Neron, An assassin is hired to kill the Emperor Options

[Sir Radont]

Part I: Coin Bags and Tours

The two swords clashed together again but Neron was stronger than his young apprentice and he easily pushed her back. He was a skilled assassin, probably the best in all of Tamriel, or so the stories went. His face was known by a precious few, but his name was known by many. In his line of work it was good to keep his face anonymous while letting his name flow off the lips of many friends and enemies alike. This ensured that when someone needed a fellow citizen of Tamriel dead, Neron was famous enough to get the job, but secret enough not to be hassled by local authorities. When it came to murder he didn’t discriminate between Orcs, Bretons, Imperials, or even his own midnight blue skinned Dark Elves, he would kill anyone – for the right price.

His apprentice was also a Dark Elf. A slender female with long curly jet-black hair and a fire in her red eyes that he had not seen in many years, she was dedicated and it showed in the way she trained. Of all the apprentices he had had, she was the most promising. She usually accompanied Neron on the assassination missions, there is no better trainer than experience, but tonight he would go alone.

“Good, Valyas, now come at me again, faster this time”

He was showing her the art of parrying, something an assassin knows “just in case” because a good assassin shouldn’t need to parry, they should be in and out, unseen and unheard with a corpse behind them and a bright rich future ahead of them. Sometimes the target would be armed and alert or surrounded by angry guards so it helped to be prepared.

Running forward, Valyas stabbed at him with her steel practice long sword. He parried it by stepping to the right and swinging his sword up under hers then used the momentum from the swing to arc his sword over her head and bring it down lightly against her back.

“Your speed is good - what you lack is control. Never commit totally to a swing unless your chopping wood.”

Valyas nodded. Running at him again she swung from over her head, he parried again, this time raising the iron practice sword parallel to the ground to deflect the blow. Her blade slid down the length of his sword and, using the momentum from the swing, she spun around slashing at his legs. Jumping over the blade and landing lightly on his feet, Neron quickly closed the gap between them and put his sword to her throat as she was preparing for another overhead swing.

“Better,” he said, stepping back and sheathing his sword, “we’ll practice more tomorrow. I need to be ready for my job tonight”. This would be his most challenging, and therefore, most rewarding mission yet. If he accomplished this mission, no, when he accomplished this mission he would retire, Valyas would be ready to go off on her own, and he was getting a little too famous to be comfortable. If the entire province of Morrowind new his name today, then after tonight the entire land of Tamriel would speak his name no louder than a whisper - as if he was a divine member of the Tribunal.

A week earlier he had traveled to Vivec, the largest city on Vvardenfell, named after the member of the Tribunal that lived there. Stepping off the Silt Strider, he followed the dirt path to the Foreign Quarter, marveling as he always did at the size of the city. It was built out into the sea with only the first canton touching land. Each canton had three layers to it and each layer was slightly smaller than the one under it, giving the cantons a pyramid shape with flat tops. There were walkways around each layer with covered ramps leading up or down to the different layers. Each canton was 30 feet away from the next one and bridges connected them on every level.

Neron walked to the top level of the Foreign Quarter and entered a tavern. He preferred meeting in larger taverns to help preserve his anonymity. This one was packed full of people and the conversations all combined to make it difficult for anyone eavesdropping to hear anything worth reporting to local authorities. After stepping in from a sunny day and letting his eyes adjust to the dim light he scanned the crowded room. The owner and bartender was a Nord, Neron knew by looking at him that he would be armed and would make a formidable opponent if any patrons got out of line. He had short, brown, disheveled hair and green eyes that scanned the room looking for trouble. He wore a plain brown shirt and pants and was cleaning a mug with his powerful arms. The bartender noted Nerons entrance with disinterest and went back to cleaning the mug. Neron swept his eyes over the room one more time but couldn’t see any more potential threats; his employer had picked a good spot to talk this time. His name was Dranas, a fellow dark elf with crimson red hair that matched his red eyes. His dark blue skin was barely visible under the tattoos on his face and arms. Earlier in the week, Dranas had told him that he had a high profile assassination for him, someone high up in the Imperial ranks; it was the understatement of the century.

