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.

Wow.. This is really good Radont, really very nice written long and good with nice details to...

Goodjob!

Thanks for the replies Here's part 2...

Part II: Creeping Shadows

Neron appeared in The Imperial City accompanied by a brilliant blue light. He stayed crouched for a few minutes, listening and watching for any guards that may have noted his entrance into this dark ally. His red elven eyes noticed various patrons of the taverns meandering down the roads but they paid him no mind, he was shrouded in shadow, invisible to all but the most determined trackers and there were none of those looking for him tonight. The twin moons were full but thick clouds drifted through the night sky obscuring the moons and pulling the curtain on their light.

Keeping his back to the wall, Neron quickly moved in a crouch to the edge of the brick tavern he had teleported next to. He peered around the corner at the wall surrounding the Emperors castle; the guards were right where he wanted them. He crept up next to the wall, keeping his gaze fixed on the guards high above him. Leaping quietly up onto the tavern he immediately pressed his back to the wall and waited. If his timing was right there would be a guard change soon leaving him a small window of time to get inside the wall unseen. He was right, barely audible footsteps above him signified that fresh eyes, ears, and bows would replace the weary ones.

Neron turned and faced the wall. From his crouched position he shot straight up, grabbing the lip of the wall with his fingertips. It was an impossible leap for an average person, but this was no average person, it was Neron: Master Assassin and no mere wall would stop him from completing his mission. His strong biceps threatened to rip the tight fabric of his armor as he pulled himself up to get a better view of the guards. There were five of them, all had wooden bows in hand and full quivers on their backs. They wore light armor with swords strapped to their sides. As they gossiped among themselves about the latest rumors Neron took the opportunity to heave himself over the lip of the wall and dart swiftly across to the other side.

He wasted no time hopping over the battlements and, turning in mid-air, grabbed the lip of the inside wall. The black-clad assassin hung for a moment listening intently for any alerts—apart from the guards all was silent. Neron let go of the wall and dropped lightly onto the shingled roof of the log recruiting building like a silent, deadly, black raindrop. Moving quickly, he swung over the edge of the squat building and snaked his way to the wall of the castle. The stealthy intruder pressed against the wall as much as he cold as two heavily armored guards clanked passed none the wiser to his presence and the threat to their leader.

The front doors would be locked so he would need to find an alternate entry point. Not that a locked door would keep him out, but the front doors of the Emperors castle would be well guarded and the torches around it would make it impossible to get in unseen. On the front door his silent lock picks would serve as much purpose as a noisy battering ram. Neron scanned the wall and selected a small window about 10 feet up to make his entry. Creeping down the side of the wall glancing in every direction, he carefully made his way along the cold stone wall to the window.

It was another easy leap up to the window for the assassin. He pulled himself nimbly through the small opening and sat with his legs hanging outside and the rest of him inside looking at a long slightly curving torch lit hallway. It was a ten foot drop to the stone floor but Neron wasn’t planning on walking down with the guards. Not five feet above him were brown wooden beams spanning the hallway. They were spaced about seven feet apart and would make an excellent road for a highly trained and very acrobatic assassin.

Neron pulled his feet in through the window and pushed off the wall at an angle. He grabbed a beam and swung himself onto it without a sound. He now sat in a crouch high above the floor looking down from the shadows like a stone gargoyle. He leaped form beam to beam down the hallway—a deadly shadow closing in on its prey.


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Dragis was new enough to report every out of place sound and shadow in the Emperors castle. The rest of the soldiers assigned to guard the seat of power in Tamriel were veterans and had long since given up on actually seeing combat inside the castle. Not that they wanted to see combat, but anything was better than walking through empty corridors looking at the same stone walls day after day.

Dragis had seen a shadow moving high up in the west hall and was eager to report his discovery.
“Sir!” He said with enthusiasm to his commanding officer as he burst through the door.

What is it this time? General Darius asked himself with a sigh.

“Yes, recruit? What do you have?” Darius asked in a bored tone.

“I think we have an intruder,” Dragis explained excitedly, “in the west hall up in the beams.”

“Well recruit, if you find this intruder bring him here to me and I’ll move you up a rank to Spearman.”

As Darius leaned back in his chair he thought about posting guards outside the Emperors chamber but pushed the thought from of his mind. There is no intruder here, no one is THAT good.

