CHAPTER ONE - BLACK SHEEP (OR DUNMER)

My road to Riften led me through Cyrodiil, Elsweyr and Morrowind, and it took me twenty four years to travel it.

When I look back on it now, I can see that it was a journey taken in steps. Things that happened to me, which led me to make certain choices and follow certain paths. That conversation with Ahkari on that night when I was eight years old was the first step. Or rather, it was the hand that shoved me out of the door and onto the path.

The second step was Qa'shando dying.

If I'm going to be honest, that was the next thing of any real note that happened in my life. And for the record, it happened seven years later. Don't get me wrong – life with the caravan wasn't boring. Never boring. There's a thrill in having that kind of freedom, an open road and no rules or walls to stop you from taking any route along it you choose. I was raised on that freedom, I drank it in like milk. Maybe that's why I live the way I do now. I can't be caged, can't be confined, can't exist in a world that would try to control me. That freedom was the spice in my life. And I loved it.

And besides, Skyrim is a dangerous place – anyone who needs to be told that is either stupid or some prissy Altmer who's never stepped outside the gates of a city. We faced some new danger every day – wolves if we were lucky, bandits if we weren't. We were used to that. It was the price we paid for our freedom, and it was one we were willing to pay.

But the day came when Qa'shando paid with his life. When a bandit gang struck without warning, and he didn't lift his shield fast enough, and an arrow took him through the neck. Bad luck. The right place for them to ambush us, the right angle for the arrow's flight, the right moment for him to be caught off guard. I wish I could say that he died instantly. Or that he died slowly and calmly, with some dramatic and meaningful last words, like people do in books.

The books are full of horsecrap.

We couldn't even help Qa'shando until we'd driven of the rest of the pack, so he was left there for a few minutes, clawing at the dirt, begging for help. By the time we got to him, there was nothing any of us could have done, except put him out of his misery. Which Ahkari swiftly did.

Bad end for a good man. Seems to happen a lot in this world. You ask my father.

That night, we sat around the campfire, the three of us. I kept looking up, expecting to see Qa'shando there. His not-there-ness was almost like a presence. His absence was huge and thick and cloying and I knew then, I knew I had to get away. Because suddenly everything looked different. A wanderer's life with no purpose had always been enough for me, but now it wasn't.

I couldn't live like that. I couldn't die like that. I couldn't spend my years traipsing through the wilds only to have it all come to nothing in a bandit raid. Suddenly, it was occurring to me how lonely the caravan's life was. Qa'shando had had no partner in life, no children, and now he never would. I remember – I can picture it now, as vividly as if I were there again - how my fifteen-year-old self curled her hands into fists and clenched her jaw and pressed her eyes shut. How she made a promise – to herself, to the Divines, to whatever the heck might have been listening, that it would not happen to her. When she died, she would be more than one more traveller whose life amounted to nothing.

The next step on my path to Riften was Kharjo's arrival. Qa'shando had been one of our guards, and the very fact that he'd died showed us just how important it was to have them. Three months later, then, when the letter arrived from Elsweyr, Ahkari answered it instantly. The son of a friend had been imprisoned, imprisoned by authorities whom Ahkari, despite being several months' journey away, still had some influence over. She sent a carefully and strongly-worded message by courier across Skyrim's peaks, through Cyrodiil's forests and over Elsweyr's deserts, and in return, we received Kharjo. Freed from prison, he was now indebted to Ahkari, a debt he would repay with his sword and his loyalty.

What surprised me, when I met him, was that he was only a year or so older than I was. So naturally, he was the one I talked to now, as we strode through the pine woods and across the tundra. And I found myself asking, more than anything else, about his journey to Skyrim. The things he'd seen along the way, the people he'd met, the dangers he'd faced. And even as I hung on his every world, I felt jealousy cover my insides, the way frost covers a blade that's left outside overnight.

If I die in a bandit raid tomorrow, I thought, I'll never have seen anything but the trading routes across Skyrim. Kharjo has seen cities and desert wastes and rainforests. I want to see them too. I want to see more.

'Then see it,' Kharjo said simply, when I told him that. 'This one is bound to this caravan by what he owes to Ahkari. But you are not. You may go where you please, M'lina.'

