RECAP: An orphan boy in Cyrodiil City witnessed the power of the nobles while growing up in the impoverished quarters of the metropolis. When he grew older, he made counterfeit coins and procured fancy clothing and weapons. He was nearly caught when stealing the weapons, but an innocent Altmer customer ended up taking the blame and being arrested for the crime.

I do not own anything you remotely recognize, since those probably belong to Bethesda Softworks, the company that made Morrowind. The unnamed character is my own, and that's about all I own.

Note: Whenever it says "the male," that signifies the main character. "He" in ambiguous circumstances generally refers to the main character also, unless it is clearly not so from the context.

"Move along, scum."

It rolled off his tongue as though he had been saying it since birth. The commoner at the receiving end of the insult quickly scurried away toward the town square, glancing back with fear plainly written in her face. He sighed and leaned against a doorframe, his neatly combed hair blowing in the breeze. He had come to town to inspect the construction of his stronghold. The work was progressing steadily, the foreman being a decent, reliable fellow. However, he was alarmed to find commoners squatted on the edge of his property and built fires and slept there at night. In his alarm he stormed toward their camp and promptly evicted them all, women and children. Poor women and children, he thought, they could have stayed another night. And yet to show compassion would be unbecoming…

His train of thought was interrupted by an Imperial who approached him.

"I found the one you were looking for, serjo."

"Well done," he replied. "Bring him to my country estate tomorrow. Make sure no one follows you."

"Yes, sire," the servant bowed and hurried to do his bidding.

The next day, he reclined on a couch in the living room, reading a history of the Empire written by Queen Barenziah. Fascinating, though biased, he thought to himself. He placed the book on a desk and glanced out the window. The Imperial servant was coming up the path, holding the arm of a wrinkled old Argonian.

"We have arrived," the Imperial announced.

"So I see," he answered dryly. His servant flushed.

"You may have the rest of the day for your own pleasure," he said, dismissing the servant, who swiftly made his departure. He watched the servant stride merrily to the servants' quarter, where the Imperial and his companions would probably spend the afternoon and evening carousing and exchanging tales.

"Who are you?" A voice brought his attention back to his visitor.

"That is of no significance," he replied in return to the Argonian's question. "For I do not even know who I am. But I know who you are."

"Oh?" was the calm response.

"You are the great master trainer. Blinded at a young age, you applied yourself to learning every martial art in the land, triumphing over those who still retained their sight. You also trained many assassins in your time, but a pilgrimage convicted you. Afterward, you disappeared without a trace. Though sought by would-be apprentices and avengers alike, you were nowhere to be found."

"Until now, by you."

"Yes. I have many means and many sources. I confess the search was unexpectedly short; to that I credit my trusty servant."

"Your servant is indeed a man of talent, but I would not have been found had I not willed it myself," the Argonian said.

"What do you mean?" he asked. Is he saying he let himself be found? Why would he do that?

The Argonian chuckled but said nothing, which exasperated him. How dare he not answer my question in my own house?

"You are growing angry," the Argonian said. "Your anger clouds your judgment. You must learn to contain it."

Or what? He retorted in his mind.

"Or you will not fulfill your purpose."

"My purpose?" He echoed, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice at the Argonian's seeming ability to read his mind. "I have no other purpose than to learn the art of weapons."

"Ah, that is only one of your purposes. Weaponry, for you, is a means to an end. But I will teach you if you are willing to be taught."

I didn't even ask him to train me yet, and he has already offered? This is too easy, and nothing in life comes easy. I must take care lest this be a trap from my enemies, mortal or divine.

"Do not fear a trap. I only work for what is good," the Argonian soothed.

"Enough," he commanded, disconcerted by the way the conversation was going. "My servant will show you your room and provide you with anything you require for your personal needs and for the lessons. Farewell." He summoned a house servant who escorted the Argonian to the guest wing of his country house.

Left alone once again, he seated himself in an armchair, staring into the crackling fire in the fireplace, deeply immersed in his thoughts. His plan had fallen into place like a well-oiled machine so far. Armed with dazzling clothing and weapons, he made himself a fixture in the streets of the noble quarters of the capital city in the daytime (at night he made counterfeit coins from muck). Not only was he making himself a familiar sight to the nobles, but he also had ample opportunity to observe and practice (under his breath, of course) their way of speech, accent and intonation and all. After several weeks, noblemen and noblewomen were greeting him and inquiring of him the reason for his visit. He was looking to expand his estate, he would tell them, and having a residence in the city was crucial to his business. He was therefore on a quest to obtain a deed to an ideally placed piece of land.

Soon his newfound friends came to him with news of a noble who died and left no heir, and whose land in the city was for sale. This land was now the site of his soon-to-be finished stronghold. Once construction began, he informed the nobles that his business required that he return to his home region. He then made several days' journey into the countryside and set up a small marshmerrow plantation, a legitimate operation sufficient to supply his needs. He threw himself into study, learning everything from the lore of the Empire to the spells of the mages to the art of speechcraft. All these he could learn from books and from guests who would pass by seeking his hospitality. But one thing he lacked, and that was a weapons master, someone who could train him vigorously and consistently until he was a match for most opponents, someone who would not question his suspicious lack of skill as a nobleman.

This caused him many a sleepless night until he overheard the servants speaking of a legendary Argonian trainer who vanished without a trace after renouncing his trade. He knew this was the one he needed, and he sent for his servant immediately to seek out the Argonian. Within two weeks, the Argonian had been found.

Was he telling the truth when he said no one could find him unless he willed it? He wondered. Or was he just bluffing? Is he even the right Argonian? I should have told him to prove himself… not that I could tell the difference between skilled and unskilled swordplay. Well regardless, weapons training start tomorrow. I better get rest tonight. After I become a formidable warrior, no one will be able to resist me. I will no longer be in want of anything ever again.

A clap of thunder jolted him out of his reverie. An image of women and children huddled beneath an overhang, shivering in the rain, came unbidden to his mind. They will no longer be in want of anything ever again.

What do you think? Is this story worth continuing?

I haven't written a chapter in years, so please give me feedback, especially if the story is confusing.

Comments, questions, suggestions are welcome.