Altmer on a Leash Options

[Octavia]

I love writing this story and I hope this will amuse some of you. It's both comedy, romance, drama and mild horror in some places.


Chapter 1 – Jinxed

It was early morning in Sadrith Mora. The sun was just climbing over the hills to the east of Dirty Muriel's Cornerclub, warming the cap of a giant fungus for a while before it lazily moved onward. The gentle rays slid over the soft edge, slowly at first, but as more joined them a sharp beam of light formed.

In one of the cramped rooms a young high elf awoke with a sneeze that sent his long, honey coloured hair flying before his face. Squinting with blue eyes, streaked with red after a late night, he grimaced accusingly at the sun and stretched out his arm to tug at the curtain. He only managed to pull down the curtain pole, which in turn crashed down and turned over the pitcher on the rugged bedside table.

Being splashed with water was not an uncommon way for Breonnarin to wake up, but he had never caused it himself before and the lack of somebody to chase through the building somehow made it worse. He was just about to say things could not get worse when he realised that water was dripping into the drawer. He opened it with more force than necessary, out of worry for the things he kept there, and ended up holding the drawer by the handle in mid air as his belongings fell into the small pool of water that had formed on the floor.

“Oh, no!” He reached out to save the copy of Surfeit of Thieves he had got as a gift from the guild mates in Balmora. They had all put their signatures in it, recognisable marks anyway, and he valued those more than the story itself. Just as he felt the book with his fingertips he lost balance and fell off the bed with a crash.

The door opened and Fandus Puruseius, Muriel's bouncer, peeked inside carefully. When he saw that Breonnarin was alone in the room he sighed and put his hands on his hips disapprovingly. “What is all the rumble about? I though you were being attacked!”

Breonnarin moaned in excruciating pain. He had managed to fall on his back right on top of the drawer. “Help me up,” he wheezed.

The strong Imperial pulled up the young thief effortlessly. Breonnarin immediately bent down to pick up the book and wipe it off with the bedclothes. The pages were wet at the ends, meaning the book would lose shape forever if he did not press it after it dried, but the first page was all that mattered to him.

“What on...” The sheets turned red as the dye came off the cheap leather. Muriel would not be pleased and Fandus told him so.

“What are you doing?” Rissinia the Redguard grunted as he walked by, rubbing his eyes. “I intended to sleep in today, but that won't happen now.” The savant started to chuckle. “It does seem like you got an even worse start this day, so we're even. It's another matter with Both gro-Durug, though. Water should be leaking through the floor by now and his bed is right beneath yours. I'm surprised all this turmoil hasn't woke him already.”

“What is this supposed to mean?” came a harsh voice from below. “Elf! Are you wetting yourself? I swear I'll strangle you with your own pretty hair!”

“No, Both! It's water!” Breonnarin sighed. “Can somebody please fetch me some towels?”

“Why are you playing with water indoors?” Both growled and the stairs creaked as he went up to see the culprit face to face.

“Can you people stop screaming!” Muriel roared. Her ruddy face peeked over Rissinia's shoulder and anger turned into shock. “How on Nirn did you manage that?”


One hour and one hundred apologies later Breonnarin swallowed the last crumbs of his breakfast along with the last, bitter drops of tea out in the common room. Celegorn, a wood elf, was plucking eagerly at a lute.

“Please, stop that!” Breonnarin asked for the tenth time, but the little Bosmer continued to ignore him. “It sounds horrible!” Still nothing. “Your supposed music makes a scrib sound like a talented singer!”

“Oh! And I suppose the perfect little Altmer can do it better? Your little mayhem this morning didn't caress my sensitive ears either!”

Breonnarin hated when people made fun of his size, although coming from a Bosmer the insult lacked credibility. Only other high elves and tall Nord could make him feel short. He was just about to counter the insult when the door to Big Helende's room opened and she waved at him to join her.

“Have a seat, Scuttle.” How he hated that nickname! “You caused quite a mess this morning.”

“An accident.” He wriggled in his seat under her stare. “Well, several accidents deciding to happen all at once.”

“I believe you. Do you think you're done having accidents today?”

“I hope so.” He had had his morning tea now after all.

“Good.” The tall, bulky woman sat down facing him across the table. “I have a job for you. You know Fara?” Breonnarin nodded. “She has an annual cooking contest with Dinara Othrelas,” he froze, “who works in the Llethri manor in Ald-Ruhn. Fara needs Dinara's copy of Redoran Cooking Secrets. I thought this job would be perfect for you.”