I stared at him as if he'd just suggested that I grow wings and fly. 'What? You mean… just leave? Leave the caravan?'

That was the problem, you see. Fifteen years old's an age when anyone who lives in Skyrim should know either a trade, or how to handle a weapon, or both. You can't afford to be a child any longer, and it's time to look to becoming an adult. I wasn't looking there yet. I'd grown too used to being hugged close to Ahkari's warm fur. I was just as afraid to go as I was to stay.

'Why not?' Kharjo shrugged. 'You can fight, and you know how one survives in the wild. You could visit any place in Tamriel you wished.'

'But Ahkari…' I hesitated, letting my sentence trail away into silence

Kharjo tilted his head on one side. 'You do not wish to leave her?'

'She's this one's mother. Well, she's not, but she is, know what M'lina means?'

'No.'

'She's always looked after this one. If M'lina just goes wandering off, then it'll hurt her. She'll think she didn't take care of this one well enough, or that she wasn't happy, or – '

'Do not be foolish, M'lina. Ahkari cares for you, and she knows you. She knows that you have a free spirit, and a will to seek your own path. She will understand. And if you do not want her to think that it is because of any failing of her own that you leave, simply make sure she knows that it is not.'

There was no arguing with this, really. 'This one supposes you're right. She could always leave it a while. Keep mentioning that she's going to do it, but wait 'til she is older and stronger before she leaves. That way, Ahkari has time to get used to the idea, and Melyna has time to prepare herself.'

Kharjo smiled. 'A good idea. But do not wait too long, or she will stop believing you.'

When it came to following that order, I didn't do so well. It took me three years. I left on the day I turned eighteen. I warned the caravan long in advance that I would be going, and to my relief, no one questioned it, or even asked why I wanted to leave. 'You were born into this life – or you were adopted into it when your mother left you behind,' Dro'marash told me. 'We chose it, but you did not. You have the right to seek your own future.'

Ahkari cried. She'd be furious if she knew I'd written that for you, Leonardo, you know how proud and prickly she can be. I guess even without being related to her, I inherited that from her, right? But she cried. She did, no matter what she tells you.

'This one never believed you would stay forever, M'lina,' she whispered, as she gave me one last hug. 'She watched you, for all these years. Even when we stopped to camp for the night, your eyes strayed to the horizon. You always sought for more than this life, Ahkari knew that. She still hoped…'

I moved back so that I could look into her eyes. They were so different from mine, grey to my crimson, oval pupils to my round ones. And yet it didn't matter. We were family.

'No matter where M'lina goes, or what becomes of her,' I told her, grasping her arms, 'she shall always be your daughter.'

And that was the truth. It still is. I have another mother now – or rather, I've found the lost mother I always had but never knew. But it hasn't changed how much Ahkari means to me. Nothing will.

My birthday gifts that year were gifts with one purpose and one alone – to help me survive in the wild. A beautiful bow, made in the elven style, from Dro'marash. A glass dagger from Kharjo. From Ahkari, clothes suited both to the warm lands of the south and the harsh provinces of the north. One last time, we shook hands, smiled at each other, told each other how much we cared.

Then I turned my back on that existence, and set off to make my life worth its while.

I owe Teldryn Sero for my name.

All right, if you want to be technical, I owe my mother for my name, since she was the one who gave it to me in the first place. And then I owe Ahkari, Qa'shando and Dro'marash for it, since they did their best to get their tongues around it rather than giving me a completely new name. So when I met Teldryn, he was able to work out what it was my mother had meant to call me.

It took four years for me to get there, though. I spent a long time on the road. I travelled south first, eager to see the warm woodlands of Cyrodiil and the splendour of the Imperial cities. Here and there I took on odd jobs for my food, but mostly I hunted and scavenged for myself, traded meat and pelts for beds in taverns or for clothes or food. And if my coin purse became worryingly light, I would simply steal someone else's. A Khajiit caravan often can't afford fancy scruples about these things. We'd never rob our customers, but the town guards were fair play. From Ahkari, Qa'shando and Dro'marash, I had learned to walk as silently as a velvet-footed Khajiit, how to cut someone's purse strings so carefully they didn't feel the loss, how to slip a hand in and out of another's pocket. Through my skills with the bow, I found food. Through both bow and sword, I kept myself safe. With a light, deft touch, I kept my reserves of gold well-stocked. The world could throw nothing at me that I couldn't face head-on.

