The Good, the Bad and the Katia

A smokey haze sat upon the tavern of the tiny Morrowind town, and the sound of merry revelry filled the air. The room was packed with patrons, most of them Dunmer, clambering around the bar for their orders while others sat at tables, gossiping, playing cards, or just sitting and drinking. The well-dressed proprietor moved frantically to keep pace with the business, but gave no sign he wasn't on top of things.

Through the front door came a group of three Imperial soldiers, still in their armor, as if they'd been relieved moments ago. The one in front, a beardless boy no older than twenty-five, sauntered in grinning widely, carrying himself casually, and talking loudly. He and his friends walked straight up to the bar and took a seat.

"I thought that shift would never end! I feel like I've been on duty for an eternity! Hey barkeep, give a man something to help him unwind, will you? You got any Cyrodilic brandy? I'm craving the good stuff from back home."

"We have none of that swill, I'm afraid," said the bartender.

"Yeah? What do you rubes drink out here? Mead? Flin? You gotta have flin."

"We have nothing for you, sirs. I don't serve your kind."

"Maybe I didn't hear that right …"

"You did. Please remove yourselves from my establishment at once."

The boy's face turned serious, and he leaned menacingly close to the bartender.

"Hey, darkie," he said, "I don't know if you noticed, but the fighting's over. We're all supposed to be friends now."

"I have neither the need nor the desire to submit myself to what you dogs of the Empire call friendship. Good day."

A posse of Dunmer stood up from their seats and positioned themselves around the Imperial soldiers. The boy, who was now standing, looked across the elfin faces carefully, then back to the bartender.

"Now that ain't nice …"

Then the fight started. Punches were thrown and bodies flew. One of the soldiers tried to draw his sword, but in the close quarters of the crowded tavern, his opponent caught the blade and pushed it back into its sheath, then punched him in the head. Another Dunmer pinned a soldier to the bar counter, sending several glasses shattering to the floor, punched the soldier's face a few times, then picked him up and threw him into the back wall, where several shelves of bottles joined their brothers on the floor. One finally managed to draw his sword and held it above his head before a voice rang out:

"Hold it!"

Everything was quiet. At the front door stood a skinny, oily-looking Breton, flanked on his right by a Dunmer strongman, and on his left by an Argonian slave. The three walked calmly into the tavern, where the posse who'd been fighting held the soldiers up with their arms behind their backs.

"Would anyone mind telling me what's going on here?" said the Breton.

"Sir," said the bartender, "those Imperial ruffians came and started busting up my shop. They broke my glassware and cost me weeks' worth of product."

The Breton walked up close to the soldiers. "Why would you want to start trouble in my town? Put my good friend here out of pocket? You have to have noticed this is a Dunmer establishment, in a Dunmer town, and outlanders like you are not welcome."

"You're nothing but a Nord's lapdog," said the boy. "You don't run this town anymore. General Gaius owns everything around these parts, and he won't be happy when he hears how you treated his men."

The Breton punched him in the stomach. It didn't look like it could have hurt through all that armor, but arcs of lightning magicka traveled through his limbs and sent him into convulsions. When they wore off after a moment, he was slumped over in the arms of the Dunmer carrying him.

"You and your Nordic wench are nothing!" said the boy. "General's gonna sort you out for this, you wait and see!"

The Breton punched him again, sending a stronger dose of lightning magicka through his limbs. When it passed, the boy said nothing more.

"Tell the General, should he wish to see me, my door is always open." He looked to the Dunmer posse and said, "Get them out of here."

"Hey, I want them to pay for these damages!" said the bartender.

"Would you shut your damn mouth?" said the Breton. He gave a gesture, and the Dunmer posse threw the three soldiers onto the street in a heap.

"I'll be billing your commander for this, do you hear me?!" the bartender shouted after them.

"I said stop your yapping!" said the Breton. "Why don't you bring me and my deputies some good sujamma? We're quite thirsty."

"Sujamma?" said the bartender through gritted teeth. "Coming right up."

The three sat down at a table, and the bartender brought them their glasses. I watched them over my shoulder from my seat at the bar. I pushed my half-empty glass across the counter, lowered my hood, and stood up.

I walked up to the Breton's table and stood across from him.

"My friend," I said, "you're wearing my hat."

The Breton's self-satisfied smile vanished. "Madam, I don't know what you're talking about."

"You would forget a face like mine?"

"It's the face of a thousand sand-colored Khajiit I've seen before you. Most of them were slaves—which is what you should be."

"Your henchmen made that sentiment of yours very clear. However, they found I wouldn't be held so easily."

He said nothing, just shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I suppose a snake would act friendly with someone when it suits you, until the moment you begin to covet your friend's clothes and realize you could drop your friend at a Dunmer plantation and make a little money. But I'll tell you what. Give me my hat back, as well as anything else of mine you might be carrying, and tell me where I can find the rest of my stuff, and I'll forget any of this ever happened."

The Breton's smile returned. "My friend, did you know that, were I to drop you on this tavern floor this very moment, the Dren plantation would pay for your corpse, for dog chow?"

He made a sudden movement—an attack—but I was faster. With a loud, bright burst of magical energy, the Breton was dead. I plucked my hat off his head and put it snugly on my own, then turned to face the room full of gaping bystanders.

"He was about to blast me first. It was self-defense. You all saw that, right?"