Stolen Destiny: The Story of Stitch Options

[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!

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


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

[treydog]

A wealth of characterization in this one- with views to Stitch's past- both recent and more distant.

I could not help but chuckle at Dro'zhar's teaching method. "If you don't want to get whacked in the head- move faster."

Stich's "voice" is also quite distinctive here. Wonderful- and I look forward to more...

[haute ecole rider]

Though I haven't played MW, I've read enough fan fictions to recognize this quest. I quite enjoyed how Stitch is dealing with the smugglers at the ruins, and his admission of his weakness in long-range combat. I look forward to more!

[King Coin]

Nothing's for free lol.

I enjoyed the chapter. The little flashback of Stitch's dad was nicely worked in and humorous.

Good chapter.

[Grits]

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.

Nice.

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.

I like that he left the coins. It’s the opposite of carrying around fifty torches. A very engaging portion of the story, indeed!

[Acadian]

Great background provided on Stitch by Larrius Varro. A most welcome pause to fill in some details!

"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."
What a perfect threat for a master thief to make!

“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.”
Isn't it always this way in Tamriel?

'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.'
This, along with the supporting logic that followed was great reading and very creative thinking.

'..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.'
Like Grits, I was struck by this. Great thief-like thinking.

I am glad you lingered some here. You could have easily glossed over the fight and entry into the ruins but you used the opportunity to add some rich detail to the way Stitch thinks and does business. Very enjoyable.

I'd be remiss if I didn't compliment your ability to change perspectives smoothly as you did between the last two episodes. Also you display a very effective use of flashbacks - both when and how to use them to good effect.

[mALX]

Sorry it took so long to get over here and read, this month has been unbearably hectic so far. Dro’zhar's teaching methods are hilarious, lol. Poor Stitch! Great Write!!

[Khajiit_Thief01]

@treydog: I'm glad you found Dro'zhar's teaching method amusing. It was definitely a very fun part to write! As far as more...ask and you shall receive!

@haute: I'm glad you are not getting lost despite never having played Morrowind. Again, one of my biggest hopes is that this story is accessible to all, and I am glad to see that I am succeeding thus far.

@King Coin: Thank you! I hope you find this next part just as enjoyable, if not more so!

@Grits: I'm glad you noticed that in regards to the inventoryA. In writing this story I have sought to strike a balance between what the game mechanics allow and what the "reality" of such a situation would allow. While he will be able to carry a decent amount of potions and other smaller items (I imagine his robe has a great many pockets inside, as a Thief should!), you won't see him lugging around three warhammers, two spears, and a full suit of Daedric armor. Enchantments and fortify spells/potions can help, but I feel as if they should have some limitations to them, as well.

@Acadian: Thank you very much! I am glad that you have enjoyed the story so far. The flashbacks will serve as an integral part of this tale, as Stitch's past is something that will continually come up during his "employment" with the Blades (and everything that will eventually entail). I am glad to see that they are being incorporated so smoothly thus far, as that is always a concern of mine when I include a flashback.

@mALX: No worries! There are several stories on the forums that I am still getting caught up with, myself. Real Life can be pretty intrusive when it comes to reading, I've found. I'm glad you are also enjoying Dro'zhar's teaching methods...another such lesson can be found below!


I am glad to finally be posting the next portion of The Story of Stitch! I was hoping to post another update sooner than this, but Real Life sought fit to delay me. Thankfully, this past weekend afforded me some quality writing time, and the wait between the next few updates will be shorter than this one was. Enjoy!

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

The first thing I noticed about Arkngthand was that it was huge; the entryway was at the top of a cavern, with the ruins themselves at the bottom and reachable by navigating down the natural rock formation that time and nature had made into a ramp. The top of the cavern was dark, but I could see a source of light below— most likely a fire, which meant smugglers would be nearby. Quietly, I made my way down towards the ruins, being sure to stay as close to the wall and shadows as I could.

