I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
She grows chagrined quicker than he would have imagined, but it does not dull his irritation or stoke in him feelings of warmth and kindness. Back home, he was never known for being the gentlest of his kind. His brothers and sisters had always known him to be too stoic—too serious. He took to himself more often than not rather than join in their festivities. Never quite understood their humor, let alone partake.
So these strangers in these strange land do not cause him to feel any different.
“You shouldn’t,” he says simply, rolling a massive shoulder. “Just as I would not care for yours.” It is harsh, perhaps, but it’s honest and Morrowind has always erred on that side when given the option. It was nothing more than gilded lies otherwise—flimsy and useless and ultimately toxic to whoever received it.
She, however, doesn’t invoke fury in him either so he doesn’t dismiss her or simply leave. She is complex in the way that she waivers between fury and irritation and near apathy. It’s a curious thing and he figures if he is stuck here—for now, at least—then he should do his best to try and understand them better.
“I don’t know if you could understand,” not thinking that it could be taken as an insult. “I’m not sure that I do either.” He looks back upward before looking down his nose at her.
“This is a strange place to be stuck. I’m not sure I understand what lesson I am being taught.”
MORROWIND
