or The Taste of Freedom. Urban Wonders. Hard Times. My First Heist. A Shadow from the Present and a Ghost from the Past.
I
Freedom! And not just mere freedom of body, but of spirit—the sudden lifting of a heavy yoke I had carried for far too long!
So... freedom. That's the word that lingers in my mind as I dip my quill into the inkpot and begin sketching the first symbols of this new chapter—not words, not yet, but the shapes of freedom itself, painted slowly, as if each stroke banishes a lurking specter. And, my friends, I would speak about what freedom truly means!I do pledge that!
I had an extraordinary sense of relief as I stepped under the high archway of the orphanage gates and remember the moment vividly: the crunch of snow beneath my feet, the cold morning sun, the long column of girls marching two by two. And me... oh, I was alone, as always, unpaired; right in front, there were three girls holding hands because nobody wanted to go with me...
Yet after just a moment, Sister Lenora, that young and pretty nun who had brought me milk in my isolation, came to my side and took me by the hand. I looked up at her, surprised. Her eyes met mine with tenderness; she smiled, and without a word, gently squeezed my hand. That simple gesture had chased away all the gloomy thoughts that tried to stain my joy on that beautiful winter morning. I smiled back, feeling stronger now.
Our well-ordered and almost soldier-like column strode at a brisk pace across the bridge that crosses Lake Rumare, heading for the tall, richly ornamented gates of the Imperial City. Beneath us, the lake was rippling its waters softly, and in some places—towards the shores—we could see frozen surfaces on which the freshly fallen snow wove some interesting shapes. The sky above us was vast and pure blue, deep, and without a cloud to roam its depths; only far to the south, a light mist seemed to tremble over the ancient weald, now immersed in snow, that once lined the shores of Lake Rumare.
We stepped into the city and found ourselves in the heart of a snowy district, cloaked in a thick, bright white mantle and wrapped in that magical hush known only to some sunny winter mornings. It was a holiday, and the heavy snow had kept most of the city's folk indoors — at least for the early hours.
We began clearing the streets near the great gates, and I remember the joy of that task: though not exactly easy, it felt like a game to all the girls. Soon enough, what began as a simple accident — one of us flinging a shovelful of snow onto another — sparked a cheerful snowball fight. The girls, flushed and laughing, were soon rolling through the soft powder, utterly lost in their delight. Even one of the nuns had joined them!
I stood aside, aching quietly, longing to throw myself into their joy, yet not daring... But the time for childish games was already over for me. And then Sister Lenora came, took the shovel from my hands, and whispered:
"Go now, Elsie. Stendarr be with you!"
I nodded, gave her a final smile, and slipped away into one of the narrow alleys edged with houses, most still with their windows shuttered. Then I ran, struggling with the snow that often reached past my knees. I stopped in a small sheltered corner, changed my clothes as Prioress Sescia had advised me, and covered my head with the hat I had kept hidden until then.
And just like that, I was no longer an official orphan! So, as a free girl walking onto the clean, fresh white mantle, I strolled for a while through the city, which was slowly beginning to wake. I was deeply impressed by the White-Gold Tower, the first Ayleid structure I had ever seen in my life. The palace was open to visitors, and I entered without difficulty.
I then wandered through the vast halls and corridors, marveling at the sheer scale of the great dome. The echo of footsteps — visitors' and guards' alike — drifted eerily across the marble floor, as the ancient bas-reliefs high upon the walls whispered forgotten tales of lush, long-gone lands, unlike anything you can see nowadays in Cyrodiil. The intricate carvings from the gleaming white niches and the vibrant frescoes painted on the newer panels stirred something deep within me; I stayed there a long while, just staring at the paintings and statues, and I lost track of time. But eventually, hunger overtook wonder, and I made my way outside.
The weather had noticeably warmed up, and the snow-laden rooftops had begun to drip, thin streams of water trickling onto the muddy, snow-mixed ground. The palace courtyard was now bustling with life, and I came upon a troupe of traveling performers putting on a lively show.
Oh, I found the spectacle both amusing and astonishing! Their juggling and acrobatics were dazzling, and the band even had some tamed monkeys—funny dressed— who kept doing pranks and continuously begged for sweets! When the fire-eater took the stage, the crowd surged forward and became compact, so, being small, I could no longer see. Disappointed, I tried to weave my way through the people in front of me, but just then, an irresistible aroma wafted through the air, diverting my attention.
