Author's note: I've got a fanfic set in Skyrim, one set in Cyrodiil (though it's set around the same time as Skyrim), and I love Morrowind, so I couldn't resist. Contains or will contain intoxicated antics (mostly on Caius Cosades' part), fantasy racism, murder, and lots of language you probably wouldn't want to repeat in front of your grandmother. This particular Nerevarine likes giving people nicknames and, well, Socucius Ergalla's name was asking for it. I'm probably going to be taking several artistic liberties as far as how certain things work—birthsign blessings, the particulars of casting spells, the different Khajiit breeds, etc. Just filling in the areas we don't have a lot of information about. You know the drill. And yes, there will be an explanation for why Abhidasha lacks the distinctive accent and speech patterns most Khajiit have; I didn't just forget them.
On nicknames—as much as I love this particular character quirk, I am deliberately passing on the veritable jailbait that is Fargoth's name. The only corruptions I can come up with are slurs I'd rather not type.
In the Hlaalu capital of Vvardenfell, east of the Odai and north of the South Wall Cornerclub, there stood a small one-room house. The residents of Balmora usually stayed away from this house, as they knew it to be the den of a local drunkard and skooma addict and no one wanted any trouble, and this suited its tenant just fine. The interior of this hovel was even more of a shabby mess than its exterior, with sparse furniture and empty bottles strewn about the small bedroom as if in a fit—which, of course, is exactly what had happened. The only objects in good condition were the bed (though it stank of sweat, alcohol, and sugar smoke), the finely crafted skooma pipe tucked underneath it, and a copy of The War of the First Council which had somehow found itself on the floor. As for the inhabitant of this pigsty, he had seated himself rather heavily on his bed, causing the corkbulb frame to give a groan of complaint, with a piece of paper clutched in his trembling fingers. He was drunk, incredibly drunk, but still sober enough to read. At the moment, though, he wished he wasn't.
"What in the sixteen names of hell does he think he's doing?" he growled into the empty air. "Induct a known criminal into the Blades? A power-hungry mass murderer with no sense of loyalty or morals and nothing but hatred for the Empire?! Sure, someone like that is the perfect candidate for the Emperor's spies! There is nothing wrong with this plan at all." The man sighed and put his last bottle to his lips, found it empty, and hurled it at the wall in disgust, where it shattered. "At least have the decency to tell me what your plan is, Your Majesty, rather than simply giving me a day's advance notice that a damned psychopath is going to be knocking on my door! Divines have mercy on us all." He willed his clumsy fingers into a fist, crumpling the coded message, and reached under the bed for his matchbox and pipe. With one last groan of frustration, Caius Cosades set fire to his damnable orders, then reached for some sugar and forgot the world for a while.
It was the skooma-trash assassin who woke her, though she could have sworn that female voice from her dream (vision?) had been the one to call her back to consciousness. Jibble or Jubjub or whatever he'd called himself actually asked if she was all right and what her name was. She was a little (okay, very) disappointed when he didn't show any signs of recognition—there'd been a time when the name Abhidasha inspired awe and fear amongst the lawless, back before she'd had the brilliant idea of crippling herself and the even more brilliant idea of getting arrested, back before she had to literally drag herself tooth and nail back to what could be loosely considered "health." To her annoyance, a guard appeared to drag her off before she could give Jubbly a reason to remember her.
A Legion soldier waylaid Abhidasha as she took her first step onto Vvardenfell, exposing the inadequacy of Imperial intelligence by telling her their records didn't even say where she'd been shipped in from. She snapped "Cyrodiil" at him in her best growl and allowed him to herd her into the Census and Excise office. The trip to Vvardenfell had left her with no patience for her idiotic human overlords, but she had no desire to be arrested again. Inside another Imperial questioned her about identification forms, which she took to fill out herself, swiping a limeware platter she'd spotted on a shelf as she did so (the guard yelled at her, but she managed to hold onto it anyway, so foolish was he). After she finished, Suckcockius Ergargle directed her to the next building over to hand off her papers, and gave her free reign to swipe just about everything of value in the other rooms. Abhidasha stepped into the sunlight one dagger, one lockpick, some local drinks, some cash, and a random assortment of food and miscellaneous trinkets wealthier.