The second thing I noticed, especially as I neared the actual ruins, was the noise—Arkngthand, like all Dwemer ruins, were extremely loud due to the strange machines and constructs of the lost civilization. Despite the noise, I remained as quiet as could be. Another of Father’s lessons sprang to my mind, his words a source of both comfort and discipline.

Father and I were outside in our backyard. I was 14 years old, and through years of practice I had finally become adept at the art of sneaking. A caravan was rolling towards Caldera during this time, and the noises of pack guars, shouting merchants, and rickety wagons filled the air. As the caravan passed, I allowed my movements to become less fluid and precise, earning me a quick admonishment from my Father.

“The presence of external noise does not mean you should assume you cannot be heard,” he instructed me. “Noisy surroundings can be helpful, but you must not let it trick you into relaxing your vigilance. Dro’zhar has the scars to prove it.”

“But how can anybody possibly hear me through all of that?” I challenged him. “The merchants can barely hear themselves!”

“Always assume you can be heard. This will ensure you never are,” he countered. “Some people hear better than others, and there are even rumors the Telvanni can use magic to enhance their hearing. There is no way to tell what each individual person can or cannot hear, unless, of course, they tell you. For example, Dro’zhar has good ears, and can tell you that the pack guar at the rear of the caravan is very flatulent.”

He motioned for me to listen, which I obediently did. Despite my best efforts in focusing my hearing at the aforementioned guar, I could not hear the sounds my Father claimed to. My eyes grew wide in astonishment.

“That’s amazing!” I exclaimed. “You must have the best ears ever!”

He laughed, his ears perking up as they did so. “Dro’zhar’s ears are good, yes, but not nearly as good as your mother’s. Dro’zhar thinks this is probably because she talks his off.”

“Hey!” my mother yelled from inside the house. “Kizza heard that, and will be sure to give her husband another talking-to later!”

“See?” my father chuckled. “Dro’zhar was right.”

Unfamiliar voices up ahead brought me back to reality. I was nearing the bottom of the cave, and the source of light—which, I could tell now, was not a campfire but several torches stuck into the ground—was becoming more prominent. As the shadows receded, so too did I, until finally I could press myself against the cavern walls no further. I halted my stealthy advance and took stock of my surroundings.

To my left was the source of the voices and the entrance to the ruins themselves. Both were still several yards from where I stood, with the smugglers—a Redguard and Imperial of roughly equal height—discussing something I could not make out over the various creaks and groans of Arkngthand. The entrance, and the path to it, were both brightly lit by the torches; attached to the ruins themselves were strange Dwemer lights that provided additional illumination. It was clear to me that stealth, again, would not be an option in dealing with the smugglers.

I also noticed that this part of Arkngthand had two floors. From the angle I was currently standing I could not see a door on the top floor, but I surmised that the entrance to that area would be accessible from within the lower portion of the ruins. Of course, this meant going through the smugglers.

To my right, on the other hand, was a hole in the cavern wall. The presence of Dwemer pipes inside of the hole revealed that it lead to another section of the ruins, though whether this section was connected to the one on my left I was not sure. Given the size of the cavern, however, I guessed that this was indeed the case. This path was poorly lit and would be easy to sneak through, so I elected to take it over the left one.

The path snaked around a bit before ending in a door, which I went through. The walls here were adorned with those same Dwemer lights I had seen previously, and it was relatively well lit. I used what little shadows there were to conceal myself as I crept along the ancient hallways, and it wasn’t long before I spotted another smuggler.

The hallway ended in a large cavernous section that was littered with shelves, tables, chairs, and crates. It was here that I spotted my next adversary, sitting in one of the chairs. He was a brown-haired Nord drinking a bottle of sujamma, an inexpensive liquor with a dark color and harsh taste. His back was turned to me, and he did not seem to have noticed my presence.