I looked around and saw that the wonderful scents came from the stall of a peddler baking and selling hot pies and pastries, just out of the little mobile oven. Three people were working there— two apprentices who made the pies with unbelievable speed—and the master baker who sold them, taking coin after coin with barely a pause. Attracted by the mouth-watering aromas, many people gathered around the stall, creating a constant rush that gave the bakers no time to rest.
I eagerly approached, drawn in by the tantalizing scent, and my insides growled funnily as I looked forward to tasting one of those warm delights! Yet the line of customers seemed too long, so when one of the apprentices pulled a tray full of hot pies out of the oven and placed it on the counter, I simply, serenely took one of them...
I did that without thinking. I didn't even leave — just stood there, right by their stall, and started eating the stolen pie.
The bakers didn't notice. Perhaps they were too tired or too busy—or both. The waiting customers didn't see my move either—mayhap too distracted by the warm scents and their hunger.
Or... perchance Nocturnal had been watching over me.
I only came to believe that much later, far beyond the Jerall Mountains, where She would hum a little song each time we argued. I find Her chant both annoying and insulting... but I'll put it here anyway, just to show you how utterly insufferable She can be sometimes:
She had coin. But she did not pay...
She had time. But she did not wait...
She had a choice!
And chose the shadows!
Anyway, back then, only one person reacted to my deed: an old lady who had been standing near the stall. First, she stepped between me and the counter, shielding me from view.
Then, something peculiar happened — apart from that veil Nocturnal must've cast over all those prying eyes.
The whole world seemed to quiet down — or rather, to slow down. A man in the queue turned his head, but the motion seemed unnaturally slow, as though he moved through syrup. A flake of flour drifting through the air, nearly hung there, suspended mid-fall. Even the noises — banging trays, hissing oven — stretched into long, blurry echoes.
I also remember a raven flying nearby, caught with its wings half-open, almost frozen in place; it stared at me and—somehow, suddenly vanished as if it never was there.
And amidst that strange, thickened sliver of time, the old woman stepped forward, serene, her hand moving with grace as she reached for the pastries.
No one protested. Not a word was said. So maybe the time slowed down for everyone except me and her. Not to mention the raven... which, in the very next blink, wasn't there at all...
Now, thinking back on it, I wonder if she even paid... Hm, maybe she took them the same way I did!
Regardless, she just "bought" two pies—one with pork, one with cheese. She turned to me, gently placed her hands on my shoulders, and whispered:
"Don't finish that one yet, little one. Eat these two first."
She handed me the warm pastries, and we walked away together, hand in hand. The lady said nothing else, just watched me quietly as I ate.
The pies were delicious — or at least, they seemed so, after the bland food of the orphanage kitchens.
Later, she asked if I wanted something sweet. I nodded, and she smiled, buying me a bag of warm, sugar-glazed chestnuts from another stall. I ate them slowly, savoring every bite.
Finally, we stopped by a tearoom where I sipped two cups of the best tea I had ever tasted. During all this time, the old lady looked at me with quiet interest, and something else I couldn't name. I studied her in return. I took in every line of her face, even stared long at her clothes without shame, searching for some clue, some familiarity. I also tried to meet her gaze, but couldn't hold it for long—her eyes were kind, yes, but there was a weight in them, a pressure, and they were difficult to face — at least for me.
I had the overwhelming feeling that I knew her from somewhere, that I knew her as well as only the closest relatives can know each other, and a peculiar sensation of worry, even fear, engulfed me. Suddenly, I got up, thanked her for her kindness, and said that now I had to go and look for my parents.
The old lady smiled and told me to try the Arena District, where I might find them. "There are all the refugees from Anvil County, and the Order takes care of them," she added, then looked elsewhere, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.
So I left. I stood in the doorway and looked back. The woman was watching me, but now, her smile was gone. On the contrary, her eyes had the sharpness of polished steel and seemed to be assessing me with the utmost attention. I shuddered and ran out into the crowded street, my heart pounding.
I was filled with two contradictory sentiments, one of fear and the other of curiosity, even of attraction towards the old lady who had done me no harm—on the contrary, she had protected me from a dangerous situation, I was well aware of that! Yet I was scarred and, as I slipped through the crowd of people that, with the coming of evening, filled the streets of the city, many thoughts began to whirl through my head.