Neron sat down and wasted no time with pleasantries.

“So who exactly is my target?” Neron asked with a hint of boredom in his voice. He hoped this target was worthy of his skills, this line of work was getting to easy for him and he was growing tired of it.

Dranas quickly glanced around the room to make sure no one was eyeing them, then, leaning closer, he whispered the name to his assassin. Nerons face remained expressionless as his mind began forming a plan on how a mission this big could be accomplished.

“When do you think it can be done?”

“A week” he said after making some calculations in his head. Scouting the location would take a day, maybe two, and then he would have to get black “Dark Brotherhood” armor to blend into the shadows. He would also need scrolls for “mark” and “recall”, but that would be the only magic he would use for this mission. He prided himself in being able to accomplish missions without the use of an invisibility or chameleon spell, and the target he was going after deserved a fair chance more than anyone he had ever killed.

Dranas nodded his approval, “Good, you will be paid once I have confirmation that the target has been eliminated. Also, the Dark Brotherhood is sending a lone assassin to Balmora in three days to kill the leader of one of the great houses; you might want to check it out. And one last thing, when you go to Cyrodiil to scout the location look for a recruiter named Quintus, he’s a corrupt soldier and will let you tour the castle for the right price”

With a nod Neron got up, and picked his way through the noisy crowd to the exit. Outside he went straight to the edge of the balcony and looked over. Citizens of Tamriel were going about their daily lives, oblivious to what had transpired moments earlier. A plan had been set in motion that would shake the very foundations of Tamriel and Neron, master assassin, would be the catalyst to start the chain reaction that would end in the Imperial Legion leaving Vvardenfell.

Of all the races in Tamriel, he enjoyed killing Imperials the most. As a young dark elf growing up on the island of Vvardenfell, he had been taught to hate all Imperials, especially ones wearing the silver and purple colors associated with the Imperial Legion. To Neron, they were the oppressors, the enemy, and they deserved to be routed and run off the island. That wouldn’t happen as long as their leader, the imperial Emperor of all Tamriel, Uriel Septim, was alive. It was now up to Neron to kill him, and with the chaos that ensued the red-eyed dark elves would drive this pestilence from the island, drive them back to Cyrodiil where they belong.

The next day Neron took a boat to the mainland of Morrowind and found a caravan going to Cyrodiil. The Caravan came to a creaking stop three days later just outside the capital city, also named Cyrodiil. Neron jumped off, stirring up dust on the dirt road, and thanked the caravan’s owner for the ride. A 40-foot high impenetrable wall of gray stone surrounded the massive city. The wall was 15 feet thick with Imperial archers patrolling along the top, eyes out and bows in hand. A river lazily wrapped around the wall further fortifying the capital city.

Neron crossed the wooden drawbridge and entered the busy city buzzing with activity on a warm sunny day. Just inside the wall on either side of the road were barracks made from logs with black-shingled roofs. Past the barracks were various shops with patrons hurrying in and out buying and selling their wares. The main road went straight to the center of the city and ended at the archway of another massive wall. This one was half the size of the outer wall but was still wide enough to have emotionless, stone faced archers stationed on top. Neron made his way down the busy street to the archway. He passed through getting sideways looks from the guards stationed on the ground.

There was another log building immediately to his right, directly in front of him was the Emperors castle, an intimidating stone structure towering in the center of the city. Neron turned and walked into the log building that served as a recruitment station for the Imperial Legion. Inside, a man sat at a wooden table scribbling something on a parchment with a feather and ink quill. He looked up when he noticed Neron standing there. His head was bald and shiny and his brow was slightly wrinkled from age. Strong, piercing eyes were set into deep sockets, his armor was purple colored with a golden dragon on the breastplate, the pauldrons from his shoulders to his elbow were silver and he wore golden bracers on his wrists. A purple cape hung from his shoulders and rustled against his armor as he stood.

“Can I help you?” He asked, picking up the paper he was writing on.