From Cyrodiil, I ventured into Elsweyr. A beautiful land, and a fascinating one. The Khajiit were fascinated by this grey-skinned outsider who spoke their tongue and understood their culture. I stayed there for some time. Made some friends, even. I loved it there, with the warm sun and the laid-back, free-spirited way of life. And having been around Khajiit my whole life, I understood Elsweyr's people with far more ease than I'd ever understood those of Cyrodiil.

But the road called me on in the end, of course. It called me to Morrowind, to the man who'd discover my name for me.

The thing was, the longer I stayed in Elsweyr, the more I became aware that I was different. I was not a Khajiit; I was a Dunmer. I liked these people, enjoyed their way of life, but I wasn't one of them. I guess that was what made me pack my things and head northwards. It was time, I decided, to learn about my own people, the people I belonged to by blood. Perhaps then, I would learn a little more about myself.

Leonardo, if you ever go to Morrowind, then let me warn out in advance, you'll be called outlander about once every three minutes. Oblivion, even I look like a full-blooded Dunmer, and half the people I met still called me an outlander. The first few times, it was amusing. The joke got old pretty quickly. I'm not easily hurt, and yet… it stung, finally being surrounded by people who looked just like me, but who made me feel less welcome than a race of people with tails and fur had. After only a few days there, I was tempted to turn around and head back to Elsweyr.

Teldryn was what stopped me. I'd stopped into an inn – sorry, a cornerclub – to get a mug of something to drink and sit for a while so I could decide whether the fact that sujamma was the best drink I'd ever tasted was worth staying longer in a place where I was treated like dirt. And as I collected my drink and turned on the spot, trying to find a place to sit, I spotted him seated at a table in the corner. He stood out right away. The blade and the chitin armour helped; we were in a small village near the border, and everyone else in the cornerclub was wearing the typical plain tunics of farmhands and miners and so on. And then there was the fact that he was… well, honestly, he was hot. Sure, Leo, you're going to be embarrassed reading that, but I did actually like other men before your father. Fact of life. Deal with it, kiddo.

He happened to look up, and I saw him turn his head my way, take in my bow and sword and battered leather armour. We shared a look – a sort of, good to see another fighter here look – and he jerked his head at the seat across from him, inviting me to come and sit with him. The cornerclub was packed, and it was the first time since I'd arrived in Morrowind that anyone had shown an interest in getting to know me, so I went on over.

He could tell right away from the Khajiit accent that I wasn't from around these parts, but when he said, 'You're an outlander, aren't you?' he sounded intrigued, not disgusted. I told him about how the other Dunmer had been treating me, and he nodded resignedly and sympathetically. And of course he asked about the accent, and I explained where I'd come from, and eventually I told him my name, as I knew it then. He frowned, leaned back in his seat, stroked his chin a bit.

'So your real mother called you something,' he said slowly, 'and the Khajiit caravan heard M'lina, so that's what you've always been called? Small wonder my kinsmen have been giving you a hard time.'

'What exactly is their problem?'

'Dunmer tend to hate outsiders, as I'm sure you've realised. And more than anything else, they hate other Dunmer who don't know our ways. Dunmer who don't know what it is to be Dunmer. Here you are, with no knowledge of our traditions, and even going by a Khajiit name.'

I shrugged. 'Well, they can go stick their heads into Red Mountain. I don't know my real name, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.'

'I disagree.' Teldyrn folded his arms. 'M'lina is a Khajiit mishearing of a Dunmer name. You've no knowledge of Dunmer names, but someone who knows them can easily try to guess at what your mother meant you to be called.'

'Are you volunteering?'

He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. 'I reckon she meant Melyna. Nearest name I can think of.'

