#morry no

[hellbutitsfateseries]

Mordred: Hey, Assassin, can I borrow some poison?

Semiramis: Why?

Mordred: Oh you know. To kill myself with.

Semiramis:

Mordred:

Semiramis:

Mordred:

Semiramis: I like your honesty here you go

[shadows-of-almsivi]

When you were in Riften, who did you typically hang out with or at least talk to on a semi-regular basis? Was there anyone you enjoyed being around? Who did you /hate/?

I was a wreck in Riften when I first arrived. In honesty, I barely knew which city I was in, as wretched and close to death as I was, the skooma’s poisoning laying me low and screaming in one of the back rooms of the Bee and Barb. I’ve not yet been within Riften enough times to separate myself from the echoes of that agony I carried to the city’s first impressions. For all of that being true, the city itself draws me a little more than others, despite its clear degeneracy; the snow does not seem to quite reach it, so perhaps I will make its visitation more of a habit now that winter has begun to creep down from the north.

Riften’s markets yield many oddly decent and mannered merchants; not all, certainly, but enough to be notable within the constraints of Skyrim hospitalities. The smith is a decent sort for his kind (with an unexpectedly pleasant singing voice, I must say), who doesn’t mind a thin Dunmer warming his fingers and sharpening his weaponry by his forge. There is a Khajiit woman with bright eyes and a chattersome, curiously lustless nature, who sells flowers from a basket in between bouts of skilful vanishing when the guards make their patrols; she could likely convince someone to bankrupt themselves on cheap wildflowers, sweetly-driven thing that she is.

I enjoy speaking to Marise, when I have the energy. She seems to have some understanding of my unease around the crowds and noise at times; perhaps many Dunmer have come through this city with such a malady. Besides this, I believe Marise to simply be a naturally kind sort of mer, as kind as a place like Riften may allow her to be; it is not many merchants who make a habit of giving coins and food to beggars, not in a city of thieves. At her stall by the corner, away from the murmur of crowds, we speak much of her various travels, and little of mine. My habitual hunting seems to please her as well as I; when travelling tales wear too close to my bones, it is always pleasant to discuss game and fishing, cooking and the like. And of course, whatever local gossip has caught her ear.

The not-quite-Dunmer, Brand-Shei, is always a welcome face to me (and surely I to him, by the amount of gold I have already lined his pockets with). Though certainly too strange to feel truly kin, with swamp-hisses in his consonants and Argonian gestures flicking easily through his fingers, nonetheless he is kind to me. There is something to be shared, after all, between two grey-skinned mer whose speech and ways alienate us from the other local Dunmer. We share drinks behind his stall quite often, discuss his wares at length; for one who trades so deeply in Dunmeri goods, he knows rather little of them at times. Often I will find he has unearthed some rare oddity, something incongruous that only one as homelorne as I would desire to lay down good gold for. They mean the world to me.

There is a young mer there, very young, whose acquaintance I first made in Markarth. He goes by the name of Relvin Meru, a sweet and thoughtful boy with ember-bright hair and wide but furtive eyes that seem always a touch afraid. He’d always spoken to me with something like reverence, something I’ve grown disused to in these years. I’d wanted so much to stay by him and speak once I had made my way to Riften, we had kept up a patchy sort of running correspondence ever since our meeting in Markarth, but… I regret to admit that my pride and self-loathing could not stand his eye. He saw me as low as I have ever been since Leyawiin, and now that I have surely dashed all admiration he may have held for me, I cannot imagine how I would weather his disappointment. I slipped away, avoided his company, a shameful thing for certain but certainly, hopefully, understandable given the circumstances. 

He is young. He does not need to bear the weight of an old mer’s scars, or witness his hopeless weeping. If I return– or rather, when– I suppose I will have to find some ways to amend myself; it would be such a shame to never speak again, but not yet. Not yet.

As for one whom I hate… I have not spent enough time within the city to kindle decent grudges, not that that has ever stopped me previously. I despise thieves above most, so it was clear that Riften would pose a few more trying difficulties to my civility than usual. The tall, unctuous man in the market square drew my ire immediately, if not for his fulsome lies and blatant charlatanism (crimes enough to my eye), then for the oily familiarity with which he speaks to me, as though he thinks me akin to him. Brynjolf, I believe his name is; the more upstanding members of the market spit on it often enough. His arrogant smirk makes me daydream of littering the cobblestones with his teeth. His man by the city gates, too, irritates me more than most men, a hulking, boar-voiced brute with the stench of rot in his leathers; I am not easy to intimidate, and less easy still to force into compliances. I’d do away with them both, if they were not such shiftless wastrels that their daily loitering and extortions had become part of the city’s routine. 

Still. A mer can dream. Or hope for some swift and fatal sickness. A bad meal, perhaps…

[shadows-of-almsivi]

Just wanted to say I kinda see Morry as becoming teacher/rallying point for those of old Tribunal fate in Grey Quarters/Skyrim in general, like some kinda holy mer and champion of old gods. Maybe lucky he's not dragonborn or he might start neo-tribunal cult.