At the orphanage, the priest's sermons and the moral lessons taught by the sisters painted theft as one of the most terrible sins a mortal could commit. Perhaps they had even portrayed it as the worst of all, for I clearly remembered our daily chant: 'Do not covet what belongs to another.'
Oh, this is very convenient from the point of view of all the rulers of this land, they who always want more, never get enough!
So... it dawned on me that, according to everything I had been taught, I had just committed the worst transgression in the world. However, I didn't feel guilty, my conscience was as clear as fresh spring water, and I even smiled at the thought that I could have taken two pies instead of one... Or perhaps even more, and maybe there had even been some coins scattered on the floured counter!
At the same time, a sudden wave of fear overlaid all these cheerful thoughts, and I realized that I would have been severely punished by the traders and, probably, by the other people who were around, if I were caught in the act. Maybe even dragged away by the city guards and brought back to the orphanage!
I stopped my run and began to walk, totally absorbed in the flood of thoughts that had stormed my little brain. So deep was my meditation that I didn't even see one man coming from the opposite direction, and I bumped right into him. When he roughly shoved me away, I did not react in any way, and my soul was no longer filled with sadness, fear, or shame as it would have been before. I just looked after him and chuckled softly, thinking about how funny it would be if the grumpy man would slip on the ice and fall right on his back...
As I kept walking, a strange sense of freedom started to grow within me—a still unfamiliar feeling instilled by something like a whispering voice that told me the commonly accepted moral rules no longer applied to me. It was a voice I could not quite hear, yet it spoke clearly inside me, teaching me that deeds that had once seemed unthinkable were now permitted, even necessary.
I didn't understand it then—how could I?—but on that first day of freedom, immense changes were beginning to take place in how I saw the world and life itself.
I slowly emerged from my reverie and began to look around me. And I saw people—so many people! Women and men, tall northerners with cold eyes, cheerful and noisy Imperials, delicate, soft-spoken Bretons of small stature... Here and there, I even sometimes caught sight of a lithe one from the cat-folk—Khajiit, as they were called, studying the surroundings with his alert, intelligent gaze.
I stopped beneath the archway of a luxurious property, tucked away in shadow, and watched the crowd with greedy fascination. I sensed that beneath the cheer and festive spirit, a thin veil of unease — and perhaps fear — clung to the crowd. As if an intense excitement urges a critically ill person to gather his last strength for enjoying life one last time...
My mind feasted on all these unfamiliar sights and sensations, strange thoughts began to stir, and soon I was overwhelmed by a flood of impressions I could fully understand:
Those two women in fur coats, with the little Redguard servant behind them... they act like dear friends, yet the brunette envies—and deeply hates—her companion.
Her face, seen through my curious eyes, said so much that I was startled by how much I could grasp from just a look!
That tall gentleman with the carefully trimmed mustache... he harbors no affection for the young woman clinging to his arm, her heart and soul wide open with devotion.
I was now passionately devouring the city's evening life, every glance feeding me something new. Yet, the moment my eyes caught a Khajiit swiftly and skillfully snatching the purse of a well-dressed old man, all this information suddenly blended in my mind, turning into peculiar, unfamiliar feelings, wild impressions, things I had no name for even now. It was maddening; instantly, the faint lights became unbearably bright, and all the sounds—much too loud. The scents—incense, pastries, sweat, horses, beverages, fumes, and countless other smells, nameless but vivid—whirled around me like a hurricane and mingled in a dizzying chaos of sensations. It was too much. Too fast. I felt as though the world itself was swallowing me whole!
I turned away from the street, closed my eyes, and took a long, steady breath. I struggled to recover from the sudden vertigo that had seized me, and when I did, I asked myself how I would now see those I had left behind—the other girls at the orphanage... Or Sister Lenora and Prioress Sescia!
A remembrance crossed my mind, and then, out of nowhere, I tried to recall my beloved mother, Kiersten. But her image would not come! Instead of her loving, beautiful, and wise face, I could only see my own—round-cheeked, childlike, framed by long blonde hair.
I was both frightened and saddened, and for the first time in my life, I decided to dwell no longer on thoughts that deeply unsettled me; instead, I would let life flow, wait for sensations and feelings to crystallize in the subtle alembic of my mind. And to seek the true meaning of seemingly strange and incomprehensible things, only when I had been ready for that.
So I stepped cautiously from the shadow of the archway and, shielding my mind from the growing tide of emotion, made my way toward the Arena District.