I took a long, slow sip of my sujamma, and took some time to swallow it. It was just a little conversation, a chat with a good-looking guy in a cornerclub, and yet it had given me my name. I'd entered the room called M'lina, but suddenly, I was Melyna. This Dunmer name felt real and vivid to me, because it was a name that had been on the lips of my mother. If she lived, if she was out there somewhere and thinking of me, she would be thinking of Melyna, not M'lina.

It wasn't for the sake of my bad-tempered kinsmen in Morrowind that I started to call myself Melyna. It was for my true mother's sake, and for my own.

We stayed there talking for a long time, Teldryn and I, sharing drinks and stories. He told me that he was a mercenary, a sword-for-hire, and that his last employer had recently dismissed him, and he was in the inn seeking a new client. The suggestion was obvious, and I didn't need to think much about it to decide to take him up on it. I'd collected enough coin to hire him, and now that I had my name, I felt a sudden strong desire to stay in Morrowind. With Teldryn to help me, perhaps I could learn some of the Dunmer traditions my bristly kindred valued so highly, or at least come to understand them. He could show me the land, teach me its people's ways.

Besides, I wanted to spend time in his company. Yes, partly because of his looks, I admit it. But also because he was a fighter. I felt that he was my equal in a way I hadn't with anyone else since I'd said goodbye to Kharjo, and I found that I enjoyed speaking to an equal very much indeed.

So it was decided. I pushed a pile of coins across the table to him, we chinked our mugs and shook hands, and when we left that inn – cornerclub, dammit – we went together.

It was Teldryn who first taught me to reach for the spark of flame within me that's a Dunmer's natural affinity for magic. He was a spellsword, battling with a blade in one hand and a spell in the other, and it was the first time, really, that I'd seen magic used in combat. Dark Elves and fire have always been closely linked, but I'd never tried to cast anything myself. I was surrounded by Khajiit for most of my life, after all, and Khajiit are rarely proficient mages.

But since I was in Morrowind trying to learn how to be a Dunmer, I started to learn, under Teldryn's not-so-patient guidance. It was easier than I had expected, to call magic into being, to send flames flickering over my fingers. I've tried, since, to learn frost and lightning spells, but I could never do it. Fire came naturally to me – anything else simply didn't. Neither did I feel secure fighting with magic alone; my bow was still the friend I wanted on my side in battle. But learning the fire spells gave me a new style of fighting – favouring the bow until the enemy got close, then casting it aside and pouring flame over them with one hand while using the other to swing my sword.

The next link I forged to my people's homeland was the warpaint. It was evening, as I remember; we were in the ashlands near Seyda Neen, watching the sunset light turn the ash from Red Mountain red and gold. Our campfire was spluttering slightly in the wind. Teldryn sat beside me, his chitin helmet removed for once, dipping his finger into a small stone bowl filled with a purple paint he'd bought from a travelling tradesmen some days ago, and carefully using it to refresh the markings across his forehead, cheeks and chin.

'You should get yourself some of this,' he remarked, wiping his finger on his helmet and leaving a smudge of colour on the chitin. 'What with you being so eager to find the cultural roots and all.'

I rolled my eyes. 'I'm not eager, just interested.'

'Well, if you want people to take a little longer to have you pegged as an outlander, this could be a step in the right direction. Besides, I'm sure it'd look… attractive on you.'

How could I say no to that? I sat still, eyes closed, while he daubed the markings in place with one cool fingertip. Two lines of small squarish shapes, starting at my eye and flowing down my cheek in a shallow S-shape. Even all these years later, I never let that paint fade. Those were good days, travelling Morrowind with Teldryn, and I'm glad to have the memory of them stamped on my face.

I won't keep it from you, Leonardo; Teldryn and I were more than friends, for a time. I'd never got that close to anyone before. It was fun while it lasted, and it meant something real to both of us. But it was never to last, really, mostly because I was never to stay in Morrowind. Don't get me wrong; Tel had no problems working outside Morrowind. If I'd asked him to come with me, he would have. But when I started to think it was time I saw more of Tamriel, I realised that I wanted to be alone. This was my journey, to discover myself, and I didn't want anyone else.