Breonnarin's head spun.

“You look pale.” Helende crossed her arms, her polished netch leather cuirass creaking.

“Can't someone else do it?”

Helende looked thwarted. “Someone else? Of course someone else can do it, but why can't you?”

“Please, it's complicated. Horribly so.”

“Are you questioning my intelligence?”

“I grew up in that manor!” As the son of a guard, but he still had fond memories from there. Especially the kitchen.

“The more reason for you to go, since you obviously know the way. Perhaps Dinara would even lend you the book if you know her.”

Breonnarin rose up. “I'm sorry.”

“I would have expected more from an operative.” Helende eyed him disdainfully. “Celegorn will go, but I'm not responsible for the outcome.” Breonnarin struggled to swallow as a hard lump seemed to form in his throat. “As for you. You are not expelled, but get out of my sight. I may or may not take you back later. Much later.” She shook her head. “Now I know you deserve that name of yours, Scuttle.”

Am I that bad a coward? He shook his head in disbelief as he stuffed down his belongings in a bag. This could not have happened at a worse time. The night before he had been so sure he would do a job soon, so he had not thought twice about wasting the last coins in his purse on a drink or two and, in a state of bad judgement, gambling.

Stealing in Sadrith Mora, where Helende knew everything that happened, while being temporarily suspended would probably be disastrous for his career. There was no rule against stealing while out of the guild, but Helende seemed to make up her own rules sometimes.

Desperate times called for desperate methods.

“You wish to join House Telvanni?” Mallam Ryon, Gothren's Mouth at the Council, stared down at the tattered thief, holding away his fine robes in disgust.

Breonnarin nodded with a faked smile pasted on his lips. “Yes. I used to study in Mages Guild. I'm sure I can...”

“Oh, let me guess: They threw you out.” Ryon said tonelessly while his face contorted with irritation. “You outlanders are all the same, thinking that joining House Telvanni is an easy way around Mages Guild, but you're just whiny brats who can't even pick a flower if you're told to. Only the strong survive in this House. Literally!”

“I studied alchemy to the rank of...”

“Read the requirements, fool! Go, now and stop bothering me!”

To tell the truth, Breonnarin was more than afraid being watched by those hostile red eyes, the concentrated magicka between the Mouths nearly made sparks fly randomly through the air, but he left with a calm, measured walk. In the anteroom he picked up a brochure he had not noticed on the way inside. House Telvanni took in people with arcane skills in all areas except alchemy and restoration. Just his bad luck to study the wrong subject.

He only shot a single glance down the corridor leading to the Tribunal Shrine. “No. Not that,” he muttered under his breath. Not much chance of encountering ash pits that far below ground, though you could never be certain. Those made his stomach turn. With a sigh he went outside again.

Pierlette Rostorard, the apothecary, crossed her arms and gave Breonnarin a sour look.

“No. I don't need any assistance, thank you. Aren't you one of those shady figures who hang out around Dirty Muriel's? Get out of my shop!”

Breonnarin sighed and did as he was told before the woman told the guard to search him on the way out. He had no intention to go through that again. The humiliation!

This reception was warm in comparison to that of Anis Seloth. Apparently she had been visited by the thieves earlier and now made sure to be careful with what customers she let inside. It was near afternoon and the only places left to go were Fighters Guild, which was out of question since he would probably hurt himself more than others in a fight, and the Imperial Cult. Breonnarin was sure he could talk himself into the latter.

“By the Nine Divines!” he rehearsed as he trotted over the bridge to Wolverine Hall, avoiding to look twice at Dirty Muriel's. “Protect the poor, that's what I've always done!” Because he had always been the poor one. He would hopefully be running a couple of errands until it was safe to set foot in the tavern again. An imperial guard looked over his shoulder at the strange performance, but the Altmer ignored him.

Ascending the steps, he beheld the view for a while. His thoughts drifted like the thin clouds that chased over the sky. That practise dummy on the courtyard made him think of home. If he had only done as he was told he could have at least defended himself enough to take more risky jobs. The only weapon he owned was a little dagger that was more indented to scare people off than actual defence. Come to think of it, it had probably rusted and stuck to the sheath. Just as well: Then nobody could take it and use it against him.

With an air of serenity he straightened his back and opened the door.

