(A/N: Sorry for the delay. I developed writer's block writing my main story, and felt too guilty to proceed with this one.
Disclaimer: I'm running out of disclaimers... suffice it to say, Morrowind does not belong to me.)
Death's Kiss - Chapter Four - Drops of Blood.
"They brought you from the Imperial City..."
"Welcome back to this land, old friend..."
"Nine Divines, PLEASE, SAVE ME!"
"What am I..."
Three shades blend in one dream. A kind woman's assurance, a strange man's gloat, a dying victim's last scream. A sense of two beings inside me shatters any semblence of sanity, and I awake.
Awake to find myself gagging on a warm mass of fur and flesh. Shocked, I cough up the hairy thing and see that during my sleep, I have killed a rat with my jaws. That clears up one thing, but my mind is still a blur as my head pivots frantically. A new sun gleams up from the ground as the two moons wane, reflecting beautifully on the gleaming river before me. I remember, now... I swam downstream this river to bathe myself, and rested on the bank as night set in. At the very least, that makes sense now.
The robe is wet, and plastered to my being. I must have forgotten to take it off. I amend that mistake now, peeling the soggy thing off and dropping it disdainfully in the riverside mire. Tail waggling uncertainly, I creep toward the river on all fours. The river moves too fast for a reflection to be made out, so I swat a hole in the mud and let the river water flow into it. When the dirt settles to the bottom of the newly formed puddle, I look down and examine myself.
It is still the same face I behold, here. I bear a head resembling nothing so much as that of a snake, save for two short horns and an equal amount of fringed gills. My slitted pupils are encompassed by warm amber, though cold nonetheless, and jaundiced yellow scales cover my face, glinting sallow in the sunlight. A slight part of the mouth reveals sharp fangs, always ready to sink into warm flesh. An aggravated hiss slips past them as I sink back in the mud, relieved but disturbed. I need to know what these dreams mean.
I dip waist-deep into the water, then dive into the deeps. After sloughing dirt off my scales, I resurface and clamber on land again. Dunking the sad excuse for a robe in the water and wringing the wet out as best I care to, I redress and head back upriver toward Balmora. For the time being, I am eager to serve. For me, following orders is a way of maintaining order. A way to keep myself sane. And a way to spite the mindless bloodlust within me.
Slogging through the ankle-deep mud, I can see Balmora, a bastion of civilization in the distance. However, the city no longer emanates the same sort of golden aura it seemed to yesterday. It seems duller, grayer now... as does my spirit. Any twinge of happiness it bore last night is since gone.
I smell water in the air. Before long, the clouds open up and unleash water in the air, first in drops and then in torrents. My feet sink deeper with each step as the mud mixes with the oncoming water and loses its solidity. The river rises over its preestablished banks and laps at my calves; the rain slides in crystalline rivulets down my scales. The robe has molded to me, restricting movement of my legs and tail as I near the city. Only a few people pace its drabbed streets, most sheltering under umbrellas. Those that do not wallow in the alleys and look up self-piteously at the gray sky, rainwater building in their eyes and spilling out like tears.
A tapestry hangs from a poles, sodden with water and flapping limply in gusts of rainy wind. Embroidered with symbols of the Imperial writing system, it advertises a clothier residing in the blocky two-story house beside it. I glance at the robe stuck to my person and walk in without a second thought.
A human man sorts coins at a counter when I walk in. It is a cozy establishment, with an upstairs bedroom, I note, looking around; more reminiscent of a home than a shop.
"A Clagius Clanler lives here, yes?" I ask, shutting the door.
"I am he. You're dripping water all over my floor, outlander," he says without looking up.
"Did you call me an... outlander?" I ask, surprised.
"Your accent is obvious. Don't try to hide it," he replies, squinting at a slightly discolored goldpiece.
"Accent?" It simply never occurred to me that I have an accent. I was shipped all throughout the Western provinces in my youth, so any accent I do have is a blend of several. My voice is little more than a hiss, though, favoring the S's and breathy sounds, so one would think the voice itself would draw attention away the accent. Humans and elves are strange creatures to notice such things, to be sure.
"You want to buy something for your master, I take it?" he wonders, putting the coins away in a small chest on a shelf behind him and turning to me.
"I am my master," I hiss, irked. "I can pay you. I need at least a dozen outfits, any sort will do, so long as they'll last." Clagius nods and opens the counter, walking through to meet me and guiding me to another room in the shop, in which no less than fifty outfits have been hung up on hooks and displayed on mannequins, while even more have been packed away in lowset wooden dressers. I slip my claws under a rich red garment and lift it off its hook, letting it unfurl to its full length in my hand.
"This looks the right size," I decide. "How much is it?"
"Three hundred drakes," he informs. I pause, fold the robe over - improperly, I can tell from the grimace the shopkeep gives me - and return it to the hook.
"Do you have anything more... reasonably priced?" I query. In response, he pulls open a dresser drawer, shuffles around and pulls out several frayed pastel robes.
"If by 'reasonably priced', you mean 'of shoddy quality and cheaper than a lump of coal'," the shopkeeper affirms, holding them out. "Only ten septims each."
"They barely look worth one septim altogether," I say dryly, counting them. Nine robes, that's ninety septims. I lift up the bag of coins I was given in Seyda Neen and spill it gradually in my hand. I can count - not very well, but I can count. I tediously count out ten; using this as a basis, I sort the other eighty out more quickly and give them to the shopkeep as I go. A tiny smile teases at his lips as he scoops the coins into a small burlap bag of his own and holds out his arm, draped over with the cheap robes. I take them, fold them sloppily and stuff them in my pack. The transaction is complete, and I leave.
