“Naleva,” the warden's assistant said, and yawned. That accomplished, he wiped the spittle on the hem of his tabard, one more stain on the bleached colors of the Lockbox District. The insignia happened to be Morihaus rampant, with clipped wings reminding everyone that they sat in the wrong sort of prison. Holding areas on each fragment of Cyrodiil City's fused archipelago had their own forgiving, neighborly feel to them, but here everyone was a stranger. Imperial justice doesn't rouse itself for petty criminals, so its inmates are usually over towards the dire end of the scale. Lucky for me.

The guard had no idea who in the cell would answer him. He just waited with the foul air swirling about his head, not even bothering to look at the apprentice-killing burgher's wife, the goldenrod Numidiumist inciter or the hag who never really got over the Simulacrum. Nor at me, of course. Yes, I was there too. And damning my own chromatically-confused eyes with every breath.

“Naleva S?”

I jingled my manacles by way of response, and he approached to unlatch them from the petrified wood of the bench. Colovian fingers (pale but hairy, you know the kind) flipped up the tag on the prison bib I had been given a fortnight ago, exposing the expected initials.

“Paperwork for you, N. S.”

There were rice grains caught between his tabard and belt. I wish I could say I didn't want to peck at them.

“My favorite, boss.”

We left the cell. The drafty air in the hall was so novel that I forgot to keep pace, and was dragged along by the wrists as the wonderfully mobile atmosphere chilled and refreshed all at once.

“Sit.”

Now we're in that side office sort of room at the end of the passage. I've been handed over to a clerk from up topsides somewhere. He has a file. Why the hell am I in a file?

They sit me down. The clerk opposite looks nonplussed.

“Your full name?”

“You already have it.”

“What does the S stand for?

“Well...”

“Tell me your family name, prisoner, unless you enjoy being underground.”

I sigh.

“S stands for Serendipity. And it's not my family name.”

“Seren... An alias? Street moniker, perhaps?”

I swear the bastard was smirking.

“Not even. Just something I was called once or twice. Look, the watch really wanted to hear a surname, and the name's just Naleva. Nothing before or after that. Orphanage mark, see?”

I laid the back of my hand on the table to reveal the tattoo of a gypsy moth and a goshawk.

“Ah, born into one of Pelagius' foundling outfits, were you?”

“Up in Cheydinhal, yes.”

There's a hint of pride in my voice despite myself. Back in the days when the population of street children was considered a problem, rather than part of the scenery, the throne set up endowments for vocational orphanages. Most were religious, grooming gutter trash for life as clergymen, but a few focused on military training or taught a trade. Some institutions acted like orphan entrepots, sorting their charges based on potential aptitude (usually determined by race) and sending them off to the relevant affiliate organizations. Being of no clear race or creed myself, I fell in with a different sort.

The head of my adopted family ran things in a rather unorthodox fashion, but taking in a million drakes from export speculation allows a certain degree of independence. He funded half of the clan himself, driven to it by some sort of intense faith in Zenithar that he kept to himself, probably because it was heretical. Unlike other groups, we were often on the move. Galenus taught us to defend ourselves while we lived off the land through a combined effort of foraging, hunting and peddling. I still can't fathom why a man who had gotten rich off the abstractions and excesses of civilization decided on autarky for us. Whatever his reasons, my eccentric patron took on the smartest of us as business proteges, and a few of us as concubines. Perhaps unsurprisingly, we were strangers to society and experienced a general failure to make anything else of ourselves individually.

So the clan went on even after the first generation grew up. There were a few tight-knit orphanages like that, and some even considered applying for guild charters. What we would have been a guild of, I don't know. But that was my childhood, and my life afterwards, as I saw to Galenus in his old age with a dwindling number of hangers-on. I left him in his room with the curtains drawn, all the servants dismissed and assets liquidated, rice mush dribbling down his chin. When I was arrested, that is.

“So you definitely were orphaned, then,” the clerk said, almost to himself. I glanced at him incredulously.

“Do you know your parents names?”

“No.”

“And can you confirm the birth date present in our records?”

He slid a sheaf of paper over the table towards me, jealously covering everything but the pertinent date.

“Yeah, that looks about right. When will I be told why I'm being held?”

More papers appeared from the brief, and my host adopted an even more disinterested tone for the purpose of reading.

“Naleva S. Nibennium Menor, Imperial City. No listed occupation. No family. No charter affiliations. Detained in mass arrest of participants in major tribal/racial incident. Held on suspicion of participation in violent riots in the Skiffs Market, Paravant Ward, triggered by Trans-Niben conflict rumors.”

“Wrong place at the wrong time, really.”

“Subject was not vouched for by any local millet chiefs...”

This wasn't the first time that being a half-caste had proved less than empowering, but it was probably the worst so far. My father was dunmer and my mother was human, from somewhere or other. From him I get a rather gravelly voice (the most pronounced of several conspicuously masculine features), plus skin that is sallow at dawn and gray at dusk. Also there are the eyes, which are laced with red like a bit of die poured into stew and not properly stirred. On the whole they are dark and tend to suck to suck in the light, which makes me think there may be some wood elf in the cocktail. And because none of the different ethnic magistrates in my own neighborhood would call me their own, I couldn't be treated according to any of their respective legal regimes and...