((Sweet gods, don’t give him any ideas. Or a position of power. Or any authority whatsoever. And *definitely* not access to dragon powers.

Next thing you know, he’ll be amassing an army and setting his sights on burning everything northwest of Elsweyr to the ground, and claiming all lands from Dawnstar to the Kvatch ruins in Morrowind’s name. “Bow in terror and awe, for the Dragon of the New North comes in glory and flame, and the vengeance sought for his home and his Lords will not allow for pity…”

Thank your lucky stars he doesn’t have such power. The mad mer might destroy the world, with that kind of momentum.

But give him some time, and he might just find a way to be a priest again, in secret. You never know what might happen to a mer.))

[shadows-of-almsivi]

How come some kids are practically worshipped for their bodily mutations (vimer) but other are put to death only because their eyes don't have marks of dark elf curses?! That's disgusting.

Why are some children raised in opulence and comfort within the Imperial City, while others starve in the gutters, unnoticed outside the window? Is the death of a child somehow more palatable when your kind does it out of brutish apathy? 

My own moved to protect our people from the First Corner’s scourge, but of course, we’re surely monstrous savages, aren't we. Nothing at all like you enlightened, noble Imperials. 

I walked the lands of Cyrodiil through peace and panic, through war and apocalypse. Would you like to know what statesmen called children during the Oblivion Crisis?

Soldiers.

Don’t you dare speak to me of disgust.

[shadows-of-almsivi]

tick tock

...And honestly, if they’re going to keep a horse outside in the snow, with not so much as a blanket, and tied so provocatively loosely to a dead tundra pine, it’s hardly even theft. It’s practically welfare salvage. They clearly do not deserve horses if they are not going to keep them in good care. Oh, poor thing, he’s got ice in his fetlocks. No draughty houseside pen for you tonight, my boy, not with this wind still howling, and definitely not with that Stormcloak brand on your haunch-- Can I bring him inside for the night? Surely not, that would be madness, but perhaps I can put him in the front hall if I move those rugs and anything a horse may consider potentially edible-- oh, I really must dispel those warding charms from the door, likely the path too, I suppose I don’t need those others by the garden but the ones on the windows must stay...

[shadows-of-almsivi]

---Frostfall, 31st, 4E 201---

Bilegulch Mine isn't too far from the house, and I feel like stretching my legs a little. It is not quite bounty collecting, though we have plenty of those to choose from; this time, though, I am merely punishing a thief, something I am very, very much less conflicted about.

Qa'Dojo made mention of one of the Khajiit caravans, and my eartips twitched when he said that one of their number had their mother's amulet stolen by bandits, which they had tracked to here. Though I understand the preciousness of home and family all too well, and hold nothing but the deepest hatred for thieves... I wonder just how grateful the cat will be to have his amulet back. There is an itch beneath my skin I have not felt in years, decades perhaps.

I have my sibling-blades with me, fresh and thirsting. I am wearing my mourning robes between thick furs and leather armour. There is hollowness within, still, and I doubt it will ever pass.

I can, however, fill it with blood.

[shadows-of-almsivi]

---Frostfall, 25th, 4E 201---

They took me back to my house. I slept fitfully the whole way there, plagued with nightmare and misery. Qa’Dojo took to casting small spells of calming touch for me, to smooth some of my resting hours. He appears wearied for the effort, but I must admit I slept much more soundly with his hand cradling the back of my head, bathing my mind in muffled softness.

I thanked my long-suffering travelling companions for their care, and asked them if I might have a few days to myself, to come to terms with things in peace. They accepted my needs, and say that they would be in Falkreath if I have need of them.

It is not a lie, of course, that I need some solitude. I do need that, more than almost anything.

But not more than I need oblivion.

My bones ache as though wrenched each from their attachments, my muscles twisted and shuddering in pain and need. Qa’Dojo has been indispensable in calming my pain, but Qa’Dojo is not here. There is a safe I have been keeping by my bed, locked tighter than any thief could hope to pry open. I think Jenassa assumes I keep jewellery and the like in there, why else the strength of the lock?

But no, no jewellery. The safe is filled with my inventory of potions and salves, the kinds too necessary and rare to leave elsewhere. Amongst the stoppered vials and flasks, I know there to be some number of small bottles...

Saints. Thirty-nine bottles. When did it get to be so many?

Thirty-nine bottles of skooma, one bottle of sleeping tree sap, and the bedroom essentials, of course. (Four bottles of stamina potion, four bottles of miscellaneous disease curing potions, and a draught of lasting potency. I have not had reason to use those yet, but it is a habit that has served well over the years.)

I will be careful. I will. It’s just that I am in pain, and wine is not enough to soothe away the horrors in my mind. I simply need to rest.

I will be fine.