II
In that particular quarter of the Imperial City, I found even more people than I had seen in the streets of the Talos Plaza District. But everything else was different. Their appearance, their clothing, their very presence—it all seemed shaped by poverty and sorrow. Most were poorly dressed in patched or ragged garments; their pale, drawn faces bore the mark of hardship and unspoken sadness. The laughter and festive cheer that echoed elsewhere in the city were absent here, near the great Arena; instead, a low murmur hung in the air, pierced now and then by the wails of hungry children, as the crowd walked in disorderly ranks toward the steaming cauldrons set up along the muddy alleys.
I kept my distance from that somber gathering, which filled me with an uneasy mix of fear and curiosity. I stepped carefully around the mounds of brown, trampled snow—muddy, packed down by thousands of tired feet—and went toward the enormous stone-and-wood amphitheater that towered before me.
Ah, the great Arena...! One more of the great constructions that adorn the Imperial City! The high walls, ashen in the early twilight, loomed like steep, very tall cliffs; the massive and highly ornate bronze gates stood shut, but I imagined them opening wide like the jaws of a ravenous beast. Here and there, small oval openings, barred with iron, hinted at the dark cells below—cages where beasts of all kinds, brought from distant lands, were temporarily kept, waiting for their turn in the ring.
All these converged to evoke a staggering impression of power and wealth!
And indeed, the Arena is a great symbol of the former undisputed power and glory of an empire that was now living its last days! At the time, I was far too young to grasp politics' treacherous meanders or the slow decay of empires, so I could only admire the enormous structure, an undeniable proof of the skill and wealth of the people who lived here, in the largest city on the continent. Also, I couldn't even fathom the purpose of this huge edifice, nor could I imagine the tumult of the ecstatic crowds in front of the cruel spectacles in which men and beasts kill, injure, and maim each other just for the entertainment of a decadent people! I later witnessed such a so-called entertainment, and I can firmly state that it is one of the most disgusting, shameful, and harmful distractions that can be offered to people just to make them not notice or forget the serious matters plaguing their society at a given time. But on that late evening, tightly wrapped in my newly gained freedom, I simply marveled—without knowing I had already stepped into a world where blood was applauded, and death sold tickets.
Though impressive, the grand circle of stone didn't count much for me in those moments anyway; the hundreds of vast tents and hastily built bunkhouses scattered around were far more interesting than the Arena itself. There was a park once, and the trees had been cut down to make way for temporary shelters; now the whole area housed thousands of refugees who, after a grueling journey, had found their way to the heart of the Empire.
As I soon learned, these people were all from the county of Anvil, recently ravaged by the Dominion's light cavalry. Word among the refugees said the elves had swept through the region, pillaging and burning every unwalled settlement, and even Anvil itself was under siege. I didn't understand much of what they said—their words blurred by dialects and grief—but their faces, the tears of mothers and widows, the grief of those who had lost everything... those told me more than any speech ever could—terrible things were happening somewhere, not so far from the capital!
Yet that evening, I only wanted to find a safe place to sleep because the day spent amid so many new sensations had terribly tired me, and my mind was still confused. A few Sisters of the Order were distributing blankets to newcomers, and I managed to get one; then I found a quiet corner between two barrels, in one of the tents. There I curled up and fell asleep instantly, without dreams, until sunrise.
I woke up amid a crowd noisily getting up, eager to receive the morning meal freely provided by the Order. I joined the long line of shivering people, and when I finally reached the huge steaming cauldron, I was handed a canteen filled with steaming stew, which, although barely more than water with a few floating beans, spread warmth through my frozen limbs. In any case, I had never eaten such miserable food in my life, and, adding this fact to the uncomfortable way I had spent the night, I decided that I had to find another home. And that as soon as possible! However, as I found out ere long, this proved not such easy a venture. And, after all, none here asked anything of me — no toil, no prayers. Moreover, I was free to come and go as I pleased, and so I lingered awhile, during which I learned and practiced many a thing useful for a girl in my situation.
I wandered freely through the streets of the Imperial City, and I was amazed by the many interesting things that could be seen or heard there. I spent many afternoons and evenings in the capital's crowded taverns, listening to tales of distant lands within the Empire—places I hadn't even known existed. I tried my luck and honed my skill at the begging trade; on holy days, the steps of the Temple of the One were crowded with beggars, and—blessed be the Divines!—such days were many in those still-happy times.