Dragis saluted and exited. He was excited to prove his worth to the legion and have a chance to move to Spearman. It was still a long way off from Knight Errand but it was a start, he would be a knight someday.


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Neron was crouched on the last wooden beam of the hallway listening intently for any sign of a passing patrol before he alighted from the beam down to the floor. He was about to drop down when he heard a lone set of footsteps approaching. Moving to the end of the beam he looked down from his shadowy perch and watched as a guard moved through the hallway with a purpose. To Nerons surprise the guard started searching and scanning the beams that made up his highway through the hall. He wasn’t worried about being seen; the beam he balanced on was flush with the wall at the end of the long hallway and had ample shadows to hide in. The guard moved down the curved hallway inspecting each beam as he passed it, holding up his torch to cast more light towards the ceiling.

As soon as the guard was out of view Neron swung from the beam and landed softly in a crouch. A staircase leading up veered off to his right and the hall continued straight though with a shorter ceiling and no beams to hide in. Neron remembered the stairs from his tour with Dragis earlier and sprinted up them invisibly sticking to the shadows. The stars stopped at a hallway stretching to his left and right. The hallway ended in a library to the right and down the hallway to the left was a wooden door with a rounded top. The door would take him to the reception room of the Emperors chambers. Neron sprinted down the hallway to his left towards the door.

Quickly turning the doorknob and pushing it open he found himself in a medium sized room with a window letting in a square beam of light from the full twin moons now out of the cover of the clouds. The gray stone floor was bare except for a colorful rug in the center of the square room. The light from the moons illuminated a section of the rug and cast soft gray light on the walls leaving the corners of the room draped in shadow and mystery. He immediately crouched down after shutting the door and surveyed the room as his eyes adjusted to the light. His gaze was drawn to the door in the opposite wall 20 feet away, the target was on the other side, sleeping. Sweeping his eyes across the rest of the room, he noticed an unusual shadow in the corner.

Is that…?

Before he could finish his thought the shadow leapt out of the corner, pouncing on him, then flipped up and turned to face Neron bringing a short iron sword down on him. Rolling to doge the strike, he caught a glimpse of the assailant; it was a Dark Brotherhood assassin. Neron jumped up just in time to parry a swinging overhead blow from the assassin and pushed him back. He ran forward, stabbing at the black clad Dark Brotherhood member but he wasn’t fast enough. The assassin easily stepped aside as he swung his blade back across his body. Neron was ready; rolling forward the swing went over his body, this time he jumped up and charged the assailant. As the assassin stabbed at Neron he jumped, flipping over his enemy’s head he grabbed the cloth helm and pulled it off as he landed.

Turning to face the threat he was shocked to see his apprentice standing before him.

“Valyas? What are you doing here?”

She answered by sprinting towards him, sword ready. Neron blocked the overhead swing pushing her back again then ran forward for a strike of his own. Swinging diagonally from his right, the tip of the short blade managed to tear the fabric of her jet-black armor causing her to stumble backwards in an attempt to avoid the quick swing. She stabbed at him desperately as she was backing up; using this to his advantage, Neron swung the sword under hers and hit it with enough force to knock it out of her shaking hands, forcing her into a corner.

There was a wall directly behind her now and one three feet to her right. Neron was charging, sword up to deliver the death strike. Jumping straight up, she put her foot on the wall behind her and pushed off, over Neron’s head, towards the wall to her right. She planted her foot on the wall and pushed off again, turning to face Neron’s back. While in the air she pulled a dagger out of a sheath strapped to her thigh. Coming down behind Neron she planted the dagger into his right shoulder, purposefully missing his lung by only half an inch.

Neron crashed into the stone wall and slumped down, grabbing his shoulder as he turned and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. He was breathing heavily beneath the cloth helm as he gathered his thoughts, holding the short sword in his left hand. The door opposite him opened and out stepped an old, graying man. It was Uriel Septim, his target and Emperor of Tamriel. He was wearing Imperials steel armor and had an iron sword sheathed on his side.

The Emperor clasped Valyas on the shoulder “Well done, Valyas”.

“Thank you, my lord.” She said, not taking her eyes off Neron.

Valyas walked closer to Neron and bent down to look him in the eyes. She pulled his helm off and tossed it aside, his face was expressionless.

“I am part of ‘The Blades’, Neron, an Imperial spy in Vvardenfell. We are the eyes and ears of the Emperor in foreign provinces.”

