occupied the home slept peacefully, the husband's arms around his wife's waist.

A loud, almost deafening knock woke them both up instantly. Fighting off the haze of sleep, the husband got out of bed, his wife attempting to follow.

"No," he said to her in Ta'Agra, their native language. "Go back to bed. I will see who it is." With a dreamy nod, the wife rested her head back on the pillow and fell fast asleep once more.

The male Khajiit walked to the door slowly, still shaking off his fatigue. Three more loud knocks impatiently prodded him forward.

"Patience! Dro'zhar is coming!" the Khajiit yelled, this time in the Imperial tongue. By the time he reached the door, the knocking had subsided. When he opened it, there was not a soul in sight. Dro'zhar eyed the entryway confusingly.

"Hello! Is anybody here?" the Khajiit yelled out in an annoyed tone. When a few moments passed with no answer, he stepped out onto the doorstep to better view the surrounding countryside. When he did so, his furry foot hit a round object, and suddenly the silence was broken by a baby's cry.

The Khajiit's ears extended upward in surprise. "What is this?" he muttered to himself, looking down at the source of the noise. The source turned out to be a straw basket, with a Breton baby inside who was now crying, his sleep undoubtedly disturbed by the Khajiit's foot.

"What is the problem? Why is my husband not back in bed?" the Khajiit's wife said a moment later, having snuck up on him from behind. Dro'zhar looked at his wife, annoyance in his voice now replaced by shock and confusion.

"It's a child. A Breton child. Look's like a boy," he answered, both of them now kneeling next to the basket for a closer look.

"Yes, it is," Dro'zhar's wife said a moment later. "Where is the mother?"

"Nobody was here, Kizza," Dro'zhar said to his wife. "The mother must have abandoned the child on our doorstep and left."

"Is there a note in the basket?" Kizza asked rhetorically. She searched the contents of the basket, careful not to poke the crying baby boy. After a quick inspection revealed nothing, she sighed. "No. Nothing but the boy."

"What should we do with it?" Dro'zhar inquired.

After a moment of reflection, Kizza answered, "What else is there to do? We must keep it and raise it as our own." Dro'zhar frowned.

"Raise the child? That is no small task," he reflected. "But my wife is right. There is nothing else we can do." With both Khajiits in agreement, they picked up the basket and brought it inside the house, away from the rain.


The year 3E 408, in the backyard of the Khajiits' home....


"But Mama, it's too high!" the 5-year old Breton yelled from the top of the tree, fear evident in his voice.

Kizza responded with the authority of a teacher to her student. "You will jump down from that tree or you will sleep there tonight. It is your choice, Tobias."

"But Mama! I'll hurt myself again!" the child protested, tears beginning to form in his eyes. The distance from the top of the tree to the field below him seemed a thousand miles away.

"You can not let your fear control you," she said, more soothingly this time. "You are not a Khajiit, but with much practice and training you will move as silently and gracefully as one. But you must be willing to try."

The child choked back the tears and nodded his head. "Ok, Mama. I'll try." The boy counted to three, and then jumped down from the top of the tree.

On the way down, a branch made a deep cut in the boy's leg, forcing him to wince in pain and break the concentration of his decent. He landed on his stomach and the world bounced for what seemed like eternity. When it settled back to its normal position, the young Breton boy sat up and cradled his knee, crying in pain. Kizza ran over to her adopted son, hugging him with one hand and holding his knee with the other as she inspected the wound.

"This cut is deep," she said, a mother's concern in her voice. She looked in her son's eyes and calmed him down. After the sobs subsided, Kizza smiled as a thought came to her mind. Confusion took the place of the child's pain, curiosity getting the better of his tears.

"Mama? Why are you smiling?" the child questioned. Kizza laughed to herself, still looking into her son's eyes.

"If you keep getting wounds like this, your mother will have to call you "Stitch." She laughed to herself again, and the child smiled.

"I like that nickname," the boy sniffed.

"Oh, do you? Then we must make it stick," she resolved, standing up. "Climb back up the tree, my little Stitch. We have more training to do."

The year 3E 415, inside the Khajiit's home....

"No! Still too fast!" Dro'zhar said. "Stitch must learn to slow down his movements. His steps must be softer than a feather, yet quick as the sands of Elsweyr! Noise is the enemy; silence, the friend," the Khajiit instructed. "Do it again."

"Father, I can't! I don't have feet like yours!" the 12-year old Breton complained. They had been practicing the proper technique of sneaking for several hours now, and the boy was tired.

The father just smiled. "Ah, but my Stitch can! Remember when he said he couldn't jump from the backyard tree?"

"But it took forever to do!" the child shot back.

Dro'zhar continued to smile. "But now he lands with the grace of a Khajiiti acrobat! It takes time, son. More time than a Khajiit child, true. But when the technique is mastered, it is never forgotten!" After a brief pause, Stitch's father continued. "It is this one's job to teach; it is your job to master. So, we will continue now."

Stitch nodded to his father, inspired by the Khajiit's words and determined to finish the task. "Yes, Father. Let's continue."


The year 3E 420, on the road north of Balmora....


Smoke in the distance. It looks like it’s coming from...no, it couldn't be. It must be somewhere else. Has to be somewhere else.

Running, sprinting, gasping for breath. Just a little bit closer now. Have to keep moving.

Almost there. Can't stop running. Must make sure.....oh no.

No. No, it..."MOM! DAD!"

The flames engulfed everything he knew...the house, the yard, the tree he used to jump from...all of it in flames.

"MOM! DAD!" Still no answer. He heard nothing from inside. They must have gotten out. Had to have gotten out. He had to go and check....

"MOM! DAD!" he sprinted towards the burning building. Still no answer. He had to save them. They couldn't be...

"Hey! What the hell are you doing? Don't go there, kid!" An Imperial guard was running after him. "Stop! Don't go in there!"

The guard caught up to him and tackled him to the ground. "Kid, are you crazy? You'll die if you go in there!"

Stitch tried to fight the guard off. "Get off me! I need to see if they're in there! I have to..."

"You have to calm down, kid! You'll get yourself killed if you run into that fire!" the guard interjected. He held the 17-year old Breton down with ease.

"Get off me! Get off me!" Stitch yelled, still trying to squirm free.

"Wake up! Wake up!" the guard told him. "STITCH, WAKE UP!"


The year 3E 427, at a house in Balmora....


"Stitch! WAKE! UP!" I heard the voice of a Khajiit yelling into my ear.

"Argh...Ra'veer? What are you doing here?" I asked him, still half-asleep.

"The same thing I do every damn morning. Waking you up!" he responded.

I sat up straight in my bed and proceeded to rub my eyes. "Hmm...I thought for sure that new lock I put on the front door would keep you out of here."

"What, are you serious? I could have picked that thing with a scrib's leg." Ra'veer was always one for jokes. "Now get out of bed and get dressed. There's business to be done and drinks to be drunk. Not necessarily in that order."

I pulled the covers off myself and sat on the edge of the bed. "Did I mutter anything in my sleep this time?"

"No, but you were squirming worse than a constipated guar. Another bad dream?"

"It didn't start out that way. But it ended that way, yeah."

"Well, it's nothing a nice bottle of Flin can't fix. Hurry up before I lock you in your own room," the Khajiit challenged.

"Lock the Master Thief in his own room? How do you figure you'd do that?" I asked.

"By tying you to the bed and locking the door. A bit brutal, perhaps, but it will get the job done." We both shared a good laugh.

"Alright, give me a few minutes and I'll be ready," I told him.

As I stood up and walked over to my dresser, I couldn't shake the dream from my head. Most people saw their lives flash before them right before they died; I had been seeing mine flash before me in my dreams. It seems that even after all these years, I still wasn't completely over what had happened. My parents had burned to death in that fire. A fire that was no accident...

I shook the thought from my head and pulled out a brown, hooded robe. I put it on and then sank my feet into some leather boots. After that was finished, I walked over to my closet and opened a chest that contained my Daedric shortsword, which I strapped to my side. I had stolen the sword from a Redoran nobleman three years earlier, and though I rarely ever needed to use it I never left home without it. You never knew when the Camonna Tong would try something nasty, after all.

After I had finished getting ready, Ra'veer and I walked out of my home and towards the South Wall bar across the Odai River. It was early in the morning and the sun was just beginning to rise. It was a bit chilly outside, but the Hlaalu guards were still sweating in their heavy Bonemold armor. They grunted as we walked past, but didn't say a word. It was just as well; thieves and guards don't mix, and it wasn't hard to point out who was who.

I looked at Ra'veer and thought of the past, of the good past. We had practically grown up together; our parents were great friends and Ra'veer was always over at our house when we were younger. When my parents sent me to the Imperial school in Caldera, Ra'veer had insisted to his parents that he go, as well--and after many days of constant arguing, they relented. The Imperial tutoring we had both received explained why Ra'veer, unlike most Khajiits, could speak in the first-person; our parents, however, were all natives of Elsweyr and so only talked in the third-person, as was common among Khajiits. It was unusual to the innocent bystander to hear a Khajiit using the word "I," but to us it was just another sign of our strong bond of friendship.

We arrived at the South Wall in a few short minutes and immediately went downstairs to the bar. We were greeted on the way down by Solitude and Sugar-Lips Habasi, Guild members and friends to us. Sitting ourselves down at the bar, we were each served a drink---Flin for me, Cyrodillic Brandy for Ra'veer---and we began to laugh and joke around as we always did every morning. It looked to be another normal day, business as usual.

It stopped looking that way halfway through our first drinks. We heard Solitude's voice from upstairs; she was clearly yelling so that we would hear her. Fearing the worst, both of us dropped our drinks and ran upstairs, hands on our weapons, ready to draw them if need be.

When we got up the steps, we saw Solitude arguing with two Imperial Guards, likely from Fort Moonmoth. They were speaking softly to her while she was protesting loudly. As soon as they saw Ra'veer and me, however, they stopped their conversation and looked at us. Solitude gave me a look of fear, and I knew the subject of the conversation.

"Tobias "Stitch" Do'bara," one of the Imperials began, "You are to come with us to Fort Moonmoth immediately. If you do not come peacefully, we will resort to using force."

*

This bit of foreshadowing is my favorite line in the chapter:



Really catches the attention! Whew! Some powerful scenes and (I assume memories) in this first chapter! Great Write !!!

Well, this is a bit unusual twist on the usual Morrowind beginning. I'm not familiar with the game, but I've read enough MW fiction to recognize the Nerevarine and to know that this isn't the arrival on the ship that is the beginning of the game.

Another thing that jumped out at me is that our main character (Tobias/Stitch, correct?) is a Breton man who was raised by Khajiiti. That's a welcome change from the recent Bosmer invasion on these forums. Erm, no offense meant, Teresa, Buffy, Derelas, Talendor, Syl, and any other Bosmer I might have missed. You are all enjoyable, but there's other folks in this Nirn too, and it's nice to hear from them once in a while!

I also liked how the story flowed through the MC's childhood in a smooth manner reminiscent of - well - reminiscing. It didn't feel hurried or rough or choppy at all.

I hope you continue this story to its conclusion. I'll like to see more.

There is only one nit from me: I believe you meant paid.

I didn't notice any other glaring nits. Well done!

A hearty welcome to a new story!

An excellent prologue that set the stage.

You then provided us Stich's youth via several detailed and intimate active scenes. That was a wonderfully effective way of 'showing' us the key elements of his background and everything we need to know at this point.

And finally, it may be off to jail?

'The Khajiit's ears extended upward in surprise '
This was delightful! I love how Khajiit can tell you what they're thinking by their ears.

@mALX: Thank you for the kind words. I really enjoyed writing the Foreword and wanted to make it as engaging to the reader as possible. I am glad I succeeded.

@haute: Good catch! I'll fix that little nit right away. As for the beginning of the story and how it differs from the game, I really sought to "break from the pack," as it were. Stitch's story will follow the Main Quest to a point, but it is still HIS story, and needs to be told in its own way. Thank you for the praise, and I will definitely tell this story to its conclusion!

@Acadian: Khajiit are my favorite race in the games, and I too love how their mannerisms can tell so much about them even in the absence of words.


This next part will conclude Chapter 1. Enjoy!
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The fact that the Imperial knew my real name was disturbing to me, but I did not show it. I responded in a calm tone.

"On what charges am I being held? I've done nothing wrong." I was lying, of course; it was no secret I was a thief. However, I had no bounty on my head and I knew the guards understood this, as well.

"There are no charges. None yet, anyway. We have orders from Emperor Uriel Septim VII himself to bring you to Fort Moonmoth. For what reason, I don't know. But if you do not come, then I am required to charge you with this list of infractions," he said, handing me a scroll. I unrolled the parchment and read the charges. Somebody had clearly done their homework, because I was staring at an exhaustive list of virtually every crime I had committed over the past seven years. It was well more than enough to warrant the death penalty ten times over.