Teldryn understood, and I'll always be grateful for that. Better as friends anyway, we agreed. There was no anger between us. We were both wanderers. Permanent wasn't really a word that had a meaning for either of us, when every morning we woke up somewhere new, and our only real income was the loot we harvested from our battles. You live like that, and it's easy to let things go.

But Teldryn Sero gave me one last thing before we parted at the border with Cyrodiil, and that's the thing I owe him most for. Again and again, we'd discussed the story Ahkari had told me, of the woman who appeared like a phantom from the snowstorm on a winter's night and placed me in the caravan's care. We'd gone over the details minutely – the mystery of it fascinated him as much as it did me. My mother's purple –sorry, Ahkari, indigo – eyes, Teldryn thought might be caused by Daedric interference, or perhaps my mother had somehow resisted the ancient curse that turned all Dunmer eyes red. But the real clue, the one that set my feet on the path to Skyrim, was what she had worn.

'Dark leathers,' Teldryn said thoughtfully, on one occasion. 'Leather armour isn't all that uncommon, but for it to be dark… must have been dyed somehow. She might have just got her hands on a fancy set, but there are plenty of guilds who wear leathers, and have them dyed. Maybe she was a member of one of them.'

And that was the clue. That was the piece of the puzzle I needed. Because a few months after I hugged Teldryn and said farewell to him at the Cyrodiil border, telling him I hoped we'd meet again someday, I had the good fortune to bear witness to a somewhat amusing event in the town of Bravil. It's my kind of place, Bravil – filled with crooks and shadows and alleyways. I'd lifted a few coinpurses that afternoon, and I was wandering through the streets to the inn, pleased with myself and pleased with life, wondering whether I should visit Hammerfell or High Rock next. And that was when I saw the Argonian thief darting through the crowd.

He moved almost too fast for the eye to follow, and with a kind of effortless grace that pretty much forced me to stop walking and watch him. Behind him came a cohort of guards, clanking and panting in their ridiculously heavy armour, shouting at him that he'd violated the law and that his stolen goods were forfeit. But I could see, I'm sure everyone on the street could see, that they were never going to catch him. He overturned a barrel of apples, sending the guards tripping over the colourful fruits as they spilled across the pavement, and scrambled up a wall with Khajiit-like agility. He turned at the top, glancing back with a grin to watch the guards stumbling uselessly after him, and happened to catch my eye. No guards were looking my way, so I gave him a thumbs-up. He winked and jumped down to the other side of the wall.

One of the guards rushed up to the foot of the wall, seemed to consider trying to climb after the Argonian, and decided against it, instead stamping one food in a childish display of ineffectual rage – guards are pretty prone to those, I've noticed. And then he said the words that would lead me to my mother, my home, my answers.

'Thieves Guild scum!'

And it hit me, hit me like a blow from a sabre cat's paw, hit me with a surge of wonder and triumph, that the Argonian man had been dressed in a set of dark leathers.

The first time I met Brynjolf, I thought he was going to kill me. I freely admit, I've never let him forget about it. He's too gloriously embarrassed by it for me to just let it slide, but honestly, I do understand why he did what he did. It wasn't justified exactly, but it was understandable.

I'm skipping ahead, skipping what the rest of Skyrim would probably think is the most important part, but honestly, Leo? This isn't the Dragonborn's story, it's my story, Melyna's story. So no, I'm not going to go into what happened as I crossed the border from Cyrodiil to Skyrim, not in detail, at any rate. Suffice it to say, it was a bad idea to try pickpocketing those Imperial soldiers. I swear, there was nothing wrong with my technique. It was just complete bad luck that one of them coughed right then, and made one of the others turn around to see where the noise had come from. He had a perfect view of me with my hands in his friend's coin purse, and they reacted too quick for me to run. Bad luck, like I said. Could have happened to anyone.

Especially with the Skeleton Key gone and all, though I wouldn't learn that for some time.

They didn't take kindly to it at all. In fact, they took so unkindly to it that they threw me on a cart with their Stormcloak prisoners. And sentenced me to execution, I might add, which is just plain rude. All it took, though, was one pissed-off dragon thrown into the mix, and I was out of there. I didn't have a problem with helping that Stormcloak soldier out of there. I've never liked Ulfric or his bunch, they have far too many problems with my skin colour for me to ever take to them, but I wasn't feeling too kindly-disposed towards the Empire right then.