“Are you Quintus?” Neron asked.

The soldier was annoyed at the lack of respect for his rank and replied, “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I came to tour the castle”

Quintus grinned inwardly at the thought of using his power to make this red-eyed ruffian leave, “I’m sorry, only members of the Imperial Legion or citizens that have business with the Emperor may enter, now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do”. He sat back down and began writing again.

Tossing a bag of coins on the table Neron said in an icy voice, “I have business with the Emperor.”

Quintus waited, drumming his fingers on the desk with a thoughtful expression on his face, before answering. “Well, in that case, please wait here”.

He stood, turned, and walked through a door behind him, cape rippling with each step. He emerged a minute later with another soldier wearing steel armor.

Quintus motioned to the soldier with his palm up, “This is Dragis, the newest recruit here in the Imperial City, he will show you around the castle”.

Quintus sat back down as Dragis and Neron exited. They made an immediate right and walked 50 meters to the castle doors. Dragis heaved the heavy oak door open with a creak and went inside with Neron in tow.The young soldier was overly friendly and showed Neron everything he wanted to see, including the Emperor’s room. He told him about the guards in the castle, sparring no detail as he explained their patrol routes and when the next guards went on duty. He was a trusting person and Neron took advantage of it.

When the tour was finally finished the sun was low in the sky bathing the city in orange light. Neron took his leave and walked back to the main gate of the city and found a caravan going back to Morrowind. From there he sailed to Vvardenfell to get his Dark Brotherhood armor. He found his prey sneaking around Balmora near the Great Houses, right where Dranas told him he would be. Neron paid the assassin with a knife to the back for his armor and snuck out of the city.

Now Neron sat in his well-furnished house in Seyda Neen with his newly acquired armor. Glancing outside he noted that it was time to start. He pulled the black cloth helm on to complete the Dark Brotherhood armor. The rest of the armor was cloth as well, not made so much for protection asit was made to sneak through theshadows undetected devouring any light touching it. He sheathed his short sword into the black cloth sheath and took out his scroll of recall. After reading the daedric runes on the scroll Neron disappeared in a blue flash, his mission had begun.

[Sir Radont]

Part IV: Blood Vows

Dranas sat rigidly in an uncomfortable wooden chair. The back was too straight, the legs too short, and it seemed ready to snap and crumble on a whim. Sweat beads formed on his forehead as he waited anxiously for a reply. The ‘man’ sitting in front of him rapped his fingers on a small empty table in contemplation.

“I’ll do it,” purred S’resh, the cat-like Khajiit assassin, “but I want triple my usual fee.” He folded his powerful arms across his chest and waited for Dranas to respond.

“That’s outrageous! I could hire an entire army of dark brotherhood assassins for that much gold,” Dranas fumed. He was used to being in charge; he was the one that set prices, not the other way around.

“Fine, go hire your pathetic dark brotherhood lackeys, from what I’ve heard they aren’t very effective against this Neron you want dead. My offer stands, triple the rate or you try your luck with the black clad fools again.”

Dranas was uncomfortable in the intimidating assassin’s presence; his eyes always contemplating the most efficient way to kill whoever he was looking at. Powerful arms ended in equally strong hands, the ends of which were razor sharp claws.

The house was small and scarcely furnished for an assassin of this caliber. The Dark Elf had pictured swords on the walls, axes over the doors, and secret passages filled with gold and jewels but there were no weapons in sight and the only door in the house was the one he came through. S’resh didn’t talk like a Khajiit either. He had the raspy voice of the feline race but his grammar and mannerisms were more akin to a human rather than a beast.

“Ok, triple the rate but I want to send some of my own assassins with you.”

S’resh closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, he spoke in a tired, bored tone, “I work alone, you should know that. Your assassins will only get in my way.”

Dranas was furious at his lack of respect and slammed his fist down on the table in frustration, “NO! I am in control here, not you. I call the shots, I make the arrangements, and I will not let some beast tell me how to make a hit.”

