Day 1

I remember, as a kitten, being told stories about how my breed of khajiit wasn't supposed to be a filthy thief. The Suthay-Raht and the Suthay are the thieves, small and nimble and capable of pilfering what they wish without anybody noticing them pocketing ill-gotten goods with their swift paws. However, they are house cats. I am a Cathay-Raht, a "jaguar [wo]man," a member of the largest breed of bipedal khajiit known to this world we call Nirn. I am a leopard-faced, honey-haired warrior who is supposed to be far too large and noticeable to be a thief. My bloody hands and razor claws are supposed to be the last thing the opponent ever sees. Or, at least that is how my clanmother taught me. Unfortunately, I left for the Imperial lands at fifteen and edged away from the desert villages and tribal lifestyle that is common to my people. I stayed in Cyrodiil, right under the nose of the Emperor himself, and began to wean myself from the old ways. I lost the exotic accent and learned proper grammar, and quickly learned that I didn't want to be a warrior or anything resembling one. At seventeen, I got into my first duel.

I lost miserably.

Apparently, when you are a martial artist it's not very wise to challenge a barbarian who offended you. Claws are dandy, but claws are a lot less effective than a warhammer to the side of the head, slamming into you so hard that every healer in Kvatch hears your skull cracking open and comes scrambling to your aid to fix your twitching, almost lifeless corpse before you die of your wounds. I decided, as I lay in a haze of spells and potions that meshed my crushed cranium back together, that I didn't much like this way of going about things. Pain hurts, and I'd rather avoid it. I mean, the path of a warrior has cost me my hearing. I don't want to see what the next bill charges me.

I dropped a trade altogether after that. I became a beggar, living on the street and thriving on handouts. That lasted about two weeks, to be honest. I met a khajiiti thief, a Suthay-Raht by the name of K'Sharr, who pitied me and gave me a huge chunk of change. When I asked how he had managed to come about it, as he didn't look like much, he just shrugged and informed me that he stolen it. He was so nonchalant about it that I was tempted to give things a whirl, piecing together a homemade lockpick from some wire in order to break into empty houses and loot them. Yes, thieving is bad. Yes, stealing is against what I was taught. However, being a thief is a lot less painful than being a warrior and it yields quicker rewards than being a mage. Quick and easy rewards, and you'd be surprised how little people care when you pick up a few of their plates and pots to sell at a pawnbroker for enough gold to buy some bread.

Yes, I became a thief. A good one, mind you. I stole from nobles, I pick-pocketed guards, I plundered smuggler dens, I swindled commoners who were too dumb to lock their doors. I was always shocked at the lack of reaction, the lack of caring. I piled up the money and goods and made off with a good number of valuable jewels and heirlooms, and never once did I ever have to stand before a magistrate and plead my case. I guess I got cocky. I guess breaking into the Emperor's palace was a bad idea. I guess being deaf is a bad thing when you're too busy trying to pick a complicated lock on a box of jewels to sense that there have been guards hovering your shoulder long enough to watch the entire ordeal.

To make matters worse, when I was arrested I had everything stripped from me and had nobody to back me up in any way, shape, or form. I've never been one for friends; the beggars in Cyrodiil aren't the best company, and being a thief means that people are too skeptical of you to actually trust you. There's also the whole thing with my background. They started tossing around ideas that I was some sort of assassin or the like, because I really had no papers or background. I know my birthday--I was born under the sign of the Atronach--but I don't know my parents or lineage in general. Add on the fact that being deaf puts a damper on understanding what is being said to you because everyone was talking too fast for me to read their lips, and I was basically screwed from the get-go. I was tossed in a prison to be tried for treason, though I am hard pressed to figure out how stealing a couple of diamonds and an amulet from the Emperor is treason.

Larceny, yes. But treason? I mean, I know that he's the Emperor and he can charge me with whatever he damn well pleases, but where do you get treason from all this?

I was to be executed, but I lucked out. Something happened, the Emperor ordered me to be deported to a province of the empire of Tamriel, and I was loaded up and shoved aboard a boat and sent off. About three boat transfers later, I found myself shoved below deck with a single slave by the name of Jiub. He was a dark elf, bald and severely scarred. His lithe, slate colored face looked like a roadmap of Hammerfell. I didn't talk to him much, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. I had a horrible dream about a storm of disease and weird voices and strange creatures, and he woke me up from the mess to tell me that I had reached my destination. They dropped me off at the Census and Excise Office in a little, swampy town called Seyda Neen, on a large island called Vvardenfell. Apparently, this "Vvardenfell" place is just a segment of a larger province called Morrowind, but I don't know what a Morrowind is so I don't really care.

I just know that my welcome wagon consisted of a strange old man who was alternately friendly and indignant who, aided by his guard friend, interrogated me about the most obvious of things. He wanted to know my profession, my birthsign, my breed of Khajiit. He shoved some papers in my hand and waved me off with a snide look on his face, telling me to go talk to some Imperial bigwig to get my release fee. I didn't much like his attitude, so I robbed the census office blind. There is not a damn thing left in their storage room or break hall. I even took scrap paper, and a poor-quality enchanted ring that happened to be sitting on a barrel just outside the door of the main building.

I'm surprised that the fellow who gave me my release fee didn't notice my rucksack of "modest belongings" was overflowing and clanging with cracking redware and stolen flasks of brandy. I think that maybe he overlooked it, because he had a knowing look in his eye that seemed to scorn me for what I had done. That didn't stop him from shoving a pouch of three-hundred gold pieces in my hand, along with a weird sealed package that he threatened me over opening.

"Go see Caius Cosades. He's in Balmora. Do not open that package, we will know if you do and you will be severely punished."

Apparently, I'm needed. For something. Perhaps that is why he kept his mouth shut about my obvious haul, which is now in the possession of the only trader in this stinkhole, all of it bartered away for a cheap bow, cheaper arrows, and a set of strange armor that's apparently crafted of chitin. Imagine that; they must have some big bugs in this horrible wasteland.

I wonder if they need an expert thief to take care of something here on this gods forsaken, humid island. Maybe, if I do a good job, they won't re-arrest me. Maybe.

All I know is that I'm sitting here in this tradehouse, scribbling away with a bottle of Cyrodillic Brandy at my side (ah, a taste of home!) in a blank journal I confiscated from that poor office. I think it'd be a good idea to keep a log of sorts. At least I'll have a place to write down directions to this Caius guy once I figure out what a Balmora is.