Deep in the West Reach mountains of High-Rock, there lived an old man. The people of Erikhir knew him as The Mountain Mage. But his true name was Myrad Ulric, Stormcaller, King of Crows, and the Blue Flash. His mortality had been stretched beyond what was generally imagined possible, and each wrinkle on his face hid one of his many lives lived.
"Myrad Ulric."
His name was said with disdain and an incredible boredom that Myrad felt could only be achieved through hatred of one's job. The imperial guard aboard the prison ship was reading off the names of those being unloaded. Strangely enough, it was only Myrad and three others, a dark elf whose name he had not bothered to remember, and two Kahjiit brothers: Dar'Husbar and Dar'Khazar. He had only learned their names due to the fact they shared a cell. Myrad was curious about this inefficient way to transport prisoners, but wasn't about to push his luck with these particular imperials any more than he already had. Only a few months ago, Myrad Ulric had been a fairly respected member of his hometown in Highrock. He grew up in Evermor and showed magical promise in his early education. His family had been very proud back then. He got the feeling that when they spoke of him to the other families now, their pride over his gifted prodigal status would not be so gushing.
The guard escorted him down the dock and shoved Myrad not too gently through the office door. He was greeted by another imperial soldier and a slightly shriveled bearded old man. By the insignia on his robes, Myrad recognized him as a census worker. Vile creatures. They came to his home in Evermor every year. It was never a pleasant day.
"Good afternoon. You have a lot of paperwork to go through so let's make this as painless as possible." The husk of a man stated, gesturing to the paper-laden desk.
"I sincerely doubt that is avoidable while in a census office." Myrad sighed, flopping himself into a chair by the desk.
"How humorous." said the census worker with a thick dose of sarcasm, "I assume it's that sort of attitude towards authority that landed you in my fine establishment?"
Myrad didn't look up from the forms he had just begun filling out. "I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly muster up a response to that. I am completely embroiled in these incredible forms. Did you design these? They're very festive."
The census worker's brow furrowed, but for the rest of the process, he was silent.
"Finished." Said Myrad, pushing forward the stack of papers. The man picked them up, browsed through them, and raised an eyebrow at Myrad. "Myrad Ulric, age 18. A little young to be worth an Imperial exile, hm?" Myrad shrugged, refusing to answer. The census worker tapped the papers against his desk and handed them back to Myrad. "Very well, take these to Sellus Gravias in the next building."
Myrad began to walk out as the wrinkled old man caught his robe sleeve. "And I recommend you keep that foul tongue inside your head while speaking with him. There are worse places than Morrowind that we could send you."
Myrad pulled away sharply and continued his walk down the hallway, grumbling. "Good luck finding a place."
As he walked a short way down the hallway, his brooding turned swiftly to fuming anger. His place was in Highrock, not some terrifying dreary dark-elf rock in the middle of Morrowind. His warm bed materialized itself in his mind... its fine silk sheets, the fluffy down pillow, the deep cushioned comforter...He shook the thought from his mind. The best way to deal with it is to forget, he reminded himself as he had countless times already.
He turned the sharp corner into a small room off of the hallway that led outside, and suddenly a thought crossed his mind. Not a single soul could see him. The room was well outside of the sight of the guards and census man; who would notice a few things missing? He immediately began poking through the baskets and boxes for anything of value. All in all, he found a dagger, twenty five gold pieces, a lockpick, a fairly well made bottle, and a note to some Argonian... or maybe a Khajiit. Myrad never was that good at telling the difference between their names. He figured even a note was paperwork, and if there was one thing that would mess up the census bureau, it would be missing paperwork. Smiling to himself, Myrad stuffed what could fit into his robe and carried the bottle up his sleeve. Pleased with his achievements, he finally exited the office. Before entering Sellus Gravias' separate building across the minuscule courtyard, Myrad rifled through one last barrel, finding, to his delight, a mediocrely crafted ring. He slipped it on and headed inside, using his bottle-free arm to hand over the paperwork.
Sellus glanced over the papers lazily before tossing them onto the thick wooden table next to him and picking up a small package that had been waiting there. He handed this over to Myrad with a small note pinned to it.
"Already giving me gifts? We've just barely met!" Myrad exclaimed sarcastically.
"Keep your fucking tongue inside your head." Sellus growled. Myrad twitched in surprise, it seemed the man was not in the most solid of moods.
"By the nine, friend. I know you're a guard but I wasn't aware poking fun was illegal." Sellus whirled, the look on his face suddenly dark and threatening, his arm curled into an elbow jab, and he slammed Myrad in the jaw, savagely tossing him to the floor with his strike. Myrad was stunned into silence.