Since the free ration I've got from the common cauldron was poor and not to my liking, I soon started to prowl the city's markets, and a bit later, even the groceries and bakeries. Early on, I just bought food using the money gifted by Prioress Sescia, yet whenever it was possible, I took fruits or pastries from the counters; sometimes, I was spotted by the merchants or customers but I always managed to get away, running fast in and then hiding in various corness of the streets.
Oh, I was small, quick, and getting better with every try!
And so, the days passed one after another, winter came to an end, and the number of refugees arriving in the Imperial City steadily grew. The money given to me by Prioress Sescia vanished faster than I'd thought; the clothes she had gifted me began to tear, and soon I found myself melting into the gray, hungry, and dirty crowd that roamed the city's streets by day.
Even the city itself was beginning to change. Some alleys now reeked of decay and quiet despair, the scent of unwashed bodies and stale bread clinging to the air like a bad memory. The once well-dressed, cheerful, and perfumed people were slowly replaced by hungry, desperate souls mingling with a new breed of villain recently drawn to the capital. Among them were charlatans, self-proclaimed healers and priests, who claimed to know ancient remedies or ways to call Stendarr's mercy upon the desperate or ill. And the people, blinded by poverty and hunger, began handing over their last coins in exchange for promised remedies or blessings. Soon enough, these "saviors" started fighting among themselves over territory and gullible victims, while others in the crowd would commit almost anything for a crust of bread. Therefore, the number of crimes rose so sharply that the Emperor declared a partial curfew: refugees were forbidden from walking the streets between sunset and sunrise, and carrying any kind of weapon became strictly prohibited for all non-residents.
More importantly, the City Guard, deemed both insufficient and utterly ineffective in combating the new crime wave, was relieved of duty; instead, the Order of Stendarr was given charge of the matter, following their leadership suggestion. So, at the same time as the gray and poverty-stricken wave swept over the city, a new one, black and equipped with heavy clubs and even crossbows sometimes, flooded all the neighborhoods.
The Order's fighting monks were brought in from all over the Empire and, after a brief so-called "special training" at Fort Nikel, were put in charge of patrolling the streets and maintaining order in the metropolis. They were not like the old guardsmen. The Order's monks had no mercy or patience, and many crimes were punished on the spot—harshly, without appeal.
The judicial system of the Imperial City, already overwhelmed by lawsuits, was unable to handle the growing wave of crimes plaguing the town's once peaceful and cheerful districts. As a result, the Special Court of the Order, previously concerned only with internal matters, began trying a larger number of offenses. Eventually, it handled all cases involving murder, theft, robbery, illegal night-time wandering, brawls, and even tavern fights. Since it often functioned as a martial court and handled the trials according to a different code, punishments were harsher, and sentences were carried out quickly.
Their methods worked, though, and the Order soon restored a semblance of calm to the capital — enough to reassure its weary citizens, already teetering on the edge of despair as the war had laid waste to Anvil County's fertile lands and sent food prices soaring. By early summer, a fragile peace had settled over the city. Refugees, however, were no longer allowed inside the walls; instead, they were turned away and redirected to a vast encampment raised southeast of the city's outskirts.
Additionally, the Order began to identify and register the refugees still living in the Arena District, planning to deport most of them from the metropolis; all the orphaned children, meanwhile, were to be sent to the orphanage at Fort Nikel.
Yet I could not go back there! I had almost forgotten the sentence passed upon me by the tribunal of the Order. Almost. But I'd always remember Prioress Sescia, saying while looking with pity at me: 'Don't come back here again!' So I heeded her advice and thought it would be better to vanish from this place where the Order's monks were starting to get on my nerves.
So, one day in early summer, I decided not to return to the refugee camp from the Arena District and instead spent the following night in a crumbling warehouse in the Merchant District. What followed were some of the hardest days of my life; days when I often found myself without anything to eat, forced to scavenge through the piles of garbage under the cover of night, desperately hoping to find even a dry piece of bread.
Begging had become nearly impossible for me, as the Order tightly controlled it, allowing it only in a small, designated area near the Temple of the One. And even then, the city's inhabitants had grown cold and unfriendly toward those who had been displaced, forced to leave behind their homes and embark on the harsh, sorrowful path of exile. The merchants were now carefully watching their goods, which were becoming rare and expensive, and quite often, fighting monks of the Order were stationed in the larger stores. Ah, the mere sight of their rugged faces and the massive clubs they carried was enough to chase away any fleeting thought of theft from my mind!