Valyas kept talking but Neron blocked out her voice, she betrayed him and he would have to kill her, apprentice or not. Rage was building up inside him; starting in his gut and burning up through his chest and out to his arms. He tightened his grip on his blade and clenched his teeth.

Neron whispered the only spell he knew, Valyas heard it but by the time it registered in her mind it was too late. Neron’s vision went red; time seemed to slow down to a crawl as he jumped up. Just the exertion form jumping made him weak as blood continued to flow unabated from his shoulder. He had muttered a speed spell, one he kept memorized for times when he needed to make a fast exit. The only exit in the room was the window, sprinting towards it he saw Valyas move to block the window but she wasn’t fast enough. Neron was out and falling before she took two steps.

The assassin landed hard on his feet and rolled to absorb the blow from the fall. He didn’t have time to think, alarms were raised now and a large mass of angered and armed guards would soon be out looking for him. With the effects of the speed spell still flowing through him, Neron sprinted to the recruiting hut and leapt on top in a single bound. From there he managed to catch the ledge of the outer wall and hoist himself up. There were guards waiting for him with drawn bows, they fired, he rolled out of the way and threw himself over the ledge landing with a crash on the roof of the tavern. Rolling off the roof he stumbled through the alley and out onto a wide street.

His vision was blurring now and his steps were weak but he trudged on through the city with the commotion of the hunt behind him. Guards were running out from the gate in the wall now and would find him quickly. Neron cursed to himself for not bringing any healing potions. He noticed a round steel door in the road and bent down to open it. It was heavy and took all of his strength to heave the door open. There was a ladder leading into the canal works of the city. Neron descended the latter into darkness, closing the door behind him.

Part III: New Motives

Neron made his way through the darkness of the Cyrodiil sewers heading in what he guessed was a southern direction towards the outer wall of the city. He moved slowly and carefully along a narrow stone walkway always keeping his hand on the damp wall as a guide—a dip in the brown sewer water would only make his shoulder wound worse. The assassin stopped after stumbling upon a ladder and decided he had walked far enough. Ascending the latter was the easy part, pushing the solid steel door open above him strained what was left of his strength. After several attempts he managed to heave the door open and hoist himself out onto the street. Neron lay on the stone road for a few seconds, his shoulder throbbing with each beat of his heart. When he finally resolved to get up and continue he saw, much to his amazement, a healers shop that remained open through the night.

The dark elf stumbled into the establishment and collapsed onto the carpeted reception room floor. A graying Imperial ambled out of a back room to investigate the sound. Seeing Neron on the floor bleeding, the healer quickly moved to his side to help the assassin to his feet and usher him to a room with a bed.

“Looks like you’ve had a little trouble there, son,” said the Imperial as he helped Neron onto a bed.

Nerons words were slurred and his sentences fragmented. “Valyas… she… with the sword… no money…”

“Heh, woman, never know what they’ll do next. Just lay still son, I’ll have you healed in no time.” The Imperial uttered a healing spell and the effects went to work on Neron’s shoulder, closing up the wound and repairing the damage inside within seconds. The assassin’s eyes focused for the first time in hours as he gazed up at the old healer. His blue eyes had kindness in them and the lines around them showed that he had laughed a lot during his life. Laughter, it seems, is never far from someone noble—someone with honor. They wear their laugh lines as a badge, a symbol of a well-lived life.

“Don’t worry about payment, the first one is free. My name is Julius and, obviously, I am a healer.”

“My name is Neron,” why did I tell him my name? The assassin thought, Julius seemed to exude an air of trustworthiness that was easy to get caught in. He is an Imperial, he can’t be trusted, right? Are not all Imperials a plague on this land? Don’t they all secretly hate us?

The confused look on Neron’s face gave him away. “You’re not used to being around Imperials? From your accent I’d venture a guess that you aren’t from Cyrodiil.” Julius stated.

Neron was surprised at his intuitiveness, “Not kind Imperials, no. I live…” Neron caught himself and also gave away his profession.

“An assassin?” Julius asked.

“How did you…” Neron started.

Julius finished his sentence, “Know?” He chuckled. “Son, you might as well hold up a sign. You’re wearing Dark Brotherhood armor, you seemed concerned that you told me you’re name and you don’t want to say where you live.” Julius seemed amused at his own findings and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He looked more like a wise sage than an old Imperial healer. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I think you should get out of that business though, use your talent for good instead of for money and fame. I probably won’t sway you, I’m just an old rambling man, but at least it will give you something to think about on your way home.” Julius said with a warm smile that only someone that had lived a good life can give.