What I did have a problem with wasn't helping Ralof get to Riverwood or any of that. It was being asked to take a message to the Jarl of Whiterun. Why in Oblivion should that be my responsibility? They had guards for that, right? Or couriers. Or just some random person from the village could do it. So I told Ralof's sister no. Told her I was sorry, but I wasn't headed for Whiterun. My destination was Riften, and I didn't plan on going anywhere else.

She pulled a face and asked me why in the names of the Nine I'd want to go there. I told her it was none of her business, but the real answer was that I was looking for my mother.

I'd put the pieces together as best I could. Those dark leathers were the uniform of the Thieves Guild. I knew that thieves sometimes did business with the caravan, because Ahkari would buy goods from questionable sources, so if my mother were a thief, it would make sense that she'd be happy leaving me with the Khajiit. And my final clue was the request she'd made when she'd left me with Ahkari – don't take her near Riften. It didn't take much asking around to learn that Skyrim's Thieves Guild was based in Riften.

And so I'd come to Skyrim. If my mother had been part of the Guild, maybe she'd be there. If she'd left them for some reason, I could ask after her. And even if I was wrong and she'd never had anything to do with them, surely a group as well-connected as the Thieves Guild could help me find her.

Why was it so important to me to find her? Even now, I can't say for certain. I guess it all comes back to that basic need we all have to know who we are. I didn't like the mystery. I've never liked being helpless, in any way. And not knowing the truth was being helpless, in a way, because there was this big emptiness in my past I had no control over.

Or maybe it was because she'd told the caravan that she loved me, and that she hadn't wanted to leave me. Maybe I didn't like the thought of a woman out there somewhere in the world, longing for the daughter she'd had to give up. And yes, it had occurred to me that Ahkari, Dro'marash and Qa'shando might have lied about her saying that to make me feel better about it, but I thought I might as well give her a chance.

So that was how I ended up in Riften, in Last Seed of the year 4E 201. Twenty-four years old, dressed in ragged bits of armour scavenged from dead Imperials, with a bow slung over my back, a sword at my hip and a dagger in my belt. That was how I ended up nearly being killed by Brynjolf, by a man who would one day become like a brother to me. I never really saw it coming, which I'm still ashamed of – I'd always prided myself on being hard to creep up on. But then again, Bryn was a thief himself, and he'd been one longer than I had.

It was in the marketplace that he caught sight of me, and everything really began. I was hovering by Grelka's stall, examining the bows, wondering if I had the coin to buy one to replace the terrible excuse for a weapon I'd salvaged from one of the Imps I'd killed, or whether I'd need to gather some more gold from the pockets of the people around me. That was when I first heard Bryn's voice, shouting over the crowd.

'If you've ever wanted to have godlike powers, try genuine Falmer blood elixir. Tried, tested and proven to work – and only twenty Septims!'

I glanced up and away from the weapons display, causing Grelka to grit her teeth and make a noise of disgust. Across the market square – well, it's more of a circle, really, but anyway – a Nord man with fox-red hair, dressed in a dark blue coat, was standing under a little roof-covering thing, holding up a tall red bottle. My immediate reaction was one of contempt. Scammers and swindlers were the lowest type of thieves, I remember thinking. They depended on others' stupidity, not their own skill.

So I snorted loudly. Loud enough for him to turn his head my way. I saw the movement and quickly moved on, leaving the marketplace behind me. First rule of being a thief in a strange town is not to attract attention to oneself, and I didn't want to give this man a reason to take an interest in me.

But he had time to get a quick look at me, and that was enough.

I headed down one of the backstreets, smiling as I did so; these places had always been my favourite part of any city. The places least invaded by guards, the places with the most twists and turns and corners to duck around and shadows to melt into. These places were little fragments of wilderness in the heart of civilisation, and that made them feel like home.

Besides, I was a thief. Alleyways and thieves go hand in hand.