I re-rolled the parchment and handed it back to the guard. "Very well, I will come." I turned to Ra'veer and quickly whispered, "If I do not come back, you know what to do." He nodded his understanding and with that, I was escorted out of the South Wall by the two Imperial guards and over to nearby Fort Moonmoth.

I was surprisingly not led into the jail area, but rather to the bunk area where the guards slept. I was told to stand and wait there for further instructions...instructions that would apparently be given by somebody else, because the two guards who had escorted me promptly left. After a moment, however, a familiar figure emerged from beyond a bunk and spoke.

"Good Morning, Stitch." It was Larrius Varro, Captain of the Imperial Guard at Fort Moonmoth. He was a tall, muscular Imperial, whose visage would be appropriate on any Legion recruiting poster. Needless to say, we were not friends.

"We'll see how good of a morning it is, Varro," I snapped back. "Why am I here? What's this about the Emperor wanting to speak to me?"

The Imperial Officer chuckled a bit and then spoke with a smile. "The Emperor does not wish to speak with you, no. He wishes for you to speak to me. He thought it'd be more...productive if you were brought here, that's all."

"Well, I'm here and we're speaking. Get to the point," I growled. I was uncomfortable in an Imperial fort and even more uncomfortable being confronted with a warrant the size of the Pocket Guide.

"Please try to control your temper. I promise you neither I nor the Emperor wants to charge you with any crimes. It was just the only way we could guarantee you'd do what we ask of you."

"Blackmail, huh? I expected better from the Legion," I said sarcastically. “Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You have been known to engage in certain “extralegal” activities before, have you not? Or have you simply forgotten our last encounter from years ago?”

For a brief moment, I could see Varro’s face turn slightly pale, his head slightly flinch as if someone had swung their fist to strike him and then recoiled at the last second before impact. The change was brief, so brief that most would have missed it. But I was expecting such a reaction--indeed, it was my goal to elicit it--and so it did not go unnoticed by me.

When Varro spoke again, however, he did not mention the past encounter between us I had alluded to, choosing instead to focus on our present business. "The Emperor wants you to report to a man named Caius Cosades in Balmora. You are to give him this package and follow his instructions," he told me, handing me a package as he did so.

Upon hearing this, I looked at the Imperial in disbelief. "That old skooma addict? Why the hell does the Emperor want me to talk to him?"

"You'll find out when you get there. I'm not entirely sure myself. I'm just telling you what the Emperor told me."

"And let me guess: if I refuse to do this, I'll get charged with all those crimes you wrote down on that nice golden parchment?" I asked, still fuming at the ridiculousness of it all.

"Precisely. But again, we'd rather like to avoid that if possible," the Imperial said in a casual tone.

I looked at the package and then looked back up at Varro. I considered agreeing to do the task, and then going into hiding...but if they had managed to compile a list of charges that long, then there'd no doubt be a massive manhunt across the island and a death warrant with my name on it. And as much as I believed I could stay alive, I didn't relish the thought of a life of solitude. In short, I had no choice but to accept.

"Fine. I'll do as you've asked. But you can tell the Emperor I think he’s a big, fat, foul-smelling piece of guar sh..."

"Yes, I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear that," Varro interrupted. Our business done, he walked away and a few moments later the two guards from earlier returned.

"You're free to go," they told me. "Would you like an escort off the fort?"

"No, I've had enough escorting for one lifetime. I'll go on my own," I snapped. They nodded impassively and walked away.

I walked back to Balmora as quickly as I could, thoughts racing through my head faster than I could process them. Why is this happening? What does Cosades have to do with all of this? How does the Emperor know who I am, and why does he want me to do this? All these thoughts and more ran through my head when suddenly, as if by my feet's own volition, I found myself at the door of Caius Cosades's house in Balmora. I lingered at the door for a moment, wondering what awaited me inside and what was about to happen. I considered for one last time going into hiding, and then with a great sigh I walked into the house.

And with that first step into Cosades's house, I set my feet on a path that would change the course of history forever.

So Stitch got blackmailed into ultimately becoming the Nerevarine? Somehow that doesn't surprise me. A lifelong thief doesn't just suddenly go all noble on us and decide to save Nirn for the sake of some Emperor. But coercion is much more effective.

I applaud your decision to "break from the pack." I think in writing a thief character it's a wise one.

I didn't see any nits on this readthrough this time.

This seems like an interesting story. I've never played Morrowind so all of it is new to me.

Nicely done. This whole episode was about setting up this conclusion:
'In short, I had no choice but to accept.'
I think you did a great job in setting the stage, both accounting for and removing options until Stitch's conclusion above seemed a very true and believable statement.

Like your other readers, I too am an Oblvioner. What I know of Morrowind will not quite fill a thimble.

The little slips of foreshadowing once again reveal your own personal twists to the questlines and how creative your imagination is. I foresee a very interesting slant brought to this !! Great Write !!

I really enjoy the snippets from his childhood (will except for the deaths of his parents- but even that is done quite well). And the way you manage to flow from present to remembrances of or references to the past is quite pleasing. It gives the story the feel of a memoir, almost spoken rather than written, complete with side-trips.

Also welcome is the decision to change the way in which Stitch is "recruited."

Finally- I am thrilled to see you posting this story here- welcome to Chorrol!

Stitch has a distinctive voice already, and I like it. Looking forward to more.

@haute: Glad to see no nits in that last one. While I wouldn't consider myself a "grammar Nazi," I do place a high importance on proper grammar and spelling. I comb through every portion looking for mistakes before I send it off, so it kind of irks me when some slip through. Hopefully this portion will be nit-free, as well!

@King Coin and Acadian: Thank you both for the kind words and support. I realize that Morrowind (and it's expansions) are now considered "old" games, and it is my goal with this story to make it accessible and enjoyable to everyone. Those who have played Morrowind will no doubt pick up on some things you "Oblivioners" will not, but it is my hope that even those who have not played the game will still find the story engrossing. I am glad to hear that, so far at least, I have succeeded.

@mALX: Wow, thank you! I don't really have anything else to say, except that I hope you enjoy the next part of the story.

@treydog: The master speaks! Thanks for the welcome to Chorrol, as well as for the praise and for your continued assistance as I write this. It all definitely motivates me to continue writing, even when Real Life does it's best to delay that.

@Grits: Sometimes, I feel like less of a writer and more like a stenographer. Stitch speaks to me, I just provide the dictation.


Well everyone, the beginning of Chapter 2 is here! Enjoy!

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The house I entered was typical of the dens of most skooma addicts: small, dirty, and a skooma pipe within easy reach. The man that stood inside the home was a shirtless Imperial who spoke meekly when I entered.

"What do you want? I'm just an old man with a skooma problem."

The man's response, coupled with the dismal condition of the home, did little to convince me this wasn't some sort of trick orchestrated by the Imperial Legion. The fact that the Emperor had ordered me to speak to this man and give him a package was so ridiculous that I was starting to wonder if I was the one on skooma. Nevertheless, I complied with the orders Varro had given me; if nothing else than to be done with it all as quickly as possible.

"I've got a package for you. From the Emperor, apparently," I said with no small hint of disgust in my voice. "I was ordered to give you the package and await further instructions."

The old man raised an eyebrow and spoke with suspicion in his voice. "So, you say you've been told to report to me and deliver a package?"

"I don't think I stuttered. Here it is," I said with great annoyance, handing him the package as I did so.

Caius Cosades took the package hesitantly and, after a moment of consideration, opened it. After viewing the contents of the package, he spoke to me again, this time with the tone and authority of an Imperial Officer.

"Yes. Very interesting. So. It says here the Emperor wants me to make you a Novice in the Blades. And that means you'll be following my orders. Are you ready to follow my orders?"

The combination of his words coupled with the abrupt change in the old man’s demeanor made my jaw drop to the floor. It took a few moments for me to regain my composure and respond.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right. Did you just say the Emperor wants you to make me a Novice in the Blades? As in, I'm supposed to be a spy for the Emperor?"

"I don't think I stuttered," he replied. The irony in his response did not go unnoticed.

"There's got to be some mistake here. I'm not cut out for government work," I said, shaking my head in complete disbelief.

"No mistake. It says, 'The man who is to deliver this package to you, known as ‘Stitch’ amongst his friends and associates, is to be inducted into the Blades as a Novice. Furthermore, he is to follow your orders and instructions.' Signed by the Emperor himself," he said, handing me the cover letter as proof. "See? No mistake. Now, are you ready to follow my orders or not?"

I read the cover letter at least five times over, looking for some sort of loophole or error that I could exploit. There was none. For better or for worse, I had to become a Blade and work for Caius Cosades. The other option was a trial and a death sentence.

"Fine, I'll follow your orders. But I'll detest every minute of it."

"I'm sure you will," Cosades replied. Then he cleared his throat and spoke in a more business-like tone. "Good. First, as you already know, my name is Caius Cosades. I'm the Imperial Spymaster for Morrowind, and since I'm the ranking Blades agent in the province, you'll report to me. You follow my orders, and we'll get along fine." He paused for a moment and then continued. "Welcome to the service, Novice Stitch. Now you belong to the Blades. We're the Emperor's eyes and ears in the provinces. You can use my bed if you need to rest, but leave my personal stuff alone unless I say otherwise.” He added an extra bit of emphasis on that last part. “If you like, you can improve your skills with our Blades Trainers now. Or if you're in a hurry, I can give you orders right away. It's up to you."

The decision was an easy one for me; I was eager to finish this business and get back to my normal life. I was a Thief, not a spy, and the knowledge that I was now in the Emperor's service tore away at me like slaughterfish devouring a drowning kagouti.

"I'm ready now. What do I have to do?"

"Eager to serve the Emperor, I see," he said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Good. Normally, I'd tell you to get a cover story before accepting any assignments, but given the fact that you're a well-known Thief and are suspected of being the head of the Vvardenfell Thieves Guild, I don't think that will work. So, my best advice is to act like you normally do and appear to be doing business as usual."

"What, you mean DON'T act like I'm now an agent of the Empire? Who would have thought to do that?"

"Careful with that mouth. Don't forget you're taking orders from me now," he shot back. "Go talk to Hasphat Antabolis at the Balmora Fighters Guild. Ask him what he knows about the Nerevarine secret cult and the Sixth House secret cult. You'll have to do him a favor first. Probably an ugly favor. But do it. Then get the information from Antabolis and report back to me. Those are your orders. Dismissed." With that, he turned his back to me and continued to look at the contents of the package. Getting the hint, I left the house without saying anything further.

Even though it was implied that I was to start on my new assignment immediately, I instead began walking in the direction of the South Wall, rather than the direction of the Fighters Guild. The decision was partially out of a desire to rebel against the Emperor's wishes as much as possible, and partially to meet up with Ra'veer and explain the situation to him. I knew that revealing the fact that you were now a spy to someone was probably very much against spy protocol, but I knew that if anyone had the right to know about my current situation, it was Ra'veer.

I arrived at the South Wall a few minutes later and was greeted by many people asking many questions. I shrugged them off with as much charisma as I could muster.

"What, you all think an Imperial fort could hold ME? Honestly, don't you remember who you're talking to here?" This was met with much laughter from my interrogators.

"But Stitch, will they come back for you?" Sottilde asked, concern in her voice. I waved my hand dismissively.

"No, they won't come back. The situation has been taken care of. Nothing a few Septims couldn't solve."

"But how did they know Stitch's real name? Not even Habasi knew Stitch's real name," Sugar-Lips Habasi asked.

"Beats me. But does it really matter? Like I said, the situation has been taken care of. Nothing more to worry about," I assured her.

Satisfied with my response, the crowd of people dispersed and went back to drinking downstairs. Ra'veer, however, stayed behind.

"Not that I doubt your fine abilities of persuasion and bribery, but something tells me there is more to this than what you are saying," he said, his voice hushed to prevent any lingering bystanders from overhearing.

"And you'd be right. But we can't talk about it here. Let's get back to my place," I told him. He nodded his agreement.

"Let me at least grab a bottle of Brandy before we go," he said.

"Why? You know I've got some back at my house," I objected.

"I'm thirsty now. I haven't drunk anything since you were taken away by those Imperial pigs," he insisted.

"Missed me that much? I'm touched."

"Hah, you wish. I was pre-occupied with thinking about which of your things I was going to take once you were locked up."

"Never without a comeback, are you Ra'veer?"

"You don't exactly make it hard for me," he responded. We both chuckled.

"Alright then, hurry up and get your Brandy," I relented. He did so in under a minute, and soon after we set off for the safety and security of my home across the Odai.


Stitch's home, about an hour later...

Ra'veer leaned back in his chair across the living room table, his mind soaking in all that I had just told him.

"So, old Cosades turned out to be an Imperial Spy? Didn't see that one coming," Ra'veer reflected.