Minutes later Breonnarin left, fuming with rage. ”We cannot recruit new members, but show up in Ebonheart with a humble pledge of 50 gold and you may join.” His last resort had shattered to dust. Humble pledge? That's a fortune!

He went to the harbour, nearly thinking of smuggling himself on board a ship. Where did not matter as long as it would be away from this place. It would of course be unfortunate if he managed to get himself on a slave ship.

With a defeated sigh he sank to the ground, trying out if the water in the puddle before him was sea water or rain. After a taste he stated that it was both and not too salty to drink. It was probably full of nasty bugs and germs, but rather that than dying of thirst.

When the worst thirst was gone he started to pick with his bag, trying to decide whether it was worth it or not to rip out that page in Surfeit of Thieves and sell the book. It had been a valuable book before he managed to ruin it this morning but it was still worth at least 100 gold. Still, it had been a gift. He held it in his hands, trying to decide what to do.

The strange sound of Dunmeri voices, humming like bumblebees inside Cephalopod helms, awoke Breonnarin from his thoughts. “I'm done with this stinking cluster! There ought to be better places.” Right you are. Breonnarin shifted his position so he would be safely hidden behind a rock. Guards were always bad news, whether you had done anything or not.

“There are no better Telvanni settlements. If it stinks too bad from the harbour and the slave market you can always request a transfer to the east side.” The second voice obviously belonged to an older Dark Elf.

“You cannot be serious!”

That seemed to annoy the older guard. “Tel Branora has Therana. You don't want to be her employee. She ordered my cousin to bring her a shipload of eggs and she just played with them. Only mercenaries guard her tower nowadays, commanded by a high elf captain. Then there's Tel Aruhn. It's just the same as Sadrith Mora, but with worthless connections and there's no way to escape the smell. Tel Vos is quiet and chaotic at the same time. There are always troublesome Ashlanders to be dealt with and Aryon has a taste for foreigners, I'm afraid. His captain is from Cyrodiil.”

“How about Tel Uvirith, the newest settlement?”

“Master Zohran's tower is guarded by those Dwemer metal beasts. He is also a high elf.” The last bit sounded like a curse. In fact it was. “Tel Mora is naturally out of question.”

“Why?”

The older guard started to laugh.”You really don't know? I'll tell you why. Mistress Dratha hates men to such an extent, not a man lives in town.”

“Then I guess it's either this or a new career. Not one man?”

“I mean what I say.” That ended the conversation.

It was silent for a while as the sun set. The sky was red over a glistening sea, the last sunbeams illumining a lonely bull netch. Breonnarin imagined that the guards were admiring it. He was not. It made him think of jelly and that made his stomach ache with hunger.

“Strange creatures, those netches,” the older guard remarked.

“How do they fly? They are so big and they don't even seem to try.”

“I'd imagine that they are quite hollow, gliding on the wind currents somehow with support of magic.”

“Perhaps they're levitating?”

“Could be. Perhaps they have to stop by at Vivec once in a while and reload at the Shrine to Stop the Moon.” Both laughed hard and returned to their posts.

Breonnarin put back the book into his bag and closed his eyes, trying to absorb the last warmth from the sun where he sat, leaning against the polished rock. The sun set and the light faded away and cold, hard winds blew in from the sea.

Now was the time to move on before the sea rose and drowned him. It took a while before he walked without stiffness, but he still swayed a bit from the lack of food. Drinking water had only made his stomach anticipate food and it complained a lot for being cheated out of it.

As the darkness thickened ordinary people retreated to their safe homes and the day began for others. Breonnarin knew enough of the art himself to fend off pickpockets and he hoped that he looked poor enough to avoid robbery. Looking out for Camonna Tong was his top priority. He knew better than thinking they were only present in House Hlaalu towns. Big Helende had expressed concern over it, so the threat was very much real.

Scattered about in the streets were tattered women who, despite the cold, wore cut off skirts and blouses nearly open to their waists, and some men too. Some of them even tried to pose as females. Breonnarin thought that he could be more convincing than a round Colovian man who wore a ridiculous leather corset on top of a torn lace dress, his unshaven face thick with make-up.

Breonnarin nearly considered joining them for the prospect of easy money, but a glance at the drunk Nord and Dunmer sailors who seemed to be their main customers made him drop the idea with a shudder. Good that his hair was put up today or there might have been misunderstandings.

It started to rain and eventually hail in the freezing autumn night. The delicate Altmer could take no more. He pounded on several doors, hoping for charity, but only one opened for him. By then he had almost reached Wolverine Hall again.