“I will think about that, thank you for your help.” Neron said, truthfully. “I think it’s time I went on my way.”

Neron stood, renewed by the healing spell, and made his way to the door followed by Julius. “Stay clear of crazy woman now,” Julius said as Neron headed for the door.

The assassin grunted, “I wish it was that easy.”

Neron opened the door and walked out into the night. The city was quiet except for the occasional dog, cat, or drunk wandering the street. The guarded gate leading out of the city posed a problem, Neron was a wanted man now and a dispatch had certainly reached these guards. He found a passing drunk and cornered him.

“Excuse me, good sir, would you be willing to do me a favor?” Neron asked

“Eh? Flavor? I don’t like those new drinks, no sir, give me ale or give me death, that’s what I say,” said the inebriated citizen. He seemed to be a somewhat wealthy Breton with expensive clothes that smelled of tavern smoke and cheap ale, a strange combination for someone seemingly well off.

Neron tried a new tactic, “I will trade you the armor I’m wearing,” He said holding his hands out to let the drunk get a look at the Dark Brotherhood cloth, “for your clothes and that ale you’re carrying.” The Breton tried to look intently at the armor as if it would do a trick any moment now. The drunk citizen blinked and shook his head to clear his vision. The Breton then started howling with laughter, his eyes watered and he put a hand on Neron’s shoulder to steady himself. His laughing stopped as abruptly as it had started.

“Sure, sure, I’ll trade you. In my day, back when I was young like you, I collected rocks; you don’t have any rocks do you?”

Neron shook his head.

“Pity…” The drunk mumbled incoherently.

Neron traded clothes with the Breton and bid him farewell. He could hear him laughing and rambling as he approached the gate leading out of the city. Neron took a long drink of ale and spilled some on his clothes. He walked in unsure, jerky motions towards the guards, tripping a few times and nearly running into a building. It was all an act, but it worked, the guards stopped him as he neared the gate.

“Whoa there citizen, what’s your business here?” The guard said slowly to the drunken Dark Elf.

Neron gave a toothy, drunk grin, “I was jus’ goin’ out huntin’ sirs.” He held up his short blade and toasting the guards with his bottle of ale before taking another drink. “I can hunt with the best of ‘em for sure. I can out-hunt YOU even.” He said, stabbing a shaky finger at the guard. “I can prove it; I’ll go right now an’ catch me the biggest nix hound you’ve never seen.” Neron threw his arms out to his sides to show how big the nix hound would be, he stumbled back with the gesture to convince the guards.

“Fine, you go show us citizen. Move Along.”

As he stumbled through the open gate he continued his act, “Uriel Spetim hisself will give me a medal. Don’t go stealin’ it now.”

Neron moved in a drunken stupor until he was out of view of the guards, he was pleased with his performance and smiled to himself as he walked along the road waiting for a caravan to pass. An hour later, as the first rays of sunshine marked the beginning of a new day, he was picked up by another Dark Elf heading to Morrowind. Once he arrived he found a boat going back to Vvardenfell.

During the ride to his home island he mused on what Julius had said. Maybe he should settle down, give up the assassin business. If an Imperial in Cyrodiil could show kindness to a wounded Dark Elf assassin then Neron could do anything, including live an honest life. Maybe he could even get married, slow down, Neron, one step at a time. Valyas would be the last person he killed, with that traitor’s death he would give up his career, however lucrative it may be. No, I will hunt assassins, I will put fear into the hearts of the fearless. Before he got to that he had other business to attend to, Dranas would want to know what happened with the mission. He wouldn’t be happy.

Neron stepped off the boat onto his native land, Imperial guards were patrolling the area but he didn’t mind as much now. The Dark Elf went immediately to Seyda Neen to change his clothes and wash the smell of ale off his body. With a fresh set of clothes hanging from his powerful frame and a short blade sheathed at his side, Neron made his way to the outskirts of Pelagiad, an Imperial city complete with a fort for the Legion. Dranas had his base of operations there and would be expecting Neron to show up—he had spies that reported the activities of his assassins.

Neron didn’t bother knocking on the door; he swung it open and stepped inside. Immediately he sensed a hostile atmosphere, a feeling he usually only got on missions. He went on alert as a guard escorted him into a back room where Dranas was sitting behind a desk waiting for him. Neron sat across from his Dark Elf Employer.