“...was accordingly incarcerated in Imperial facilities. Held for six days on suspicion of belonging to anti-beastfolk militia—“

“Like hell! I don't give a damn who owns that malarial swamp down south or who walks where and with what kind of claws.”

“...and released on the first of Last Seed when no charges could be filed.”

“Last Seed! That was a week ago! What by Mara's Tit's have I—“

“That was your final interruption, prisoner.” He straightened a handful of papers by way of emphasis, making a slapping sound on the table as he jostled them. I realized for the first time that the leather folder they came from bore a seal drawn in wax. It was a scrying sigil, which meant that someone else was watching remotely. What they were getting out of this excuse for an interrogation was beyond me.

“A clerical error was indeed made. You were scheduled for release, but higher authorities intervened in your case.”

Always nice when the Empire is looking out for you.

“It was determined that you should be repatriated as soon as suitable transport could be arranged.”

“[i]Re[/i]-patriated?”

“To Morrowind, yes.”

“Why am I being[i] patriated[/i]?”

“Your file doesn't say. However, you are entitled to know that you will travel at our expense before being discharged from Imperial custody on the island of Vvardenfell. Bear in mind that your residence status shall remain unchanged, so your freedom of movement in Vvardenfell District may be contingent upon your conduct and responsiveness to Imperial strictures.”

What. Maybe time to pull out the stops.

“But I—How can—[i]exile[/i]! Why?”

I plunged my fingers into my hair in what would be a passably melodramatic gestures if not for all the knots and the lice skittering across my scalp.

“What about my possessions? Will you notify—“

He cleared his throat with annoyance, the nervous kind that told me he wasn't used to dealing with pleading convicts. More rustling papers.

“Ah, here we are.. We have ascertained that all your personal effects can be considered the property of one Galenus Calabriat. Legally, we are not obliged to pass any information on to any third party, given the[i] informal[/i] natures of all your acquaintances. Not that the law is such a great encumbrance in this case at any rate...” Was that a disapproving note in his voice? “You may be interested to hear that neither you nor any other former members of your orphanage is a beneficiary of your patriarch's inheritance.”

I already knew that, never expected anything different. Still stings.

“Will I be imprisoned once I get to Vvardenfell?” I ventured in a small voice. Less acting this time. The depth of the information he had suddenly retrieved was probing my spine with frigid fingers. Someone cared far too much about me.

“Well, perhaps we might just...” That could have been a flash of sympathy. This fellow certainly did not belong down here in the sordid dark. They hadn't clerked and accounted the humanity out of him yet.

“Or the mines? I'd take a cell over the mines.”

My interrogator reached deep into the brief and retrieved an elliptical piece of silk.

“This may allay your concern... oh—“ He hissed away an uncouth word. “...more of their hypnogogic flimflam!”

I couldn't make out any recognizable alphabet on the oddly-shaped missive as he flapped it about.

“Translation, please!” The prison obligingly interpreted his bellow as a series of tinny echoes. There was silence for a few moments, then light, scuffing footsteps in the corridor. The folder containing my file tipped over, burying the surveilling mark in the tabletop as the door inched open.

“Thank you for your assistance, Melior,” said the clerk.

No such Melior yet emerged, however. He was preceded by the flickery shape of a moth. It seemed to disappear between wingbeats in the dim light, blinking between points in the room from moment to moment. Then all at once it had alighted on my wrist, not too far from the tattoo it so resembled, its spread wings exactly the color of my skin.

I'm looking at my little guest, and then in walks a real character. Anyone who can rightfully call themselves a CiCi has come across them during festival days. The devotees to this or that ancestor/animal cult, looking like they stepped out of five hundred years ago for an evening stroll, the bits of Cyrodiil that are too Nibenean for common decency, embarrassing us supposedly modern Imperials in front of whatever Altmeri or Nordic types that happen to be passing by. This guy has the beaded shawl, the robes, the red accouterments, the facial tattoos all over the bald head, the works. Only he's a bit more prestigious than the rest, a moth priest. His winged pet is gone when I look back down to wonder what I have gotten myself into.

My clerk holds up the silk, and Melior gives it a cursory examination. I swear it's not letters on that thing. The monk whispers a few sentences into cupped hands, bows, carefully restores the folder to its upright position with the scrying emblem pointed squarely at me, and leaves.

“Good news for you, Naleva S. You shall a be a free woman, to some extent. I know this is highly irregular, but go along with it and you will be compensated and provided for on arrival. There is still a semblance of judicial procedure left in your case, so I will just assure you that you have not been sentenced for any offense and will not be.” Nimble clerical hands recompose the folder, all original contents restored to their proper order and orientation. “And really,” he attempts an encouraging smile, “in your situation, a new start in the fatherland can't be so bad, can it?”

I look at him blankly. I'm not going home.

****



It should be fairly clear what sort of fanfic this is by now. This is my summer nostalgia project. I have never used the first person perspective before, and I thought to make it interesting and reflective of the more sarcastic personality of my Nerevarine, I would alternate between the sober past-tense narration of a national hero and the highly informal present tense commentary of a wry half-caste. I promise there will be some logic behind the transitions at some point, and I hope it doesn't come across as too douchy. This story will probably start comprehensive and then start skipping around to the more important bits of Morrowind's very long storyline. But I need to know if it is at all entertaining, because otherwise I'm just being a stenographer for something everyone has already experienced anyway. And be honest. I have better things I could be working on.