Edward Morrow looked down at his hands as he sat in the cold, damp, smooth stone prison cell. A puddle nearby the window showing his reflection; he appeared over thirty, his light brown hair peppered with grey strands, pulled back in a pony tail, and his once normal complexion was now very pale, due to his time in the prison. Ever since the guards had the mages put those runes on his wrist irons, he couldn't get off one spell without feeling that horrible burning in his arms. Apparently the stupid things had a fire enchantment, triggered by the flow of magika. The strangest thing about them was that he felt a constant pull, not quite physical, but something he couldn't describe, something that made his memory almost foggy over the years he'd been in the Imperial City's prison, listening to Valen Dreth's constant ranting. By the god's he'd give anything to make him shut up. Edward looked from his hands to the old table and stool standing by the wall, in the pitcher on the table was a pint or so of old stale water the guards had given him roughly four days ago, on the floor was the chipped tan cup he'd gotten when he first came to the prison.
Edward could only remember a few details about why he was there in the first place. Back in Morrowind, he'd taken up residence in Vivic, it was nice enough, though he'd always thought the shop keepers charged a bit too much. He remembered a wood elf being chased by someone in armor, never having been close enough to Vivic's palace, he'd never seen an Ordinator, so acting on instinct, he did something-unable to remember just exactly what he'd done, due to the years of being in the prison-but he did remember the feeling of magika discharging in his hands, and the sight of the Ordinator flailing in the water below, sinking due to the armors weight. The judgment of Vivic was swift and harsh, sentencing him to be banished from the continent of Morrowind, and requesting further punishment in his homeland by Uriel Septim.
Unfortunately, Septim approved.
Edward was torn from his thoughts by the sudden sound of the iron cell door clanging against the wall as it opened. A young Imperial was being thrown in, struggling against the guard until his face hit the floor of the cell. Pined by the now irked guard.
Now was his chance, Edward jumped from the corner of the cell, and flew past the guard and the small Imperial, in only a few steps he was across the hall, standing at Valen's cell, before the arrogant Dunmer knew what hit him, Edward threw a punch between the cell bars, luckily enough for him, Valen was within reach, landing the punch square across his jaw. Edward wanted to be sure the bastard wouldn't be saying anything for a few weeks, though with his luck he'd be hearing his nonsense in a few days. Turning on his heels, a few slow steps took him back into his cell, where the Imperial sat at the guard's feet, nursing a few small scrapes a bruises.
"What the Hell are you doing Breton!?" The guard gave a hard stare at Edward, who only glanced back and sat on the stool casually.
"Had I broken out I wouldn't be free for long, and that was far more satisfying then a few breathes of fresh air." Edward spoke in a sarcastic tone, full of satisfaction.
The guard merely grunted and spat on the wall as he walked out and locked the door behind him, the sounds of his footsteps growing more and more distant till the quiet creek of the wooden door signaled his exit. Edward sat and looked at the Imperial, his dusty grey hair made him look several years older then he must've been, his eyes were silver, and his medium sized frame showed vaguely against the baggy, sack cloth clothing. Edward's eyes traveled to the Imperial's wrist irons, which showed no runes.
"Not much of one for magic, eh Imperial?" Edward's eyebrow raised as he smirked slightly.
The Imperial looked up with a cold look at Edward, "What? So you think Imperials can't use magic or something Breton?"
"No, I just see that your wrist irons aren't covered in these damned runes." Edward held up his hands to show the Imperial his wrist irons.
The Imperial looked at the irons and almost instantly his eyes widened in slight awe, "Those are Ayleid runes, used to suppress memories and punish magika use…"
Edward's eye twitched as he took on a far away look and muttered the words, "Memory sepressent?…" He walked slowly, tittering slightly on each step as he walked to the cell door and held onto the door's bars, "They… suppressed … my … memories?" his hands shaking the door as he spoke each word slowly. The Imperial stood up and looked at Edward, "Really, it's a-"
Edward spun around and nearly shouted at him, "That should be illegal! It's like harassment of your mind!" Edward stormed over and sat down on the pitiful excuse of a cot the cell offered, putting his head in his hands. "What's your name kid?" Edward's voice was slow and rough, like he'd been whipped.
"Saronim, and you?…" Saronim sat on the old stool across from Edward.
"Call me Morrow…" Edward kept his head in his hands, "Will it be permanent?… the memory suppressant I mean…"
Saronim muttered under his breath, "I wish…" He then cleared his throat, "Fortunately for you, no, the effects will take as long to ware off as it took to set in."
Smiling momentarily at the thought of him regaining his free use of magika, he still glared at Saronim through his fingers. Without giving Saronim another look, he laid down on the cot and faced the wall. "Also fortunately for me, I've got the only cot in the cell, good luck getting comfortable on the stone floor." And without another word, he drifted off to sleep.
Saronim sat in the corner by the window and thought about the past few hours, he was a stowaway from a ship bound from Morrowind, he'd been caught as he was trying to leave the ship, getting chased by the captain of the Northern Serpent down the pier, and straight to the Imperial watch's guards.
Then he was dragged with barely a hearing into the cold, damp Imperial Prison, and thrown into a cell, with a Breton mage of all things; lucky him.
He'd gotten his taste of mages in Hammerfell, they'd tamper with minds and taint spirits. They weren't anything he wanted to be associated with. Spare Healers, they knew the only magic worth knowing, and telling by Morrow's personality, it was a safe bet he wasn't one, or at least not a good one.