"What. In. The. Nine. Divines."

Myrad's mouth was pulled agape. What stood in front of him was a multi-story tall monolith, resembling a giant wood-flea. Its shell plating was cut away to reveal a section filled with a saddle, a few passenger seats, and a pile of crated cargo. Something about seeing a creature cut open and filled with artificial goods turned Myrad's stomach. Maybe the strider was not the best idea. In fact, Myrad would go so far as to say, maybe the strider shouldn't be considered ever again. The presumed pilot of the horror had already caught eyes with Myrad and was walking over, dressed in what Myrad assumed to be the traditional dress of Morrowind, which was to say, boring brown ragged dirty farmer clothes. Myrad had to force himself to not turn up his nose. The pull to be polite and reflect his good upbringing overcame his discomfort in almost any situation.

"Where would you like to go?" The ill-dressed Dunmer spoke in a gravelly haggard voice.

"Ah, straight to the point. I can appreciate that." Myrad cleared his throat. "What are your prices?"

"Twenty five for Balmora, thirty for Suran, thirty for Gnisis, thirty five for Vivec."

Myrad cursed under his breath. None of that meant anything to him, but price-wise, he had been given only one option. His gaze shuffled between the poor shamble of a town behind him, and the giant dirty flea in front of him. To Myrad, it was a no-win scenario, but he supposed only one of the two options presented the possibility of getting somewhere bearable.

"Right, Balmora it is then. Here is your gold, sir. I'm sure your… creature will provide a pleasant ride."

The Dunmer grunted a lazy agreement. Myrad climbed aboard with a markable lack of grace, and waited while a few more passengers trickled onboard. Before he could brace himself, the strider began to stride. Its long legs took massive paces across the landscape, keeping the upper body surprisingly level and stable. The ride was so comfortable, Myrad's eyes began to droop, and soon he was drifting off into sleep. A sleep pock marked by dark thoughts, and nightmarish memories...

His eyes fluttered open as Myrad was awoken by a strange and dissonant blowing of a horn. As he raised himself from the soft cloth mats of the strider, he saw that the master of the beast was standing at the front of its hollow segment, a strange tube in hand, likely the source of the sound.

"If I may ask sir, have we arrived in… erm…?" His brain searched desperately for the name of his destination, but he was swiftly interrupted.

"Balmora," The dark elf grunted out, "Your destination, sera."

Myrad nodded, wiping sleep from his face as he stood. Eager to see if he'd made the right choice, Myrad stepped over to the side of the strider and gazed out across the landscape. Ahead lay a great conglomeration of buildings, they were a yellowed brown clay - still a far cry from the wood and plaster streets of Evermor, but larger by far than the meager settlement of Seyda Neen. Myrad allowed himself a grin. Yes, this had been a fine use for his money. In a city like this, perhaps he could even get some decent food and a bed. Walking back to his mat, he gathered up his bottle and the parcel imparted to him by the Empire. He still didn't feel particularly drawn to pay it heed. Finding a place where he would be comfortable came first by an infinity. The Strider soon came to a smooth stop at the edge of a raised stairwell meant for disembarking passengers. Myrad descended and thunder rolled across the distant coast. As he thought vaguely about where he might find a decent roof for his head, Myrad was struck with the sudden realization the he was now completely without gold. Pulling the bottle out of his robe, he re-examined it, assessing its value as best he could. It was worth nothing compared to those he'd seen back home, but to impoverished folk such as the Dunmer of Morrowind…who could know? His first stop was to be a pawnshop then. Maybe if the bottle fetched a fair price he could buy himself a small room for the night while he…while he figured something else out. Honestly, he wasn't sure what his plan was from here. Deliver the package? Maybe… But the Empire hadn't exactly been doing him any favors lately, and exile wasn't the best motivator for manual labor in Myrad's experience.

The door of the small pawnshop swung open as Myrad strode in, he took a quick look around to appraise the cat's merchandise and size up some comparison prices for his bottle. To Myrad's dismay there were quite a few nicer pieces of glassware around. Pity the man didn't keep a poorer stock, or Myrad could have asked a better price.

"Excuse me, sir Kahjiit?"

"Ah. Hello, my Breton friend. How are you finding Ra'virr's wares?" The Kahjiit's eyes flitted over Myrad, investigating their potential customer. It made Myrad a touch uncomfortable, but honestly the cat folk had always put him off a bit.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, it's all quite nice. I'm afraid my plan for the moment however is to do the selling to you."