It never occurred to me that I was being followed. I heard nothing and saw nothing. There was no sound of breathing behind me to alert me, nor any soft thud of footfalls. I was in mid-stride, my mind busy making plans for how I might contact the Thieves Guild, when it happened.

The first I knew of his presence was a sudden, hard thump and a dull burst of pain as a hand clamped down on my shoulder. Instinct drove me to move, darting forwards in an attempt to wrench myself from his grip, but he had me caught and I could not pull away. My hand went to my belt, fumbling for my dagger, but already his fingers were closing around my lower arm, and he was holding me too tight for me to reach my weapon. One fierce tug, and he had pulled me around so that I was facing him, or rather, facing the flash of red hair and narrowed green eyes that were all that I could see of him before he threw me back against the alley wall, slammed his arm against my neck to pin me in place, and drew his dagger.

Despite the pressure being applied to my throat, I was just about able to spit words at him. 'Get the Oblivion off me, you round-eared s'wit!'

Actually, I didn't say 'Oblivion.' I said something worse, but I'm not writing that for you, Leo. Sure, you'll be older when you read this, but right now it's hard to see you as anything other than a pudgy-faced baby, so I'll be leaving out the bad words. Just imagine I actually said something rude every five sentences or so. Anyway.

At the sound of my voice, the grip on my neck instantly relaxed, though didn't release me. I'm not sure what it was that made him pause, made him hesitate with his blade raised. Probably the Khajiit accent – it always grows stronger when I'm angry or frightened, despite all the effort I put into banishing it during that time I spent in Morrowind.

Now that I could catch my breath, I took a closer look at my attacker. It was the man from the market, the man with the dark blue coat, and I could see that I had underestimated him. The jacket had hidden them from a distance, but his limbs were wiry and strong, and there was something – I don't know what, just something – about the way he held his dagger that made me certain he knew exactly how to use it.

I met his gaze, glaring as fiercely as I could, and I saw his eyes widen. His mouth opened slightly, and he peered at my face so intently that I felt a little like there was tiny writing scrawled on my skin that he was having trouble reading. And then he released me completely, taking two steps backwards, so that the width of the alleyway was between us. He dropped his dagger to his side, but did not sheathe it.

I, however, pulled my sword from my belt and jabbed it in his direction – not an attack, just a threat. 'What in the name of Azura's freaking knickers was that for?'

The man stared at me for a second, then shook his head a little. 'I – I'm sorry, lass. I thought you were someone else.'

'Well, I feel pretty damn sorry for whoever the someone else is, and I pray that for her sake she never comes anywhere near this place. What, do you make a habit of assaulting any woman who happens to look like your ex?'

'She wasn't my – ' He snapped off the end of the sentence, and I thought I saw him shudder slightly. 'I… who are you? What's your name?'

I tried to fold my arms, then realised that's a little hard when you're holding a sword, so I made a few less-than-graceful arm movements instead. 'What business is it of yours?'

'Everything that happens in Riften is my business, one way or another.' There was a new confidence and smoothness in his voice; now that he was over his initial surprise or anger or whatever it had been, he was trying to put himself on top of the situation. I could tell. 'I've an interest in knowing what goes on here.'

'Right, so you ambush every newcomer to the city? I'm pretty sure there are easier ways of taking a census. Ways that don't involve manhandling people and waving daggers in their faces.'

'Lass, I'm sorry about that. You look a lot like someone I used to know. Or thought I knew.' He did sound, I thought, genuinely sorry – but he was wary too. He was still suspicious, even if I wasn't the person he had mistaken me for.

I pursed my lips. 'Look, before I talk any more to you, answer me one question. Am I going to be needing this?'

I nodded in the direction of my sword. He glanced down at it, drew in a breath, and shook his head. 'No.'

As if to prove that he was telling the truth, he shoved his dagger back into its sheath. I waited a moment, giving him a warning look to make sure he knew I wasn't letting my guard down, and did the same with my sword.

'If you have to know, my name's Melyna,' I told him. 'I'm… a traveller. Of sorts.'

He inclined his head slowly. 'And whereabouts are you from, Melyna?'

My response was to cross my arms across my chest, properly, this time. At first, I wasn't sure why I was so reluctant to tell him – other people I'd met over the course of my travels, even strangers, I'd been happy to tell that I had been raised by a Khajiit caravan.

