Author's Brief Introduction:

This story is seventh in the Tales From Cyrodiil series that's been going on intermittently since June 2006 (with a hiatus as I took a vacation in the Fallout fandom). The only way this should particularly affect the narrative is in that the Hero of Kvatch was a cranky tailless Khajiit whose adventures are discussed in TFC: Luckless; she performed the Main Quest and one or two other small quests, and other quests that the player character normally encounters may or may not have been performed by random other people.

My rule is that I follow canon where it exists, unless it directly contradicts gameplay; and where canon and gameplay are internally contradictory or leave gaps, I get to make things up. My main source for canon reference is the UESPWiki and the online transcription of in-game books (in addition to several years' gameplay in MW and Oblivion). I've been playing Morrowind more lately, so this story will contain some elements of Morrowind lore and gameplay as well (and quite a few spoilers, in case that matters to anyone). Again, where rules are contradictory between games, I will be choosing my own interpretation. Those who have read my other fanfic will know that, while there may be long pauses occasionally, I never start a story I don't finish.

I love my readers. I've corresponded with several of you off and on for years now, and your criticism has almost always been constructive and courteous. I try to respond personally when someone writes an unusually articulate or helpful review, so that they know I'm paying attention to their feedback and it's appreciated. Every so often, however, I get PM'd by someone whose interpretation of the gray areas differs from mine and who thinks I should change something. Don't bother. I love positive feedback, but in the end I write fanfic (as opposed to something I might be able to sell for money) because I want to build my own sub-version of somebody else's fantasy universe. If you want things to be different, the best solution is always to write your own fic. Try it! It's fun!

Chapter 1

A long, thin man on a long, thin horse rode wearily across a grassy meadow. Little bumpy hills rose up around him, carpeted with grass and spotted with blue and red and purple blossoms of flax. Here and there white lady's mantle peeped through, or big, glorious peonies as pink as a courtesan's rouge. The leaves of the scattered trees on the hillsides were just starting to turn, but there had been no frost as yet. The flowers were still blooming.

He sat the chestnut gelding's saddle as one long accustomed. His skin was very pale even for a fair-haired human, marking him as a denizen of tower and library rather than field and forest. There were dark smudges under his eyes. Occasionally he coughed. It was not a loud sound. It was the tired, undramatic cough of one who has forgotten that he does it. His brown robe was worn, but the cut was expensive, and it was split over his trousers to allow for easier riding. The bulging saddlebags and the small satchel that hung from the saddle horn had also no doubt been fine, when they were new. Now the studs were tarnished and the leather discolored. He had ridden a long way, and planned to ride a long way more before the day was out.

The bandits, however, had other ideas.

He was first made aware of their existence when an arrow flew out of the brush and buried itself in his right shoulder. He hissed, but managed to keep his seat. The shaft was small and the impact negligible, except for the startling pain of having a steel head embedded in his flesh. The gelding obediently stopped as he tugged at the reins, though its ears flicked at the unaccustomed scent of blood.

"This one suggests you dismount at once," said an incongruously cheerful baritone from the bushes ahead. "This one will shoot you through the eyeball next time, yes."

The man got slowly down from his horse. He carried no weapon, and his magicka was exhausted, had in fact been exhausted since some time the previous day. He suspected he knew what would happen if he reached for the potion bottles in his satchel.

A broad-shouldered Argonian in a surprisingly clean black silk blouse and trousers padded forward out of the brush. The man watched him with dull surprise. He'd been expecting a Khajiit, for some reason. This particular lizard-man was an uninteresting shade of tawny beige. His two small horns curved up from the sides of his skull, not entirely unlike pointed ears. A Bosmer in a stained blue robe and a big Nord in fur armor followed him. The Nord's hair was tied back in a greasy braid, and pale stubble marked his dirty cheeks and chin.

"Gods, finally," said the Bosmer. He was a weaselly specimen, sallow and long-faced, and his pointed ears stuck far out from the sides of his head. "We ought to get a good price for that horse."

