Stolen Destiny: The Story of Stitch Options

[Khajiit_Thief01]

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

FOREWORD

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 post has been edited by Khajiit_Thief01: May 29 2011, 05:00 AM

[Khajiit_Thief01]

@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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CHAPTER 2

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.

This post has been edited by Khajiit_Thief01: Jun 3 2011, 12:08 AM