It was one o'clock in the morning at the Waterfront when the Roris the Martyr docked. Normally, such an event would have created much excitement, as the ship was from the east. The vessel itself was large: not quite modern enough to be a galleon but not bulky and difficult to handle like the antiquated ships from Daggerfall. Only a few Dunmer were above deck, all weary-eyed and loath to dock the vessel. The watchman wearily opened up a bottle of Greef and drank from it until he felt the Martyr hit the side of the port. He cursed for a moment before entering the ship, while the others began moving to the bow to start to tie it down.
While the crew was at work, a hatch near the stern of the ship opened slowly. Emerging from the opening was a lithe Khajiit. Her breed was Suthay-raht; a rare sight in Cyrodiil. She was clad in a thin chitin armor that, along with her brown fur, concealed her well under the cloak of darkness. Her padded feet made no sound as she crept across the ship, keeping her eyes on all the crew at all time. She made her way to the port side of the ship and hopped off, landing gracefully on the cobbled ground.
The Waterfront was a mixture of old stone buildings to one side and lake Rumare to the other. She glanced across from the water. There was the Imperial City, dominating the horizon. She felt an indescribable emotion ripple throughout her. To see the city again, after all these years... It had been so long... Perhaps, even he was still here.
She quickly shook her head. This was no time to be lost in memories. She looked around her surroundings warily. The night eyes of a Khajiit made the task easier, but no one could truly take the entire Waterfront in. There were all sorts of villainy slinking in the corners and the alleyways that could be hard to detect. It wasn't as though their opposite made her any more relieved, either: there were usually at least a couple of guards stationed here, always on the looking for thieves like herself. With that in mind, she worked her way into the slums.
As she moved, she couldn't help but notice that the Waterfront had changed. When she was a young, mewing girl it had guards stationed at set points at all times, even at night. Now, the Waterfront was deserted. The Census and Exercise office was completely boarded up with several untariffed boxes stacked in front of it, some of them seeming like they had been there for months. The other Imperial offices nearby also bore the telltale signs of neglect—graffiti that was once always erased at the end of the day had been accumulating on their walls. A cart lied overturned in the middle of the street, and apparently no one had bothered to clean it up before sunset. She had fled Morrowind due to instability, but it seemed as though there was trouble even in Cyrodiil.
Eventually, she went under the stone arch that separated off the residential area of the Waterfront, known by most as the slums. She couldn't surpass a feeling of relief. The Khajiit still was looking about herself at all times and sneaking close to the ground, but the quiet streets had let her lessen her guard. She took a few more steps and looked about at the houses until a voice in the dark surprised her. "Habasi," it called out from the shadows, "I was waiting for you."
That voice. It couldn't be. The Khajiit stiffened quickly as though she had been stuck by an arrow. She turned her head towards the seemingly abandoned garden to her left. Her eyes scanned the darkness until she noticed a figure leaning on the wall, well out of sight unless thoroughly searched for. Upon being noticed, he walked over to the Khajiit and held out his hand. "Don't pounce, now. Or have you forgotten me already?"
She hadn't forgotten. She had never forgotten. She couldn't forget even if she wanted to. Several emotions flooded her head at once, but her instinctive curiosity overcame a much darker emotion, boiling under the surface of her psyche. "Christophe," she all but hissed, "How did you know Habasi was here?"
Now that Christophe was in better light Habasi could make out the Redgaurd's features. The years had changed him. The vibrant, handsome man she once knew had grown older. His youth had been ground away by the millstone of time: his once jet black hair had acquired a few strands of gray, and his once sparkling eyes had a new level of savviness that Habasi had never noticed before. Or, perhaps, she only saw it now because she expected to see anything but honesty in them. As she looked into those eyes, her fur began to bristle.
Christophe must have noticed, but didn't seem to be on guard, or even wary. "Do you really think that I wouldn't keep tabs on Stacey's group out east, kitten? I knew that you left, and that Cyrodiil is the only place with the contacts you need to get by," he concluded, "Now, what I'd like to know is why you've left Morrowind in the first place."
A scowl crossed over Habasi's face. "You dare demand answers from Habasi after what you did?" she snarled. She could feel rage gather deep inside herself as old wounds threatened to reopen.
"I am a doyen," Christophe replied evenly. He didn't share the inner conflict she was feeling, or at the very least wasn't showing it.
Habasi closed her eyes and tried to retain control of herself. She had to be stronger than this. She couldn't let him see what effect he had over her. "Not now," she manged with trembling words, "It is late, and Habasi wishes to sleep. She will tell you tomorrow."
She began to turn around, only to feel Christophe's hand clasp her shoulder. She would've gone for her knife if she wasn't so shocked. His hand was on her shoulder. It was almost enough to make her lightheaded. "No, Habasi," insisted Christophe, "I know you have a tendency to disappear. You're not in Morrowind anymore, and around here I call the shots."
A moment passed. Christophe looked at the back of the Khajiit's head, wondering why she had yet to reply. Then he heard her speak, her voice so quiet that it was almost unintelligible. "... Take your hand off..."
She was near the breaking point. Of all the responses she would've had to him, Christophe hadn't expected this. He knew that the two of them shared a... troubled past, but the words coming from Habasi were like nothing he had heard before. There was something distressingly about them. It was almost as though she was speaking from her soul—her words were soft, but full of the essence of passion that's only found in kings and heroes. 'She couldn't still...' he wondered, but his mind was cut off when he realized his hand was still on her shoulder. He took it off.
Habasi immediately took a step forward, getting as much distance as she could from him. "No more, Christophe," she replied, her voice returning to normal. "Habasi cannot do this tonight. Tomorrow. We talk of this tomorrow."
Christophe slowly nodded. "Tomorrow it is then, Habasi. You know where to meet me."
There was no reply. Habasi slowly slunk away, not looking back at him. Christophe watched the Khajiit vanish into the inky blackness and said nothing. He closed his eyes. As a thief, he lived for the present. As a doyen, he planned for the future. He had tried to keep his past buried, and succeeded. He hadn't thought of Habasi in a long time. But while he had moved forward, perhaps Habasi...
No more. He refocused his mind on guild business. If Habasi had fled Morrowind, perhaps Stacey's faction was collapsing into itself. The ramifications of that could be dire. As the most powerful thief in Cyrodiil, he had an obligation to guild to chart a course of action.
Try as he might, though, the nagging question of Habasi still interrupted his normally focused mind time and time again during the long night.