She breathed deep—and immediately regretted it. Seyda Neen was a rank, marshy port town, smelling equally of dead fish, disease, sulfur, and rotting wood. To her keen nose, the stench was as offensive as a knife in the chest. She resolved to leave Seyda Neen as soon as she possibly could.
After swiping an enchanted ring from a nearby barrel, she ducked into the less-putrid building where she'd been told to drop off her papers. Another Imperial, this time in fancy Legion armor, whose name she would decide was Sells Gravy, was waiting for her.
"First, let me take your identification papers," he said, so she handed them over like a nice little girl. He proceeded to read the précis aloud, as if she needed to know what she'd written. "For release, by Emperor Uriel Septim VII's decree, to the district of Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind. Name: Abhidasha. Race: Khajiit. Class: Nightblade. Signed, Socucius Ergalla, Agent of the Seyda Neen Imperial Census and Excise, 16th of Last Seed 3E 427." He glanced back up at her (really? Do you really need to double-check to make sure I've got tits and fur?). "Thank you. Word of your arrival reached me only yesterday. I am Sellus Gravius. But my background is not important. Welcome to Morrowind."
Clearly Abhidasha was dealing with an idiot. Still, the armor he wore told her it would be a bad idea to swipe the shelf full of silver and shiny, shiny key behind him, so she stayed her hand and took her first truly free step into the Land of Slaves and Fucking Bat Things Everywhere.
Freedom still smelled like shit.
The Seyda Neen Welcoming Committee's dank bog-water aroma wasn't much of an improvement over the local scent. The smelly little elf was going on and on about someone taking his precious. Being determined to hold onto her only source of magical healing, she made no mention of having found it and brushed past him to one of the only important buildings in town: the tradehouse, also known as the best place to pick up gossip and odd jobs. The ponytailed Altmer behind the counter wasn't offering her very good prices, so she skipped him and went upstairs.
A Nord in mismatched Legion chain and leathers approached her. "You look like you could use a friend, outlander. Perhaps I can be your friend." When Abhidasha reached for her dagger, he gave a booming laugh. "No, nothing like that, keep your fur on." He continued in hushed tones, which for a Nord is roughly equivalent to anyone else's normal indoor voice. "I'd like you to help me recover some gold."
The corner of her mouth quirked up in interest. "Continue."
"See, I had a bad run of luck playing Nine-holes, and lost a bit of money. Normally, I'd be fine. We can usually keep some gold in our pockets just from the money the locals pay us for," he paused, "protection." Corruption in the Legion. Big surprise. "But I know some of them are holding out on me, especially that fetcher Fargoth." Ooh, a new expletive! Must be Morrowind slang. That's one for the list. "He's come up light the past few weeks when I've shaken him down. I know he's stashing it somewhere. I'd like you to find Fargoth's hiding place."
"...You are sure it's not in his house? Pillows and mattresses are popular for hiding things."
"I already searched his whole house, so I know he's not hiding it there. I know the little fetcher's got one somewhere in town. Just not sure where yet. I'd like you to find out where he's stashing his gold. If you can, I'll give you a share of the wealth. Are you up for it?"
"I'll do it." He offered to shake her hand, but she ignored it and moved on. The Redguard woman behind the bar had caught her eye with the unmistakable lean, wiry build of a scout.
"Welcome, outlander. Elone is my name. Scout is my trade. I'd be happy to share a little advice or Morrowind lore with you. Or maybe you'd like to catch up on the latest rumors?"
"I need directions," Abhidasha rasped. "What settlements are near here, and how do I get to them?"
After a couple of minutes, she emerged from the Tradehouse clutching written directions to Balmora, with the location of several other settlements marked on a newly acquired map of Vvardenfell. Eager to leave the smells of Seyda Neen behind her, she ran up to the towering insect the Redguard had called a silt strider, but the fare was well beyond her meager collection of coin and trinkets, so she stalked back to town in defeat to get to work robbing a poor man.
