Echoes of the Lost Voice

The Breton Thief

The Ratway stank.

It stank of decaying refuse, of abandonment and oblivion, of the washed-out waste of this town. Of vice decomposing. Fitting, then, that the tunnel system running under the streets of Riften should hold the nerve center of the rotten underworld of the city. Of the whole province. Of the whole Empire, perhaps. Here was where the rats nested, the vermin eating away at the foundations of society. And it it reeked accordingly.

Merard Motierre was not a man easily shaken. The stench, however, was seriously testing his mettle. It was so strong even the short walk through it was nearly too much. It was almost like a solid substance, the way it slowed you down. Wore you out.

He picked up his pace, opening and closing his fist still sore from busting in the nose of the creep who'd walked up to him upon entrance. It went from his knuckles up to his forearm, the pain—sparkles both sharp and dull, hot and cold. Sweet and sour.

Such a wealth of sensation.

Another ragged creature examined him as he stormed past, eyes wide with fear or hatred or madness or—even more likely—all of those and a whole lot more. This one was smart enough not to get in his way. Instead it pressed itself flat against the filthy stone wall. A strange, quiet gurgling sound erupted from its throat as he passed.

Amazing how quickly a man could be reduced to beast, be stripped of the vestiges of his humanity. All that was needed were the right circumstances. How long until it finally happened to him?

Biting down the temptation to self-reflect, Merard descended the steps to the door of the tavern. He reflexively patted his pocket. The stone was intact.

This had better be it. They'd damn well better say this was enough, send him forward already. Send him to the Man himself. The thought alone quickened his pulse and stirred his emotions, the two that were still left. Hatred and anticipation, like lovers laying entwined while the world around them crumbled. Revenge—that was as sweet a word as there was. Justice was the deaf, dumb, and blind dog following at its heels.

He stopped at the door, a strange reluctance setting in. He didn't know if he could take it if they said "no". It might get ugly. He didn't know how much longer he could hold himself back. Or whatever might have been left of any "self" he once might have possessed.

How long had it been already? A year? No, less than that, though it felt much longer. And, in any case, had already been too long.

At times he had to wonder if he'd made a mistake coming to Skyrim.

No!

He shut off the apprehensive parts of his mind altogether and knocked on the door. Five times: long, long, short, short. Pause. Last one harder.

After a score of heartbeats and a blink, the door opened. An Orc stood there, looking down at him and frowning.

"Evening," Merard said.

The Orc nodded, then stepped aside, and he stepped in.

The stench subsided, only to be replaced by another one. This one every bit as repulsive, but in a whole different way. A mix of things. Alcohol. Skooma. Greed. Malice. But these, these he could live with. He knew them, knew them well. Knew them like he knew the eyes of his dead father.

Each time he looked in the mirror he saw those eyes there, watching him. Waiting.

Those eyes now scanned the large circular space that was the Ragged Flagon. It was a familiar sight by now, but by force of habit he quickly scoped each of the four alcoves rimming the room: an alchemy shop and smithy to the left, a fletcher and an armory to the right. In the center of the space was a large, shallow pool of surprisingly clear water which hardly smelled of sewage at all. At the opposite end from where Merard was standing, a pier with tables and chairs, and behind it the bar.