Mog

"Dark times lie ahead!"

"I'd like five please."

"Skooma man, I said I needed skooma! You can't just leave me hanging, come on, I'll give my payment next week."

Riften's market place that filled the grand plaza was, as always, an odd mix of quiet and noise. People shouted and gossiped and went about their daily business, all whilst watching their backs, their actions hurried and their words hasty.

"I want to leave," snipped a middle-aged Imperial woman dressed in modest finery to her husband as they paced around the stalls, looking over the wares with beady eyes. They were clearly tourists to the city.

"Will you stop being paranoid? You know as well as I do that the Thieves Guild no longer holds any power here," her husband snapped back in an agitated, exasperated tone.

Crouched down behind some sacks of wheat, concealed out of sight from the rest of the world, Mog narrowed his eyes at the couple and stuck his tongue out at the man. Patiently, he waited for them to begin another lap around the stalls, awaiting the moment when they would pass before his hiding place.

It was almost too easy. Moving silently, his movements practiced and swift Mog reached out from his hiding place, raising his body just slightly and his hand easily found its way into the woman's pockets. Careful not to knock the contents against her so as to alert her to his activites, Mog gently retracted the contents of the pockets out of them, clutched in his hand. She didn't notice a thing.

As Mog picked through the good he had stolen from the imperial couple, Brynjolf's heavily accented voice came from behind the stalls to chastise him. "You know, you really ought to be more careful than picking like that in broad daylight." Brynjolf was a prominent member of the Thieves' guild and one of Mog's unofficial guardians.

"Fancy fancy," Mog mused aloud, completely ignoring the well-built redheaded guild member in favour of examining a pretty necklace he had acquired from the woman's pockets. It was carved from a well-polished brass with a little emerald set into the pendant. It seemed she hadn't trusted Riften enough to wear it around her neck, but was still foolish enough to hide it in her pocket. Did idiots not understand the meaning of the term "pick-pocket"?

Mog slung the pendant around his neck and tucked it under the dingy beggar robes he wore, then stood up and stretched, yawning gracelessly. "Morning sunshine," a familiar voice teased from behind him; he turned to see a Redguard girl to leaning against the low-running wall that encircled the market place, a lopsided smirk on her face. She was short and well-built without being plump, with thick dark hair that fell in dead-straight tangles down the sides of her boyish face, stopping short around her squared jaw.

"Sharli," Mog greeted her with a grin, to which she responded by widening her own.

"You two pups had best clear out of here, I'm sure there's plenty of trouble that needs causing elsewhere." Byrnjolf sighed exhaustedly, having been in a bad mood all morning. It seemed that the rumoured collapse of his guild was getting to him.

"Actually, I came to tell you that Gah-Ju wants you, Moggy," Sharli informed him dryly. Her voice was deep for a girl's but it was strong and rich, sounding far too mature for her fifteen years of age.

"Stupid lizard had better not be off his face again, last time was just embarrassing," Mog muttered to himself. He waggled his fingers at Brynjolf before casually vaulting himself over the stone wall, coming to stand next to Sharli.

"Respect your elders, young man!" Brynjolf yelled after them. The two youngsters shared a pair of mischievous grins and then bolted off, as light and agile as elk.

"Beware and repent children of Skyrim, for dark times lie ahead!" Cried the doomsayer, an elderly robed man who had wandered into town a few weeks past and had been declaring the same tales of doom to the population of Riften ever since. "The end of the world is upon us, for the dead are to rise as the moon turns to blood."

Cackling, Sharli purposefully bumped into the doomsayer, an olden man who was slight in stature, not built to withstand knocks. As he stumbled, the Redguard snorted an empty apology and then carried on, scurrying down the steps down to the constructed pathways of wooden planks that ran along Riften's waterway.

Slowing as he reached the steps, Mog took them one at a time and squinted up at the sky, coming to a halt mid-way down. Whilst he held no regard for the doomsayer, or for any prophecy at all, he could not shake the feeling that something really was coming. The sky was blackened on the horizon, as it had been for the past many days. It was often cold here in Riften, raining more often than not, yet they hadn't had a single shower in weeks. Rain was better for working in as a thief, people always squinted when it was raining, their vision obscured. On the horizon, the dark clouds were beginning to blow over in the city's direction and soon the earth would finally taste rain again.

Shivering as an odd cold washed over him, Mog shook himself out of his mental stupor and hurried down the steps, chasing after Sharli. He attempted to put the smile back on his face, which came more easily when he spotted her leaning casually against the wall beside the door to the Ratway with a look of theatrical impatience. "You sure you haven't gone Skooma on me Moggy? You look rather distant today." She spoke with sincerity, but a teasing smirk kept cracking through her frown. Mog punched her playfully on the arm.