And then it hit me. He'd mistaken me for someone else. There was one clear, blindingly obvious reason why I might be mistaken for a different woman: family resemblance.

If looking like my mother got me attacked, then maybe it would be a good idea to keep quiet about my origins, what little I knew of them. At least until I knew where I stood.

'Born in Morrowind, originally,' I said at last – lying, like stealing, is something you have to do from time to time to get by. 'Brought up in Elsweyr. My parents traded with the Khajiit.'

To my relief, he seemed to accept this. 'Hence the accent, I take it.'

'Gods, is it that obvious?'

He chuckled slightly. 'It's not so bad, lass. If you're trying to drop it, it'll take you some practice.'

I leaned against the alley wall. 'So, you got a problem with me being a wanderer with a Khajiit accent? 'Cause I'm not in Riften to start trouble.'

'No? Then what are you in Riften for? No one comes here except for a reason.'

I stared at him. 'No one goes anywhere except for a reason, you Nord ash-brain.'

He blinked, frowned, and scratched his head. 'Never really thought about it. But people's reasons for coming to Riften are usually a little more… complex than their reasons for going to other places.'

One thing was for sure: I was not going to tell him that I was here looking for my mother. Not a chance. But there was another reason I was there – and perhaps, I realised, it would be safe to tell him. Here was a man who could walk in shadow as silently as if he were made of air, who had almost killed me without me seeing him, and whose demeanour spoke of a man who did not make his living in an honest manner. He had all the signs. This man was a thief, no mere conman.

'If you must know, I'm looking for the Thieves' Guild,' I said.

His eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he kept his face impressively impassive. 'A lot of people come here looking for the Guild, lass. The Guild doesn't often return their interest.'

I shrugged. 'You think I didn't learn anything growing up around Khajiit?'

That's a dirty stereotype, I know. Not all Khajiit are dishonourable thieves, any more than all Dunmer are bristly ash-loving people who call everyone 'outlander.' But it was a convenient thing to say right then.

'Point taken.' He took a step towards me, squinting at my face again. 'You're interested in joining the Guild, lass?'

'I've been living rogue for years. Spent some time in Cyrodiil, mostly Bravil. I've been providing for myself for all that time with other people's coin. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.'

He nodded slowly. 'You'll forgive me if I want to test that out before I take your word for it. Perhaps you'd be interested in doing a little errand for me. To prove you're all you say you are.'

'You say the word, and I'll get it done.' I wasn't about to turn down this opportunity. Here was my chance to learn something about my mother – and it would be nice, really, to be part of a group who shared my skills. I'd been alone, or around mostly-decent people like Teldryn, for a long time.

The man regarded me for a moment more, then stuck out his hand. 'Name's Brynjolf.'

'Melyna, like I said.' I took his hand and gave it a single firm shake, making sure he could feel the strength of my grip despite my being so much smaller than him. 'So what's this job you have for me?'

A little lockpicking and manipulation of the contents of pockets was all it took. That was what convinced Brynjolf to send me down into the Ratway, and what set me on the path to learning the answers to my questions. I wonder how different things might have been if I hadn't lied to Brynjolf then, if I'd told him I was looking for my mother.

I'm glad I lied. The way things happened, everything turned out well. Who knows what could have changed if I'd told the truth, and who might have suffered for it?

I'm going to leave this here for now, Leonardo. It's a good place to stop for a while. I'm tired now, and I need to concentrate when I write about what happened next. Because the events that happened later that day were some of the most important of my life. Specifically, the people I met were the important part. Because that day, I met three men who would change the shape of my life forever.

One was Brynjolf, my mentor, my confidant, my friend. The second was a man I would come to hate with every fibre of my being. And the third was a man I would come to love more than life itself.

And we're into the Guild questline itself at last! I'm going to do my best to make sure this is something more than just a retelling of the Guild story; I'll be throwing in some twists and extra events along the way. I'm really enjoying writing this so far, especially trying to get a distinct voice from Melyna, who's very unlike most of the characters whose perspectives I've written from before...

Thanks for reading!