On top of that, the place of the wave of villains and desperate people that had haunted the city until then had been taken by a lot of ragged and hungry kids who roamed the streets alone or in small gangs. Most came from the ranks of refugees from Anvil County, but among them were also children of poor local families.
On the one hand, these vagrant youngsters made my life difficult, but on the other hand, they were like an excellent yet harsh training ground for me!
You see, my friends, these kids were not like those dangerous urchins roaming the narrow, winding alleys of the Waterfront District; the great majority of them were children of peasants, neither good nor bad. Like me, they were not experienced in all the habits and tricks characteristic of those shrewd youngsters who sometimes prowl the streets of big cities. They were just hungry, and above all, they didn't want to go to the Order orphanage.
I tried to keep as far away as possible, but this was difficult; like me, they were very interested in the temporary garbage dumps and fruit trees from the public parks, so I was often beaten and robbed of the few bits and scraps I could gather. Moreover, finding a relatively quiet place to rest at night was indeed a challenge, and again, a morbid fatigue wrapped me in its spectral arms, like some silent wraith determined to lull me into endless slumber — to drag me through the tranquil, grey halls beyond memory... The severe underfeeding, the tormented sleep, often interrupted and fragmented by numerous moments during which I had to run in despair, pursued by other children or by the vigilantes of the Order who had found my temporary resting-place, the countless beatings I received when I tried to defend the poor crust of bread I held in my weak little fist, all these had turned me into a skeletal, fever-eyed little thing.
Once again in my life, I was dancing on that subtle limb between life and death; once again, I was desperate, and I tried—oh, I tried hard—to fight back. Yet I fought the wrong way. I pushed and shoved, scrabbled in garbage, defended crusts of stale bread with my fists and my teeth. And always, always, I was beaten. The little I managed to gather was taken from me by others just as hungry, just as lost as I was.
I persevered for quite a long time in this fundamental mistake—but in the end, my mind, which never gave up the fight for survival, found the saving solution. So, on a blessed day, I changed my tactic and found a new hunting ground—one rich in scent and silence, where no one saw me coming.
I began creeping through the open windows of people's homes at night, stealing food.
I remember my first heist. It wasn't much, not by Thieves Guild standards—but for me, it meant everything. A turning point. My first proper meal in weeks... and the first time I realized just how sharp my senses could become when pressed hard enough by hunger.
I was loitering near a bakery, the smell of fresh bread nearly driving me mad. I watched each customer that entered and left with the look of a starved dog outside a butcher's shop. No one paid me any mind. And curiously, I was afraid to beg. Shame, maybe. Or pride. Or both. Or perhaps I was not allowed to do that...
From time to time, I'd sneak glances through the open doorway, terrified of the warrior monk posted there—a deeply bored one and chewing something slowly. My mouth watered uncontrollably. I tried looking away, but my gaze always returned to his jaw, endlessly working.
Then an old woman emerged from the bakery, frail and hobbling, a fresh golden loaf sticking out of her tattered bag. I followed her, staggering on weak legs, heart pounding, vision blurry from exhaustion.
She entered a small, neglected garden, the weeds choking what had once been paths and flowers. I watched as she sank into a stool and rested before dragging herself inside a crumbling, small house. I remained hidden in the bushes all day, simply watching — stalking the house from across the street, my wide eyes fixed on the open window, my nose twitching at the faintest hint of food.
Yes... she boiled potatoes at some point — I knew it. The scent reached me like a nice dream, and my mouth watered uncontrollably. Again. But still, I waited. And watched. Patiently. There were no visitors, no second pair of boots, no firewood for a man's hand, no second plate at the table. When the sun dipped low and the long shadows began to vanish into dusk, I crept out and studied the gate. It wasn't even latched. The fence—warped and swollen with age—was tall, far too tall for a pitiful creature like me to climb. But there was no need. I knew that already.
So for the time being, I slipped away and curled beneath a broken shed nearby, lying in wait for darkness to fall.
When the night came, I returned, trembling from hunger; I was so thin and light, I barely rustled the ivy as I climbed through the low, ajar window.
Inside, I moved silently past the narrow bed. The old woman lay beneath a patched blanket, her breathing raspy and uneven. The air smelled of sickness, old wood, and stale sleep... but beneath it all, I caught it: the sharp tang of cheese. And bread. Still fresh, or at least not yet stiff. Yes, on a corner table, I found it—a cracked plate with a full loaf and a wedge of cheese. The darkness wasn't as deep as I'd imagined. And my nose, ever faithful, had guided me true!