I could have easily snuck up behind the man and killed him without warning, but this was the way of an Assassin—not a Thief. I didn’t have much honor, or at least not in most matters, but I made it a point to not kill anybody without at least giving them the decency of a warning first. Not too much of a warning, mind you—I still wanted to live, after all—but enough of one to at least soothe my conscience. A second or so usually sufficed.

Adhering to this tenet, I crept a few more paces forward and then stood up straight. My weapon remained in my hand, but I lowered it to my side. “Hey!” I shouted, startling the Nord and causing him to drop his drink and turn around. “Think I could have some of that? I’m parched.”

The Nord apparently lacked both humor and compassion, as what he offered me was not a drink but the sharp end of a steel dagger. I politely rejected this and made a counter-offer of my own by raising my Daedric shortsword into a fighting position. Clearly incensed at this, he charged forward to have some nasty words with me.

It was clear that the jug of sujamma was not the man’s first of the day, because despite the Nordic peoples’ almost legendary ability to hold liquor, his fighting skills still suffered as a result. His strikes were sluggish and his footwork more so, and I easily dodged them while countering with my own. My greater speed and agility, not to mention sobriety, ensured a quick end to the battle. As I had done to the first smuggler outside of the ruins, I searched the dead man’s pockets for the puzzle box, but did not find it. A search of the shelves and crates in the rest of the cavern revealed various Dwemer mugs and bowls, but not the object I was searching for. I would have to venture deeper into the ruins to find it.

[haute ecole rider]

What a cool introduction to a Dwemer ruin! At least, that's what I assume Arkngthand is. By the way, how in the heck do you pronounce that??

Then we have a flashback to Stitch's past and the importance of being silent at all times, regardless of ambient noise. I especially loved this bit:

He laughed, his ears perking up as they did so. “Dro’zhar’s ears are good, yes, but not nearly as good as your mother’s. Dro’zhar thinks this is probably because she talks his off.”

“Hey!” my mother yelled from inside the house. “Kizza heard that, and will be sure to give her husband another talking-to later!”

“See?” my father chuckled. “Dro’zhar was right.”

The interplay between the parents was so precious and gave us a tremendous insight into the kind of childhood Stitch had.

And Dro'zhar is right - one must be silent at all times when sneaking. How many times in fiction (and in RL) have you given yourself away when the ambient noise drops suddenly? How many times have you said something particularly embarrassing loudly in a sudden lull in the conversation at the fancy restaurant?

And finishing off with a rousing little combat scene with a drunken Nord. If I have to fight a Nord, that's how I like 'em - drunk. A sober Nord is very scary indeed.

And a hint of more to come! Not quite a cliffie (of which I'm guilty ) but definitely an invitation to watch for more!

Don't worry about how long it takes you to get the next post ready. Just make sure it's good and well worth reading. So far, so good. (Said Steve McQueen)

[King Coin]

The whole bit about hearing and sneaking was great. I like the khajiit ears. They are so expressive.
Like haute ecole rider I really enjoyed the bit with Stitch's parents.

An unusual sense of honor. I can tell you, my khajiit is not an assassin, but she still takes advantage of a turned back.

[Acadian]

Neat sounding ruins!

Another delightful flashback. I really liked the one line from the sharp-eared Kizza! And like others, I love the expressiveness of Khajiit ears.

Yes, the choice of retaining the shadows even as striking, or declaring yourself first. I imagine all sneaksters face that challenge.

'I searched the dead man’s pockets for the puzzle box, but did not find it.'
Nope. It couldn't be that easy, could it?

[Grits]

I like the way Stitch describes the ruin in terms of light and shadow, noise, cover, and exits. It gives the adventure a nice thief-y flavor.

I could have easily snuck up behind the man and killed him without warning, but this was the way of an Assassin—not a Thief. I didn’t have much honor, or at least not in most matters, but I made it a point to not kill anybody without at least giving them the decency of a warning first. Not too much of a warning, mind you—I still wanted to live, after all—but enough of one to at least soothe my conscience. A second or so usually sufficed.