Behind that door was a sparsely furnished room and a Dunmer male with short, red hair that looked a bit tousled after sleeping. He just looked at Breonnarin for a moment with pity in his red eyes. Just as well. Pride was a part of dignity, which he did not possess. "Come in,” he invited with a low voice. “I guess that is what you're here for?”

A bit hesitantly, Breonnarin climbed the last steps and entered the house as if walking on clouds. This was the first good thing that had happened that day.

"Help yourself to some bread," the Dunmer said while starting to heat some water.

“You were the only one who cared,” Breonnarin said. This was the last house too. The last chance.

The Dunmer took out a clay mug from a cupboard. “People don't like to get in trouble and you look like it.”

“What about you?” Breonnarin asked between chewing two large pieces of bread. It tasted better than anything had of late.

“I don't have much to lose, see,” he smiled. His house had two stories, though not half of the furniture others would put in half of the space. Worn tapestries with religious patterns were the only luxury. He stirred down some chokeweed and green lichen with a spoon, adding some comberry for the flavour, and offered the draught to the drenched Altmer. "This will keep you from catching a cold. It would also have tasted terrific with the bread, if you had not finished it already."

Breonnarin blushed, looking down at the soft crumbles on the table, but the Dunmer laughed softly. "It is alright. You were obviously hungry."

"Who are you?"

"You don't visit the Temple often, do you? Well, with its current state I don't blame you. I'm Navis." Breonnarin waited for a family name, but it never came. Strange.

"Thank you, Navis. I will remember this.” Breonnarin looked at the sparse furniture. “I must confess that I'm not very religious."

"Religious or not, you seem like a better person than most Telvanni. The Tribunal is - not quite as influential here. Things are better after the Blight, of course. More reason to believe in the goodness of the gods again and Lord Vivec has called for reformation." He looked worried about something, though.

Breonnarin shook his head. "I am not a Telvanni retainer." Not much chance of it ever happening either.

"I should have suspected, but apart from your appearance, your accent is quite native. You obviously grew up on Vvardenfell. Or the north west. It's hard to determine sometimes."

"Ald'ruhn." It was a big settlement. No need to lie about it.

"Honour grows where only trama shrubs survive," the monk mused. “The Temple is strong in the Redoran district, though perhaps not in the way I would prefer. You cannot truly believe in something you never question.”

Images appeared inside Breonnarin's head. Hideous skulls were glaring at him, half covered with grey ash. He fetched a potion for his father in the temple in Ald'ruhn once and never more.

“It's not healthy to let an organisation take full control over a religion. The ordinators were actually trying to arrest The Nerevarine.” Navis frowned and cleared his throat. Criticism had its punishments in the Temple.

Breonnarin understood later on that the woman who had looked for him in Balmora and asked the directions to his father had been The Nerevarine. Odd that an Imperial woman would be the reincarnation of an old Chimer general who was destined to drive away all the foreigners from Morrowind. Those prophecies were perhaps after-constructions. There was a good reason The Temple would have her arrested. The Nerevarine was to bring back the old beliefs of ancestor worship and had revealed the true power behind the three immortal gods of Morrowind. Rather than ascending through goodness they had used the same power as the devil himself, Dagoth Ur, and drawn their power from the heart of Lorkhan.

That was why Navis was worried. The heart was destroyed and the gods would eventually die. Almsivi would wither and his father had been a part in the making as the ranking Blades agent. Caius Cosades, the old layabout in Balmora, had passed on the mission to the more well educated Ghijedalyn. Perhaps the future history books would claim he was Nerevar reborn.

Breonnarin cared very little for that. He had been used as a puppet all the time his father had infiltrated the ranks of House Redoran and later revealed the corruption in Caldera, receiving mighty rewards from the emperor. The latter had been too much. Breonnarin had worked as a scribe for Odral Helvi and it was through him his father had worked by looking through his desk while he was asleep and later setting fellow spies to follow him from the house every morning. The humiliation!

Navis yawned and took out a robe and blankets from a chest. “You can change into this and let your clothes dry on that chair.” The monk went upstairs, and seemed to fall into his bed. Not many people could be that civil in the middle of the night. Breonnarin wondered if he would be grumpy in the morning instead or perhaps forget that he let a wet little Altmer in the night before. Be that as it may, now he needed to rest.