“Neron.” He said in cold greeting.

The Assassin became more uneasy, “Look Dranas, it’s not my fault. They knew I was coming before I even got there. Valyas is a Blade, she works for the Emperor.”

Dranas waved his hand to cut him off. “I don’t care who she is or who she works for. Your assignment was to eliminate Uriel Septim and you failed, no one fails me and lives, Neron, not even my best assassin.”

At the conclusion of his threat the door behind Neron opened and six Dark Brotherhood assassins spilled into the room with blades drawn. They stood behind the blue-gray skinned Dark Elf waiting for orders.

Nerons eyes narrowed, “Don’t do something you’ll regret, Dranas.” He said with enough venom to kill a city.

“You’re a good assassin, Neron, but there will be more like you. Take him.” He commanded.

Neron wouldn’t go easily; he jumped up onto the desk in front of him and pushed off, flipping backwards over the group of assassins. In mid-jump he unsheathed his short sword in one quick motion. Landing behind the group he grabbed the nearest black clad lackey and put the blade to his throat. Neron backed closer to the open door, nobody moved.

“Drop it,” he commanded his hostage. The Dark Brotherhood assassin obliged and dropped his blade to the floor. Neron thought about leaving them and running through the door but decided to make an example out of the situation, an example Dranas wouldn’t soon forget.

The master assassin pushed his hostage forward towards the group as a diversion. It worked; two of the six assassins caught their comrade. Neron took the opportunity to sheath his short blade deep into the chest of the nearest assassin. He cried out in pain before slumping to the ground in a pool of blood. Before the body had hit the ground Neron had removed the head of another. Two down, four to go. By now the assassins had regrouped, the hostage scooped up his blade and swung powerfully at Neron. He was nimble enough to dodge the attack and smash the hilt of his blade into the face of the Dark Brotherhood member. The assassin grunted and reeled, giving Neron enough time to deal with another attacker.

A couple parried swings later and another of Dranas assassins was lying in a pool of his own blood. Neron leapt onto the desk and jumped over the swing of another enemy. He landed behind the black clad citizen and put his arm around the cloth encased neck. With a powerful jerk and a satisfying snap of bones the assassin went limp. The body fell to the ground as Neron slashed at one of the last two assassins. The strike cut his chest deeply and splattered blood on the walls but didn’t kill the lackey. Nerons next strike removed the arm holding the short blade, the assassin screamed. The Dark Elf moved in and put his short blade through the chest of the Dark Brotherhood member, ending his misery. The last assassin had the sense to flee the room; he was not going to end up like the rest of his comrades at the hands of this… this god.

Neron let him go, turning his attention to the unarmed Dranas. He strode up to the shaking Dark Elf and grabbed him by the neck.

“So this is it, then? It’s my time is it?” Asked the frightened employer.

Neron smiled wickedly and put his blade to the neck of his former boss, “No…”

Dranas breathed a sigh of relief—prematurely.

“Not yet, I will kill you someday, but not today, and not tomorrow. You will live in fear for a while; I will be a constant shadow looming out on the horizon. Every morning when you wake up you will wonder if today is the day. Every night you will fear the shadows that were so innocent to you yesterday.” Neron released his grip and sheathed his sword.

Dranas swallowed hard and rubbed his neck as the assassin left the room. Arrogant fool. Dranas had work to do; Neron would pay with what he valued most.

Neron knew what Dranas would do next. I have to get to her, I have to warn her, Neron commanded himself.

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.

Ah yet another fan fiction, you've got alot of stuff there, very good content and good spacing. Interesting, approach I'd like to see how this goes. Nice so far.
*Applause*

Oh, this is really good and well-detailed and very exciting! I really feel for the characters, and the way you write the assassin/stealth scenes is excellant! Please keep up the good work, you are definitely a good writer!

It took me a while to get round to reading it, but I'm glad I did. Can't wait for the next update.

The stealth scene in the Emperor's castle was excellent. I always love things like that. I am Looking forward to the next update

Author's Note: This is the last chapter of the story, I hope you've had as much fun reading it as I have writing it.

Neron – Part V: A New Blade

S’resh trudged through the night, his clawed hand clasped over the wound on his arm. Blood ran freely from the cut, turning his yellow fur into a sticky red mess. The stumbling Khajiit, fangs bared and eyes wild with rage, got nervous glances from anyone that set eyes on the big cat.

