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The first thing he feels, when the magic finally unravels from his mind, is a vast sense of vertigo, as if he's, for a moment, freefalling down from Aetherius back into himself. The second thing is near-blinding fear at the people gathered around him, towering over his weakened body, and he gives the most fierce growl and hiss he can muster.
"It's alright. My guards mean you no harm, Khajiit."
The voice is low, deep, soothing, old and dignified, and he finds himself uncertainly slumping out of his bristling arch, panting as he stops hissing, as his mind scrambles to figure out what happened. He runs his eyes over the man addressing him, notices that he is indeed old, with his silvery white hair, with the deep creases in his skin, smiles and frowns alike pressed into creases by age and wear.
The man also wears very, very expensive robes, and an equally expensive-looking fur-trimmed cape, and a gleaming, glittering red diamond for an amulet, and that should mean something to him, he thinks. But he can't remember why that should be important, and he raises a paw to touch at his head, to press against the top of his forehead.
"...I don't... I don't remember..."
He hears surprised exclamations, lashes his tail irritably when he's called a cat, but the man crouching before him is focused on him, solemn, and shows him something in his hand. A magicka-shimmering red ribbon, and he hisses again, hatred boiling in his heart. He remembers only in cryptic flashes, but he recalls capture, this damned ribbon tied so tight around his neck that it choked him, and all his sense of willpower and self leeching out of him.
"You were patrolling the Imperial gardens in a very peculiar, mindless way... And I had a feeling you were more than a mere housecat. It seems I was right. Do you recall who enthralled you, by any chance?"
He tries to think about it, but it slips through his paws like the finest silky sand, and he makes an upset little growl, shaking his head. All he recalls is the color of a hand, like golden sand, before he bit and drew blood--
"...Male. A lot of magic in his blood. I bit him, in the soft flesh of his right thumb. It'll scar. You should know him by that, if you ever find him."
"Your majesty--"
The man raises a hand to stop one of his guards from talking, then holds it so that the closest of his escort helps him upright again, and he hears the man's knees crack and pop.
"See if the Arcane University might have knowledge of a rogue illusion mage. And see to it that this young Khajiit is seen to. Thralldom is not kind on the mind or the body, and if someone is now resorting to this method to spy on me..."
Those eyes seem far away now, scanning the other side of the vast garden, and he wonders what's to become of him. He doesn't remember... Well, he doesn't even remember his name, or his parents. All he thinks he knows is that he's from Cyrodiil.
He lives, at least. How does he say that in Ta'agra, again? Var? He'll call himself Var, until his birth name is found.
(Little does he know, he'll never get that name back. But he'll be gifted a new one, when, out of debt, he'll head to Morrowind as an agent of the Emperor.)
In the series: Disbelief, Ghost, Troublemaker
"It's alright. My guards mean you no harm, Khajiit."
The voice is low, deep, soothing, old and dignified, and he finds himself uncertainly slumping out of his bristling arch, panting as he stops hissing, as his mind scrambles to figure out what happened. He runs his eyes over the man addressing him, notices that he is indeed old, with his silvery white hair, with the deep creases in his skin, smiles and frowns alike pressed into creases by age and wear.
The man also wears very, very expensive robes, and an equally expensive-looking fur-trimmed cape, and a gleaming, glittering red diamond for an amulet, and that should mean something to him, he thinks. But he can't remember why that should be important, and he raises a paw to touch at his head, to press against the top of his forehead.
"...I don't... I don't remember..."
He hears surprised exclamations, lashes his tail irritably when he's called a cat, but the man crouching before him is focused on him, solemn, and shows him something in his hand. A magicka-shimmering red ribbon, and he hisses again, hatred boiling in his heart. He remembers only in cryptic flashes, but he recalls capture, this damned ribbon tied so tight around his neck that it choked him, and all his sense of willpower and self leeching out of him.
"You were patrolling the Imperial gardens in a very peculiar, mindless way... And I had a feeling you were more than a mere housecat. It seems I was right. Do you recall who enthralled you, by any chance?"
He tries to think about it, but it slips through his paws like the finest silky sand, and he makes an upset little growl, shaking his head. All he recalls is the color of a hand, like golden sand, before he bit and drew blood--
"...Male. A lot of magic in his blood. I bit him, in the soft flesh of his right thumb. It'll scar. You should know him by that, if you ever find him."
"Your majesty--"
The man raises a hand to stop one of his guards from talking, then holds it so that the closest of his escort helps him upright again, and he hears the man's knees crack and pop.
"See if the Arcane University might have knowledge of a rogue illusion mage. And see to it that this young Khajiit is seen to. Thralldom is not kind on the mind or the body, and if someone is now resorting to this method to spy on me..."
Those eyes seem far away now, scanning the other side of the vast garden, and he wonders what's to become of him. He doesn't remember... Well, he doesn't even remember his name, or his parents. All he thinks he knows is that he's from Cyrodiil.
He lives, at least. How does he say that in Ta'agra, again? Var? He'll call himself Var, until his birth name is found.
(Little does he know, he'll never get that name back. But he'll be gifted a new one, when, out of debt, he'll head to Morrowind as an agent of the Emperor.)
In the series: Disbelief, Ghost, Troublemaker