[Octavia]

Chapter 3 – Initiation

“We're close to Tel Mora now. Are you sure you haven't changed your mind?” Arethi's voice rasped suddenly in Breonnarin's ear.

The young Altmer jumped in surprise. “About what?” He drew away from the advancing Dunmer.

“I just thought it would be a shame for a fine young girl like you to go living with those man-haters. Not all men are evil prowlers with lewd desires.” The way he said those words made him sound like just that. Breonnarin felt like the hunted prey.

“Ah, I don't plan on staying for long. I've got... relatives there. Need to go visit my... aunts.” He swallowed.

“I see.” Arethi sounded disappointed, but seemed to take it for truth. “Be sure to catch my ship back south. I'll give you a discount.” He winked and returned to the wheel. Breonnarin released the breath he had been holding. No wonder there was need for a place like Tel Mora in Morrowind.

The settlement came into view. It was more a village than a town. The housepods were neatly arrayed along the bridges that grew out from the quite small tower in the centre. The setting induced a feeling of a close community, making him wonder if it would be possible to break into it with so little time to spare.

Happy to finally be off the ship, the thief walked up the steps slowly, feeling every bit the intruder he was. It was one thing that the middle aged captain of a passenger ship fell for his disguise, another to fool actual women. The tower seemed to be heavily guarded, so Breonnarin decided to begin with familiarising himself with the town. A shop near the docks seemed to be a good start.

An elaborate sign read “Berwen: Trader”. He climbed the wooden steps and opened the door.

“You there!” an insistent voice said. Breonnarin froze in the doorway. “I need help now!”

Only a Bosmer could be so rude to a stranger, though Berwen had a civilised appearance in her rich garments.

“Er...” Breonnarin cut himself off as he noticed he had forgotten about his role. With a slight pause he let his voice slide up an octave before he continued. “With what?”

“Isn't it obvious? Listen, woman!” Something was breathing upstairs. Breathing very hard.

“Did you let in a drunk Nord?”

“It's a corprus stalker!”

“Corprus? How has it survived this long? Dagoth Ur went down over two years ago.”

“I think it escaped from Divayth Fyr's Corprusarium somehow. He's known to be quite negligent.”

“Oh... and you expect me to kill it? Doesn't it belong to Fyr?”

“If you have the ability I will reward you. Don't bother about that old wizard. You're doing the community a great service. This has stopped my business completely because I trapped it behind my stock crates.”

Breonnarin contemplated this for a second. He had heard that corprus was very contagious and he was always the one to catch every disease that flew on him. “Can I borrow a short bow and some arrows?” That would decrease the risk somewhat.

She handed him a chitin short bow. “You can keep the bow as reward if you want it.”

“I'll see if it suits me,” Breonnarin answered, walking up the stairs slowly. Berwen followed him, but stayed halfway up where she would be at a safe distance and still have a fairly good view. Breonnarin took care that the Bosmer could not look under his skirt.

The beast had a stench of death about it that made it hard for the thief to concentrate as he clumsily fired the first shot. The arrow missed its target by at least a step and pierced the fine wood of Berwen's closet.

“Can't you do better than that?” Berwen scowled. “I hoped that you at least had base knowledge when you asked for a bow.”

“I do,” Breonnarin lied, “just give me some practise shots. I'm a bit rusty.” How hard can it be? Even Celegorn knows how to use these things.

The next shot actually hit the monster – in a finger. The leaking stump fell off, dripping infected, black blood on Berwen's imported rug.

“Hey!” Berwen was now quite upset, but Breonnarin ignored her. He was getting the hang of this now. The monster did not seem to notice that his left index finger was missing as he cast a healing spell on himself.

“I hadn't thought of that,” Breonnarin mumbled. “I'd better speed this up.” He fired three shots in a row, each getting closer to the heart, but not hitting anything vital. The thieve's arm muscles were starting to fail him and the fingers of his right hand ached from the rough material of the bowstring, which slapped at the inside of his left arm violently after each shot. I'd better find gloves if I'm to start using this regularly.

“What's taking you so long?” Berwen said impatiently.

“I'm just... trying to get a fair aim. The beast won't stand still.”

“Would you be still if an incompetent high elf was trying to put an arrow through your ears?”

“I'm not incompetent! Besides, why would I ever try to shoot through his ears? That's ridiculously hard to manage!” Breonnarin turned his head towards the Bosmer as he was about to fire another shot. His fingers suddenly slipped and a thumping sound made him look back again. The corprus stalker lay dead on the floor with an arrow sticking out of his left ear.