The large Khajiit stared calmly at Dranas with emotionless eyes. He leaned towards the Dark Elf and seemed to grow in size. Dranas shrank back, shifting his eyes to avoid the intense gaze of the assassin, “Do you think I need you or your job? You came to me remember? I am not short on money, I have nothing to lose by turning down your offer and I have nothing to prove by accepting it.”

Dranas gave up, “Fine, you’ll be paid when the job is complete, that is not negotiable. And one other thing, make sure Neron is watching when you kill her. You know where to find me.” The Dark Elf stood and stormed out of the house, this was the second time he had been embarrassed by an assassin, an underling. We’ll just see how pathetic the Dark Brotherhood is he muttered under his breath.


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Madali was well known in the small mining town of Caldera. Even though it was an Imperial town the Dark Elf felt she belonged there. With long jet-black hair framing her face and gray skin, she stuck out in the midst of the Imperials and Nords that populated the quaint village, but they were all her friends, her equals.
She flashed a smile to the Nord standing casually behind a counter as she entered the herb store. He was small for someone from the Nordic race but still stood three or four inches taller than most elves. Coiled strength was wrapped in expensive clothes and his eyes held stories and the rememberance of battle. A long, rope-like scar ran from his hairline, down over his eye set into a deep socket, then turned and made its way to his jaw line. Most citizens of Tamriel would try to hide such a mark, but he wore it with pride, like a badge of honor.

The Nord returned a warm smile, “Madali, my favorite elf, how fare you on this fine morning?” His words were loud and powerful, like a father greeting a daughter.

Madali’s smile widened, “The sun is shining, the birds are whistling their favorite tunes and I am talking to the finest herb dealer in Tamriel. Not a bad way to start the day.”

Andrel inclined his head in agreement, “Aye, not bad at all. I’m sure you didn’t come down just to talk, what can I get you today?”

“I need some stoneflower petals for a potion I’m mixing up,” she said, reaching intothe leather bag on her shoulder for a few gold coins.

Andrel turned and looked intently at the many labeled bottles stacked ceiling-high on shelves behind him. Starting on the bottom shelf and working his way up he inspected each label until he found a white bottle with nearly illegible words scribbled in black ink around the outside.

“Ah yes, here we are.” He said, taking the bottle from its place. He turned and set it gently on the counter, “A good choice to restore strength or fortify your magicka. Was there anything else you needed?”

Madali shook her head and reached out to hand the Nord some coins.

The merchant smiled and held his hands up, “oh no, not this time, you buy enough herbs to keep me in business, this ones on me.” He slid the bottle closer to the Dark Elf.

A smile.

“And if you keep smiling like that I’ll be forced to give you my entire stock.” Andrel said with a laugh.

Madali smiled again and waved as she exited into the bright, cloudless morning. Once outside she closed her eyes and let the warmth of the sun cover her. She took a deep breath of fresh Vvardenfell air before bouncing down the street to her Imperial style home. It was only two blocks away and she found herself wishing it was a longer walk. She enjoyed being outside in the sun, cloaked in the atmosphere of the city and surrounded by the towering brown trees and green plants that grew here on the island. She was busy today though and quickly let the enchantment fade as she fished in her pocket and procured a brass key ring. Madali selected a silver key and shoved it into the lock of the solid front door. A quarter turn to the right, a satisfying click, an open door.

The keys were hung on their usual hook, her shoes were slid into their usual spot, but not everything was as it should be. Something was out of place, something didn’t feel right. Madali tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she scanned the living room. Everything was in its place: flowers arranged neatly in the window, an oak cabinet with various potions still locked tight, furniture undisturbed, even her collection of ornate knives remained exactly where she left them.

She moved around a comfortable brown reading chair and over a thick, colorful rug on her way to the kitchen. Her soft hand went to the doorknob; she turned it, pushed, and froze. Their eyes met. She stared for what seemed like an eternity not knowing what to say. She finally released her white-knuckled grip on the door and found her voice.

“Neron. I thought you were gone for good,” she said softly.