Sellus straightened his doublet. "Package delivery is a standard procedure for those being released. Cheap, free, mandatory labor. You understand? You fail in this delivery and you'll have a sword through your skull instead of my arm."
Myrad held his mouth very pointedly shut for his last few moments in that building. After he managed to raise himself, he swiftly paced out of there, package cradled in his arms.
As soon as he exited the building, Myrad spotted a wood elf walking briskly over to him. After just being assaulted, Myrad was a little more wary and began backing up in the other direction, just in case. To his relief the wood elf looked distraught rather than angry.
"I saw you come out of the census office. You didn't happen to find a ring in there did you? Small, green?"
Myrad's ring-bearing hand shot up into his sleeve. He figured if the elf saw it, he would think it was Myrad who took it. "I'm afraid I barely looked around at all. Sorry, my good fellow."
"Oh..." The Wood Elve's disappointment was so audible Myrad immediately began to feel terrible. The little elf was only an outsider in these lands like Myrad, and besides that, it was a pretty ill-made ring... Myrad was about to give it back when the Wood Elf turned and an opportunity presented itself. There was a rear pocket in the wood elf's pants; it would be more than simple enough to simply slip the ring into his pants without his knowledge. A pleasant surprise for him later. So, as Myrad strode past him, he tossed the ring, landing it directly within the small pocket.
Perfect shot.
Myrad could not recall a time in the year he had been so proud of himself. It was quite a feat of stealth for him, and a good deed too at that! Myrad was smiling from ear to ear on his way through town. Yes, with a robe full of pilfered goods, and a smile on his face, Myrad had truly begun to turn over a new leaf.
As his glowing pride began to subside, Myrad took stock of his surroundings. It was bar none, the worst excuse for a "town" he had ever been witness to. The buildings were stone and wood hovels, the paths were dirt, the largest building was a lighthouse that was maybe three stories high. Trash littered areas off the side of the road, and near everyone walking past wore a sort of dead expression on their faces that Myrad was incredibly off-put by. He was swiftly resolved to leave Seyda Neen as soon as possible. However, looking at the roads around here, he wondered how well a carriage ride would fare. Maybe it would be best to find a simple horse, since they would be able to deal with the rockiness of the road better. Myrad shifted into a small shadowed area and contemplated his escape plan as he emptied his stolen goods out onto the ground. At first he had thought that maybe he would sell the dagger and the bottle, but now that he was thinking about escaping, having a weapon around might not be a bad idea, and the bottle he could fill with water for the road… The note was worthless, clearly he thought, tossing it to the ground. The gold…now that was the real treasure here (as gold usually is wont to be). Twenty five gold could get him something, maybe even somewhere. He could at the very least pick up a supply of food with it. A waft of manure and something fish-like drifted past Myrad's unprepared nostrils. Maybe food could wait. Getting out of Seyda Neen suddenly felt like a much higher priority.
After a brief bout of coughing, Myrad pulled himself together, sheathed his new dagger, and jogged down the main excuse for a road. Soon his eyes caught who he was looking for: a small and distraught Wood Elf.
"Hello, excuse me my good man!"
The Wood Elf took a moment to realize Myrad was addressing him. "Y-yes? Oh! It's you! Have you found my ring?" His face lit with a brief hope, which Myrad was quick to dash.
"No, but I'm sure it will turn up soon enough." He shot the elf what he believed to be a grin of confidence. "I have an unrelated question for you. Where might one rent a horse in this… town?" He said the last word with a bit of uncertainty, unsure whether to call Seyda Neen a town, a village, or a woebegone heap of dirt and sadness.
The Wood Elf shook his head, "I'm sorry, Breton, but there are no horses on Morrowind."
Myrad scoffed as though the Wood Elf were joking, but swiftly realized the expression on his addressors face was quite serious.
"What…hm… How exactly do the locals get around then?" Myrad mulled each sentence through his head twice to make sure that he left out all of the offences he wanted to say.
The Wood Elf smiled. "Ah, you'd want to hire a strider. They're quite fascinating creatures, and your journey will be far quicker than on a horse, I assure you."
This could be good news, perhaps these striders would be a step up from a horse, and he did want to leave as fast as possible. The Wood Elf, as if sensing Myrad's need, pointed in the direction which Myrad assumed his goal could be reached.
"Thank you! You've saved me a good bit of discomfort." Myrad took off down the path once more, heading towards the town periphery. Just as he was leaving the Wood Elve's range of hearing he shouted out, "And make sure to check your pockets! You never know what you could have forgotten in there!"