Loredas, 5.50 p.m., 15th Last Seed, 4E 201
Northern Cyrodiil
I never did care for the taste of blood in my mouth.
When the Imperial bastard with the gap-tooth grin and nervous twitch struck me again, I ignored the sting of impact that lanced my frozen cheek and spat a long plume of bloody saliva across his leather boot. He cursed, long and loud – something about feeding me to a frost troll – and raised his hand for a third strike. I glared at him, willing him to do it, to stoke my rage just a little more – but the officer behind me intervened.