“As did I,” he said, shifting uneasily on a wooden chair. “Some things have happened in the last couple of days, things that have changed my outlook on life. I am not the same person I was the last time we saw each other.”

“What could possibly have made you change?” She asked, a glimmer of hope forming deep inside her. Tell me you’re not an assassin anymore; tell me you’ve given up killing for money.

Neron motioned for her to sit in an empty chair opposite him. Between them was a squat wooden table, Neron rested his feet on it as he told Madali about his apprentice, Valyas, the failed mission, and the flight from Cyrodiil. He left out no detail when recounting his visit to Dranas and the subsequent slaughter of the Dark Brotherhood assassins. When finally he reached the end of his tale, he came to his point.

“I think you may be in danger, that’s why I’m here. Dranas knows his assassins well, so he knows about you. I failed a mission and embarrassed him, I am certain he’ll send assassins your way.”

Madali was quiet. She stared at the lines in the wooden table digesting all the information conveyed in the last thirty minutes. Finally she spoke.

“Will he send more Dark Brotherhood assassins?”

Neron nodded. “I’m almost sure of it,” was the reply.

“Then I’m not afraid,” she said confidently, “you’ve dealt with them before, you can do it again.”

The former assassin smiled, “I won’t let anything happen to you, that’s what older brothers are for.”

She frowned playfully, “A good brother wouldn’t have dragged his sister into this in the first place.”

“Good point.” His face fell in grave sadness, “I’m sorry for this… for everything.”

Madali rose and embraced her brother, a tear slid down her cheek. This was her brother the way she remembered him, before their parents were murdered and he found false comfort in tracking the monster that did it. Before Dranas noticed his talent and changed him.

“I forgive you,” she whispered and squeezed tighter.


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The Dark Brotherhood base was located underneath the city of Mournhold, the capital of Morrowind. Their leader was a thin, graying Imperial with high cheekbones and deep sockets housing eyes that saw everything despite their old age. His skin was pale and his frame was small but powerful. It was quickness and skill with a blade that got him noticed by the guild as a youth, as an aged man it was his mind that made him their leader. Dranas had gotten five of his assassins killed, by a single man no less, and now he wanted the services the three best assassins.
He would have to give them to him of course—for free. His men wanted blood, word had spread quickly of the slaughter and they were losing credibility in all the provinces of Tamriel. No fewer than twenty five assassins had volunteered to track down this Neron, most were young and inexperienced intent on proving themselves worthy of the Dark Brotherhood name. Not permitting the services of his best assassins to this Dark Elf would cause mutiny, he would be ousted from power and, if he was lucky, would only lose a few fingers and be sent on his way. What was more likely to happen—well, he would rather not think about it so soon after eating. Losing three more men, even if they were his best, was a price he would have to pay in order to calm the rest of the Brotherhood.

“Guard!” Gravis called out, a moment later a Dark Elf entered the small meeting room. He was encased in steel from the neck down and had a powerful claymore sheathed at his side. On his back hung an iron kite shield and an emergency short blade was strapped to his thigh should he lose his claymore while defending his leader.

“Yes?” He said casually, as if talking to his brother. Gravis wanted it that way, in this business if you started demanding respect you would wind up a disfigured corpse with only the rats to care that you were dead and even then only because you taste good.

“I need Dalamus, Bradas, and Tidril in here immediately.”

The guard nodded and turned. He walked effortlessly through the sewers despite the hundred pounds of armor he was wearing. The three assassins were easily located in the sparring room and brought immediately to Gravis.

He cut to the chase as soon as they were in earshot.

“This is Dranas,” he said, gesturing to the Dark Elf across the table, “he wants your services to eliminate a certain assassin that embarrassed the Brotherhood. I’ll let Dranas fill you in on the details.”

Dranas nodded and stood to address the trio of assassins.

“Once Neron and his sister are taken care of there is one other small matter I need cleared up. Another assassin has insulted me, a Khajiit—an animal, by the name of S’resh. Eliminate him and I will personally pay each of you five thousand gold pieces. Time is not on our side, S’resh plans on killing Neron himself so you must kill all three of them tonight. Neron will probably be staying at his sister’s house in Caldera and will be expecting you; S’resh has a residence in Balmora. Any questions?”

