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]

@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.

This post has been edited by Khajiit_Thief01: Jun 12 2011, 01:19 AM