I found this section very interesting, as Stitch spells out how he deals with his conscience. It makes me wonder if his sense of honor will evolve, or how he will handle a situation where he knows he can’t win if he declares himself. I’m looking forward to the rest of Arkngthand!

[Khajiit_Thief01]

@haute: I know exactly what you mean! It's so awkward when the noise at a party (or other event) suddenly drops and you're the only one left talking, or everybody suddenly hears you make other types of noises. As far as your last point, I hope this portion was worth the wait!

@King Coin: I'm glad you enjoyed the previous portion. Hopefully this one is as equally engrossing for you!

@Acadian: I remember Buffy having a similar predicament in a certain set of ruins, herself. I doubt Stitch is less concerned about harming an innocent in these circumstances--after all, these are smugglers, who aren't exactly model citizens by virtue of their profession. Rather, I suspect his particular sense of honor came about as a result of other, less noble but definitely very personal circumstances. Perhaps we will find out later in the story--but not now.

@Grits: As those familiar with the quest of the Nerevarine are acutely aware, there will be times when our hero will be greatly outmatched and even outnumbered. Will Stitch's personal code change and adapt to the circumstances, or will he find a way to work with it, rather than around it? That remains to be seen, as we are still in the very early stages of his quest.


For this portion, we find Stitch continuing to search the ruins of Arkngthand for the Dwemer puzzle box. A familiar refrain, uttered by Stitch in a previous portion of the story, bears repeating here: In Vvardenfell, there are no free rides. Enjoy!

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

Several hours of searching later, however, I remained empty handed. The ruins were quite extensive, and though I searched every single nook and cranny the puzzle box still eluded me. During my search I was forced to kill many more smugglers, but neither their shouts nor their corpses brought me any closer to that which I sought. I began to silently curse the people that had brought me here—the Emperor, Larrius Varro, Caius, Hasphat—and when I was done with them I turned my anger towards the puzzle box itself. I am certain no other inanimate object in history has ever been more insulted than the Dwemer puzzle box, for when I ran out of curses in the Cyrodillic tongue I resorted to the various Ta’Agra curses I had picked up from my parents as I was growing up.

Eventually, I came to an area of the ruins that was bathed in a soft red glow. As I approached, I noticed that a river of lava ran underneath the grated floor. This was no doubt the source of the red light. The grated floor did not extend outward to the entire hallway, however; instead, it ended about halfway towards another door, with two rooms on either side. The red light did not reach as far as the door, and this allowed me to inspect both rooms from within the safety of the shadows.

The right room contained several shelves with various Dwemer items, but once again no puzzle box. Just as I was about to begin anew my torrent of curses, I noticed that the left room was not unoccupied. Amongst the several crates and singular table that littered the room, a Breton man was maneuvering a wheeled cart into a corner. He had not yet seen me, and after a few moments he turned his back to my direction and began loading the crates onto the cart. He was a young man, probably no older than 20, and had brown hair wrapped into a “pony-tail,” as the Imperials called the style.

I took a moment to weigh my options. I could fight him right now, and hope that the crates he handled contained the Dwemer puzzle box- which would save me from having to delve deeper into the ruins through the door at the end of the hallway. Of course, if neither he nor the crates possessed the puzzle box, then I would have engaged in battle for nothing, or at the very least taken on the risks of combat sooner than necessary. Perhaps I could rummage through the closest crates quietly enough to avoid detection…but then, there was always the chance he could turn around, causing my cover to be blown as a result.

After careful consideration, I decided to avoid this fight for now. There were quite a few crates in this room, and it would take the young Breton some time to load them all onto the cart. I could easily return here and fight if necessary, but for now I decided the most sensible course of action was to pass through the door at the end of the hallway and search the innermost section of Arkngthand.

