Syn, How a boy became an assasin because of his father's deeds... Options

[Lythyum]

The Dunmer sat in the far corner of the bar, his back facing the wall. His face was obscured by his hood, hidden in shadow. He took a slow sip of his drink, the red eyes hopping from person to person, eying every single one of them with distrust. He had good reasons not to trust anybody these days. It hadn't always been like this, though. He had always felt relaxed in this bar; not more than a year ago he even met up with his friends here, playing games and drinking into the early hours of the morning.
All those friends were dead now, so it didn't matter. All that mattered was the man he had been told to meet at this bar and deliver the message. It was a rather important message- or rather an object.
A mask.
By now, every single inhabitant of the Imperial City knew that mask all too well. That wasn't very surprising, considering that it was on a 'wanted'-poster that you could see on almost every wall in the city nowadays.
The reason he was anxious is that he had also been told that there was an assassin hell-bent on finding him, taking the mask and killing him if possible. Why the assassin wanted it so much the man didn't know, but he didn't really care. He just wanted to get rid of the mask now. He wasn't afraid of the assassin either; the Dunmer was sure he could defeat him (or her), but that would attract unwanted attention, which was the very thing he tried to avoid.
So he sat there, and gulped down a bit of his drink every once and a while, waiting.
The Dunmer had never really been at ease, except during his early youth. There were almost always problems and trouble- sometimes life-threatening- lurking around the corner, but he had managed to evade most of them so far... but not all. Then again, everybody has their own troubles, so he didn't feel very unlucky, especially considering his choice of career and the course his live had taken him. Places where no sane man would venture... but he had been forced to go there, so he still considered himself sane in every aspect. Perhaps it was a little odd that he never felt regret or sorrow over his deeds, how cruel or disgusting they may be. He shoved the thoughts aside and took another sip of his drink; by now the glass was nearly empty and his contact hadn't arrived yet.
This unsettled him a bit, but nonetheless the Dunmer decided to wait.
He couldn't help it; his thoughts kept going back to his memories of his life, especially those of his youth. Those were the only happy memories he had, and he cradled them in his mind like a newborn baby- or perhaps rather an old friend. The first thing he could remember was looking at the face of his father, possibly with flames of a fire in the hearth somewhere in the background. It was warm and cozy, he had felt safe and secure. Happy, too.

But to tell this story as a whole, we'll have to go back all the way to where it started: birth.