[center][h3]Renaissance[/h3]
[i]Skingrad, 15th of Second Seed, 4E208[/i][/center]

Mortalmo’s heart ached as they made their flight from Skingrad. The Dominion was truly a beacon of hope amidst the turbulent times hoisted upon them all by the Dwemer. The new count spoke true, for what indeed had the Empire done for these people? Pitiful as they were, those in control of a nation owed it to their citizens to tend to them in times of strife and peace alike. Count Hassildor had failed in that regard miserably. Yet the Dominion was taking care of these degenerates as if they were their own kin. Surely this Count Favani’s heart was touched by Mara. How Mortalmo longed to be among the noble justicars no doubt keeping peace throughout the newly acquired city. 

And yet, as this change had been implemented, he had kept out of sight, never straying far from the fringes of the camp. There was a reason for this, the Mer knew that. He was terrified of what he would face. Humiliation? Demotion? ...Death? He could not bear to imagine the disappointment he suspected Valentha might feel, or the shame he might bring his brother’s name. If Toriseth and Vertemnis had benefited from his sacrifice as he so deeply hoped, then the legacy of Mortalmo was that of a martyr, heroically giving his life for that of his own charges, loyal to the Thalmor to the very end.

The truth was far less flattering.

Fool enough to be taken alive, and cowardly enough to evade Thalmor presence even upon escaping, Mortalmo was little better than a common deserter. Here he was now, a decade and then some later, forming alliances with lizards and teaching a Manmeri how to kill. Even if the transgressions surrounding his capture and eventual escape could be forgiven, the events of the past years could not be wiped away so easily. Mortalmo felt a traitor to his race.

Surely, eventually, there would be an opportunity to redeem himself. Indeed, for what other reason did he still walk Mundus, if not to regain his previous station. What other reason could there be? 

And so he went along with the group that he had tethered himself to, mind numb and chest tight.

[hr]
[center][i]The Road to Anvil, 4E208[/i][/center]

The trek to Anvil allowed Mortalmo some much needed time to recuperate from the melancholy that had tugged at him since leaving Skingrad. He kept to himself when he could, though spent well enough time with Rhona when she wasn’t off dallying with the Nord dog or some other similarly distasteful companion. He had ceased his avoidance of Judena, though found himself unable to stomach little more than simple small talk with her, or in fact, with most individuals.

Not that his aloof nature was anything out of the ordinary, though there was a certain haggardness to his mannerisms that the Mer could not always fully disguise. It seemed, however, that the further the party traveled from Skingrad, the more Mortalmo’s state improved. His time for redemption would arise. The gods be good, he would redeem himself. In the meantime, what harm was there in making nice with at least a few of the lot surrounding him? There would be an opportunity to wash away his sins. 

That was what he told himself, at least.

One day whilst on the road, having set up camp for the night, Mortalmo pulled from his pack a small mirror, and gazed upon himself for the first time in weeks. He did not like what he saw staring back at him. His hair he had neglected to trim for some time now, and the silvery locks now reached just beneath the nape of his neck. Long enough to tie back into a tail. Mortalmo did so. His unkempt stubble too, the Mer decided had to go. Though it had been some number of years since last he shaved, personal grooming was a practice that he prided himself upon, and the fine edge of his dagger was an adequate stand-in for a proper razor. 

He studied himself then, before smiling into the mirror. He looked a little closer to the man he had once been. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. 

[hr]
[center][i]Anvil, 21st Second Seed, 4E208[/i][/center]

At last, the jewel of the Gold Coast was in sight. Mortalmo found himself in a more pleasant mood as of late, despite the black thoughts still plaguing his mind. He made an effort not to dwell on them. Still, he couldn’t resist sneering at certain members of the band, particularly that weaselly Calen, and found no reason as to why he shouldn’t. Maybe he was somewhat gentler in his dealings with Rhona, perhaps he had begun to ease out of the discomfort that Judena brought him. Nord scum was still Nord scum. Even if the cow among them could cook.

Passing into the city proper, Mortalmo spared only the smallest moment to acknowledge Rhona for her offer of company should he seek it before he went off on his way. He had a desire to purchase for himself some gear and clothing that didn’t make him out to be a common thug. And a new flute, too. It had been too long since he’d played a good tune.

However, the meager sum of septims clinked within his coin purse resentfully. It was no matter in truth.