As I approached the ancient Dwemer door, however, I noticed that it was locked. Normally, such a thing would be easy for a Thief of my advanced skills to conquer—just pull out a lockpick, manipulate the tumblers, and unlock the entryway. In order to pick a lock, one must have a lockpick of sufficient quality to lift the tumblers in the correct order. The heavier the tumblers within, the higher quality the lockpick must be, as lesser lockpicks will break under the weight of the tumblers. The more tumblers there are in a lock also determines the quality of lockpick needed.

Dwemer doors presented a special challenge, though. Dwemer doors were made with Dwemer metal, and this metal is extremely heavy. The higher quality lockpicks could still get past the less complex locks, but the door that stood in front of me possessed what I deduced to be no less than six tumblers. Despite my best efforts and the use of my highest quality lockpick, the door would not open. It would require a key, and since I had not found a key in the ruins up to this point, logic held that it had to be in the possession of the last remaining smuggler in the room I had just exited. It looked like I wouldn’t be avoiding this fight after all.

I quietly made my way back to the room where the young smuggler was working. As expected, he was still loading crates onto a cart. As it had done before, my mind went through the possible courses of action the situation presented. My eyes scanned the entirety of the room, and finally settled on the lone table situated to the immediate right of the smuggler. I may have had reservations about killing someone unseen, but I held no such qualms when it came to rendering them unconscious. After a few moments, I came up with a plan.

I strapped my shortsword to my side and proceeded to creep up to the Breton. Between the groans of Arkngthand and my own slow, careful steps, he did not hear my approach and continued his labors without interruption. An interruption did occur moments later, however, for as soon as I was within reach I grabbed the man’s right arm with one hand and the back of his head with the other. The advantage of surprise allowed me to easily throw the smuggler off-balance, and I proceed to slam his forehead against the edge of the table with as much force as I could muster.

To my surprise, the blow did not render the man unconscious, but merely disoriented. Seeking to maintain control of the situation, I quickly drew my Daedric shortsword and pointed the tip of the blade at my enemy’s throat. He looked up at me with big blue eyes, his chest heaving up and down in quick, short breaths. He neither smiled nor frowned, but instead wore a blank expression. Interestingly, he did not seem to be afraid—nervous, certainly, as any man in his position would undoubtedly be, but definitely not afraid. Based on this, I deduced that he had been in the smuggling business for at least a few years, as he was clearly aware of the dangers inherent in this line of work.

I allowed his breathing to slow to a more normal pace before speaking. I wanted him to be as calm and clear of mind as possible before I began my impromptu interrogation. When I was satisfied that this had been achieved, I cleared my throat and began to speak.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. Answer them to my satisfaction, and I’ll let you walk out of here with nothing but the headache I just gave you. Lie to me, and I’ll turn you into slaughterfish food. Sound fair?”

[haute ecole rider]

Oh yes, this was worth the wait! Wonderful descriptions, especially of Stitch's thought processes.

And I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed Stitch's take on my favorite Heinleinism: TANSTAAFL (There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch).

[Acadian]

'I am certain no other inanimate object in history has ever been more insulted than the Dwemer puzzle box,' This section about his consternation toward the puzzle box was great fun!

I also enjoyed hearing Stitch's thoughts and planning, then watching his plans, first for the Dwemer locked door, then the young Breton, go awry. Isn't that always the way?

His current plan of 'threaten at swordpoint' will hopefully yield the results he seeks.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Jul 2 2011, 12:37 AM

[King Coin]

Cursing inanimate objects wouldn't help your stealth I don't think.

I just hate doors that cannot be picked

Battle with the young Imperial then?

Hey I like Stitch's line of thinking! Very enjoyable chapter! Can't wait for the rest!

This post has been edited by King Coin: Jul 2 2011, 03:43 AM

[mALX]

Caught up! Stitch's flashbacks to the training from his adoptive father as he is using each skill are so effectively done - really great job you are doing of showing step by step how he came to be what he is today!!