“To Balmora,” he growled when finally he had reached the Caldera mages guild.

“Y—yes, right away sir,” the guild guide said to the bloody Khajiit.

S’resh hated teleporting. His head spun, stomach turned, and legs nearly buckled. Arriving in the Balmora mages guild with a flash, he stepped off the platform and headed for the door, ignoring the whispers and stares from the patrons. He couldn’t blame them, it wasn’t every day that a bleeding, hobbling Khajiit meandered through, bumping into tables and knocking over chairs. One brave Imperial offered to help the struggling cat but got only an evil stare and low growl for his troubles.

S’resh limped down the cobblestone streets and climbed the stairs with some difficulty to the silt strider. He dropped a few coins into the open hand of the Dark Elf operator and clambered onto the beetle-like transport. They moved quickly through the Vvardenfell night and reached Seyda Neen just as the sun began its faithful ascent through the sky.

The Khajiit stepped gingerly off the transport and made his way over hills, between boulders, and around trees to Pelagiad. Of all the places to have a base of operations, S’resh muttered to himself as he trudged along. The small settlement of Pelagiad lacked any means of fast travel, whether it be a silt strider port or a mages guild. Unless a traveling merchant took pity on you the only way to the Imperial town was on foot.

Dranas' house was on the outskirts, making it easy to avoid Imperial patrols in the city. Not that he was worried about being caught and questioned; he just didn’t feel like killing Imperials today. One image was burned into his mind; one man consumed his every thought.

Neron.

The name made his wound throb as if it were begging for vengeance. The Khajiit felt the deep gash and growled—soon. The ground would drink the blood of this menace and the birds would feast on his flesh. The only beings to mourn the loss of this pathetic assassin would be the animals that arrived at the feast too late.

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Dranas sat behind a short wooden table trying to occupy his mind with a book while waiting anxiously for his Dark Brotherhood assassins to return and deliver good news. A false sense of security permeated his every fiber as the handle on the front door twisted. Arrogant fools, they don’t even knock. Don’t they know who I am? S’resh stepped through the new opening, Dranas jumped, toppling his chair.

“You… you’re…”

Before the Dark Elf could force his thoughts into a coherent statement the cat leapt over the table and wrapped a large clawed hand around his neck. Dranas felt the floor leave his feet as a powerful arm lifted him. S’resh stared with icy cat-eyes before speaking.

“I said no other assassins,” The words came out slowly and deliberately with a disturbing calmness.

“Ah, yes, well, you know, just some insurance for me. You’re alive and,” Dranas glanced at the bleeding arm wound, “fairly well.”

S’resh grunted and released his grip, “So is Neron.”

Dranas' knees went weak, his mind was racing, and his heart quickened its pace. Nervous sweat beads formed on his brow: he needed a place to sit. The elf shakily righted the toppled chair on the third try and sat heavily, staring into oblivion. He had to get out of this house, out of this town. The safest place would be in the Dark Brotherhood base; Neron wouldn’t take on the entire Brotherhood—he couldn’t, he was one man. Dranas' attempts to reassure himself failed.

“I have to leave; I have to get out of here immediately.” The Dark Elf was talking fast now as he ran in a panic around the house gathering his traveling gear. “Take whatever you need from here. Weapons are downstairs, healing potions are in that cupboard over there, find Neron and kill him.” He kicked over a chair as he ran by the table, “I’ll pay you double what I was paying you before. He has a house in Seyda Neen, if he’s not there then just wait at his sister’s house, he’ll return eventually.”

S’resh nodded. By now he would have hunted and killed Neron for free.

“Where can I find you to collect my money?”

Dranas clasped a black cloak around his neck and strapped a steel longsword to his side, more for looks than for any practical use.

“I’ll be in the Dark Brotherhood base, under the city of Mournhold.”

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Like most merchants in Vvardenfell, and indeed in all of Tamriel, Andrel had living quarters above his shop. It wasn’t much, just a small door-less room with a squat bed. At the foot of the bed was a locked chest full of coins he hadn’t taken to the bank yet. Against the wall stood a proud dresser, its drawers held expensive clothes and mildly magical amulets. Next to that was an armor closet, tightly locked and rarely opened.

