"Stop, in the name of the law!"
It was odd that a single string of unassuming words could instill such a palpable sense of panic onto a man. Of course, if one were an average, law-abiding citizen of the Empire, these words would hold no such consequence. They would simply continue to go about their daily activities, and perhaps lift their head from their duties in an attempt to discover just whom was thick-headed enough to tangle with the Imperial guard. Unluckily enough for Mozan Havaerian, his, "Full-Proof" plan of sneaking away from his unpaid tab failed to account for an extremely important variable. The reason he was forced to evade the innkeeper in the first place was a direct result of a lengthy stay at the bar. In particular, he had opened up a tab, drank himself silly, and when it came time to pay it off, he realized that he was just a bit short to pay the full amount-- around 75% too short. What was a self-proclaimed master theif such as himself to do? Simply stay at the bar, and work his hands to the bone in exchange for the man's cooperation? Of course not-- he did as the thief does, and melded himself with the shadows before silently escaping the bar's perimeter. But as all good things do, his escape came to a loud and abrupt conclusion shortly after he skulked his way out of the Talos Plaza district.
The deep, harsh tenor in the Imperial guardsman's voice echoed through the silence of the night As Mozan prepared himself to cross over another street. His intent was to head toward the Waterfront and attempt to find a nice place to lay low, but now that he had the attention of the guard, he was forced to the conclusion that the Waterfront was too obvious a location to hide himself. The groggy, drink-addled Mozan felt chills arc up his spine as he heard the guardsman's horse begin it's rapid advance toward his hiding place, and he felt a sudden heat rise to the surface of his skin as a mild panic flooded his mind. He certainly wouldn't be able to outrun the guard's horse withdout some improvised climbing, ducking and jumping, and he was not exactly in the best physical state to do so. He'd been up for more than a consecutive day after a lengthy heist in the market district, and spent the better part of the afternoon drinking away his stress and anger related to the inevitably botched operation. So not only was the obvious intoxication inhibiting his ability to bob and weave around obstacles, but his physically drained and exhausted body refused to accept the commands Mozan attempted to give it. The combination of those factors and more forced the nordic thief to improvise himself out of the situation at hand-- and fast. He forced himself to rise up out of the shadows and into a standing position, and lifted his arms above his head in lew of responding to the guard's verbal demand with a drunken slur. The burly, heavily armored man dismounted his horse the instant that he reached an acceptably close distance to Mozan, and retrieved a pair of steel manicles from the back of his horse as hhe dismounted. The man was an Imperial in race and affiliation, and his tanned face twisted into a grimace of disgust as the heavy scent of miscellanious liquors wafted into his face.
"Had a bit to drink tonight, have we?" The imperial queried snidely as he lifted one of the manicles toward Mozan's left wrist.
"En'oof tuh do somethin' absa'lutely empteh headed." Mozan slurred in response to the guard's condescension. The Imperial twisted his head away from the manicles for a moment so he could refocus on Mozan's facial expression, but as he did so, he was greeted with a heavy boot crashing into his face on the part of Mozan. The guardsman snarled angrily as his head snapped backward with a spurt of blood from his now-shattered nose, and the drunken thief capitalized on the man's moment of weakness by diving under the man's left arm, rolling under the legs of his horse, and swinging himself onto the creature's back with a groan of effort. It didn't take long for the horse to snort it's frustration and violently rear back in an attempt to throw it's surprise rider back into captivity; Fortunately enough, Mozan was able to hold on for the time being. He heard the tell-tale metallic ring of a longsword exiting it's scabbard as he wrapped his hands around the horse's wreigns, and he clapped the heels of his feet together on it's flank in an attempt to force the beast into motion. Rather than take off into an angry sprint as he expected, the Imperial's horse bucked itself forward and drove it's back hooves directly into the guard behind it, and this time, Mozan was unable to maintain his control over the improvised mount. He tumbled over the horse's head with a flurry of slurred curses, and bounced off of the cobblestone street with a crack before he managed to bring his body to rest. His head throbbed in exhaustion and pain as he rose to a sitting position, and he felt a trickle of blood making it's way down the back of his skull as another throb of pain echoed through the nerves in his head. His hazy, flickering vision found the motionless guard slumped over a sewer grate several feet to his left, and what little detail he could make out of the man's body through his armor didn't indicate that he had any serious wounds. Though it made his body feel light and imbalanced, and his vision began to spin and swirl as if he was underwater, Mozan forced himself back to his feet. He was driven by the urge to check the man for signs of life, and he took three unsteady steps toward the fallen guard before sprawling back out onto his stomach with an audible slam. He had to have cracked his head off of the stone pretty damn hard to cause him to feel this way. It was either that, or he had drank even more than he thought he did. Even though he felt nothing but pain rocketing through his skull, the theif still forced himself to crawl the rest of the distance to the fallen Imperial as he heard a multitude of metallic footfalls and hooves stomping in his direction. He managed to roll the man onto his back, and the instand he succeeded, he wished that he hadn't.