"Neither did I. He had a good cover. Guild members have been giving that man skooma for years. Never would have guessed he'd be what he is," I said.

"None of this makes sense though!" Ra'veer objected, slamming the legs of his chair back onto the floor and standing up. His lips were pulled back to reveal all of his sharp, white teeth; it was a snarl of disgust he reserved only for slave traders and the Camonna Tong. "Why the hell would the Emperor want you to be a spy? Why not arrest you if he cares so much about your criminal record?"

"He doesn't care about my criminal record. If he did, I'd be in a boat sailing for the Imperial City to stand trial for all the crimes I've committed," I noted. "He's got something else in mind for me. Something bigger than just making me a spy."

"A spy for what, though? He obviously doesn't want you to spy on the Guild. You're supposed to talk to Hasphat Antabolis about some secret cult or whatever. Why must you be the one to do that? Why not have someone else?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "But I suppose there's only one way to find out."

"You're not actually going to do this, are you?" the Khajiit protested.

"What other choice do I have? I don't do it, I get charged with 7 years' worth of crimes and sentenced to death. What other option is there?"

"Spit in that Spymaster's face and tell him to find someone else!" he offered.

"As satisfying as that would be, you know I can't do that, Ra'veer. I have to follow his orders. For now, at least."

"Yes, I know," Ra'veer said with a sigh. "But I don't like it. It smells of guar dung."

"I think you're right. But until I think of another way out of this, I have to play along with the Emperor's little game," I concluded.

I stood up and looked Ra'veer in the eye. "You're to tell nobody else about this. Understand?"

"Don't worry, your status as an Imperial Service spy and, by association, pig, is safe with me," he joked.

"I'm serious, Ra'veer. This stays between us."

"Yes, ok. I understand," he grunted in annoyance. "Now hurry up and do what the Spymaster says so that we can go back to the way things are supposed to be."

"Right, I agree. Think you can handle the Guild while I'm gone?" I asked.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've had to take over for awhile," he reminded me.

"True. Now, let's get out of here. I've got a job to complete."

Nodding to each other, we exited my home and parted ways; he towards the South Wall, and I towards the Balmora Fighters Guild.

"I don't think I stuttered," he replied. The irony in his response did not go unnoticed.

I love it!


"There's got to be some mistake here. I'm not cut out for government work," I said, shaking my head in complete disbelief.

Ha! Even better.

Stitch living in Balmora gives everything a new twist. The conversation between Stitch and Ra'veer definitely sounds like good friends hassling each other. I’ve never played Morrowind either, but I’m still keeping up.

I knew something was up with the old guy, but the Blades? Wow. Don't screw with them, they have cover that the thieves guild can't break.

I really like Ra'veer. Khajiit are my favorite! Good thing he grabbed some booze before this story. I really wonder if he'll be able to keep his mouth shut though.

Hello hello hello! We meet the infamous skooma-suckin' Spymaster, huh?

I enjoyed the dialogue between Stitch and Ra'veer. It had the bickering air of long-time buddies or even brothers. No male bonding necessary here - it already happened quite some time before this story even started.

I didn't see any nits in the story itself, but noticed one (repeated twice) in the comments. It's and its are terms that are difficult for many people to grasp. It's is contrary to the usual in that it is not a possessive form - that is its. It's is actually a contraction of it is. Just like your is the possessive of you, and you're is the contraction of you are. These are two words that break the rule for possessives with apostrophes.

And I hear you! I'm not a grammar Nazi myself, but it drives me to distraction to read stories that are riddled with grammatical errors and misspellings. I spare myself by not reading those. If the author can't be bothered to polish up their writing so that reading is effortless and the tale can be enjoyed, I'm not going to bother reading their stories. It's one thing (notice I said it's? ) for honest mistakes to be made. But when I keep seeing the same carelessness over and over in spite of constructive criticism, that just tells me that the writer has no respect for the critics who are trying to help, nor respect for the story s/he is trying to tell.

It's obvious to me that you really care about your story, considering that so far I've spotted two nits over three posts, and one of them wasn't even in the story itself! Normally I don't comment on the comments, but the whole it's/its and your/you're thing is one of the most common mistakes (simply because it's so hard to keep 'em straight!) I see in writing. As things stand with Stitch's story, it's been wonderful to read such well-written prose and enjoy the story without getting distracted by nit after nit. It's a great reflection on you as the writer.

'I was a Thief, not a spy, and the knowledge that I was now in the Emperor's service tore away at me like slaughterfish devouring a drowning kagouti.'
How very TES of you!

I enjoyed your dialogues. Both that between Caius Cosades and Stitch and also the banter with Ra'veer. Very natural, effective and with a nice touch of humor.

So Stitch is now on his reluctant way! At this point, your story is coming along nicely. You may want to consider reading some of the excellent fan fiction stories here in order to benefit from the style and technique of others, as well as to garner/maintain the support and readership of other writers.

I haven't played Morrowind yet, but from the fics I am assuming Caius Cosades is an interesting personality, lol. At least he always is in the fics !! ROFL !!!

Loved the easy dialogue between Stitch and Ra'veer, speaks of either good friends or long time acquaintence! Great Write !!!

@Grits: Thanks again for the kind words! That bit of dialogue between Caius and Stitch was very fun to write.

@King Coin: Indeed, the Blades are not to be taken lightly. Ra'veer is a very fun character to write -- he has an air of not taking life too seriously, yet he also understands the seriousness of life. Does that make sense? Probably not. The Khajiit have a saying: "q'zi no vano thzina ualizz," which means, "When I contradict myself, I am telling the truth." Take that for what you will.

@haute: Thank you very much for the compliments. I understand how difficult the "its/it's" thing can be, and take great pains to make sure I am using the correct form in my story. The comments I write just before posting the story, and I admit I do not give them the same thorough read-through as I do the story itself. Still, it is good to know that someone is looking out for my grammatical well-being!

@Acadian: I'm glad you enjoyed the dialogue. For me, writing dialogue is one of the more difficult things to do--I want the conversation to feel natural, and I want each character to have a distinctive "voice." I'm glad that, so far, I have achieved both of these things.

As far as other fanfics go, I am DEFINITELY reading many of the others! The problem is I am so far behind, as many of the stories already on here are quite long. That's certainly a good thing, of course, but limited time and "real life" often get in the way of my reading. When I am sufficienty caught up, I will definitely comment on other readers' stories -- I will say, though, that I have quite enjoyed the stories I have been reading so far. So many Bosmer! And yet, each one of them has a distinct voice.

@mALX: Caius is certainly an interesting personality, yes. I am hoping he will be just as interesting in my story as he is in the others!


And now, I present to you a little bit more of the Imperial Legion Swine known as Larrius Varro...

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Fort Moonmoth, Larrius Varro's quarters...


Larrius Varro's pen glided across the parchment, his handwriting mechanical and, at the same time, elegant. Paperwork was one of the less glorious tasks of an Imperial Officer, but one he had to stomach. Just as he was finishing the last paragraph of the document, three knocks upon his door broke the rhythm of his quill, and he looked up at the source of the noise in annoyance.

"Enter," he commanded. An Imperial guard opened the door and shut it behind him. It was one of the guards that had escorted Stitch earlier. "What do you want?" Varro demanded.

"Sir, I apologize for disturbing you at this time, but something has been pressing upon my mind," the guard responded.

"Out with it, then. I've no time for apologies," the Officer ordered.

"Yes, Sir. I was wondering, sir, why we did not arrest the Thief we brought here earlier? With such a large list of infractions against him, should he not have been immediately taken into custody, Sir?" the guard inquired.

"For any other Thief, yes," Varro said, his tone less demanding now. "But Stitch is a special case."

"Beg your pardon, Sir. I do not mean to question your authority, Sir, but may I be permitted to ask why he is a special case?" The guard was nervous, and it showed in his voice. Questioning your superiors, especially in such a direct manner, was career suicide in the Legion. Varro admired the guard's boldness in doing so, however, and decided against tearing the guard to pieces.

"At ease," the Officer said to the young man. The guard immediately relaxed his posture from rigid attention to a more comfortable stance. "You are new to the island, correct? Just transferred here a few weeks ago from Hammerfell?"

"Yes, Sir," the guard responded. "Served three years in that province before the Legion transferred me here, Sir."

"Right. Then you'd do well to learn a little history of the land you now currently occupy," Varro commented. He stood up from his chair and began pacing the room. "Seven years ago, a house burned down north of Balmora. That house contained two Khajiit members of the Vvardenfell Thieves Guild. These two Khajiits were Stitch's adopted parents."

"He was raised by Khajiits, Sir?" the guard asked in a surprised tone.

"Yes. Though we do not know the whole story, from what we've gathered he was left on the Khajiits' doorstep as a baby. They took him in and raised him as their own. They also trained him to move, sneak, and steal like a Khajiit, and he does it just as well, if not better, than anybody of that race. Would have made his parents proud if they were alive today," Varro noted.

"Is that why he's a special case, Sir? Beg pardon, but if he's that good of a Thief, then wouldn't that give us even more of a reason to take him in?"

"Patience. Your history lesson isn't finished yet," Varro said. The guard nodded and muttered an apology. The Officer paid no attention. "Though the cause of the fire was never determined, it was believed to have been started by Camonna Tong agents. The Thieves Guild and the Camonna Tong were at war during this time, and in a sense still are, though open hostilities between the two ceased over three years ago."

"The reason they ceased," the Officer continued, "is because after that fire, Stitch resolved that he would avenge their deaths and ensure that the Camonna Tong lost in the gang war between the two criminal syndicates. In the span of the next four years, the young Breton would rise from a small-time thief to the leader of the Vvardenfell Thieves Guild. During that four year span, the politics of this island changed dramatically."

"We do not know exactly how Stitch managed to win the war, but we do know what changed. First, the Fighters Guild at the time was in debt to the Camonna Tong, and corrupt. Somehow, Stitch managed to convince the Fighters Guild to side with the Thieves, and the Tong paid heavily as a result. In addition, the leader of the Fighters Guild was found dead in his office, with no witnesses to the crime and no identity of the murderer. That leader, Sjoring Hard-Heart, was later discovered to have owed the Tong a considerable amount of money, and once he died the Fighters Guild was completely free of Camonna Tong influence."

"Secondly, a member of the Balmora chapter of the Camonna Tong was found to be responsible for the murder of a Hlaalu nobleman by the name of Ralen Hlaalo. A week later, all members of the Balmora Camonna Tong were found dead. Again, no suspect was identified, but it is believed that House Hlaalu paid the Morag Tong to execute the criminals, due to information gathered from informants close to House Hlaalu leadership."

"Thirdly, Morag Tong executions of Thieves Guild members, which had been a common occurrence, suddenly stopped. It is believed that they stopped accepting payment for Writs of Execution against Thieves Guild members. From this point forward, they stayed out of the gang war between the Thieves Guild and the Camonna Tong. It was known that the Camonna Tong were contracting the Morag Tong to carry out hits against the Thieves Guild, but since this is legal under Dunmer Law, the Thieves Guild could do nothing about it. However, it would appear that something was done about it after all, though we do not know what or by whom, though we suspect Stitch was somehow behind it."

"Next, several high-ranking members of House Hlaalu were found to be guilty of ebony smuggling and arrested. Investigation into the matter revealed they had links to the Camonna Tong, and as a result it is believed that Tong ebony smuggling operations were greatly diminished. This is suspected to have hurt the organization both financially and politically, and was yet another nail added to the Camonna Tong's coffin. Again, though we have no proof, we believe Stitch was somehow responsible for exposing the House Hlaalu smuggling operation."

"Lastly, informants from inside House Hlaalu told Imperial agents of a secret meeting between Orvas Dren, head of House Hlaalu and the suspected leader of the Camonna Tong, and Stitch. We do not know what the subject of the meeting was about or what was said during it, but ever since that meeting took place there has been a cease-fire of sorts between the Thieves Guild and Camonna Tong. The Thieves Guild greatly increased in power after that, usurping the Tong as the leading criminal organization on the island of Vvardenfell."

"That is why Stitch is a special case," Varro concluded to the guard. "He has made many contacts and many friends through his rise to power in the Thieves Guild. He weakened House Hlaalu politically by exposing the ebony smuggling operation, and it is believed that House Redoran and House Telvanni would protect him because of that, albeit unofficially. Additionally, the sudden cessation of Morag Tong attacks against the Thieves Guild suggests that Stitch has worked out some sort of deal with its leadership, which is no small feat. In short, Stitch has political clout on this island, and arresting him would bring dire consequences to the Legion here on Vvardenfell. The Dunmer already hate us enough, and arresting Stitch would only add fuel to the fire."

The guard listened attentively to all this, and at the conclusion of Varro's speech he waited several moments before speaking.