I crouched on the cold floor, back against the wall, and devoured the food like a wild animal, clutching it with both hands, eyes wide, barely chewing. I feared it would vanish. Or worse, that I would wake from a wonderful dream.
I was so happy, I didn't move until the last crumb was gone.
Only then did I rise—slowly, carefully—and look around the room. A small cupboard stood nearby, and something told me there might be more. Yes, there were two small apples, shriveled but good. I pocketed them. Beneath a crooked cloth, I found a few coins—two septims, and some copper. I froze, heart thudding. Then I took them too.
And just like that, I slipped back out into the night—belly full, pockets not quite empty, and soul lit with a fire I had never known before.
I knew — I was sure — that from then on, I would never suffer from hunger again!
I was so pleased by how easily I'd gotten food that I didn't stop to reflect on how strangely sharp my senses had felt. Nor did I wonder why I'd seen so clearly in the dark, or how I could now hear the faint scurry of a mouse going about its own little life in the old woman's garden.
No — I was far too distracted by something else entirely: the overwhelming scent of warm bread wafting through the air as the sky began to blush with dawn.
Guided by that heavenly aroma — ah, even now, when I have everything a woman could wish for, I still think the scent of fresh bread is the most wonderful and tantalizing smell in the mortal world! — I followed it through winding alleys and silent streets until I reached the marketplace.
The bakery door stood open, spilling waves of heat and that delicious fragrance into the morning air.
I approached with care and peeked in. There, just by the entrance, stretched a long table lined with trays of golden loaves — steaming, glorious, enormous!
I crept in and snatched one — huge, still hot! — and then bolted, feet pounding, heart leaping.
Behind me, I heard the shout of the baker as he lunged from the doorway, brandishing the massive wooden paddle used to turn the loaves.
I laughed. Oh, I laughed like I hadn't in years — loud, wild, unstoppable! And I ran faster, the hot bread burning my hands and the joy burning my chest!
A little later, I stopped suddenly near a cobbler's shop and let myself slip like a stray cat through the open hatch of the cellar. It was cool inside—a welcome coolness in the humid heat of that hot summer night—and it smelled of leather, quality leather, a subtle fragrance that was very pleasant to me.
I waved my way through the bundles of wares, and after I munched nearly a quarter of the wonderful, warm bread I had just stolen, I fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.
I woke up only towards evening; the hum of the city was reverberating in my cellar, and the diffuse light of dusk filtered through the narrow hatchway. I devoured a piece of bread and then rushed out into the street.
I longed to eat some meat—truly craved it, and the need had grown so sharp it almost hurt. So, the moment I stumbled upon a butcher's shop, I walked in boldly, placed a septim on the counter like a proper customer, and asked for sausages.
Pork sausages. The thick, fatty kind, rich with grease and spice. My mouth was watering just saying the words.
The shopkeeper, a dry, wiry little man with a greenish face and lips like cracks in old leather, took the coin, bit it, and then stared at me—stared hard.
His yellowish eyes narrowed, turning sharp and feral, like a predator catching the scent of blood.
Ah, yes... gold. So bright, so beautiful and precious yet so dangerous. It doesn't just buy things — sometimes, it may awaken beasts.
"Where'd you steal it from, you dirty rat? Get out before I call the guard," he hissed, voice barely above a whisper, his eyes now just two slits.
I tried to object — to say something, anything — but he reached behind the counter, pulled out a heavy wooden club, and struck me!
I fled, crying, wailing, half-blind with pain and fury, until I collapsed behind a tall fence where I supposed the city's monsters couldn't follow me.
There, in the safety of its shadow, I wiped the tears and blood from my face with the filthy edge of my apron — a rag more than a piece of clothing now — and rose slowly, the shame already curdling into something harder.
The streets were emptying, shadows falling like velvet curtains over the sunbaked stones and
I went toward the Elven Garden District. I remembered a nice garden there, choked with flowers and plants. I thought it might offer shelter...
I was in pain, but worse than the bruises was the sting of knowing I'd been so stupid. A single moment of success had made me careless, had lulled me into thinking I was just another person in the crowd, no different from those now strolling through the streets...
I saw one of them right ahead. He was drunk—as drunk could be, wobbling on unsteady legs, grinning like a fool, coming straight toward me. I froze, watching him carefully. He was middle-aged, short and roundish, with a neatly trimmed beard and those big, watery eyes that drunkards always seem to have.
