The inspiration for this came from a hilarious event in The Mage's Guild, where I had to awaken a member of the guild to hand in a quest. When they rose, I realised I could sleep in their bed to level up. This amused me greatly, and provided the impetus for the book below.
A Stranger In My Bed (Book)
Location: The Mage's Guild, Cheydinhal
I am a very tolerant person, but enough is enough. Recent events have led me — some might even say forced my hand — to make a stand to preserve my dignity. Unlike when I joined several years ago, it seems as though Falcar allows any old rabble the honour of being a member the Mage's Guild. This specific incident revolves around an Argonian by the name of Reeja, the newest recruit.
What is it that has invoked my fury, you ask? Well, let me tell you: my tolerance for intolerant things is actually quite high! When my alchemical reagents were used to create a potion that transformed Khajiit into imps, I barked a few laughs, even though my exceedingly expensive ingredients were used without my permission! When the sprig of Nirnroot I'd preserved for years in the hopes of pioneering research into its medicinal properties was mistaken for basil plant and sold to a traveller when we were facing financial difficulties, I, well, the vein in my head did pop — but it healed rather quickly! Were I vindictive, it might have never healed it all. So, believe me when I say, I can tolerate the intolerable. But, today, my limit has been reached. Not just reached! Exceeded, breached! And now, I must make my stand, for enough is enough.
I rarely join field expeditions, particularly when the local Ayleid ruins are involved, but, until just a few moments ago, I was having a most agreeable day. So agreeable, in fact, that when Falcar, with that cordial-but-insufferable tone of his, requested of me — naturally, as the most capable member of the Mage's Guild — to allow the newest recruit (yes, that newest recruit: the inept, the incompetent, the unceremonious, the ever-soggy Reeja) to join us, I acquiesced. Not out of true willingness, but out of a moment of weakness brought on by my sunny disposition, no small modicum of misplaced optimism, an unusual rise in the perpetual ebb and flow of my spirits, and the rare sunshine of my temperament.
And what an absolutely exhilarating excursion it was! The ruins were surprisingly serene, a rare occurrence in the resting places of those forsaken Wild Elves, and we managed to requisition not one, not two, but three Varla Stones! I have attended some fifteen field outings and sometimes returned with, at best, a cracked and disheveled Welkynd stone that had long since been drained of its power. So, believe me when I say, the excursion was a resounding success. For the uninitiated, Varla Stones were used by the Aldmer High Lord Torinaan during the Merethic Era to harness the power of the stars. Their very essence is that of a shooting star! We have, in our hands, three of the rarest stones in all of Tamriel, on the planet Nirn itself. I may no longer have to work ever again! By this point, I could not have been in higher spirits had Dibella herself granted me an audience into her sacred bosom. I must say, my most magnanimous disposition allowed me to lead an exceedingly successful excursion, and I am quite pleased with the results. By all accounts, I should have been pleased for a very long time.
And yet, as is often increasingly proving to be the case when Reeja is involved, catastrophe was not far behind. Upon returning to the guild and briefing Falcar on our resounding success, I felt the weariness of the day wash over me, beckoning me to my slumber in that sirenic voice that only true exhaustion can conjure. With our mission complete, I heeded the call of my languor and made for the steps leading up to the chambers, ready to find my sanctuary away from this worldly plane: my bed.
You see, my bed is no mere piece of furniture, but a gift fashioned from the very essence of the gods themselves. The finest, rarest Cyrodiilic oak provides the frame for the exceedingly breathable and ever-so-comfortable Altmerian linen, which bears an enchantment of Drain Fatigue — wrought by yours truly, who else? — etched into the fabric itself...I must say, no greater bastion against all that is wearisome could exist. From the very moment one descends into its sacred embrace, one is removed, and thus absolved, from the realm of responsibility and duty. To sleep in my bed is to cast aside the travails of the world. One does not simply sleep, but instead enters a state of true bliss. It is like sleeping on a cloud. No, not a cloud, but a bed of stars. Once again, Dibella's embrace would pale in comparison.
To disturb this sacred space of mine is to transgress the boundaries of all that is good, just and holy. It is to obscure morality to fit one's callous agenda. It is, for lack of a better phrase, utterly and preposterously cruel — and yet there she was. There it was, sprawled across the sheets like a rodent infringing on the throne of an emperor! Not only did it lie there, but it carried with it the unceremoniousness of a drunken Argonian at a tavern brawl, clad in the very same dastardly robes that had accompanied us to the ruins. Dust and debris, in my hallowed, hygienic bed! My incredulity was unfathomable, and yet the worst was still to come. That noise, the screeching that reached my ears, was nothing short of deafening! The sight of my beloved sheets, marred by its spittle and unholy perspiration! What evil have I committed to be subjected to a fate as cruel as this? Had I known, I would have atoned there and then.
As I write this, I am seething. Reeja, your transgression shall go down in history as a betrayal so grievous that even Mehrunes Dagon himself and all His great princes would shudder to recount it. I shall see to it that you are exposed for what you are: a cumbersome rodent no more fit to be among the esteemed ranks of the Mage's Guild than a common mudcrab! I shall have you expelled from the Guild and cast into the very gates of Oblivion itself. Mark my words, you undignified cretin, your days on this plane are numbered.
Why don't I wake her, you ask? I have etiquette, unlike some, for I am not Alkar the ever-soggy!