"Understood, Sir. But if you'll permit me to say so, I still don't feel right letting him go free," he said.

"Neither do I, but there's nothing either of us can do about it," Varro agreed. "Now, I have a mountain of paperwork to finish and little time to do it in. Your history lesson is finished for the day. Dismissed." The guard immediately popped to attention, saluted, and exited Varro's office. The Imperial Officer sat back down and continued finishing his paperwork as if nothing had happened at all.

Well, Stitch certainly knows how to get things done. Interesting background on our main character told from an interesting perspective. Did I sense some respect in the legion captain's words?

Hmmm, Stitch seems to be quite the guy to make sure things get done...

@King Coin: Yes, Stitch can certainly be very resourceful when he sets his mind to a task. You don't get to the head of a major criminal organization by standing around and doing nothing, that's for sure. As far as Varro is concerned, I imagine he has a certain amount of respect for Stitch, but how far that respect goes is unclear at this point.

@Zaphon: Ditto what I said to King Coin. As the story progresses, I believe you will get a better idea of the great lengths Stitch had to go to in order to accomplish what he has. In fact, one such scene is mentioned below...


This next portion of the story took awhile for me to write, because I wanted to make it as interesting, intriguing, and engaging as possible. I believe I have succeeded, but I will let you, the readers, be the judge. Those who have played Morrowind and are familiar with the Thieves Guild questline will certainly find yourself in familiar territory here. This portion is also pretty long, certainly longer than the other ones I've posted up to this point. So grab a glass of your favorite beverage, kick back, and enjoy!

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Balmora, outside the door of the Fighters Guild...

I arrived at the Fighters Guild in short order, and stopped to study the old, worn door. The constant exposure to the elements over the years had turned the color of the door to an ugly brown, similar to an old piece of parchment. There were nicks and cracks in it, likely caused from a combination of drunken Fighters and scraping weapons.

As I stood in front of the old door and prepared to open it, my right hand instinctively moved towards the Daedric shortsword strapped to my side. The action was completely involuntary, as if my hand had a mind of its own. I smiled and ran my fingers along the Daedric sigils engraved on the weapon. This caused me to pause and reflect on another Daedric artifact, and how such an artifact played a part in my last visit to this place.

Four years earlier, at the Balmora Fighters Guild...

Years ago, the Balmora Fighters Guild wasn't exactly a friendly place for a member of the Thieves Guild, much less its Master Thief. Back then, the Camonna Tong had the leader of the Fighters Guild in its pocket, and several high-ranking members were forced to comply with the new management. Some accepted this change willingly; others, more grudgingly. Eventually, all fell in line and followed suit.

Loyalties, however, aren't always a sure thing. They can, at times, shift as quickly as the ash of Red Mountain. All you need is just a little wind blowing in the right direction.

"Hello, Eydis Fire-Eye," I said jovially to the red-headed Nord woman standing before me as I walked through the door. "You're looking well."

The head of the Balmora Fighters Guild gave me a look of disgust upon hearing my words, as if I had just made a rather crude joke. "Spare me the niceties, Thief," she said in an icy tone. "You've got no business here unless you're looking to join the Guild, and we're not accepting new recruits at this time."

"Well, that's a shame," I responded in mock disappointment. "I was really hoping to explore the possibilities that might become available to me by working for this fine establishment. I had even brought a gift as a thank-you for the opportunity, but if you're unwilling to listen to me..." I reached into my pack and quickly showed her a glimpse of something before turning towards the door, "...then I suppose I’ll just be on my way."

"WAIT!" she shouted, her eyes wide in astonishment. "What is it you have there? It looks...familiar..."

"Oh, it's nothing, really. Just a gift I thought you'd like to have. But you've already made it quite clear that I should be on my way, so..."

"No!" she protested. "Wait. Let me see it again."

I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly, and once again reached into my pack. What I pulled out was a large golden chalice adorned with Daedric sigils. The air around it hummed with the sound of pulsing magicka.

"The Bitter Cup..." Fire-Eye said in awe. She tried to touch it with her hand, but I moved it out of her reach.

"I see you recognize the artifact. I thought you would," I said, adopting a more serious tone now. "I also thought that you would very much like to have it. Am I correct?"

"Yes!" she said, grasping at the object once more, only to again come up empty-handed. Her behavior was not unlike a small child grasping at a cookie jar that is just out of reach. I swear she even whimpered when she reached out for the Cup. "GIVE IT TO ME!" she complained, again not unlike a child.

"Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. That depends on if you're willing to give me something in return."

"Name it," she replied without hesitation. "Whatever it is, you can have it. I must have the Bitter Cup!"

"Very good. I am glad you are so eager to negotiate." I paused, rubbing my chin with my free hand as if in deep thought. After a few moments, I smiled as if the perfect idea had suddenly come to mind. "I think we can make a deal that suits both parties involved. What I want from you is to pledge the loyalty of yourself and the entire Balmora Fighters Guild in service to the Thieves Guild in the ongoing war with the Camonna Tong. I don't want you to fight; I just want you to not aid or assist the Tong any longer. This includes the cessation of any currently planned and ongoing activities against the Thieves Guild, effective immediately. If you so pledge, I will give you the Bitter Cup in return. I think that's a more than fair arrangement. What about you?"

Again, she spoke without hesitation. "Yes! I agree! Now hand it over!" Again she grasped for the Cup, and again I moved it from her reach.

"That's not good enough. I want you to formally pledge your loyalty and that of the Balmora Fighters Guild. Otherwise, I will leave now and take the artifact with me."

"NO! Ok, ok!" she pleaded. "I formally pledge my loyalty and that of the Balmora Fighters Guild to the Thieves Guild, and to cease all currently planned and ongoing activities that may cause them harm." This time, she held out her hands to receive the Cup, instead of grasping for it as she had been doing before.

"Very well. I am satisfied." I carefully handed her the Bitter Cup, and as she held it her eyes fixed upon it in complete reverence. "I have upheld my end of the deal. I expect you to uphold yours. Otherwise, you may find the Bitter Cup leaves your grasp just as quickly as it arrived."

With those final words, I took my leave of Fire-Eye and the Balmora Fighters Guild Hall. There was still much to be done before the Fighters Guild could be completely wrestled from the hands of the Camonna Tong, but for now I could at least rest easy knowing that the enemy was no longer sitting so close to my own doorstep.

Present day, outside the Balmora Fighters Guild...

A loud cough from behind me brought me back from the recesses of my mind. “Are you going inside or not? Because I am, and you’re blocking the door.” I turned around to notice a rather large Orc with his arms crossed, and a look on his face that indicated he was not pleased.

“My apologies! Yes, I’m going inside; let me hold the door open for you,” I said in my most gracious tone of voice. As I held the door open, he snorted at me as he walked past. There was a part of me that wanted to point out to the Orc that there was another door to the place and that he could have used that one to save himself the trouble of waiting; however, I held my tongue, because while Orcs weren’t the brightest torches on the wall, they made up for it with the strength of an Ogrim. This Orc in particular had hands the size of my entire head, and so I deduced that making him angry would probably not bode well for my health.

I took the stairs down to the basement level of the Guild, where I knew Hasphat could be found. I had never dealt with the man before, but I knew that he was a scholar of Morrowind history and was respected amongst the intellectual community. Such a reputation made me wonder why the man would choose to become a member of the Fighters Guild; after all, members of that organization weren’t exactly renowned for their scholarly pursuits, if they had any at all. I pushed those musings from my mind; I had come to question Hasphat on cults, not on the reasons behind his choice of Guild. I found him in short order standing in the middle of the training room, and when I approached I introduced myself in a cordial manner as “a friend of Caius,” and explained my reason for coming.

“So, you’re with Caius, eh? And he wants information?” He said this in an unsurprised tone, as if this sort of thing came up often. Before I began to reflect on that point, he continued speaking. “Of course, there’s a this-for-that involved. I require a favor first, and then I'll tell you what you want to know.” He smiled in an apologetic way, but I knew he wasn’t particularly apologetic about it.

I let out a quick sigh. The Spymaster had told me Hasphat would require a favor first, but I was still hoping that the man would be feeling generous today and would give me the information for free. Of course, I knew better than to really expect that; in Vvardenfell, there are no free rides, and this would prove to be no exception.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked him. My only hope now was that the task would be easy. Again, I would be sorely disappointed.

“There are Dwemer ruins nearby called Arkngthand. I need you to run over there and find me a little cube with a circular design and some symbols on one side. It's called 'a Dwemer puzzle box'. Bring me back the Dwemer puzzle box, and I'll tell you what you want to know.” Hasphat then provided me with a more detailed description of the object; about the size of a fist, and made of the coppery metal that was common amongst all Dwemer objects. When he finished, I bid him farewell and set off to complete my task.

As a Thief and a member of the Thieves Guild, I was no stranger to the smuggling of Dwemer artifacts; in fact, it was one of our most profitable ventures. The fact that a scholar of Morrowind history had asked me to procure such an artifact was not out of the ordinary, either, as many of our clients were scholars unwilling to deal with the Empire’s “red tape” that was necessary to legally purchase the artifacts. It was this particular artifact in question, however, that concerned me—in all my years of smuggling Dwemer commodities, I had never once heard of a “Dwemer puzzle box.” If these puzzle boxes were exceedingly rare, then I had to wonder why nobody had hired the Guild to find one before. If they were exceedingly common, then I would have no doubt come across one by now. I figured that there was a small possibility that Hasphat was the only scholar that knew such an artifact existed, but I found this to be highly unlikely. The only other possibility, then, was that other scholars did know about the artifact, but that Hasphat was the only one that cared about it. This I found to be much more plausible.

Whatever the reason I had never before heard of a “Dwemer puzzle box,” it did not matter; I had heard of it now, and if I wanted to be rid of Caius and this business with the Empire, then I had to find it. With this reality in mind, I walked towards the ruins of Arkngthand at a brisk pace, determined to cast aside this burden of “civil service” as quickly as possible.

I had known of Arkngthand well before Hasphat had sent me there—as a smuggler of Dwemer artifacts (and many other things), it was part of my job to find the ruins that housed them. However, when I became leader of the Thieves Guild I had forbidden any Guild members from attempting to pilfer Arkngthand; the ruins were too close to Fort Moonmoth for comfort, and the soldiers’ foot patrols frequently brought them within close proximity to the site.

Normally in such a case, the Guild would simply bribe the soldiers to look the other way; Fort Moonmoth, however, possessed special circumstances that prevented this. The soldiers there were under the command of Larrius Varro, and he was a staunch opponent of corrupt practices, including bribery. The soldiers knew this, and they did not dare defy him, as doing so would bring about consequences that not even the promise of extra coins could solve. Varro himself could not be bribed, either. Some would argue that every man has a price, and while I did have some amount of leverage I could use against Varro, I was choosing to save it in the event circumstances suddenly became too stacked against me. Besides, the Guild was making plenty of profit from other Dwemer ruins, and what little reward the contents of Arkngthand might give us would not outweigh the risks that would come with it.

That didn’t mean others shared my point-of-view, of course. Freelance smugglers less concerned about “risks” were happy to seize the advantage that came from the absence of Guild sanctioned enterprises, and as I approached the beginning of the bridge that lead to Arkngthand I spotted such a smuggler on the other side standing next to several crates. He was an Imperial, who appeared several years older than I as evidenced by his balding head. The distance made his other features hard to distinguish, but I could tell he was armed with an iron cuirass and war axe.

I could also tell that he had spotted me instantly, as he began shouting and charging in my direction. I had expected this—the bridge that ran across the ravine, or “foyada” in the Dunmer tongue, was devoid of any obstacles I would have needed for a stealthy approach. I had a few Chameleon potions in my possession, but I was planning to use these only in the direst of circumstances. And as skilled at sneaking as I believed myself to be, not even I could avoid detection in an open environment with plenty of distance to travel. Given these facts, I had determined that I would have to battle without the element of surprise; I only hoped that the battle would be short, and end in my favor.

I lacked the necessary skill in magic and marksmanship to take advantage of the distance between myself and the smuggler, so I had to prepare for a close-range duel. Fortunately, I was very skilled with my Daedric shortsword, and prepared further by using the few moments it took for the smuggler to reach me to drink a couple of fortify strength potions. As soon as I took the last gulp, the smuggler came within reach, and I began to fight for my life.

There is a widely held misconception that if a person lacks skill with a weapon and resorts to just swinging it wildly, that he will quickly be killed by a more skilled opponent. This is false. While it is true that a more skilled opponent has an edge in tactics, it does not make the battle any less difficult or dangerous. The biggest part of dueling is to anticipate the opponent’s next move—where he will strike next, how fast he will strike, and so forth. Once that has been determined, a skilled swordsman can then choose to either parry that attack or dodge it and conduct one his own.

