The Elder's Scrolls

Marvelous Miser

He was a scholar. A theoretician. An adept mage in the arts of illusion. But above all, he was a Breton. Sleazy, hardly trustworthy, and scheming. If he wasn't holed up in some ruin, disrupting the ancient peace of long gone Dwemer or Nords, he was found in the grim town of Morthal.

His name was Miser.

During the morning hours, he'd be found either in his rented room of the Moorside Inn, or in the common room, trading snarky stories with Lurburk gro-Dushnikh.

When the sun is at its highest point, Miser could be found in the marshes, knee - deep in murky water. A basket would be filled with Deathbells, fungal pods, giant lichen stalks, and the occasional Nightshade. When the grey - haired man decided his pile was big enough, he'd return to Morthal.

He seemed to have quite a mundane life, but when darkness settled over the village and everyone returned to their respective homes, Miser would leave the inn, ("To collect more ingredients, my dear.") and return to the marshes.

But it wasn't ingredients he was collecting. He would walk the short walk to Solitude. In the great city, he would silently slip from shadow to shadow, home to home, drinking the blood from unsuspecting people.

When his bloodlust was fulfilled, he would pluck a few Nightshade from the cemetery, and begin the walk back to Morthal, hidden from natural view.

Everyday and night, Miser would do this, occasionally selling his goods to Lami, the town alchemist. He accumulated money this way, easily bringing in thousands in a month.

One fateful night, while pretending to pray to the Eight Divines in the temple in Solitude, the Marvelous Miser met his end.

While crouching on his knees nearest the shrine of Julianos, listening for the sound of lone footsteps as a lunch-type snack, he failed to identify the slight pattering and quiet clink of the helmed woman approaching him from behind.

He did turn, however, at the sound of a metallic cling to the left of his head. He snatched around quickly, amber eyes widened in fear and curiousity. He was met with a silver and onyx blade pressed between his eyes.

He readied himself to shout, to call out to the guards, but the heavily-armored woman clamped a gauntleted hand over his mouth none too gently.

"Not one word, or I will end you immediately."

Miser shrunk inside himself. I recognize that voice, he thought with a lightening strike of nauseating fear. It's that woman from all those years ago. The Warlordling!

"You recognize me, I take it? Yes. It is me, Miser the Marvelous." Every word the woman spoke sent a cold wave down his spine. "The tables have turned, haven't they?"

Miser simply cried against her hand.

In disgust, she removed her gauntlet from his mouth and wiped it on a cloth hanging from her belt. Using her now-freed hand, she removed her helm and tossed it casually to the side. Her face was marred with scars that slashed across her face in wide arcs. She was a Nord, albeit a Nord with dark, bronze skin, sandy gold hair, and brazen green eyes. Her plump mouth was suppressed into a frown, coupled with a furrowed brow.

"Please, please, Warlordling! Have mercy, please!" Miser bowed onto his knees, tears streaming from his eyes as he jumbled out incoherent pleas.

The woman frowned even more. "You know mercy isn't my strong suit, Miser," she whispered softly, rotating her sword arm.

"You wouldn't dare kill a man in the Temple of the Divines, now, would you?" Miser barely suppressed a smirk at his cleverness.

But the woman simply laughed at him. "And you should also know, my dearest Miser, that the Divines have no value to me."

Miser's confidence left him completely. Any hope he might have had of leaving the temple had disappeared.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"I'm supposed to, yes. But."

Miser looked up hopefully. "But?"

"But, I can be persuaded to not. You see, I need money. Desperately. And I need it soon. You give me the money I need, and you can walk a free man."

"You have a deal, I promise! In Morthal, I have all of my gold buried beside the sawmill. It's yours, please! Let me live, Warlordling, I beg of you!"

"Near the sawmill, eh? Good. Thank you, Miser the Marvelous. It's been a pleasure knowing you."

Before Miser could take true notice of the Warlordling's words, her silver and black dagger was forced through his neck, a few inches just below his ear.