There was precisely one thing that truly mattered to Moramaillon: coin. It made the world keep turning and nothing in life was truly free. It could get him whatever he needed, whenever he needed it; a broad, a sword, an enchantment, a new set of armor. He placed it above godliness, above knowledge, and above morality.

Other things that kind of mattered to Mora generally fell into two categories: things that brought him coin and things that brought him joy (or whatever emotion he experienced in place of joy.) He generally kept such things close at hand, available for use when he was ready, easy to put away when he was done, and detached enough to discard when it became more burden than boon.

Anything else was a fact of life at best and an inconvenience at worst.

As he moved through Windhelm, rubbing his thumb over a piece of gold in his pocket, he wondered how much such a cold, pathetic, hideous city would cost him. Its jarl, an overgrown manchild named Ulfric Stormcloak, was not Mora's idea of an intelligent tactician who truly believed in his own word. No. He struck Mora as a man who'd just not been offered the correct amount of money, money that could just be ripped away after the fact as punishment for turning his back on his so-called cause.

Mora grunted with the barest hint of amusement, walking the stone pathways to the market district of the Grey Quarter. He found the foul attitudes of the Dunmer there more refreshing than the lazy, low-effort racism that the local Nord shopkeeps had on offer.