However, when the opponent doesn’t even know where he will strike next, it makes anticipating the blow that much more difficult. This forces the more skilled person to divert attention away from planning the next counter-strike, and to instead rely upon one’s own speed and agility to avoid being hacked into tiny pieces. This lessens the impact an advantage in skill would normally give, and puts the two adversaries on a more level battlefield. In short, swinging an axe with reckless abandon wasn’t as bad a strategy as most people believed.

Such was the case in this battle; it was quickly apparent that my opponent lacked much skill with his iron war axe, but he made up for it with a good dose of speed. His movements were erratic, but quick enough to where I found myself dodging his blows more often than I was inflicting my own. Fortunately, my Father had prepared me for such scenarios from a young age, and each lesson was more painful than the last. Even as I fought for my life, a part of my mind was occupied by memories.

I was nine years old at the time. Father and I were standing in our back yard, and he was holding a wooden club in his right hand. For a time, he did not say anything, just watched as I stared back and forth between him and the club. Finally, with a toothy smile, he stated the reason for our present meeting.

“Today, Dro’zhar will help little Stitch develop his agility. By the time we are finished, his movements will be as swift as a horse running from a hungry Dark Elf.” He began to tap the blunt end of the club against the palm of his left hand.

I eyed the club suspiciously. “Father,” I began, taking about a half step back as I spoke, “how will you be helping me do that?”

Again, my Father smiled in a playful manner. “Oh, Dro’zhar thinks you know the answer to that question.” Then, with a quickness I have never since seen anybody match, he hit me on the head with the wooden club. Not enough to seriously hurt me, of course, but just enough to where it would leave a small bruise.

“Ow!” I exclaimed, and was rewarded with another tap of the club.

“Too slow! It’s only going to hurt more with each strike, you know.” The next one I successfully dodged, but it took another three hits before I would succeed again.

Thus began a lesson that would continue for many years. Eventually, I gained the speed and agility my father had hoped I would. And when I did, I gladly thanked him for his many arduous training sessions—by stealing the club from his grasp and delivering a few “lessons” of my own.

The training my Father had given me had paid off—as quick as the Imperial smuggler was with his axe, I was just a bit quicker. Of course, this didn’t mean he wouldn’t get a few lucky shots in—several times his axe connected with my flesh. They were glancing blows, however, and left only minor wounds. The important part was that I was landing more blows, and damaging ones at that.

Despite my advantage in speed and number of successful attacks, the battle still lasted quite some time. I silently wondered if my opponent had any Nord blood in him, because it seemed that no matter how many times I stabbed him with my shortsword he simply would not slow down. Just as I was beginning to tire, however, the wounds the smuggler had taken finally took their toll. He slowed down just enough for me to retreat a few feet away, and when he attempted to pursue me he staggered. Another half-step later, his body went limp and his face hit the metal bridge.

When I was convinced he would not get back up, I downed a minor restore health potion to heal my wounds and approached the body of my fallen foe. I searched the smuggler’s pockets, silently hoping that he would have the Dwemer puzzle box on his person and save me the need to venture inside the ruins. Of course, this was not the case, as the only things in his possession save for the axe and his armor were a few septims. These I left. I did this not because I wasn’t greedy, but because the loose change would rattle around in my pockets and could potentially give away my position while sneaking. A few septims weren’t worth a fight if I could avoid one for free.

A quick inspection of the crates the smuggler had stood by revealed a few pieces of Dwemer scrap metal and some Dwemer coins—which I also left alone—but no puzzle box. Resigned to the fact that I would have to enter the ruins to find the object I sought, I proceeded to walk up the hill and turn the crank that would open the way to Arkngthand. As I turned the crank, the dome covering the entryway slid open to allow passage; I quickly ran through the door before the dome could close again. I was now standing within the ruins of Arkngthand. The Dwemer puzzle box, wherever it was, would soon be mine.

A wealth of characterization in this one- with views to Stitch's past- both recent and more distant.

I could not help but chuckle at Dro'zhar's teaching method. "If you don't want to get whacked in the head- move faster."

Stich's "voice" is also quite distinctive here. Wonderful- and I look forward to more...

Though I haven't played MW, I've read enough fan fictions to recognize this quest. I quite enjoyed how Stitch is dealing with the smugglers at the ruins, and his admission of his weakness in long-range combat. I look forward to more!

Nothing's for free lol.

I enjoyed the chapter. The little flashback of Stitch's dad was nicely worked in and humorous.

Good chapter.

Eventually, I gained the speed and agility my father had hoped I would. And when I did, I gladly thanked him for his many arduous training sessions—by stealing the club from his grasp and delivering a few “lessons” of my own.

Nice.

Of course, this was not the case, as the only things in his possession save for the axe and his armor were a few septims. These I left. I did this not because I wasn’t greedy, but because the loose change would rattle around in my pockets and could potentially give away my position while sneaking. A few septims weren’t worth a fight if I could avoid one for free.

I like that he left the coins. It’s the opposite of carrying around fifty torches. A very engaging portion of the story, indeed!

Great background provided on Stitch by Larrius Varro. A most welcome pause to fill in some details!

"I have upheld my end of the deal. I expect you to uphold yours. Otherwise, you may find the Bitter Cup leaves your grasp just as quickly as it arrived."
What a perfect threat for a master thief to make!

“Of course, there’s a this-for-that involved. I require a favor first, and then I'll tell you what you want to know.”
Isn't it always this way in Tamriel?

'There is a widely held misconception that if a person lacks skill with a weapon and resorts to just swinging it wildly, that he will quickly be killed by a more skilled opponent. This is false.'
This, along with the supporting logic that followed was great reading and very creative thinking.

'..were a few septims. These I left. I did this not because I wasn’t greedy, but because the loose change would rattle around in my pockets and could potentially give away my position while sneaking. A few septims weren’t worth a fight if I could avoid one for free.'
Like Grits, I was struck by this. Great thief-like thinking.

I am glad you lingered some here. You could have easily glossed over the fight and entry into the ruins but you used the opportunity to add some rich detail to the way Stitch thinks and does business. Very enjoyable.

I'd be remiss if I didn't compliment your ability to change perspectives smoothly as you did between the last two episodes. Also you display a very effective use of flashbacks - both when and how to use them to good effect.

Sorry it took so long to get over here and read, this month has been unbearably hectic so far. Dro’zhar's teaching methods are hilarious, lol. Poor Stitch! Great Write!!

@treydog: I'm glad you found Dro'zhar's teaching method amusing. It was definitely a very fun part to write! As far as more...ask and you shall receive!

@haute: I'm glad you are not getting lost despite never having played Morrowind. Again, one of my biggest hopes is that this story is accessible to all, and I am glad to see that I am succeeding thus far.

@King Coin: Thank you! I hope you find this next part just as enjoyable, if not more so!

@Grits: I'm glad you noticed that in regards to the inventoryA. In writing this story I have sought to strike a balance between what the game mechanics allow and what the "reality" of such a situation would allow. While he will be able to carry a decent amount of potions and other smaller items (I imagine his robe has a great many pockets inside, as a Thief should!), you won't see him lugging around three warhammers, two spears, and a full suit of Daedric armor. Enchantments and fortify spells/potions can help, but I feel as if they should have some limitations to them, as well.

@Acadian: Thank you very much! I am glad that you have enjoyed the story so far. The flashbacks will serve as an integral part of this tale, as Stitch's past is something that will continually come up during his "employment" with the Blades (and everything that will eventually entail). I am glad to see that they are being incorporated so smoothly thus far, as that is always a concern of mine when I include a flashback.

@mALX: No worries! There are several stories on the forums that I am still getting caught up with, myself. Real Life can be pretty intrusive when it comes to reading, I've found. I'm glad you are also enjoying Dro'zhar's teaching methods...another such lesson can be found below!


I am glad to finally be posting the next portion of The Story of Stitch! I was hoping to post another update sooner than this, but Real Life sought fit to delay me. Thankfully, this past weekend afforded me some quality writing time, and the wait between the next few updates will be shorter than this one was. Enjoy!

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The first thing I noticed about Arkngthand was that it was huge; the entryway was at the top of a cavern, with the ruins themselves at the bottom and reachable by navigating down the natural rock formation that time and nature had made into a ramp. The top of the cavern was dark, but I could see a source of light below— most likely a fire, which meant smugglers would be nearby. Quietly, I made my way down towards the ruins, being sure to stay as close to the wall and shadows as I could.

The second thing I noticed, especially as I neared the actual ruins, was the noise—Arkngthand, like all Dwemer ruins, were extremely loud due to the strange machines and constructs of the lost civilization. Despite the noise, I remained as quiet as could be. Another of Father’s lessons sprang to my mind, his words a source of both comfort and discipline.

Father and I were outside in our backyard. I was 14 years old, and through years of practice I had finally become adept at the art of sneaking. A caravan was rolling towards Caldera during this time, and the noises of pack guars, shouting merchants, and rickety wagons filled the air. As the caravan passed, I allowed my movements to become less fluid and precise, earning me a quick admonishment from my Father.

“The presence of external noise does not mean you should assume you cannot be heard,” he instructed me. “Noisy surroundings can be helpful, but you must not let it trick you into relaxing your vigilance. Dro’zhar has the scars to prove it.”

“But how can anybody possibly hear me through all of that?” I challenged him. “The merchants can barely hear themselves!”

“Always assume you can be heard. This will ensure you never are,” he countered. “Some people hear better than others, and there are even rumors the Telvanni can use magic to enhance their hearing. There is no way to tell what each individual person can or cannot hear, unless, of course, they tell you. For example, Dro’zhar has good ears, and can tell you that the pack guar at the rear of the caravan is very flatulent.”

He motioned for me to listen, which I obediently did. Despite my best efforts in focusing my hearing at the aforementioned guar, I could not hear the sounds my Father claimed to. My eyes grew wide in astonishment.

“That’s amazing!” I exclaimed. “You must have the best ears ever!”

He laughed, his ears perking up as they did so. “Dro’zhar’s ears are good, yes, but not nearly as good as your mother’s. Dro’zhar thinks this is probably because she talks his off.”

“Hey!” my mother yelled from inside the house. “Kizza heard that, and will be sure to give her husband another talking-to later!”

“See?” my father chuckled. “Dro’zhar was right.”

Unfamiliar voices up ahead brought me back to reality. I was nearing the bottom of the cave, and the source of light—which, I could tell now, was not a campfire but several torches stuck into the ground—was becoming more prominent. As the shadows receded, so too did I, until finally I could press myself against the cavern walls no further. I halted my stealthy advance and took stock of my surroundings.

To my left was the source of the voices and the entrance to the ruins themselves. Both were still several yards from where I stood, with the smugglers—a Redguard and Imperial of roughly equal height—discussing something I could not make out over the various creaks and groans of Arkngthand. The entrance, and the path to it, were both brightly lit by the torches; attached to the ruins themselves were strange Dwemer lights that provided additional illumination. It was clear to me that stealth, again, would not be an option in dealing with the smugglers.

I also noticed that this part of Arkngthand had two floors. From the angle I was currently standing I could not see a door on the top floor, but I surmised that the entrance to that area would be accessible from within the lower portion of the ruins. Of course, this meant going through the smugglers.

To my right, on the other hand, was a hole in the cavern wall. The presence of Dwemer pipes inside of the hole revealed that it lead to another section of the ruins, though whether this section was connected to the one on my left I was not sure. Given the size of the cavern, however, I guessed that this was indeed the case. This path was poorly lit and would be easy to sneak through, so I elected to take it over the left one.

The path snaked around a bit before ending in a door, which I went through. The walls here were adorned with those same Dwemer lights I had seen previously, and it was relatively well lit. I used what little shadows there were to conceal myself as I crept along the ancient hallways, and it wasn’t long before I spotted another smuggler.

The hallway ended in a large cavernous section that was littered with shelves, tables, chairs, and crates. It was here that I spotted my next adversary, sitting in one of the chairs. He was a brown-haired Nord drinking a bottle of sujamma, an inexpensive liquor with a dark color and harsh taste. His back was turned to me, and he did not seem to have noticed my presence.

I could have easily snuck up behind the man and killed him without warning, but this was the way of an Assassin—not a Thief. I didn’t have much honor, or at least not in most matters, but I made it a point to not kill anybody without at least giving them the decency of a warning first. Not too much of a warning, mind you—I still wanted to live, after all—but enough of one to at least soothe my conscience. A second or so usually sufficed.

Adhering to this tenet, I crept a few more paces forward and then stood up straight. My weapon remained in my hand, but I lowered it to my side. “Hey!” I shouted, startling the Nord and causing him to drop his drink and turn around. “Think I could have some of that? I’m parched.”

The Nord apparently lacked both humor and compassion, as what he offered me was not a drink but the sharp end of a steel dagger. I politely rejected this and made a counter-offer of my own by raising my Daedric shortsword into a fighting position. Clearly incensed at this, he charged forward to have some nasty words with me.