The horse's hooves had landed squarely in his upper chest, denting his armor inward and sending sharp, awkwardly shaped fragments of metal directly into the unfortunate soul's throat. The wounds were small, but evident as blood continued to pour over his tanned flesh and under the heavy steel which was meant to protect him. If he had to guess, Mozan assumed that the impact of the horse's hooves most likely broke, if not outright shattered a few of his ribs, and they had probably punctured his heart and lungs. Worst of all, the guard still bore a look of righteous indignation at the actions that had led him into his grave; Though his eyes were glassy and his nose a twisted knot of purple and red, his lips still bore a silent snarl of hatred toward Mozan. The thief was no stranger to brutality and gore of this nature, but the look on the man's face caused his stomach to churn and bubble. Within seconds, Mozan stumbled away from the guard's corpse and unleashed the entirity of his stomach contents onto the cobblestones. There weren't any more words. The next thing Mozan knew, he felt the sharp bite of steel on the back of his head, and the rippling boil of pain crackling through his body as his mind finally collapsed into unconsciousness.
"Home sweet home, ya' murdering drunken wretch."
Those words shocked Mozan back into consciousness as the loud, 'CLANG!' of iron gates slamming shut rebounded through his eardrums. He wasn't manicled, but instead escorted by a duo of burly Imperial guardsmen who were literally dragging him down one of the cell blocks in the Imperial prison. He was unsure as to whether or not they were aware of his consciousness, but he chose to remain motionless in hopes that he would be able to catch them off-guard. If he was to get out of the city, he would have to act quickly, and efficiently. He had no room for error. His plan was already beginning to hatch in his mind when the searing pain of his hangover, his head wound, and his shame brought him back to reality. Whether intentional or not, he had killed a man. His trial would inevitably be held within the next few days, if he was even to be offered one, and he would simply have to wait out his stay in prison in the mean time. He felt as though he might have been able to escape somehow, but it would certainly be a risky endeavor to do so. As the guards conversed amongst themselves and dragged him in the direction of his new home, he resigned himself to his fate. It certainly wasn't the first time he had taken a life, but it was most definitely the first time he had taken the life of a man with so little thought about his actions. Before his mind was able to wander too far away from reality, the guards shook him back into awareness before opening the door of his cell. He didn't have time to glance inside before they veritably tossed him in, and the gritty bite of the cell floor meeting his skull sent him into a mild daze as the door was closed and locked behind him. As the guards' respective footsteps faded away into the distance, Mozan allowed himself a heavy sigh before he heard a voice that was undoubtedly of Dunmer origin. The words in question didn't carry the friendliest of tones, and before the man began to speak more than a few words of Mozan's mixed Nord and Imperial background, Mozan arched his head in the direction of his cell door.
"SHUT... THE FUCK... UP! I AM IN NO FUCKING MOOD!" He roared angrily for no reason in particular. Yes, he wasn't much of a fan of the mer in general, but that wasn't really any reason to take his rage at his circumstance out on one. He was about to clear his throat and apologize to the gentleman across the hall, but the most unusual thing occurred to him. Not only was he in prison, and in one of the grittiest, grimiest cells he had ever had the misfortune to be in, but he wasn't alone-- he had a cellmate. A Breton, at that. Being a thief, it only took Mozan an instant to completely take in her appearance. It took even less time for Mozan to reach the conclusion that she was quite the attractive specimen; but he didn't really have too much of an opinion on her aside from that. Her figure and appearance most certainly belied a more sinister nature if she happened to find herself within the same circumstances as he. Rather than sit there like a simpletan, screaming at walls and gawking at stranger's full, pink lips, Mozan took an instant to tighten the thin strip of bandages wrapped around his forehead before addressing his host.