I had nowhere to run, so I waited, tense and alert but not afraid.
When he got close, he pulled his hand from his pocket and reached it toward me with that dumb grin still on his face.
Without thinking — no judgment, no hesitation — just by instinct, I dashed forward and swept his right leg out from under him. He fell like a felled tree, landing hard on the cobblestones with a grunt that echoed down the narrow alley.
I laughed — a cold, dry sound as he squirmed, tried to sit up, but couldn't.
And then... the laughter died in my throat.
A coin — silver — rolled away from his open hand and came to rest a few steps away.
He hadn't been trying to grab me.
He'd been trying to give me something. An alm. It was just a simple, drunken act of kindness...
For a moment, I was tempted to help him. To kneel beside him, try to lift him gently, say sorry, even thank him. But then I remembered the butcher's club... the sting on my ribs... the sting in my pride...
I hesitated only a moment. Then I shrugged, grabbed the coin, and ran. Limping, but quick.
I avoided people. Whenever I saw them ahead of me, I slipped quickly into the shadows, hugging the walls of houses, ducking into doorways, hiding behind tree trunks gnarled with age.
When I reached the mansion where a year ago I had waited for my beloved mother, Kiersten, I stopped and looked over the low fence. The garden was full of flowers, and the sycamore tree was a little taller than when I used to play beneath its leaves with my dear kitten. It was heavy now with overripe fruit—modest, humble fruit no longer picked by the wealthy owners.
A strange song, sweet and bitter at once—a melody with a hypnotic, mournful rhythm, sung by the low, deep voice of a woman—floated through the house's open window.
I didn't recognize the voice; no, it wasn't the same—not the gentle, soft voice of that pretty young woman who had once held me in her arms and sung to me with love. So curious, I looked around and then climbed the fence, wincing as pain flared through my bruised shoulder. I crouched low, panting; my body trembled, but I gritted my teeth and dragged myself toward the house.
I stood, slowly, and peered through the window. The room was cloaked in a dim haze and lit only by a thick candle, white wax, long and smooth—the kind only wealthy people could afford. I knew those candles. They came from the southern islands, and their composition was steeped in rare spices, so they used to release strange, layered scents — sweet, musky, or others I couldn't name — shifting from one perfume to another as they burned. The chamber was the same one I had once played in so many times with my benevolent hostess, and yet—odd and terrifying—there, on the richly sculpted table, stood a coffin: a small, narrow one, as for a child.
In the room, a woman with long, bright white hair sat with her back to me, chanting that peculiar yet alluring melody that had drawn me in. The candlelight traced the curves of her graceful figure, and there I stood for a few moments, watching her, listening to her song, and breathing in the subtle, intoxicating scents. And then, the visions came.
My mind was invaded by a woman with black, cruel, unblinking eyes—eyes like dark steel. In her left hand, she held a dagger, and snow fell all around, muffling her footsteps as she snuck behind an old man walking carelessly down the street. Oh, the woman leapt — feline, fluid — and seized him by the neck. The dagger rose and—
A wave of dizziness struck me, and my whole body shook!
It was all dark around me now, and I tried to breathe, but another woman rushed into my mind! This time, the shock was so profound that I felt small and feeble from the beginning. Yet, I kept staring and saw she was tall—oh, so tall as only my beloved mother Kiersten was!—and thin, very thin. The woman was robed in a strange garment that shimmered like the starry night and moved and breathed like living water. She wore a dark blue hood embroidered with silver runes, which glittered silently in the shadows. She stood before a large iron cabinet, her hands deftly plucking shiny things from its depths and slipping them into the pouch hung at her neck. Then — as if she felt my eyes on her — she turned toward me, and—
Another wave of vertigo came upon me!
I felt like dying. I gasped for air, choking. My chest burned. There was no air, oh, not enough air—
And the woman who had been singing was now at the window. She was watching me. But I couldn't see her face; there, where her face should have been, was only darkness—warm and loving darkness. Healing arms embraced me, cool and perfumed breaths enveloped me in their soft, fragrant hush... She spoke a word I didn't quite understand, and then... then I saw myself.
Not as I was. I was clean. Dressed properly, my hair washed and shining like silk. My eyes were closed. I lay still, hands folded neatly over my chest.
In the small coffin. On the table. In the twilight room.