As a stroke of luck, her mark happened to walk past her just as she came up with a plan to find his stash without having to tail him all night long, so she pulled him aside. "Friend Bosmer," she purred, "is this the ring you were looking for?" His joyous squeal was painful to her sensitive ears, as was his body odor to her nose, but to her fortune she could still make out the distinct tang of the ring's Restoration enchantment beneath it. He didn't have much in the way of a reward for the return of his precious, but he did promise to put in a good word with the proprietor of the Seyda Neen Tradehouse, so with any luck the nasal, condescending Altmer would give her fairer prices when she stopped by to sell off her junk and buy some essentials. Now, all Abhidasha had to do was wait, and let the blessing of the Tower do its magic for her.
There is very little to do if one has time to kill in Seyda Neen. After ascertaining that her legs were still good enough for her to run and leap across rooftops (though she was nowhere near as quick and agile as she one was; her accident and subsequent hard time had seen to that), and sharpening the pitiful iron knife she'd nicked from the census office, she struck out north. Perhaps the swamp would have plants or fungi worth selling.
An afternoon's wading through stagnant swamp water yielded several varieties of mushroom, harvested on and around the waterlogged trees in the area, and cuttings of a strange plant with pods and glowing flowers. Abhidasha had little taste for alchemy, but the glowing flowers looked pretty enough that they might fetch a halfway decent price, so she stockpiled them. As Magrus began to kiss the high mountainous ridges on the horizon, she decided to turn back and sell off her spoils when she heard an ungodly scream from behind her.
Fearing an encounter with some of Vvardenfell's notoriously aggressive wildlife, she spun around, but to her bewilderment she saw neither flying horror nor insectoid menace, but a preposterously dressed figure plummeting from the heavens. Abhidasha could only watch as it hit the ground feet-first and crumpled into a broken, bleeding pile before she did the only sensible thing to do in such a situation: frisk the corpse for any and all valuables and run off with them. His—for she soon discovered he was a male Bosmer—garish robes and pointy hat were sure to fetch a fine price, but it was his other belongings which truly interested her. While too long to be of much use to her, his iron blade buzzed and sparked in her hand, and the three scrolls he carried absolutely reeked of powerful magic. The book he appeared to have landed on was taller than her feet were long, and from what she could make out—the pages were soiled with his blood—had been the mer's journal, documenting his fervent search for a magic that would allow a flight truer than any jump or levitation spell. As Abhidasha returned to a town she hoped to leave far behind with a mangled, naked corpse at her back, she reflected that it was a situation much like this one that had gotten her into this Morrowind mess in the first place.
As she'd hoped, the nasal Altmer was much more generous with his septims (or "drakes," as she learned the Imperial coins were colloquially referred to in this region) when she returned to offload her hoard of food, flora, and miscellaneous junk. She immediately spent as much as she dared on some cheap light armor made, apparently, of insect chitin and organic resins. It was surprisingly comfortable, lighter than the leathers Abhidasha was used to and more flexible than she'd expected from a suit of bug shells. She could only afford a cuirass, pauldrons, and gauntlets, but even an incomplete set of armor was much safer than going out in nothing but her prison rags.
By the time her business was concluded, Jone and Jode had risen over Seyda Neen, so she set off to find the smelly and overly friendly ring-obsessed elf's secret cache. Calling up the scent of his healing ring in her mind, Abhidasha reached for the magic of her birthsign and followed her nose. To her surprise, she detected not just the ring and the enchanted sword she'd sold earlier, but also a second weapon stashed in a rotting tree stump behind the lighthouse. After grabbing the ring, 300 drakes, and a silver goblet from Fargoth's cache (also in a rotting stump), she followed the scent of Destruction and found an iron battleaxe, the edges kept unnaturally cold by the magicka she'd sensed. Surprised and pleased with the fruits of her search, she stopped by the tradehouse one last time to sell the axe and the goblet before making tracks to the silt strider. The gold she'd promised to bring to the Nord Legionnaire would hopefully never reach him, as that would mean she'd have to actually return to the rank little port.
Finally, after a day of olfactory torture, Abhidasha was headed inland for fame, glory, and most importantly, fresh air.