Ra'virr's ears twitched slightly "Ahhh trade, yes. This is good. What is it you are interested in pawning?"

Myrad produced the bottle and laid it on the table with a small flourish. Ra'virr looked at it with quiet disapproval.

"A single bottle, sera?"

"Aye. How much are you willing to give?" Myrad said, making sure his voice was even and serious. It was obvious the cat was trying to make him uncomfortable with his offering in order to negotiate a better price. The Khajiit looked the bottle up and down for a moment then looked back at Myrad.

"Two gold."

Myrad scoffed. "Surely you could manage to pay me close to what it's worth. Five gold, if you will."

"Two gold." The Khajiit said again, his voice more forceful. "This bottle is cheap and ugly. Ra'virr will not give you any more."

Myrad looked into the cat's eyes and saw nothing but a dull dislike for the situation Myrad had begun. He let out a sigh.

"Fine, three gold."

"Two gold." Ra'virr stated this with a low hiss which took Myrad off guard. "Two gold is as far as Ra'virr goes because bottle is worth nothing and Breton is wasting Ra'virr's time."

Myrad threw his hands up in a mock surrender, and the Khajiit rolled his eyes, slapping two coins on the counter and putting the bottle up on the shelf behind him. Myrad slipped the gold into his pocket and dipped his head in thanks, making as swift an exit as appropriate. As soon as he had cleared the doorframe, swears streamed out under his breath.

"Damn fleabag and his stingy tail. Wasting his time? He's a pawnbroker for fucks sake, it's his job to buy and sell he should be thanking me for my business. Hell I probably know more about prices than he does the fucker, and two gold doesn't get me SHIT."

The coins jingled lightly in his pocket. Too lightly. Two gold wouldn't even come close to getting him a bed, or a roof for that matter.

As his angry pace brought him to the edge of the thin river that ran through the center of Balmora, the first few raindrops began to fall. He cursed again and made a quicker pace toward one of the nearby buildings. The raindrops were coming down now and Myrad began to dampen. The closest open entryway was a small arch framing the entrance of a stairway to the second story. He climbed them briskly and was met with a locked door. Lightning cracked as Myrad slumped beneath the doorframe which offered a few inches of protection. But while his head stayed dry, his legs began to soak. The wetness traveled up his robe like a plague, causing him to shiver from the cold. This was not the way a prodigal student of the Evermor Mage's Academy was supposed to live. The feeling of the frigid water on his legs brought him a cold reminder of the scars he had there. Those lines of burnt skin trailing across his legs. The ones that he had caused. Shivers coursed down Myrad's spine as the sound of a young boy's dying screams echoed in his head. It was an accident. Everyone there knew it was an accident.

The thunder cracked as the lightning struck closer. The skies began to get dark, both by storm cloud and the retreat of the sun. Myrad had never slept outside before. The wet robe was plastered against his legs like a soggy piece of ice. Tears began to escape him as he pulled himself tighter against the door. He hadn't meant it. It wasn't his fault. Everyone knew he didn't do it on purpose. The theory was solid, it should have worked. Something just went wrong, human error, no one could have known.

Myrad shook the wet robes from sticking to his legs. "Fuck this." Myrad said aloud to the beating rains. "Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this!" the light jingle in his pockets as Myrad struck the clay walls in frustration was just another cruel reminder of his poverty. He broke down sobbing, thumbing the gold in his pocket. This was it. This was all he had. No more family, no home, no friends, no magic... Just two Imperial pieces from pawning a stolen bottle. His fingers brushed against something long and metal in his robe. He'd forgotten about the lockpick. Myrad pulled out the thin piece of iron and stared at the lock of his current shelter. Maybe he could at least get out of this rain... It didn't seem so complicated. He knew the theory, but he'd never quite been rebellious enough to break any locks back in High-Rock. He drew a deep shivering breath, then began a process of delicate turns and pokes within the locking mechanism. Myrad found himself picturing the inner tumblers of the lock quite vividly. It seemed as though it was five prongs he would have to bypass in total. It wasn't the most complex lock he had read about, and soon he could feel that three of the lock's mechanisms had been successfully pushed into place. His jaw tightened in concentration as he moved on to the final tumblers, pushing them in while gently turning the door's handle.

There was a quiet click, and the entrance swung smoothly open.