Three heads moved from side to side.

Dranas smiled wickedly, “good hunting.”


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Neron and Madali sat outside on a perfectly manicured lawn and watched the sun dip slowly behind the majestic mountains that surrounded the city of Caldera. When the last of the suns rays were extinguished behind the rocky peaks Neron spoke up.
“I should probably be off to bed; I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Madali was curios, “what kind of work?”

A slight smile played on Neron’s lips, “just digging around for information, seeing if maybe Dranas hired someone else besides the Dark Brotherhood. Don’t worry, I won’t kill anyone.”

Madali gave a nod of approval, “I’ll go get a bedroll and some blankets for you then I’m going to bed too.”

Neron followed her inside and closed the door behind him. He turned the lock into place with a dull click then rummaged through a closet for a broom which he leaned against the door. The lock wouldn’t keep any of the assassins out but if they were dumb enough to come in the front door then the broom would fall and give Neron a loud heads up. Next he took some metal spoons from the kitchen and placed them carefully on the top of all the windows. If an intruder so much as looked at the window funny the spoon would fall to the hardwood floor.

Madali descended the stairs with a bedroll tucked under her arm and a blanket in her hands.

“Is one blanket enough,” she asked as she spread the bedroll out on the floor.

“Plenty,” replied Neron, he wasn’t planning on sleeping.

“Well then,” said Madali, satisfied everything was in order, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night,” was the reply from her brother.

Neron settled into the brown reading chair, he pitied any assassin that attempted to come into this house tonight.


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Three hours after the sun had dipped below the horizon S’resh was crouched outside the window of an Imperial styled house. It was his first time in Caldera and would have felt out of place in the small mining town if indeed he had feelings. The Khajiit eased the window open just enough to slip his clawed hand in and hold it palm up. With his free hand he nudged the window up and caught the spoon that fell. A wry smile spread over his face—this was going to be easier than he thought. He slithered through the window as invisible as a ghost floating through a graveyard on a moonless night. The assassin’s bare, padded feet found the kitchen floor without a creak from the boards, he crouched.
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Every fiber in Neron’s muscular body went on alert when he heard a lock pick coxing the front door open. He stood and quickly moved the broom away from the door; he would let them enter the house then deal with them once they got inside. He grabbed a short blade and sheathed it then picked up a throwing knife for each hand. He slinked to a shadowy corner and waited for the unlucky fools to enter.
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S’resh moved carefully in a crouch to the only door in the room and cracked it open enough to peek through. He heard the distinct rattling sounds of a lock pick working a door; the skilled assassin slipped into the living room and crouched next to a staircase. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw the faint outline a shadowy figure crouched near the front door, hello Neron.
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Finally the lock gave up and clicked, half a second later the handle was turned and the door pushed gently open. Neron counted three assassins, all wore Dark Brotherhood armor, all had short blades drawn, none saw him. They split up; Dalamus went to where Neron’s bedroll was, saw that it was empty and took a step to move on but stopped. Neron could almost see the realization hit the assassin like a war hammer, the bedroll was empty. The assassin immediately crouched down and swiveled his head from side to side inspecting every shadow.
A second of the three assassins, Bradas, went to the left upon entering. Tidril went to the right and headed straight for Neron but stopped and turned when he saw Dalamus crouch and scan, he did the same.

Now or never Neron, move! The former assassin commanded himself. He lunged out of the shadow and wrapped his arm around Tidril’s neck, the assassin gave a yelp of surprise—it was the last sound he would ever make. With a powerful twist and a snap of bones the body went limp. Neron let it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. One of the throwing knives lodged itself into the neck of Bradas. He choked and gurgled as the resulting collection of blood compressed his trachea, blocking the flow of blood to the brain and the passage of air into and out of the lungs. Neron let him writhe on the floor, he could mop it later.