“By The Nine, I got it!” Breonnarin cheered with a too masculine voice.

Berwen did not seem to hear as she looked at the mess, giving the elf a questioning look as she studied the dead monster.

“Don't say anything witty. Do I get to keep the bow?” It was best to ask. He had not done exactly as she had expected.

Berwen pulled out the arrow that was stuck in her closet with a sigh, running a finger over the hole in the wood. “It's really against my sense of judgement to let somebody like you run loose with a weapon, but I promised, didn't I?”

“Yes you did.” Breonnarin eyed the mess he had caused as the sweetness of victory was starting to fade. “Should I help you clean up?”

“No, I'll get some Argonian slaves to do it.”

“May I buy some more arrows?” It would be nice to practise target shooting in the wilderness where nobody would get hurt.

“I don't have any arrows. Try Radras, the smith.” Berwen shooed him down the stairs.

“But you just gave me...”

“Not for sale!” Berwen backed up against a crate, hiding a plentiful storage of arrows behind her wide skirts. “Go to The Covenant and have some lunch instead of bothering me.”

“Fine!” Breonnarin sniffed and turned on his heel with the bow slung around his shoulder. Trying to keep a somewhat feminine walk he made his way to The Covenant and ascended the whirling steps. The cliffracers swirled over the mountains and made him doubt if that target shooting would ever take place.

Breonnarin was met by a sharp nosed Bosmer, blonde braid hanging over her shoulder. She looked him up and down. “Do you seek membership?”

Good, no suspicions there either. “No, thank you, I don't plan on staying that long. I just look for decent food and perhaps a room.”

“Then it's full price for you and no benefits. Look for Thaeril. She runs the business.” She waved him off with a scowl.

Membership?

Breonnarin rented a room and was met with odd stares from the publican as he ordered vegetable soup and bread, but the elegant Bosmer sent orders to the kitchen all the same.

“Is there something wrong with my order?” Breonnarin asked with a shy, velvety smooth voice. The falsetto was not going to be comfortable in the long run.

“It's not what we usually serve here,” Thaeril snapped and turned her back to him to talk with a dumbfounded maid. “Speak up, girl!”

“We... we don't have the ingredients.” She clutched her stained apron.

“Have you checked the storage?” Thaeril cocked her eyebrow.

The maid made big eyes. “There are vegetables there?”

“Of course! What do you think I feed the rats with?”

“How silly of me. I'll go right away.” The maid gathered her skirts and trotted away.

“You can take a rat while you're at it!” Thaeril yelled. “Borwen and the others should return soon and they always scrape their plates clean after a good hunt. Just as well we give them something to do while we cook up whatever they bring back.”

Breonnarin's shut his mouth, which had popped open as soon as the rats came into the picture, and struggled to regain a look of tranquillity. “Rats?”

“They make wonderful stews. If you wait for a while you can have a bowl of that instead.”

“No, thank you. If you don't mind I'd like to sit down.”

“The dining room is just down the stairs.” Thaeril nodded at the maid, who was now returning with a couple of carrots that were more yellow than orange. Breonnarin still thought that eating the rats' food was better than eating the creatures themselves. He had always liked rats.

Descending the stairs he found himself in a large, darkened room with rows of tables. It was empty save for a slender Bosmer who sat hunched over her meal. Breonnarin thought for a while whether it would be rude to disturb her or even worse to seat himself at another table. As soon as she looked up at him with big, dark eyes that perfectly accentuated her peachy skin and blue black hair he did not hesitate to join her. If he only had not been dressed as a woman!

“I haven't seen you around,” the Bosmer said.

“I just arrived,” Breonnarin said, trying to sit down in a feminine way while trying to make the bow stand still where he leant it against the chair next to him. “A pretty town.”

“I can tell you haven't been here for long. I'm Liette.”

“Gyande,” he nodded back.

When Breonnarin's soup was brought down they were already discussing the incident with the corprus stalker.

“I still cannot imagine how it got here,” Breonnarin said, thanking the maid as the bowl was put down before him.

“We found a potato too,” the maid announced proudly.

“Excellent.” Against his own common sense he tipped her with a copper coin. The little idiot hiked up her skirts and ran up the stairs with light steps.

