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]

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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