"Shut it Shar," he quipped back. She dodged under his punch and pounced on him, tackling him to the floor.

Sharli was much stronger than him—a fact that she and every other member of the thieves' guild mocked him for—and quickly got him into a headlock. "Looks like you're dead," she declared as she mimed throttling him, whilst he made the appropriate chocking noises. Sniggering at her own antics, Sharli ruffled his hair before releasing him and straightening. "Come on, Gah-Ju will kill me if I don't get you to him soon; he was all over the place this morning." She walked around behind him, prodding him into moving forward with sharp jabs from her fingers. "Don't be a baby," she scolded him when he complained, so he slipped on into the Ratways in a sulk.

Whilst Sharli was stronger than him, Mog was faster than her, so he grinned when they inevitably broke into a race to reach The Ragged Flagon first. He quickly pulled away from her, ignoring the insults she called after him as he ran barefoot over the dank stone, a familiar and comforting sensation. Here, down in the Ratway with the rank smell of decay and sweat, the dim lighting and the unavoidable damp, here was his home, and it had been that for as long as he could remember.

Mog looked like just another Nord beggar boy in the streets, and was perfectly happy with that fact for it was fitting. He was short, tiny for his fourteen years of age; guards often passed him off as an ignorant child playing tricks, which was a valuable advantage as a criminal. The leniency might mean the difference between a year in a cell and a simple scolding. Despite his height, he somehow seemed gangly, skinny and scrawny as they came. He had sallow skin and brown features: ratty hair, large almond eyes, and freckles that were scattered across his face. He wasn't at all notable in his appearance, but then he had no reason to be. He was just another rat in the sewers. For that, all he needed to be was fast.

Hurtling into The Ragged Flagon, he received several nods from the rag-tag team of thieves, fences and crooks gathered there. When he came to catch his breath, leaning against the counter, Vekel the bartender addressed him. "Gah-Ju's looking for you," he informed him, sounding rather sullen, as Vekel always did.

"Where is he?" Mog panted, flushed and sweating as he squinted at the people gathered at the tables of the bar. He was unable to spot the Argonian in question, which was odd since normally in the mornings he chose to reside where there was alcohol available to quell the hangover from the previous evening.

"In his room."

Gah-Ju's room was down in the Warrens, despite his status as a member of the Thieves' Guild. Originally this had been because he had been Mog's guardian when he was an infant, and the noise of his crying had had led the other guildmates to exile them to the Warrens so they could get a decent night's sleep. Even after Mog had aged beyond crying in the middle of the night, the pair had stayed in the room, appreciating the privacy it offered. Eventually, despite the abysmal conditions, it became their home.

Sharli caught up soon after, and the pair wandered their way through the vaults, hopping over the tripwire that triggered the maces and scurrying on into the Warrens. They pointedly ignored Knjakr the mad chef, who as always offered them the opportunity for him to devour their flesh—how kind—and walked to the next door over, entering without bothering to knock.

What was usually a neat, orderly room was now in a state of chaos, things thrown everywhere, clothes out, draws hanging open with their contents scattered around the room. Gah-Ju himself was no better as he rushed about the room in a frenzy, tearing through belongings and throwing the odd bits and pieces onto the room's two beds. He failed to notice the two teenagers standing in the open doorway, watching him as though he had gone mad. "Father?" Mog inquired awkwardly after a few moments.

The Argonian paused in the middle of searching one of the little drawers in a writing desk and glanced up at them with wide, feverish eyes. After a moment of staring, seemed to relax somewhat, although he was still clearly agitated. "Mog, good, you're here," he mumbled, nodding to himself as he returned to leafing through the contents of the drawer, a little less feverishly this time, but still with a noticeable haste.

"You wanted to see me?" Mog reminded him slowly, a little worried that his guardian had gone completely insane.

"Yes, yes, sorry," Gah-Ju bumbled, worrying Mog for he was normally a straightforward, composed individual. Finally leaving the draw alone, he straightened and faced the pair, his eyes slipping over to Sharli briefly as he considered her. "Thank you for retrieving him Sharli, if I could have a moment alone with him?"

"Sure," Sharli replied slowly, bobbing her head as she shot Mog a doubtful look. After lingering for another moment more to survey the state of the room, she left, the sound of her footsteps splashing in puddles echoing throughout the Warrens. Gah-Ju did not speak until they had grown distant.