"So, come here often?"
It was odd that a single string of unassuming words could instill such a palpable sense of panic onto a man. Of course, if one were an average, law-abiding citizen of the Empire, these words would hold no such consequence. They would simply continue to go about their daily activities, and perhaps lift their head from their duties in an attempt to discover just whom was thick-headed enough to tangle with the Imperial guard. Unluckily enough for Mozan Havaerian, his, "Full-Proof" plan of sneaking away from his unpaid tab failed to account for an extremely important variable. The reason he was forced to evade the innkeeper in the first place was a direct result of a lengthy stay at the bar. In particular, he had opened up a tab, drank himself silly, and when it came time to pay it off, he realized that he was just a bit short to pay the full amount-- around 75% too short. What was a self-proclaimed master theif such as himself to do? Simply stay at the bar, and work his hands to the bone in exchange for the man's cooperation? Of course not-- he did as the thief does, and melded himself with the shadows before silently escaping the bar's perimeter. But as all good things do, his escape came to a loud and abrupt conclusion shortly after he skulked his way out of the Talos Plaza district.
The deep, harsh tenor in the Imperial guardsman's voice echoed through the silence of the night As Mozan prepared himself to cross over another street. His intent was to head toward the Waterfront and attempt to find a nice place to lay low, but now that he had the attention of the guard, he was forced to the conclusion that the Waterfront was too obvious a location to hide himself. The groggy, drink-addled Mozan felt chills arc up his spine as he heard the guardsman's horse begin it's rapid advance toward his hiding place, and he felt a sudden heat rise to the surface of his skin as a mild panic flooded his mind. He certainly wouldn't be able to outrun the guard's horse withdout some improvised climbing, ducking and jumping, and he was not exactly in the best physical state to do so. He'd been up for more than a consecutive day after a lengthy heist in the market district, and spent the better part of the afternoon drinking away his stress and anger related to the inevitably botched operation. So not only was the obvious intoxication inhibiting his ability to bob and weave around obstacles, but his physically drained and exhausted body refused to accept the commands Mozan attempted to give it. The combination of those factors and more forced the nordic thief to improvise himself out of the situation at hand-- and fast. He forced himself to rise up out of the shadows and into a standing position, and lifted his arms above his head in lew of responding to the guard's verbal demand with a drunken slur. The burly, heavily armored man dismounted his horse the instant that he reached an acceptably close distance to Mozan, and retrieved a pair of steel manicles from the back of his horse as hhe dismounted. The man was an Imperial in race and affiliation, and his tanned face twisted into a grimace of disgust as the heavy scent of miscellanious liquors wafted into his face.
"Had a bit to drink tonight, have we?" The imperial queried snidely as he lifted one of the manicles toward Mozan's left wrist.
"En'oof tuh do somethin' absa'lutely empteh headed." Mozan slurred in response to the guard's condescension. The Imperial twisted his head away from the manicles for a moment so he could refocus on Mozan's facial expression, but as he did so, he was greeted with a heavy boot crashing into his face on the part of Mozan. The guardsman snarled angrily as his head snapped backward with a spurt of blood from his now-shattered nose, and the drunken thief capitalized on the man's moment of weakness by diving under the man's left arm, rolling under the legs of his horse, and swinging himself onto the creature's back with a groan of effort. It didn't take long for the horse to snort it's frustration and violently rear back in an attempt to throw it's surprise rider back into captivity; Fortunately enough, Mozan was able to hold on for the time being. He heard the tell-tale metallic ring of a longsword exiting it's scabbard as he wrapped his hands around the horse's wreigns, and he clapped the heels of his feet together on it's flank in an attempt to force the beast into motion. Rather than take off into an angry sprint as he expected, the Imperial's horse bucked itself forward and drove it's back hooves directly into the guard behind it, and this time, Mozan was unable to maintain his control over the improvised mount. He tumbled over the horse's head with a flurry of slurred curses, and bounced off of the cobblestone street with a crack before he managed to bring his body to rest. His head throbbed in exhaustion and pain as he rose to a sitting position, and he felt a trickle of blood making it's way down the back of his skull as another throb of pain echoed through the nerves in his head. His hazy, flickering vision found the motionless guard slumped over a sewer grate several feet to his left, and what little detail he could make out of the man's body through his armor didn't indicate that he had any serious wounds. Though it made his body feel light and imbalanced, and his vision began to spin and swirl as if he was underwater, Mozan forced himself back to his feet. He was driven by the urge to check the man for signs of life, and he took three unsteady steps toward the fallen guard before sprawling back out onto his stomach with an audible slam. He had to have cracked his head off of the stone pretty damn hard to cause him to feel this way. It was either that, or he had drank even more than he thought he did. Even though he felt nothing but pain rocketing through his skull, the theif still forced himself to crawl the rest of the distance to the fallen Imperial as he heard a multitude of metallic footfalls and hooves stomping in his direction. He managed to roll the man onto his back, and the instand he succeeded, he wished that he hadn't.