Dalamus was now standing, alert, and ready for a fight. Neron threw the last knife and unsheathed his short blade as he sprinted toward the black clad assassin. The knife slammed into the forearm of the Dark Brotherhood member. His nerves barely had time to deliver the news to his brain before Neron was on him. Dalamus stabbed, Neron parried and slashed a deep gash along his jaw line. A second slash cut his thigh and the final blow was a short blade sheathed into his chest. Neron removed it and relaxed, in less than seven seconds it was all over.

Madali came cautiously down the stairs, “Neron? What happened?” Her voice wavered.

Neron looked up at his sister, her hair disheveled from sleeping, “It’s ok, they attacked but they’re all dead now, it’s all…”

Neron saw a shadow move behind his sister, “Madali! Move!” He yelled as he ran towards her, but it was too late a powerful Khajiit grabbed her hair and put a short blade to her neck.

“One more step and I slit her throat,” he purred, “do me a favor, throw that pathetic sword down.”

Neron dropped it and glared daggers at the assassin.

“I must say,” said S’resh, “I was impressed with the way you handled those foolish Dark Brotherhood members. It is rare to see an assassin with such skill.”

“I’m not an assassin anymore,” said Neron coldly.

“Pity, such a waste of talent.”

“Let my sister go and I might consider letting you live.”

S’resh sighed, “that I cannot do, Dranas is paying me triple my usual fee for this job and he wanted you to see your sister die, so…” The Khajiit slit the throat of his hostage and let her fall to the floor gasping for air but getting only blood.

“NOOOO!” Cried Neron running to her.

S’resh stabbed at the Dark Elf but Neron stepped to the side and grabbed the Khajiit’s wrist. He twisted and planted his knee into the assassin’s gut. S’resh doubled over and Neron connected with another knee to the face. He smashed his fist into the face of the murderer. S’resh reeled—it felt like a piece of iron.

The assassin kicked wildly and connected sending Neron back against the wall. He stood, lunged, and stabbed. Neron dodged to the left as the blade was pushed deep into the wall. The Dark Elf tackled the Khajiit and started pounding any part he could see. S’resh kicked Neron off into the reading chair; it toppled spilling the former assassin onto the floor. Both combatants rose slowly, glaring with piercing, unflinching eyes, both charged.

A flurry of punches, blows, kicks, and throws were exchanged. Furniture violently splintered, a glass display case was shattered, both warriors were cut, bleeding, bruised, and tired. Neron fought for his sister, for vengeance, with a rage no mortal being had seen before. Another blow and Neron fell, rolling to dodge the Khajiit’s foot. He palmed a shard of glass as he stood. S’resh threw another punch; Neron dodged and planted the glass into the Khajiit’s bicep.

The assassin howled and stumbled back, tripping over pieces of the table. Neron was on him and threw a wild swing but connected only with floorboards. The Khajiit rolled and threw Neron into a wall knocking pictures loose and crashing to the floor. S’resh took the opportunity to stand shakily and hobble out of the house, he would heal and come back another night, he was in no hurry and was no match for the rage of the former assassin.

Neron let him go; the time for fighting was over. He stood and walked to where Madali’s body was. Staring in disbelief, his knees buckled and he sank to the floor. Gingerly he picked her up and held her close not wanting to ever let go. With her blood running down his arms and onto his hands he vowed to hunt and kill Dranas and the foolish Khajiit, even if it meant killing every Dark Brotherhood assassin that stood in his way. He vowed to his sister, to himself, and to whatever god was listening.

Neron stood with confidence; he sheathed his own blade and took one of Madali’s knives. He lifted his sister and carried her out of the house to their parent’s ancestral tomb. Four stone sarcophagi stood proudly in a line, two were already occupied. Neron laid her body in the stone bed and pushed the heavy slab over it. He sealed it with an incantation and stood silently with tears forming at the corners of his eyes. The older brother put his hands on the sarcophagus of his younger sister and wept.

“Forgive me for what I am about to do,” he said when finally his eyes were dry. Neron, the master assassin, walked resolutely from the tomb—he had more killing to do.