There were ways to remedy such a quandary.

[hr]
[center][i]That Night, The Count’s Arms[/i][/center]

It had been a long time since Mortalmo had been within such an establishment. A place where the upper echelon of society gathered to drink and mingle. Nobles with black hearts and clean hands, laughing in tones far more hollow than the clinking of their glasses could ever be. In the darker corners of the propriety cloaked men could be seen conversing in hushed tones. The rich glow emanating from the dangling chandeliers scarcely illuminated their dark dealings. Brasher folk gathered there too. Youths with far too much coin and far too little to do gambled away their wealth in high stakes games, only to return the next day with freshly filled purses. 

Mortalmo eyed one such youth carefully, leering subtly at the boy from his position at the bar. He remained seated at the counter slowly nursing his second drink; all he had been able to afford. It was some fruity swill that forced him to stifle a grimace after every sip. How he missed the fine wines of Alinor. 

“Hah! Eat your hat then, you dolt!” The young man smirked then, the curl of his lips displacing alcohol reddened cheeks. “I’ve won, again.” Mortalmo slowly rose the glass to his mouth. “My coinpurse is nice and fat now, perhaps I had best be off.” The lad’s eyebrow rose suggestively. “Give the rest of you lot a chance to pick at my scraps.” Mortalmo began to drink. 

“Aye, piss off then!”

“Yeah, bugger to you Willem!” 

A chorus of booing and cheering followed the arrogant noble as he sauntered out the of The Count’s Arms. Mortalmo downed the rest of his beverage, placed the empty glass gingerly on the counter, and began to slowly make his way for the exit.

[hr]
The footfalls of Mortalmo’s prey echoed quietly throughout the mostly abandoned streets of Anvil. The Mer’s own steps made very little sound as he slinked forward, keeping close to the shadows. The occasional pair of guards on patrol would hinder his progress for a time, though it was easy enough to slip into an alleyway or door frame and wait for the patrol to pass. On the whole, he advanced upon his target unfettered. 

Mortalmo found a bit of humor in the young man’s apparel; a red velvet doublet paired with brown tights that gave off a smooth sheen. He peered carefully into the darkness. An alleyway was peeking out ahead, and his senses caught neither sight nor sound of an incoming patrol. Lips twisting into something between a smirk and a snarl, the once Thalmor inquisitor began to close the distance between him and his septims. 

It was done in a flash. Just as he reached the backway, a gloved hand wrapped around the youth’s mouth from behind while a second smoothly slid a dagger into his soft throat. Mortalmo carefully dragged the corpse deep into the alley before cutting the fat sack of coins free, fastening it about his own waist. The bloodstained leather gauntlet he tossed down atop the remains. Then, thinking better of it, cast the clean gauntlet so that it fell adjacent to the body. Let the guards think it meant something.

The Altmer made his way to The Flowing Bowl then, significantly richer. The smell of the salt carried from the sea reminded Mortalmo of home, and he fell asleep with a gentle smile upon his face. His dreams were plagued by images of fire and demons, and the shrieking tones of a dying woman.

[hr]
[center][i]22nd of Last Seed, 4E208[/i][/center]

It had been a productive day, Mortalmo decided. Maybe even a good one. The money that last night’s exploits had earned him had certainly been enough to make the purchases he longed for. His arsenal for both social and martial purposes had been significantly revamped. In place of his worn, battered leather armor he sported a new pair, sturdier and somewhat more impressive in its appearance, dyed a dark grey. The cheap furs and cloths that passed for his leisurewear too, had been replaced. Now he donned dark blue linen pants with a short, soft black tunic cinched about the waist by a dark leather belt. Accompanying him with or without armor was a fine yet sturdy hooded cashmere cloak of a deep crimson. A truly suitable replacement for the filthy patchwork thing he had been forced to make due with for the past decade. 

A new flute too, Mortalmo had acquired. It was wooden, and like his old instrument, simple in the design despite the fine tune it produced. He intended to perform with it for the patrons of The Count’s Arms.

On his way to the inn, he noted with a mixture of pleasure and revulsion that he had begun to turn some heads. Within the establishment while playing his flute, he noted the gambling partners of last night’s victim.

Their faces were creased with worry.

Mortalmo smiled as he paused between songs, brought the flute back to his lips, and lost himself in the music.