The horse's hooves had landed squarely in his upper chest, denting his armor inward and sending sharp, awkwardly shaped fragments of metal directly into the unfortunate soul's throat. The wounds were small, but evident as blood continued to pour over his tanned flesh and under the heavy steel which was meant to protect him. If he had to guess, Mozan assumed that the impact of the horse's hooves most likely broke, if not outright shattered a few of his ribs, and they had probably punctured his heart and lungs. Worst of all, the guard still bore a look of righteous indignation at the actions that had led him into his grave; Though his eyes were glassy and his nose a twisted knot of purple and red, his lips still bore a silent snarl of hatred toward Mozan. The thief was no stranger to brutality and gore of this nature, but the look on the man's face caused his stomach to churn and bubble. Within seconds, Mozan stumbled away from the guard's corpse and unleashed the entirity of his stomach contents onto the cobblestones. There weren't any more words. The next thing Mozan knew, he felt the sharp bite of steel on the back of his head, and the rippling boil of pain crackling through his body as his mind finally collapsed into unconsciousness.
"Home sweet home, ya' murdering drunken wretch."
Those words shocked Mozan back into consciousness as the loud, 'CLANG!' of iron gates slamming shut rebounded through his eardrums. He wasn't manicled, but instead escorted by a duo of burly Imperial guardsmen who were literally dragging him down one of the cell blocks in the Imperial prison. He was unsure as to whether or not they were aware of his consciousness, but he chose to remain motionless in hopes that he would be able to catch them off-guard. If he was to get out of the city, he would have to act quickly, and efficiently. He had no room for error. His plan was already beginning to hatch in his mind when the searing pain of his hangover, his head wound, and his shame brought him back to reality. Whether intentional or not, he had killed a man. His trial would inevitably be held within the next few days, if he was even to be offered one, and he would simply have to wait out his stay in prison in the mean time. He felt as though he might have been able to escape somehow, but it would certainly be a risky endeavor to do so. As the guards conversed amongst themselves and dragged him in the direction of his new home, he resigned himself to his fate. It certainly wasn't the first time he had taken a life, but it was most definitely the first time he had taken the life of a man with so little thought about his actions. Before his mind was able to wander too far away from reality, the guards shook him back into awareness before opening the door of his cell. He didn't have time to glance inside before they veritably tossed him in, and the gritty bite of the cell floor meeting his skull sent him into a mild daze as the door was closed and locked behind him. As the guards' respective footsteps faded away into the distance, Mozan allowed himself a heavy sigh before he heard a voice that was undoubtedly of Dunmer origin. The words in question didn't carry the friendliest of tones, and before the man began to speak more than a few words of Mozan's mixed Nord and Imperial background, Mozan arched his head in the direction of his cell door.
"SHUT... THE FUCK... UP! I AM IN NO FUCKING MOOD!" He roared angrily for no reason in particular. Yes, he wasn't much of a fan of the mer in general, but that wasn't really any reason to take his rage at his circumstance out on one. He was about to clear his throat and apologize to the gentleman across the hall, but the most unusual thing occurred to him. Not only was he in prison, and in one of the grittiest, grimiest cells he had ever had the misfortune to be in, but he wasn't alone-- he had a cellmate. A Breton, at that. Being a thief, it only took Mozan an instant to completely take in her appearance. It took even less time for Mozan to reach the conclusion that she was quite the attractive specimen; but he didn't really have too much of an opinion on her aside from that. Her figure and appearance most certainly belied a more sinister nature if she happened to find herself within the same circumstances as he. Rather than sit there like a simpletan, screaming at walls and gawking at stranger's full, pink lips, Mozan took an instant to tighten the thin strip of bandages wrapped around his forehead before addressing his host.
"So, come here often?"