Author's note: This is a brand new story, I'm sorry, but it's set on Vvardenfell. Every character in this is actually in the game, as is the location of this chapter, top marks to anyone who finds out where the following events occur. Without further delay, enjoy!.

The Ordinator.

"We can have no opinion about truth"-The Book of Dawn and Dusk

Daldrur pondered his circumstances. The interested look in his eyes, the engrossed appearance of his posture betrayed the truth, he had long since stopped listening to Raril, the bartender. "...He's got his bandit hideaway right between Ald Sotha and Bal Fell.." he droned.Daldrur merely nodded at the knowledge Raril was imparting upon him, again feigning interest with ease. Despite his placid appearance and slightly bored demeanour, Daldrur's mind was in overdrive. He was scanning the Cornerclub, looking for exits and entrances, assessing his surroundings.

"..The appalling neighbours keep traffic down..." continued Raril, fully convinced that his audience was nothing less than totally under his spell. Daldrur lowered his eyes to the bottle of flin which lay before him on the table. He could make out the vague outline of a scruffy Dunmer heading towards the door on its tinted glass. "Goodnight Felvos!" called out the over friendly bartender, but the poorly dressed drunkard was too busy wrestling with the doorknob to reply. "I'll let you out there Felvos" mused Raril, half to himself as he made for the door to let out his best customer.

"Damn fine singer that guy, damn fine. Poor swit has a bit of a problem with the mazte though. The only thing holding him back from his fortune if you ask me." the bartender informed Daldrur without looking at him. "Like my mother always said..." Raril stopped mid-sentence. Daldrur was gone. He rushed downstairs to find his elusive customer, but instead of finding him, he found a dead body, but not Daldrur's. It was another of Raril's customers, a Nord called Hylf the Harrier. Raril rushed to the lifeless corpse to help him, but he knew in his heart of hearts that there was no hope for the Nord.

A knife had been driven clean through Hylf's ringmail cuirass, into his heart at close range. Deeply traumatised by events, Raril collapsed onto the blood-stained floor and buried his face in his hands. It was then that he noticed a piece of paper in Hylf's dead hands. The murderer had placed it in his prey's hands after depriving him of his life. Raril nervously read the note. It was an honorable writ of execution.

This post has been edited by ED 209: Aug 4 2005, 11:36 PM