The rain has stopped, the sun has emerged from the clouds, and the people are populating Balmora's streets once more as I walk out. A Nord woman passing especially closely by catches my attention. My fangs produce venom and my hands starts to lash out. I pull it back before it can reach the woman and hiss at myself. The urge to kill is strong in me... but I can beat it. I know I can.
I look up at the sun. This only lasts so long, before the brilliance begins to offend my eyes. I want to keep looking, and pain myself; I force myself to look away, instead watching a Dunmer man followed by what must be his wife and daughter pass by. I can be like that, I tell myself. I don't have to be a monster. The weight of the newly purchased clothing in my pack reassures me, though poison still fills my mouth and bloodlust burns in me. Each and every person here... so easily could they be ripped, their blood so waaaarrrmmm... yeeeesssss...
"NO!" The outburst gains me a few looks, not that I care. I rush along hurriedly, narrowly avoiding slamming into a food trolley in my haste. The sound of the river is somewhat soothing as I dart over the bridge, headed for Caius's house. "Remember your orders! Remember your orders!" I tell myself in a futile attempt to dull my insanity with remembrance of reasonable duty, accidentally banging headlong into an elderly Dunmer woman.
"Watch where you're going, lizard!" she snaps, but I ignore her. Over the cobblestones, up the steps, roundabout to the left and here is Caius's house. I slam my fist against the door, which opens punctually. Caius looks up at me from the doorway, then looks me over.
"You're still wearing that robe," he says, as though I didn't know. "And it smells marshier than before."
"You're sstill shirtlessss," I retort, shoving my way inside and forcing my carnal urges down as best I can. The more I revert to my murderous state, the harder it is to focus my vocal emissions into words. "And you look flabbier than before." He looks offended, naturally, but right now I feel like doing much worse than insulting his dumpy build. I fling myself to the floor and clutch my head, shivering fervently. Caius is quiet.
"What's wrong?" he asks at last.
"The sssaaame that hhaasss alwaaaysss been wrooong," I hiss, my tail convulsing like a dying snake as my claws dig into my temples. Damn this craving for flesh, for blood... must it master me!
Resisting the overwhelming desire to sink my teeth into the vulnerable old man before me, I stagger to my feet and stare at the wall instead. I don't recall a time I've ever had to restrain myself before... irons bars, shackles and collars did the restraining for me until my homicidal fervor was conveniently utilized to attain someone's honor, revenge or ill-begotten money through murder they will not commit themselves. I was a slave trained to kill, a cheap alternative to an assassin, and the killing instinct is strong in me yet. In some ways, I am still a slave.
"Your Emperor... mussst want to get rid of you," I chortle, a weak sound that curdles in the back of my throat. "Why elssse would he ssend me... to your houssse?" I clear my throat. "Yesss... it makesss ssenssse now..." So that's why I was released in Morrowind. To seek out and kill this man. That must be it. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry through with it. I lurch toward the door, but Caius's voice stops me.
"I don't think the Emperor would be trying to kill me," Caius says. He's surprisingly calm about this. "Maybe another higher-up, but not the Emperor himself. But I have a theory of my own, Argonian... you clearly have some problems. Maybe you were sent here for another reason."
"Like whhaat?"
"That's something the Emperor would know." Caius's voice is still calm. My hand rests on the door's handle. There is a long duration, where neither of us moves. Finally, I turn around.
"Whhyyy... would the Emperor... ssend me?" I query, relaxing slightly. The burst of bloodlust is passing. Caius only shrugs; he knows no more than I, or so he claims. I slump to the floor, half-sitting, neck arched down at the ground. What other reason...?
"I've been having dreamsss..." But Caius clearly doesn't care to hear them. Now that there's no risk of being torn apart by a frenzied reptile, he feels secure in giving me my orders. And I listen. Something tells me I'll be better off for it.
"After you change into something that doesn't reek, go talk to Hasphat Antabolis at the Balmora Fighters Guild," Caius instructs me. Maybe the drugs have something to do with his remarkably easy-going behavior. "Ask him what he knows about the Nerevarine secret cult and the Sixth House secret cult. You'll have to do him a favor first. Probably an ugly favor. But do it. Then get the information from Antabolis and report back to me.
"By the way... Hasphat is a student of Morrowind history. Take the chance to get a little education. And I have a few history books in here. Help yourself. You're welcome to them. No point in being part of history if you're too ignorant to understand it." He gestures to a couple books scattered haphazardly on the floor, one peeking out from under the bed.
"Quite the housekeeper, aren't you?" I ask wryly, getting to my feet; if he can feign ignorance to the events of not one minute ago, so can I. "And no thank-you. I don't like to read if I can avoid it."
"Suit yourself," he shrugs casually, picking a fine skooma pipe off the bedside table and taking a long drag out of its tip. I head for the door, but eyeball him suspiciously as I go. These names, Nerevarine and the Sixth Cult... they strike a twinge of familiarity within me, somehow. What would a spy want with them? And what did he mean, in his implication that I would be a part of history?
These questions boggle me as I shut the door behind me and set off again into the streets of Balmora. I encounter the Dunmer woman I crashed into earlier again. She shoots me a poisonous glare as I pass, though I pretend not to notice. I have more important business, concerning Nerevarine, the Sixth House, and a man called Hasphat Antabolis.
I should probably change out of this rank robe first... but I don't.