"A fine bit of flesh he is," agreed the Nord. "Move aside there, Master Mage. Let's see what's in your saddle bags."

The Nord found himself fixed with a cold and angry blue eye. Then the man explained, in a drawling Breton accent, what he thought of this and what the Nord, the Bosmer, and the Argonian could do with themselves. The Argonian listened to this with interest. The Nord scowled. And the Bosmer raised both hands and let go a lightning spell of not inconsiderable force.

The man fell back on the greensward with a scream, twitching and writhing. The bandits watched this with varying degrees of amusement. Then the Nord went to get the saddlebags. The gelding, though it shied momentarily at the scream, was evidently used to spellfire. It let itself be easily caught and did not appear at all sorry to be rid of the weight of water skin, bags and satchel.

"Books," said the Bosmer, rummaging through one saddlebag. "Huh. I've already read this one... This one might be useful... Hey, there's a copy of Vampires of Vvardenfell Part II. That's worth something."

"Keep your filthy hands off it, you whoreson thief," groaned the man. The Bosmer tossed a ball of frost in his direction without looking.

"Bunch of potion bottles," said the Nord, looking into the satchel. "Mara Mother Mild, he brought more of these than he did water. See what's in 'em, Juggles." He handed a small vial off to the Argonian. All three ignored the pitiful groans of their victim, who was now suffering from frost burns as well as the occasional spasm, none of which helped the arrow wound in his shoulder.

The Argonian uncapped the vial with one clawed finger, then waved his hand delicately toward his nose past the opening. "Hm. Flax seed... bog beacon... and, if this one mistakes not, steel blue entoloma. These are powerful restoratives, though I doubt not that he brewed them himself. Valuable, but careful we must be where we sell them, yes."

"Well, that's a couple pretty ribbons for you, anyhow," said the Nord. He smirked.

"Ah, how very typical the male Nord attitude, that women can be so easily bought with trinkets," said the Argonian.

"Gods help us all if they couldn't," said the Nord.

The mage was sufficiently distracted from his discomforts by this that he raised himself up on one elbow. After a moment's apparent disorientation, he wiped his bloody nose (he seemed unaware of the blood leaking from each ear). He coughed again. Then he said,

"Actually, if one of you were to be mistaken for a female, I rather think it would be the little cannibal."

"Gods, what a fool," said the Nord, as the stranger writhed in the grip of yet another lightning spell. "You'd think he wanted to go the hard way. I would've just cut his throat."

"This one suspects it is Garander who is the fool," said the Argonian, still hefting the potion satchel. "And I think perhaps you are one also, Dugan. An I am not mistaken, live this prey will."

"You're awfully squeamish, for a Khajiiti bandit," said Dugan.

"It was fun for a little while," said the Argonian. "But this one is beginning to find it dull. Goodbye, Dugan."

"What?" said the Nord, or tried to. The word came out as a sort of gurgle owing to the new and large gash in his throat. The Argonian stepped nimbly back to avoid the spray of blood and the falling body, then knelt to wipe the blade of his dagger on his former colleague's cuirass.

"What in every daedric Hell did you do that for?" demanded the Bosmer.

He didn't get a chance to hear the answer. The strange mage took advantage of his momentary distraction to lurch up onto one elbow, extend the other hand, and fire off a fireball large enough to incinerate a small house. The Argonian somersaulted back out of the way. The Bosmer did not. When the smoke cleared, a blot of greasy ash and a large circle of bare earth were left among the grasses where he had stood.

"Ha," said the Argonian. "Here. This one has no use for these." He walked calmly over to the mage, dropped the potion satchel next to him, and went to rifle Dugan's body.

"Ought I to thank you?" inquired the mage dryly. He lost no time in downing one of the little vials, however. He waited until he felt his magicka fully returned before he performed the healing spell. A spiral of blue magicka puffed up around his body, and the blood on his face dried up and blew away like dust. The arrow pushed itself out of his shoulder and fell to the ground. He got slowly to his feet, tightly clutching the satchel. No healing spell could make him look less of a scarecrow. Gods knew, he had tried.