This scene is outstanding, Stitch really keeps his head here:

To my surprise, the blow did not render the man unconscious, but merely disoriented. Seeking to maintain control of the situation, I quickly drew my Daedric shortsword and pointed the tip of the blade at my enemy’s throat. He looked up at me with big blue eyes, his chest heaving up and down in quick, short breaths. He neither smiled nor frowned, but instead wore a blank expression. Interestingly, he did not seem to be afraid—nervous, certainly, as any man in his position would undoubtedly be, but definitely not afraid. Based on this, I deduced that he had been in the smuggling business for at least a few years, as he was clearly aware of the dangers inherent in this line of work.

I allowed his breathing to slow to a more normal pace before speaking. I wanted him to be as calm and clear of mind as possible before I began my impromptu interrogation. When I was satisfied that this had been achieved, I cleared my throat and began to speak.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. Answer them to my satisfaction, and I’ll let you walk out of here with nothing but the headache I just gave you. Lie to me, and I’ll turn you into slaughterfish food. Sound fair?”

So easy to visualize this scene as you have written it, and Stitch's inner thoughts here are spectacular! Awesome Write !!!

[Khajiit_Thief01]

@haute: Thank you! "There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch" is also a favorite saying of mine. I find it especially applicable to the harsh wasteland of Vvardenfell, where in many cases one has to fight just to simply survive.

@Acadian: The part about the cursing of the Dwemer puzzle box was great fun to write, and I am glad that it was great fun to read! As veteran players of Morrowind know, finding the puzzle box is actually extremely easy. First time players, however, often bypass the necessary route and end up spending hours searching for the thing. The portion below will provide further details as to what I am alluding to.

@King Coin: I am glad that you continue to enjoy the story! During my game, that door only had a lock level of 32--an easy thing to pick with a Thief possessing a Security level of 100. However, for the sake of the story I decided early on that Stitch would not be exploring that area of the ruins right away, and so I thought of a way that would prevent him from doing so (namely, that the lock required a key and could not be picked, similar to many Oblivion-style locks). That being said, I am almost certain that the door will not remain locked forever--an unspoiled and unlooted section of a Dwemer ruin is simply too valuable to just leave alone.

@mALX: I am glad that you are caught up! I am glad that you are able to easily visualize the scenes--as a writer, I can ask for no better compliment. Thank you.


This next portion finds Stitch interrogating his "prisoner." Keen-eyed readers will probably notice during the interrogation some shades of influence from another, more recent video game. I will say no more.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The young man did not say anything, but nodded slightly to indicate he understood. After a moment, I continued. “I’m looking for a specific object within these ruins. It’s called a ‘Dwemer puzzle box.’ It’s a small cube made of Dwemer metal, about the size of a fist, with markings on one side. Seen it around here?”

The man raised an eyebrow in confusion. I wasn’t surprised by this—after all, I had given Hasphat a similar look when he had told me about the puzzle box—but it nonetheless reinforced the growing belief within me that the artifact did not actually exist and that I had been sent on a fool’s errand. His words did little to dispel that notion. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you just make that up?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “It isn’t in these crates, or else I would have seen it.”

His response was discouraging, but I nonetheless pressed on. “Would anybody else in these ruins have heard of it? Maybe you overheard a conversation that may hint at its whereabouts?”

At this, the young Breton moved his lips into a sort of scowl, and his remark held no small hint of disgust. “I would say to ask the others, but since you’ve made it this far I’m guessing they were of no help.”

I couldn’t fault the smuggler for his emotions--after all, I had just killed his co-workers--but his defiance would not lead me anywhere. “Answer the question,” I ordered, inching my blade closer to his exposed throat.

The scowl remained, but the smuggler’s response was less hostile. “No, they never mentioned it.”

With the interrogation thus far not yielding any information about the puzzle box, I decided to shift my focus. “That locked door down there,” I continued, nodding my head in the direction of the hallway, “you wouldn’t happen to have the key to it, would you?”