It was clear that the jug of sujamma was not the man’s first of the day, because despite the Nordic peoples’ almost legendary ability to hold liquor, his fighting skills still suffered as a result. His strikes were sluggish and his footwork more so, and I easily dodged them while countering with my own. My greater speed and agility, not to mention sobriety, ensured a quick end to the battle. As I had done to the first smuggler outside of the ruins, I searched the dead man’s pockets for the puzzle box, but did not find it. A search of the shelves and crates in the rest of the cavern revealed various Dwemer mugs and bowls, but not the object I was searching for. I would have to venture deeper into the ruins to find it.

What a cool introduction to a Dwemer ruin! At least, that's what I assume Arkngthand is. By the way, how in the heck do you pronounce that??

Then we have a flashback to Stitch's past and the importance of being silent at all times, regardless of ambient noise. I especially loved this bit: The interplay between the parents was so precious and gave us a tremendous insight into the kind of childhood Stitch had.

And Dro'zhar is right - one must be silent at all times when sneaking. How many times in fiction (and in RL) have you given yourself away when the ambient noise drops suddenly? How many times have you said something particularly embarrassing loudly in a sudden lull in the conversation at the fancy restaurant?

And finishing off with a rousing little combat scene with a drunken Nord. If I have to fight a Nord, that's how I like 'em - drunk. A sober Nord is very scary indeed.

And a hint of more to come! Not quite a cliffie (of which I'm guilty ) but definitely an invitation to watch for more!

Don't worry about how long it takes you to get the next post ready. Just make sure it's good and well worth reading. So far, so good. (Said Steve McQueen)

The whole bit about hearing and sneaking was great. I like the khajiit ears. They are so expressive.
Like haute ecole rider I really enjoyed the bit with Stitch's parents.

An unusual sense of honor. I can tell you, my khajiit is not an assassin, but she still takes advantage of a turned back.

Neat sounding ruins!

Another delightful flashback. I really liked the one line from the sharp-eared Kizza! And like others, I love the expressiveness of Khajiit ears.

Yes, the choice of retaining the shadows even as striking, or declaring yourself first. I imagine all sneaksters face that challenge.

'I searched the dead man’s pockets for the puzzle box, but did not find it.'
Nope. It couldn't be that easy, could it?

I like the way Stitch describes the ruin in terms of light and shadow, noise, cover, and exits. It gives the adventure a nice thief-y flavor.

I could have easily snuck up behind the man and killed him without warning, but this was the way of an Assassin—not a Thief. I didn’t have much honor, or at least not in most matters, but I made it a point to not kill anybody without at least giving them the decency of a warning first. Not too much of a warning, mind you—I still wanted to live, after all—but enough of one to at least soothe my conscience. A second or so usually sufficed.

I found this section very interesting, as Stitch spells out how he deals with his conscience. It makes me wonder if his sense of honor will evolve, or how he will handle a situation where he knows he can’t win if he declares himself. I’m looking forward to the rest of Arkngthand!

@haute: I know exactly what you mean! It's so awkward when the noise at a party (or other event) suddenly drops and you're the only one left talking, or everybody suddenly hears you make other types of noises. As far as your last point, I hope this portion was worth the wait!

@King Coin: I'm glad you enjoyed the previous portion. Hopefully this one is as equally engrossing for you!

@Acadian: I remember Buffy having a similar predicament in a certain set of ruins, herself. I doubt Stitch is less concerned about harming an innocent in these circumstances--after all, these are smugglers, who aren't exactly model citizens by virtue of their profession. Rather, I suspect his particular sense of honor came about as a result of other, less noble but definitely very personal circumstances. Perhaps we will find out later in the story--but not now.

@Grits: As those familiar with the quest of the Nerevarine are acutely aware, there will be times when our hero will be greatly outmatched and even outnumbered. Will Stitch's personal code change and adapt to the circumstances, or will he find a way to work with it, rather than around it? That remains to be seen, as we are still in the very early stages of his quest.


For this portion, we find Stitch continuing to search the ruins of Arkngthand for the Dwemer puzzle box. A familiar refrain, uttered by Stitch in a previous portion of the story, bears repeating here: In Vvardenfell, there are no free rides. Enjoy!

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Several hours of searching later, however, I remained empty handed. The ruins were quite extensive, and though I searched every single nook and cranny the puzzle box still eluded me. During my search I was forced to kill many more smugglers, but neither their shouts nor their corpses brought me any closer to that which I sought. I began to silently curse the people that had brought me here—the Emperor, Larrius Varro, Caius, Hasphat—and when I was done with them I turned my anger towards the puzzle box itself. I am certain no other inanimate object in history has ever been more insulted than the Dwemer puzzle box, for when I ran out of curses in the Cyrodillic tongue I resorted to the various Ta’Agra curses I had picked up from my parents as I was growing up.

Eventually, I came to an area of the ruins that was bathed in a soft red glow. As I approached, I noticed that a river of lava ran underneath the grated floor. This was no doubt the source of the red light. The grated floor did not extend outward to the entire hallway, however; instead, it ended about halfway towards another door, with two rooms on either side. The red light did not reach as far as the door, and this allowed me to inspect both rooms from within the safety of the shadows.

The right room contained several shelves with various Dwemer items, but once again no puzzle box. Just as I was about to begin anew my torrent of curses, I noticed that the left room was not unoccupied. Amongst the several crates and singular table that littered the room, a Breton man was maneuvering a wheeled cart into a corner. He had not yet seen me, and after a few moments he turned his back to my direction and began loading the crates onto the cart. He was a young man, probably no older than 20, and had brown hair wrapped into a “pony-tail,” as the Imperials called the style.

I took a moment to weigh my options. I could fight him right now, and hope that the crates he handled contained the Dwemer puzzle box- which would save me from having to delve deeper into the ruins through the door at the end of the hallway. Of course, if neither he nor the crates possessed the puzzle box, then I would have engaged in battle for nothing, or at the very least taken on the risks of combat sooner than necessary. Perhaps I could rummage through the closest crates quietly enough to avoid detection…but then, there was always the chance he could turn around, causing my cover to be blown as a result.

After careful consideration, I decided to avoid this fight for now. There were quite a few crates in this room, and it would take the young Breton some time to load them all onto the cart. I could easily return here and fight if necessary, but for now I decided the most sensible course of action was to pass through the door at the end of the hallway and search the innermost section of Arkngthand.

As I approached the ancient Dwemer door, however, I noticed that it was locked. Normally, such a thing would be easy for a Thief of my advanced skills to conquer—just pull out a lockpick, manipulate the tumblers, and unlock the entryway. In order to pick a lock, one must have a lockpick of sufficient quality to lift the tumblers in the correct order. The heavier the tumblers within, the higher quality the lockpick must be, as lesser lockpicks will break under the weight of the tumblers. The more tumblers there are in a lock also determines the quality of lockpick needed.

Dwemer doors presented a special challenge, though. Dwemer doors were made with Dwemer metal, and this metal is extremely heavy. The higher quality lockpicks could still get past the less complex locks, but the door that stood in front of me possessed what I deduced to be no less than six tumblers. Despite my best efforts and the use of my highest quality lockpick, the door would not open. It would require a key, and since I had not found a key in the ruins up to this point, logic held that it had to be in the possession of the last remaining smuggler in the room I had just exited. It looked like I wouldn’t be avoiding this fight after all.

I quietly made my way back to the room where the young smuggler was working. As expected, he was still loading crates onto a cart. As it had done before, my mind went through the possible courses of action the situation presented. My eyes scanned the entirety of the room, and finally settled on the lone table situated to the immediate right of the smuggler. I may have had reservations about killing someone unseen, but I held no such qualms when it came to rendering them unconscious. After a few moments, I came up with a plan.

I strapped my shortsword to my side and proceeded to creep up to the Breton. Between the groans of Arkngthand and my own slow, careful steps, he did not hear my approach and continued his labors without interruption. An interruption did occur moments later, however, for as soon as I was within reach I grabbed the man’s right arm with one hand and the back of his head with the other. The advantage of surprise allowed me to easily throw the smuggler off-balance, and I proceed to slam his forehead against the edge of the table with as much force as I could muster.

To my surprise, the blow did not render the man unconscious, but merely disoriented. Seeking to maintain control of the situation, I quickly drew my Daedric shortsword and pointed the tip of the blade at my enemy’s throat. He looked up at me with big blue eyes, his chest heaving up and down in quick, short breaths. He neither smiled nor frowned, but instead wore a blank expression. Interestingly, he did not seem to be afraid—nervous, certainly, as any man in his position would undoubtedly be, but definitely not afraid. Based on this, I deduced that he had been in the smuggling business for at least a few years, as he was clearly aware of the dangers inherent in this line of work.

I allowed his breathing to slow to a more normal pace before speaking. I wanted him to be as calm and clear of mind as possible before I began my impromptu interrogation. When I was satisfied that this had been achieved, I cleared my throat and began to speak.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. Answer them to my satisfaction, and I’ll let you walk out of here with nothing but the headache I just gave you. Lie to me, and I’ll turn you into slaughterfish food. Sound fair?”

Oh yes, this was worth the wait! Wonderful descriptions, especially of Stitch's thought processes.

And I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed Stitch's take on my favorite Heinleinism: TANSTAAFL (There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch).

'I am certain no other inanimate object in history has ever been more insulted than the Dwemer puzzle box,' This section about his consternation toward the puzzle box was great fun!

I also enjoyed hearing Stitch's thoughts and planning, then watching his plans, first for the Dwemer locked door, then the young Breton, go awry. Isn't that always the way?

His current plan of 'threaten at swordpoint' will hopefully yield the results he seeks.

Cursing inanimate objects wouldn't help your stealth I don't think.

I just hate doors that cannot be picked

Battle with the young Imperial then?

Hey I like Stitch's line of thinking! Very enjoyable chapter! Can't wait for the rest!

Caught up! Stitch's flashbacks to the training from his adoptive father as he is using each skill are so effectively done - really great job you are doing of showing step by step how he came to be what he is today!!

This scene is outstanding, Stitch really keeps his head here:



So easy to visualize this scene as you have written it, and Stitch's inner thoughts here are spectacular! Awesome Write !!!

@haute: Thank you! "There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch" is also a favorite saying of mine. I find it especially applicable to the harsh wasteland of Vvardenfell, where in many cases one has to fight just to simply survive.

@Acadian: The part about the cursing of the Dwemer puzzle box was great fun to write, and I am glad that it was great fun to read! As veteran players of Morrowind know, finding the puzzle box is actually extremely easy. First time players, however, often bypass the necessary route and end up spending hours searching for the thing. The portion below will provide further details as to what I am alluding to.

@King Coin: I am glad that you continue to enjoy the story! During my game, that door only had a lock level of 32--an easy thing to pick with a Thief possessing a Security level of 100. However, for the sake of the story I decided early on that Stitch would not be exploring that area of the ruins right away, and so I thought of a way that would prevent him from doing so (namely, that the lock required a key and could not be picked, similar to many Oblivion-style locks). That being said, I am almost certain that the door will not remain locked forever--an unspoiled and unlooted section of a Dwemer ruin is simply too valuable to just leave alone.

@mALX: I am glad that you are caught up! I am glad that you are able to easily visualize the scenes--as a writer, I can ask for no better compliment. Thank you.


This next portion finds Stitch interrogating his "prisoner." Keen-eyed readers will probably notice during the interrogation some shades of influence from another, more recent video game. I will say no more.
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The young man did not say anything, but nodded slightly to indicate he understood. After a moment, I continued. “I’m looking for a specific object within these ruins. It’s called a ‘Dwemer puzzle box.’ It’s a small cube made of Dwemer metal, about the size of a fist, with markings on one side. Seen it around here?”

The man raised an eyebrow in confusion. I wasn’t surprised by this—after all, I had given Hasphat a similar look when he had told me about the puzzle box—but it nonetheless reinforced the growing belief within me that the artifact did not actually exist and that I had been sent on a fool’s errand. His words did little to dispel that notion. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you just make that up?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “It isn’t in these crates, or else I would have seen it.”

His response was discouraging, but I nonetheless pressed on. “Would anybody else in these ruins have heard of it? Maybe you overheard a conversation that may hint at its whereabouts?”

At this, the young Breton moved his lips into a sort of scowl, and his remark held no small hint of disgust. “I would say to ask the others, but since you’ve made it this far I’m guessing they were of no help.”

I couldn’t fault the smuggler for his emotions--after all, I had just killed his co-workers--but his defiance would not lead me anywhere. “Answer the question,” I ordered, inching my blade closer to his exposed throat.

The scowl remained, but the smuggler’s response was less hostile. “No, they never mentioned it.”