"This one sees no reason why you should," said the Argonian. He attached a small purse to his belt. "But she does not want your books and things, either. She invariably finds such tomes incredibly dull, and as for alchemical equipment, bah."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the mage warily.

"Although the miniaturized calcinator is adorable," said the Argonian, carefully putting the item back into a saddlebag. "A very powerful mage you must be. But then, a Breton born under the sign of the Atronach would be a fool to go into business as anything else."

"I gathered that you guessed that," said the mage. "Absorbing your loathsome little friend's spells was the only way I could restore my magicka. To what do I owe this sudden reversal?"

"Garander was no friend to this one," said the Argonian. He went to load the saddlebags and satchel back onto the gelding, which tolerated this patiently. "And anyway, this one expects to collect handsomely for bringing back Dugan's head. Garander's would have been worth a nice bit of coin as well, but it appears you have vaporized him. Ah, well. Would you like a drink of water?"

"Yes, thank you," said the mage. "I am Ashleigh Prideaux. Whom do I address?"

"You may address whomever you like, Milord Prideaux," said the Argonian, offering the water skin. "But this one is Ah'drazzanaja, also known as Juggles-One-Dozen to those who have difficulty pronouncing long Khajiiti names. Juggles will do."

"Er," said the mage. "Thank you." He accepted the water skin gingerly. He very much wanted to ask a question, but he was having trouble forgetting the speed with which the Argonian had cut the throat of someone with whom he had been cheerfully conversing a moment before. A lifetime of strict training in etiquette came to his rescue. "That's rather an uncommon Khajiiti name, isn't it? Your mother's, by any chance?"

"Alas, no, for I did not know her," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "This one was raised among strangers in the Black Marsh. Until she was seventeen years old, she labored under a curse placed upon her by evil men. You will find it hard to believe, but she actually believed herself to be an Argonian boy at that time."

"That sounds very confusing," said Prideaux with complete honesty. He took a sip of water. "May I ask what opened your eyes, Madam?"

"This one was sent, for reasons she may not tell you, into an Outer Realm. There she met a daedric prince who opened her eyes to the truth, and returned to Nirn a changed woman, never more to serve those evil ones who sent her there."

"This daedric prince would not be Lord Sheogorath, by any chance?" inquired Prideaux.

"Indeed it was," said Juggles-One-Dozen. He shook his head ruefully. "And, alas, this one is indeed a little mad now, for sometimes she fancies that others still believe her to be an Argonian. It is very confusing."

"I see," said Prideaux. A horrible thought had occurred to him, but he stifled it immediately. He did not know this person, who absolutely was mad, although not perhaps in the way he believed himself to be, and who seemed to be a dangerous person in other ways as well.

"Now, if you will excuse this one, this one must locate Dugan's axe and be about her business," Juggles went on. "It is a long way to Leyawiin and this one will have to ride Garander's horse, which is an ill-tempered and smelly beast and will try to throw her off if it can."

"You're not going to steal my horse?" said Ashleigh Prideaux. He coughed absently. "I mean, I do appreciate it, but..."

"Dear sir, this one is perhaps no lady, but she is not a thief," said the Argonian firmly. He removed a small war axe from the dead Nord's belt, laid it on a clean patch of grass, and began to roll up the sleeves of the silk blouse. Prideaux was not entirely surprised to observe that he had varnished his nails black. "This was was forced, by regrettable necessity, to masquerade as a bandit until such time as this one actually caught Dugan and Garander in the act of attempting to murder an ordinary citizen. That was not in this one's instructions, exactly, but she would not have innocent blood on her hands. A certain interested party in Leyawiin was tired of losing caravan shipments out this way."

"Oh," said Prideaux, wondering if this interested party in Leyawiin actually existed. "Well, then, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Good day to you, Ma'am."

"And to you, kind Sir," said the Argonian. Wiry muscle rippled beneath the sleeves of his silk shirt as he knelt over the dead Nord, raising the axe.