Again, the answer that came did not surprise me. “No. If I did, if any of us did, then it wouldn’t it be locked.” His words once again carried an air of defiance, but I let his tone slide this time. I demanded that he empty his pockets, and he quickly complied. They contained a few Dwemer coins and a couple septims, but no key. Seeing the look of disappointment on my face, the smuggler’s mouth turned upward into a smirk.

Discouraged but still determined, I again posed a question to my hostage. “Is there anybody else in these ruins that might have the key or the puzzle box?”

The man snorted and let out a single mocking laugh. “I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track of how many of my friends you killed.”

“Perhaps if I gave you a number, then, it would jog your memory?” I spat, again inching the blade closer to the smuggler’s throat. At this, the smuggler’s face turned from one of blank emotion to bubbling rage. His response, however, was calm and subdued

“No. There is nobody else.”

His words were convincing enough, and under normal circumstances I would have accepted his response at face value. It was his eyes, however, that betrayed him. They darted around nervously, first to the upper-left, and then straight down at the floor. I stared at him in silence, and as the seconds passed his mouth closed and I noticed a small bit of color disappear from his face. He was lying.

“Fond of swimming with the slaughterfish, are you? I have a nice spot just off the coast of Khuul that I think you would particularly enjoy.”

My threat achieved the desired effect; his eyes widened, and his words spewed forth in a torrential flood. “I don’t know!” he insisted. “If anybody would have the key, it’d be Boss Crito. He normally hides himself up in the room at the top floor while the rest of us do the grunt work, but I imagine he was one of the first people you got to.”

Here, I thought, was a slight ray of hope. Despite my thorough exploration of the lower ruins, I had not spotted a stairway that led to the top floor I had seen when I first entered Arkngthand. “How do I get up there?” I growled, inching my blade closer now to where the tip was touching my prisoner’s skin.

Rather than induce further fear from the man, however, I was instead met with confusion. “Uh…you just climb the rock formation that leads up there.” He raised an eyebrow in surprise, his previous fear giving way to genuine bafflement. “You didn’t notice it?”

My mind instantly went back to my first view of the ruins. I had noticed another rock formation near the ruins, but I was so concerned about how to avoid the first two smugglers that I had not given the stones much thought. I cursed my earlier lack of observation and moved my blade away from the smuggler’s neck.

“Very well,” I concluded. “You’ve answered my questions well enough, though the process could have been much smoother.” I paused, and after a moment of thought I decided to add something else. “My advice, kid; get out of the smuggling business right away. Maybe be a clothier, or join the Mages Guild, or anything else that doesn’t involve crime. Otherwise, you’ll be competing against my interests, and I don’t like competition. Got it?” His face once again showed a brief flash of anger, but he had the sense to keep it in check and simply nod his understanding. I made to turn around and leave him be.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the young Breton’s right hand reach inside his boot. He got as far as pulling out the hilt of a dagger before I quickly turned back around and swung my shortsword at his throat. The Daedric metal carved itself deeply into the man’s skin, and crimson blood spouted forth from the wound. Gurgling sounds could be heard from the dying smuggler as he made several attempts to stop the bleeding by clutching his throat. It was useless. After a few seconds, his body sat limp against the wall of the ruins. He was dead.

[King Coin]

Shame the smuggler didn't use his head there towards the end or he could have been off. That said it's probably better for Stitch that he didn't. One more corpse isn't going to make a huge difference while a breathing body can cause problems.

Heh, Stich isn't perfect. I like it. I wonder how the head honcho is going to like a visit from Stitch.

Good chapter!

[treydog]

What I liked most about this part was Stitch's clear distaste for what he is doing. The point being- you manage to convey it beautifully without ever coming out and saying-- "I felt disgusted with myself."

I also love the raining of curses upon the puzzle box- it is such a mundane little thing- easily overlooked and absolutely necessary for movement in the Main Quest. And then- once you get it.... well, that would be telling, so I will hush and leave that part to Stitch.