“I'd wager it came from Tel Vos. Aryon likes to experiment with oddities.” Liette had finished her meal and shuffled a deck of cards with sleek hands. “He and Dratha have regular disputes based solely on his gender, though other Telvanni aren't nearly as progressive as he. It was probably some sort of prank from his side.”

The so called potato was nowhere to be seen, unless that was the strange grains that floated on the soup. How do you manage to dissolve a potato? If he could only get hold of a kitchen he would cook on his own.

“What is that supposed to be?” Liette asked as she started to divide the deck into two equal parts.

“Vegetable soup.” Breonnarin wrinkled his nose. “It's better than eating rats.”

“Hardly. Rats have a quite delicious taste.”

“But I want rats to be alive and playful, not skinned on a plate.” Breonnarin forced himself to swallow the first spoonful of soup. “They are cute and quite intelligent.”

Liette eyed him dubiously. “Let's settle this with a game. If I win you have to eat a slice of roasted rat when the hunters return, if not, I will have to bring you something tastier that doesn't contain meat.” She pushed one half of the deck at him.

“Why am I the only one who gets affected by the outcome?”

“You may decline the offer,” Liette smirked.

One bite at one of the rough carrot chunks settled his dilemma. “What are we playing?”

“It's called The Night Mother.”

He knew the rules and tactics for that game. “It's a deal.”


The ash yam was fresh and crunchy, just how he liked it.

Liette supported her head with her hands, elbows on the table. She had not counted on losing. “You are clever to win that game. People seldom do, even when I don't get to shuffle.”

“You were cheating?” Breonnarin felt even more mirth for beating her.

They both bolted upright when the building was suddenly full of voices and the sound of chitin and leather boots drumming against the floor. “Five kagouti!” Thaeril exclaimed above. “They will last for weeks!”

Liette made a sour face. “Not kagouti again!”

“Aren't they carnivorous?” Breonnarin thought of the bulky creatures with insanely big heads and sharp teeth. Come to think of it, all the creatures in Morrowind seemed to have very big heads.

“I'm going home now,” Liette said and rose up.

“I'll be retreating to my room.” Breonnarin gathered his belongings. He was not too keen to walk through the chaos up there alone and the rooms were in the same direction as the exit. Breonnarin followed her out, trying to look away from the hunters and what they were doing, but he nearly skidded on a puddle of blood on the floor.

“Now I'll have to clean my boots,” he complained, lifting his green woollen skirt disdainfully.

“Hey, Liette! Who's that new friend of yours? It seems she's beating you in the sissy game, man-lover!” Whoever said that ended the sentence with a belch. Liette ignored the remark and quickened her pace slightly.

“Who was that?” Breonnarin whispered as they came out of earshot.

“Borwen. I think she's a very confused man caught in a woman's body. She thinks she's an Ashlander too. The skooma does that to people.” She looked him in the eye. “You are blonde, styled, wear feminine clothing and can't stand to see butchered animals. All signs of weakness in their eyes. I'd stay in my room tonight if I were you.”

Liette opened the door, revealing the heavy downpour outside.

“I thought that this was some sort of haven for women,” Breonnarin said, confused.

“Me too.” Liette patted his arm and descended the slippery steps. He watched her leave until Natesse, the blond braided scout, sneaked up behind him and yelled that the door was supposed to be shut. His arm was still tingling from the touch and he felt like he was breathing through cotton. She was too pretty. He would let down his guard with her and be hauled off by the guards before he knew it.

With a sigh he went up the stairs again and opened the door to his room. It was cramped and worn, but the thick walls shut out almost all the noise from outside and the door could be sealed from the inside. He put his bag on the floor, took off his boots and threw himself on the narrow bed.

Several hours later Breonnarin awoke. The tavern had gone silent again and he remembered that he had only eaten porridge and ash yam that day. He craved for bread. After one look in the mirror he noticed that the cosmetics had smeared out a bit over his face, but he still looked like a somewhat shabby female. He had no intention to redo all that just to wash it off as he returned to the room in a few minutes.

Breonnarin opened the door and sneaked out in the corridor, trying to apply what Hecerinde had taught him about moving unheard to wearing boots with a bit of heel. He advanced into the main room, the counter sloppy with oil and spilt drinks. Bosmer were lying on the floor, sleeping heavily after their orgy of gluttony. Opening the latch he moved behind the counter, looking through the cupboards. He found a tiny, hard piece of bread, grabbed a nearly empty bottle of greef and retreated to his room.