With the interrogation thus far not yielding any information about the puzzle box, I decided to shift my focus. “That locked door down there,” I continued, nodding my head in the direction of the hallway, “you wouldn’t happen to have the key to it, would you?”

Again, the answer that came did not surprise me. “No. If I did, if any of us did, then it wouldn’t it be locked.” His words once again carried an air of defiance, but I let his tone slide this time. I demanded that he empty his pockets, and he quickly complied. They contained a few Dwemer coins and a couple septims, but no key. Seeing the look of disappointment on my face, the smuggler’s mouth turned upward into a smirk.

Discouraged but still determined, I again posed a question to my hostage. “Is there anybody else in these ruins that might have the key or the puzzle box?”

The man snorted and let out a single mocking laugh. “I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track of how many of my friends you killed.”

“Perhaps if I gave you a number, then, it would jog your memory?” I spat, again inching the blade closer to the smuggler’s throat. At this, the smuggler’s face turned from one of blank emotion to bubbling rage. His response, however, was calm and subdued

“No. There is nobody else.”

His words were convincing enough, and under normal circumstances I would have accepted his response at face value. It was his eyes, however, that betrayed him. They darted around nervously, first to the upper-left, and then straight down at the floor. I stared at him in silence, and as the seconds passed his mouth closed and I noticed a small bit of color disappear from his face. He was lying.

“Fond of swimming with the slaughterfish, are you? I have a nice spot just off the coast of Khuul that I think you would particularly enjoy.”

My threat achieved the desired effect; his eyes widened, and his words spewed forth in a torrential flood. “I don’t know!” he insisted. “If anybody would have the key, it’d be Boss Crito. He normally hides himself up in the room at the top floor while the rest of us do the grunt work, but I imagine he was one of the first people you got to.”

Here, I thought, was a slight ray of hope. Despite my thorough exploration of the lower ruins, I had not spotted a stairway that led to the top floor I had seen when I first entered Arkngthand. “How do I get up there?” I growled, inching my blade closer now to where the tip was touching my prisoner’s skin.

Rather than induce further fear from the man, however, I was instead met with confusion. “Uh…you just climb the rock formation that leads up there.” He raised an eyebrow in surprise, his previous fear giving way to genuine bafflement. “You didn’t notice it?”

My mind instantly went back to my first view of the ruins. I had noticed another rock formation near the ruins, but I was so concerned about how to avoid the first two smugglers that I had not given the stones much thought. I cursed my earlier lack of observation and moved my blade away from the smuggler’s neck.

“Very well,” I concluded. “You’ve answered my questions well enough, though the process could have been much smoother.” I paused, and after a moment of thought I decided to add something else. “My advice, kid; get out of the smuggling business right away. Maybe be a clothier, or join the Mages Guild, or anything else that doesn’t involve crime. Otherwise, you’ll be competing against my interests, and I don’t like competition. Got it?” His face once again showed a brief flash of anger, but he had the sense to keep it in check and simply nod his understanding. I made to turn around and leave him be.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the young Breton’s right hand reach inside his boot. He got as far as pulling out the hilt of a dagger before I quickly turned back around and swung my shortsword at his throat. The Daedric metal carved itself deeply into the man’s skin, and crimson blood spouted forth from the wound. Gurgling sounds could be heard from the dying smuggler as he made several attempts to stop the bleeding by clutching his throat. It was useless. After a few seconds, his body sat limp against the wall of the ruins. He was dead.

Shame the smuggler didn't use his head there towards the end or he could have been off. That said it's probably better for Stitch that he didn't. One more corpse isn't going to make a huge difference while a breathing body can cause problems.

Heh, Stich isn't perfect. I like it. I wonder how the head honcho is going to like a visit from Stitch.

Good chapter!

What I liked most about this part was Stitch's clear distaste for what he is doing. The point being- you manage to convey it beautifully without ever coming out and saying-- "I felt disgusted with myself."

I also love the raining of curses upon the puzzle box- it is such a mundane little thing- easily overlooked and absolutely necessary for movement in the Main Quest. And then- once you get it.... well, that would be telling, so I will hush and leave that part to Stitch.

Nicely woven circumstances that allowed the best outcome. Not only does Stitch gain some information, but by having his hand forced, he retains some humanity. We get the impression he was willing to spare the young Breton, even though it may not have been in Stitch's best interest or safety. Nicely done!

The additional details of actions really brings this to life - like spitting! Awesome Write !!!

I enjoyed this update very much. The smuggler came across as a real person, upset that Stitch had killed his friends. Often enemies come across as pure evil, but here you showed that they can simply be folk whose purposes cross our hero’s.

@Everyone: I just wanted to post really quickly and say that I am deeply sorry for the delay in the story. Real Life, as it frequently does, has gotten in the way of my literary pursuits. Fortunately, beginning this weekend I will embark upon a much-needed vacation, at which point I will be afforded plenty of time to sit down and write. So, while updates this past 3 weeks or so have been scant, I want to assure you that there IS plenty more of the story on its way!

Thank you all for your continued patience. I really appreciate it.

I'll be waiting!

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

What's it been, two years? Just over, if the timestamps are to be believed. I could go into a long explanation about how real-life caught up with me for a time and writing had to take a back seat, but I'll spare you all the boring details. What matters is that I am back now, and back to finishing this story I started so long ago!

Here's an update on where we are so that you can all get caught up:

The Khajiiti-raised Breton Master Thief and current head of the Vvardenfell Thieves Guild Tobias Do'bara--more commonly known and referred to as "Stitch" by his friends and enemies alike--has been blackmailed by the Imperial Legion to join the Emperor's spies known as the "Blades" and do their bidding until such a time as they see fit. His first assignment is to retrieve an object called a "Dwemer puzzle box" from the ancient ruins of Arkngthand and return it to a Blades contact in the town of Balmora in exchange for information concerning the Nerevarine secret cult and the Sixth House secret cult. Stitch had been searching the ruins for several hours with no luck until he finally managed to capture a young smuggler and gain some information from the man at sword-point. Stitch was forced to kill the smuggler in self-defense, but before doing so he learned the puzzle box may be in possession of a man referred to as "Boss Crito."

We now join Stitch in the immediate aftermath of that impromptu interrogation as he plans his next set of moves to bring himself closer to the elusive Dwemer puzzle box.

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The entire event had happened so fast, so sudden, that I had reacted on pure instinct. Having a dagger pulled on me was not an uncommon occurrence in my line of work, and in those cases it was normally prudent to stab first and save the negotiations for somebody more willing to participate in them. It was unfortunate that this young man was unwilling to take my offer and leave this place unharmed…but then again, would I have done so in his position? After a brief moment to consider the question, I concluded that I would not have done so. The criminal world was a nix-hound eat nix-hound one, and had the tables been turned I would have reacted in the same way.

That isn’t meant to sound cold-hearted, mind you; it is not a reflection of my own personal feelings, but merely the reality of the world in which I lived. Killing was a necessary part of my life as a Thief, but it was a part I disliked—even despised. Still, I was in a profession in which people were constantly trying to get what I had, and oftentimes the only way they felt they could get it was by taking me out of the picture. Every thief, bandit, smuggler, and outlaw wanted to be on top, and since I was currently the one occupying that top spot I possessed a constant target on my back. Add to that the fact the Legion was also vying for my execution, as well, and it made for quite a long list of enemies.

Killing wasn’t just necessary for the survival of self, however; it was also necessary for the survival of business. Smuggling routes had to be secured, stashes had to be protected, and informants had to be dealt with. I had always justified this by saying that I had never killed anybody who either didn’t deserve it, or whom I had given the option to live. Be it shady businessmen, suppliers skimming off the top or other similarly despicable characters, I always offered two choices: get out of the business, or be killed. To captured enemies, the choice was slightly different: join my cause, or join your former comrades in death.

Some—the businessmen and shady suppliers, mostly--chose the first choice, and then did not abide by it in the belief that I would not find out. I always did, of course, and they were never again offered a deal. The rest—mostly those competing smugglers and Camonna Tong members I had captured—chose to die. Either way, I almost always offered a choice. Was it my fault if their decisions led to their deaths?

Justifications for my behavior aside, I was eager to get back to business and proceeded to search every last crate in the room currently occupied by myself and the corpse of my would-be assailant. To my immense disappointment, the crates did not contain the puzzle box; on that point, the smuggler had indeed been truthful. What he had neglected to mention, however, was that in the corner behind a stack of the crates was a Dwemer chest that had been obscured from my view. As I knelt down to open the chest, I noticed that it was locked. Thankfully, this lock was much less complex than the one on the Dwemer door, and I was able to open it with minimal effort by using a lockpick.

The chest did not contain the puzzle box, but what it did contain caused me to smile widely: 50 pristine Dwemer coins, each containing the same type of marking that indicated they were minted as a set. Such an amount of coins in and of itself was a valuable find, but the fact that these particular coins were of the same set meant that their value would be even greater. A collector would pay extremely well for these.

I closed the chest and left the coins for now—I still had at least three more smugglers to deal with, and the clattering of change in my pockets would not be very conducive to a stealthy approach. They would be there when I returned after my task in Arkngthand was finished.




I exited the room and proceeded to retrace my footsteps back to the entrance of the ruins. As I did so, I noticed my distorted reflection on some of the metallic pipes that snaked along the walls; my eyes were bloodshot red from a combination of stress and exhaustion, and my skin was pale from a lack of natural light. I concluded, in that moment, that Arkngthand was draining me, and perhaps even willfully trying to kill me. I resolved to finish the task at hand as quickly as possible so that I could return to the warmth of my own bed back in Balmora.

Arriving back at the cavern that served as the entrance to Arkngthand, I immediately noticed the stone ramp the young smuggler had spoken of. I once again cursed my lack of perception upon first entering the ruins; I had been so concerned about avoiding the two smugglers below that I had neglected to take notice of several other features the vast chamber held within. I promised myself that I would not make such a mistake again.

Speaking of the smugglers, the Imperial and Redguard were both still at the bottom of the cavern talking to each other. The same issue that prevented me from dealing with the men hours earlier was still present: the cavern remained well-illuminated by various torches and the Dwemer light fixtures attached to the walls. A stealthy approach remained out of the question unless I could douse the torches’ flames. I found myself left with two options: rush the smugglers’ position and hope to catch them off guard, or find a way to darken the path.

As my brain weighed the pros and cons of each scenario, a thought suddenly popped into my head; the sujamma the Nord had been drinking in the nearby room through the cavern’s hole could be used to douse the flames! I quickly retreated to the room and liberated a flask of the liquor from a nearby shelf. The corpse of the Nord was still present and was beginning to contaminate the air with a foul odor, but thankfully I would have no need to return now.

With sujamma in hand, I devised a plan to deal with the smugglers. The torches were spread out too far apart for me to douse them all at once, but I estimated that I would able to quickly extinguish the one or two closest to my current position before the smugglers could sufficiently react. On the one hand, this would provide me with a decent amount of darkness to make the first attack; on the other, it would put the men on their guard and make them harder to defeat. Not having a better plan, though, I proceeded in the hope that I would emerge as the victor.

I crept to the first torch as quickly as I could while still maintaining my silence. The creaks and moans of Arkngthand served as my ally in this regard, as they helped conceal whatever noise I may have inadvertently made. Upon reaching the first torch, I quickly poured a healthy amount of sujamma on it; the flame died with a loud hiss and produced a small cloud of alcohol-scented smoke. The second torch did the same, but I might as well have not bothered; the smugglers were already running towards me with their weapons drawn. Even so, the darkness that came with the absence of the torches allowed me to momentarily slip out of view and reposition myself in a more advantageous manner to counter the oncoming rush. When the men arrived, I was able to side-step around them and deliver the first couple blows to their backs.

Now, most fighters and tacticians will tell you that fighting multiple enemies at once is undesirable; the more enemies there are, the more weapons aimed at your throat at once, not to mention the risk of becoming surrounded and turned into a pincushion. I only ever concerned myself with the last part—avoiding becoming surrounded. If you can manage that, then I would argue that fighting multiple enemies at once gives you several advantages, the most important of which is a greater ability to hit a target. In this type of situation, your enemies will be so concerned about unintentionally injuring their partner or partners that they will be more cautious with their attacks than normal (that is, unless they don’t give a rat’s behind about their partners…which actually is a pretty common thing in the criminal underworld now that I think about it). You, however, do not share this same caution and so are free to dictate the terms of battle as you like.

At least, that was my strategy during this match, and it thankfully worked out in my favor. I can’t speak to how close these two men were to one another, but it was clear they were trying not to stick the each other with the ends of their blades as they fought me. This allowed me to parry their blades and counter-attack with relative ease. For every one blow they landed on my flesh, I landed two or three more on theirs. By continually side-stepping and keeping the men from surrounding me, I was even able to get them to occasionally hurt one another by mistake despite their best efforts to avoid doing so. After a time, the lives of the smugglers became extinguished like those of the torch flames, while my own still burned within me albeit slightly dimmer than before.

