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]

@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...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.