It was obvious that Gah-Ju, an Argonian, could not have fathered Mog, a Nord. Mog did not suffer the usual racism that accompanied his race however, and couldn't think of a better person as a father. Tall for an Argonian, Gah-Ju had the look of an intellectual, something subtly mature and well-read about the way he held himself and the way he spoke. His appearance suited the lifestyle of a thief well, his dark green scaled skin almost black, and his amber eyes the only thing that could be easily made out in the dim lightening of the unlit room, along with the dim ivory colour of the two small horns that protruded either side of the back of his head. Usually he dressed in the standard armour of the Guild, yet today he stood before Mog wrapped up in layers of black robes and dark-tanned leather concealed beneath a black pull-over, his trousers tucked down into heavy-duty walking boots.

Curious about the change in attire although he didn't want to comment when Gah-Ju seemed so stressed, Mog shut the door behind him. By the time he'd turned around Gah-Ju had moved forward to be stood directly before him. Taking Mog's shoulders in his hands, the Argonian scrutinised his face for a moment before speaking, "Mog, we need to leave," he told him simply. His words where blunt and plain, but there was something in them, something caught between pain and determination, that told Mog he had to listen.

"Leave? As in, leave Riften? Is this because of the guild's bad luck?" Mog kept asking more questions because Gah-Ju never once nodded, his expression remaining static and solemn.

Exhaling quietly, Gah-Ju squeezed his shoulders tighter and then shook his head. "We need to leave everything, Mog. The guild, Riften, everyone. We need to disappear."

"Why?" was all he could ask.

"Without wanting to sound melodramatic, Mog, because we aren't safe here. People know us, they know you, some people even know where you came from and right now, and that's dangerous," Gah-Ju answered in a strained voice. Recently Mog had felt he'd been worse than usual, more stressed, more reserved, but it seemed now things had reached tipping point.

Bowing his head, Mog chose his words carefully, speaking in a muted tone. "Is this because of my parents?"

"I suppose, in a way," Gah-Ju confirmed a little hesitantly, averting his eyes from Mog as he spoke. "I'm sorry," he apologised, suddenly pulling Mog in close for a hug. Argonians being overtly affectionate was weird enough, but Gah-Ju? It was as though he really had gone insane.

"We have to, don't we?" Mog checked, staring numbly at the back wall as Gah-Ju held onto him. Inside, he felt oddly accepting of this fate. Perhaps it was the feeling of an oncoming change that had dwelt within him for some time now, or simply because the sense of not belonging was a natural part of him, an orphan, but having to leave did not surprise or pain him.

"Yes." Pulling back, Gah-Ju composed himself a little better and tipped Mog's face up to examine it before patting the side of his jaw and leaving him to return to what Mog now presumed was packing.

"I'll go say my goodbyes then," Mog murmured dully, running over who he would have to see and how everyone would react. As his second father almost, Brynjolf might get emotional; no, he'd almost definitely give him a hearty speech of great value to send him on his way, remaining strong for the "young pup". If anything, he'd only be emotional around Gah-Ju, when the Argonian bid him farewell; they'd been close since the beginning, ever since Brynjolf had helped get them both a place in the guild.

Sharli would be the most difficult to say goodbye to; she was his best friend, sister and soulmate all at once, and to have to leave that behind could never be easy. Still, Mog had always felt that were they to be parted, either by a mission or even by death, they would meet again, tied together by some unbreakable, invisible force. She'd understand.

"No," Gah-Ju snapped suddenly, his voice raised as he whirled around to face Mog. "No goodbyes."

"But—" Mog immediately began to protest, but Gah-Ju was hearing none of it.

"We cannot let anyone know we are leaving, nor can we let anyone see. The risk is too great." Spotting Mog's look of frustration, his posture softened slightly and his tone became gentle. "It is for their sake just as much as it is for ours. If the danger is real, ignorance may be the only thing that will save their skins."

Mog bit back his protests, knowing that Gah-Ju was not to be argued with. He was a patient man, but if he pushed him in a state like this, it would only infuriate him into one of his "states". Gah-Ju when he was angry was a terrifying sight to behold; even Brynjolf was petrified of him then. "Can I go see them one last time though?" Mog pleaded of him in a whiney tone. If there was one thing he could rely on with Gah-Ju, it was that he always babied him if he went about it right.

"Certainly," Gah-Ju relented.

Mog left the room, at first making his way up to the Cistern slowly, watching his bare muddy feet as he took each step, playing the childish game of not stepping on the cracks on the floor. Then he stopped entirely. Soul mates were soul mates; if he left Sharli without a word of goodbye, she would try to find them, just as he would do for her. Straightening out of his slouch, he broke back into a run and disappeared off into the Ratways in pursuit of her.