I wished very much to rest at that point, but knew I could not. There remained one more enemy to deal with in this cursed Dwemer ruin—the so-called “Boss Crito” that ran this two-bit smuggling operation. Hopefully, this man would possess the Dwemer puzzle box I sought and I could leave this place forever. Knowing my luck up to this point, he had probably already sold it to some wizard in some random cave out east in Telvanni territory and I would be doomed to forever track down the little box until my dying day. Whatever the case, there was only one way to find out. I holstered my Daedric shortsword and climbed up the stone ramp leading to the second level of the ruins. Once on the new level, I went immediately for the door; whatever treasures the shelves and cabinets that adorned this platform could wait. For now, I had business with a Boss that concerned a small cubed metal object that had, over the course of the last several hours, become the bane of my existence.

Welcome back and glad to see you continuing this!

‘The criminal world was a nix-hound eat nix-hound one,...’ - - A delightfully TES saying!

You do a nice job of moving things along while letting Stitch share his observations and rationalization for his actions as he goes.

Interesting thoughts as Stitch took on the two thugs and considered the potential advantages in doing so. Grains of truth with a pinch of optimism.

Your command of prose and the details of spelling/grammar is very tight and a pleasure to read. I did note what I figure is simply a small typo that I figured you'd want brought to your attention:
'I can’t speak to how close these two men were to one another, but it was clear they were trying not to stick the each other with the ends of their blades as they fought me.' - - I suspect the bolded ‘the’ is left over from an earlier edit and probably best deleted.

I enjoyed the reasoning and justifications behind this master thief’s killings. Kind of interesting how his spin makes it sound completely reasonable.

Somehow I think Nord spirits would be a poor item to use for dousing flames… I suppose the alcohol contend was low enough to prevent any flare-ups.

Like Acadian, I thought his reasoning about fighting multiple foes very optimistic.

This ‘puzzle box’ is bringing so much joy.

Acadian: Thank you for your kind words! Yes, I imagine Stitch's thoughts on fighting multiple enemies at once are mixed with a healthy dose of optimism. The deeper we get into his story, the more these early "lessons" will be put to the test, I think.

King Coin: I'm glad you are enjoying the story thus far! Regarding Nord spirits and the dousing of the flames: I imagine you are correct in reasoning that the alcohol content was low enough to prevent any flare-ups. Nord spirits are normally very high in alcohol content, I imagine, but remember that these are smugglers who deal frequently in black market items of often dubious and/or less quality. Stitch, being well-versed in the smuggling underworld himself, would have recognized the Nord spirits immediately as a cheap knock-off, hence why he used them to distract the two thugs in the manner he did.

(That's a very detailed way of saying, "You know, I hadn't really considered that...quick, think of something that makes sense to justify it!" Good catch, in any case. )


After a longer-than-intended delay, we now continue with our current programming! Stitch, of course, is about to face-off against Boss Crito. Will he find the Dwemer puzzle box in this room? Or is he doomed to forever wander Tamriel in search of what is probably the most obscure item in existence? Read on and find out!

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The door that led to Boss Crito opened with the loud hisses and creaks that I had grown accustomed to in these Dwemer ruins. Knowing that stealth was no longer an option, I immediate drew my blade and prepared for an onslaught. Thankfully, the man I sought was not directly on the other side of the door and this allowed me a few precious seconds to take in my surroundings.

The room Boss Crito occupied contained just over a half-dozen crates as well as a few shelves containing various Dwemer trinkets. The room was also rather large, but ancient Dwemer steam pipes snaked across the middle of the room and essentially cut it in half; while there was still some room to maneuver, it was not nearly as much as I would have liked. I had little time to lament this fact, as Boss Crito was upon me seconds after my unwelcomed entrance.

Crito was a well-built Imperial who wore an iron cuirass and wielded an axe--similar to the first smuggler I had encountered on the bridge leading to Arkngthand. Unlike the first smuggler, however, it was clear that Boss Crito was very skilled with his weapon—his strikes were quick, concise, and pre-meditated. He knew where he wanted his blows to land and he conserved his energy wisely to maximize the effectiveness of each strike. Only my speed and agility saved me from getting cut into pieces within the first few seconds of battle. Unfortunately, his speed nearly matched my own and I found myself using my own weapon exclusively in a defensive matter. Furthermore, the Imperial knew the limitations of the room’s size and sought to back me into a corner; a tactic he was succeeding at, I might add. If the battle lasted much longer, I knew I would not survive.

Fortunately, I caught a lucky break that saved me from Oblivion. Having been backed into a corner against the Dwemer pipes, Crito must have sensed victory was imminent and sought to end me right then and there. Putting a little more strength into his swing than was necessary, he aimed for my head. I was able to duck just in time to avoid decapitation, only losing a few hairs off the top of my head in the process. Due to the over-application of strength in his attack, Crito was unable to halt the momentum of his axe and the weapon clanged violently against the pipes; the resulting vibrations shot up the smuggler boss’s arm and momentarily stunned him. This was my chance; if I did not end it here, Crito would surely recover and prevail over me. Seizing the moment, I jammed my Daedric shortsword into the Imperial’s exposed jugular; the blade protruded out the other side of the man’s neck with a spray of blood following shortly thereafter. A garbled noise escaped my assailant’s mouth, his eyes rolled back into his skull, and the body slid off my blade and crumpled to the metallic floor with a soft thud. I had defeated the last of Arkngthand’s smugglers and could now lay claim to its treasures unopposed.

The only treasure I cared about at this point was the Dwemer puzzle box, and I prayed to the ceiling that it was here. Fortunately, it was; sitting in plain sight on one of the bottom shelves lay the object I had sought for what seemed like an eternity. I knelt to pick it up; the description Hasphat had given me was indeed accurate, as the object was no bigger than my fist and clearly the work of the ancient Dwarves. As I pocketed the cube, a wave of fatigue washed over me and I could not find the strength to stand. I settled instead for sitting on the floor, leaning against the shelf. My eyelids became heavy, too heavy to remain open; I intended to close them for only a minute, but the exhaustion proved to be too much. I slipped into sleep almost instantly.

I awoke to a grumbling in my stomach and the sound of Dwemer steam hissing as it escaped the nearby pipes. As I shook off the last remnants of my dreamless sleep, I took stock of my surroundings. The room was as it had been prior to my nap, save for a large pool of blood that now accompanied the body of Boss Crito. Unfortunately for me, some of the blood had drifted over to my feet and now stained the heels of leather boots; there was probably some deep philosophical meaning to that, but all I could do at the time was curse the mess.

I hadn’t the slightest clue how long I was asleep, but it was enough for me to regain enough strength to stand and depart the former office of Boss Crito. The ruins of Arkngthand had held me long enough and I didn’t wish to stay a second longer. Retracing my steps up the walkway I had come down when I had first arrived, I exited the Dwemer city with as much haste as I could muster.

I was greeted by the outside world with a rising sun; considering I had entered the ruins shortly before noon, that meant I had been inside the ruins for just under a full day. The thought chipped away at the little fatigue I had recovered, so I stripped it from my mind and resolved to return to Balmora at once. Once I handed the puzzle box to Hasphat and got the info Caius wanted, my next course of action was to enjoy a long slumber in my own bed. Or, at least, that was the hope.

Back in the Fighter’s Guild, Hasphat was thrilled to receive the Dwemer puzzle box and thanked me heartily.

“Perfect! Thank you, this is just what I was looking for,” he said. “Let me just take that from you...there we go. Ah, such a fine specimen….” He examined the object with a scholar’s eye. As much as I wanted to quickly move on and was annoyed by the whole affair, I remained polite and allowed him to take his time. “Hmm…the inscriptions on the box seem to be the directions for setting a Dwemer key to open a specific lock,” he explained. “If you're interested, I can decipher these directions and maybe produce a key you can take back to Arkngthand.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “You mean you wouldn’t want the key for yourself?”

Hasphat laughed. “Oh, goodness no! My interest in the puzzle box is purely academic; I have no desire to plunder the depths of Arkngthand.” He then gave me a smirk. “I suspect you, on the other hand, might feel otherwise.”

I couldn’t help but smirk back; after all, he was right. “How long do you think it will take you to make the key?”

He examined the puzzle box for a few more moments before responding. “The directions do not appear to be particularly complex…I imagine a few hours, tops, if I devote my entire focus to the project.”

“Very well. Tell me what you know about the Sixth House and the Nerevarine.”

“Oh yes, of course!” the scholar exclaimed. He went to a nearby desk and opened one of its cabinets, exchanging the puzzle box for some hand-written notes which he gave to me. “Here you go; these are for Caius, though you may read them yourself if you like. I will summarize them briefly. In short: I've heard something about a secret cult worshipping Dagoth Ur. The idea is that the Tribunal are false gods who have betrayed Morrowind to the Imperials. The cult plans to overthrow the Temple and….”

Despite saying, “In short,” Hasphat’s summarization was anything but, and I found myself feigning attention as my interest waned. Just as I was about to drift back into sleep, something he said caught my attention and caused me to interrupt him.

“Wait, hold it right there. Can you repeat that last part?”

“Certainly. House Dagoth is the Sixth House, the ‘lost’ Sixth…”

“No,” I interrupted again, “the part right before that.”

“Oh. Well, as I said, I've also heard the cult has some connection with smuggling... that they smuggle goods, or hire smugglers, or something like that. I’m afraid I don’t know too much more. That sort of thing would be more your line of ‘research’ than mine, would it not?”

I barely heard his last line as my mind took on the workload of deep thought and concentration. In the ever-competitive world of criminals, one had to be a step or three ahead of the competition; this often meant becoming deeply in-tune to the latest information. I believed I had mastered this feat, but here now I was gaining information that was new to me—and from a scholar, no less, rather than one of my normal “business” contacts. This concerned me, and I immediately made a mental note to find out more.

Hasphat either must not have noticed I was deep in thought, or did not care, because he immediately resumed his detailed explanation of the Sixth House. He concluded several minutes later, and recommended some books I should read if I wished to learn more. Having concluded our business, I bid him farewell and promised to return before sunset to retrieve the key to Arkngthand from him.

My mind still churning due to the information concerning cult smuggling activities, I decided to hold off on returning to Caius’s house for the moment and instead opted to meet up with Ra’veer. This was partially borne out of a desire to delay and frustrate the Spymaster as much as possible, I’ll admit, but more than that I wished to pick my friend’s brain and see if he had heard of any unusual happenings in the smuggling underworld. Having thus decided my next course of action, I moved my feet towards the one place I knew with absolute certainty he could be found: the South Wall bar across the river.

As expected, I found my Khajiit friend at a table near the bar, drinking and laughing with our Thieves Guild comrades. Upon noticing my presence, he raised his glass and beckoned me to join him. I took the seat directly across from him and, after exchanging the usual pleasantries, asked our mutual friends to afford us some privacy. They nodded politely and excused themselves from our presence; they understood that business between the Master Thief and his second-in-command was best kept between only those two parties.

After taking another swig from his glass, Ra’veer let out a quick burp and then spoke. “So, I take it you are done with our ‘friend’ for the day?” he asked, obviously referring to Caius.

I shook my head. “Hardly. I still have business with him, but that business can wait. Right now, I have other matters on my mind.”

I explained what Hasphat had told me about a cult possibly hiring smugglers or engaging in smuggling activities themselves. Ra’veer, for his part, listened intently and did not interrupt. When I finished, he sat back in his chair and thought for a moment before responding.

“Interesting,” he said, taking another quick sip from his glass. “I have not heard of any cults hiring smugglers. They certainly haven’t approached us about business, that’s for sure.”

“Perhaps they’re hiring somebody else, then?” I speculated. “Maybe non-Guild freelancers? Or…”

“…or the Camonna Tong,” he finished for me, speaking the name with a hiss of disdain. “The Tong remain weakened, and our spies in their organization have not indicated they have done any business with cults.” As he considered the situation, he tapped his fingers on the table and took another sip of alcohol. “Even so…it remains a possibility,” he conceded. “Without more information, though, it is hard to say.”

“Agreed. Shake down our contacts, both in the Tong and elsewhere. I want to know something substantive as soon as possible.”

“I will begin my efforts as soon as we are done here,” he responded. “Anything else?”

“Nothing for now. I will have more at sunset. For now, I’ve got to see a man about some skooma.”

With that, I slid my chair out from the table and stood up. Ra’veer remained at his seat but raised his glass in salute. Our business finished for the time being, I exited the South Wall and made the short jaunt to Caius Cosades’s house.

Welcome back!

That was a tense fight with Boss Crito, but Stitch prevailed with the old sword in the throat!

Hasphat is a delightfully typical scholar – not particularly interested in the loot his research could lead to.