The Nord slept lightly, slipping in and out of pleasant dreams always balancing on the edge of consciousness. It was a skill he needed as a high profile merchant. If thieves attempted to break into his shop, which they did on more than one occasion, he would wake as they rattled the lock with their fancy picks. After that it was a simple matter of grabbing his hand axe and meeting the intruder at the front door.

Andrel woke in dead silence.

He listened. No locks rattled, no feet padded through his shop, no potion bottles clinked nosily as they were shoved into bags. You’re getting old Andrel, can’t even sleep through the night.

The merchant sat up and swung his bare feet over the edge of the small bed. He rubbed his face with both hands before standing and pulling on a pair of brown pants and a white cotton shirt. Stretching and yawning, the Nord sat down to slip on his boots; a short walk and some fresh air would put him back to sleep in no time. Andrel stood and instinctively reached for the hand axe he kept on the dresser. A pause; he withdrew his hand, walked over the creaking floorboards, down the stairs, and out the front door.

The night air was chilly but the Nord was resistant to cold by nature and paid it no mind. Torches could be seen bobbing through the city as Imperial patrols made their rounds. Beetles scraped across the ground in search of food and shelter, wolves howled in the distance. Andrel turned and nodded to a passing guard as he made his way down the cobblestone street. He looked into the sky; the twin moons were bright, full, and marched through the night sky like well disciplined soldiers.

His gaze dropped to the city again, a silhouetted figure emerged from a house a block ahead, not bothering to close the front door. It wasn’t menacing or even large, it didn’t slip into darkness or dart down an alley. Andrel strained his eyes to see the figure clearly; it was a man, carrying something… a body. Long hair hung from the corpse’s head. A woman’s body! The Nord’s blood turned to ice when he realized the figure had come from Madali’s house.

A thousand thoughts all fought for control of his mind but he heard only one—follow him. He pushed away the urge to return home and grab his hand axe; somehow this figure didn’t seem like a threat. The man’s shoulders were slumped; his head looked only forward, he didn’t have the crazed paranoia of a murderer. His steps were slow, filled with great sadness, not guilt. No, Andrel thought, this man didn’t do it.

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Neron exited the tomb with a determined gait and glanced briefly at the Nord with cold, calculating eyes before moving on.

Andrel spoke up, “I wonder, what crime could a person have committed that they were laid to rest so hastily without the benefit of a memorial?”

The Dark Elf ignored the question and continued; he didn’t have time for the rhetoric of this old man. Andrel stepped in front of Neron expecting an answer. The former assassin glared at the obstructive individual in front of him.

“Do you wish to join her Nord? Have you lived the life you dreamed of as a child and are now ready to join your long forgotten ancestors? If you fear not death and what awaits you beyond the grave then I will wrap my blade with your entrails and think nothing of it, but if you value this cursed life then stand aside and leave me to my wanderings. My business does not concern you.”

Neron stepped forward, Andrel moved aside.

“It does concern me,” The merchant said as Neron walked into the fleeting night; “if it was Madali you laid in the tomb.”

Neron stopped; he stared at the ground. Of course, you are foolish to think you’re the only one affected by her death.

“She was my sister,” he turned to face the Nord, “she was killed because of me, because I couldn’t just walk away. The cowards that did this will feel the swift and deadly wrath of my blade.”

Andrel stood silently, staring at Neron like a wise sage appraising a student. “By your leave I would enter the tomb and gaze upon her grave.”

“Do what you must. I have made my vows and will not return until I have fulfilled them.”

Andrel inclined his head and walked solemnly to the ancestral tomb. He paused at the opening, wishing, begging, pleading that this was all just a dream. The longer you wait the farther away her killer gets. The merchant stepped into the torch lit hallway; he could see the cavernous space with three occupied sarcophagi. With uncertain steps he walked down the cold path to the freshly sealed tomb. He ran his hand along the top as he circled it.

“Madali…” It was all he could get out before his throat tightened and tears began to wet his cheeks. He remembered her addictive smile, her electric personality. Always overflowing with energy and life, never hesitating to spread her limitless supply of happiness.

The strong Nord’s hand balled into a tight fist, teeth clenched. “They will pay with their blood, Madali, you will be avenged.”

Andrel burst from the tomb with fire in his eyes, “I’m going with you,” he said to a waiting Neron.

“Can you fight?” Neron asked pointedly.

“I can hold my own,” was the humble reply.

“Weapons and armor?”

“At my house, just inside the city.”

“Let’s go,” Neron turned and walked in silence to Caldera.

“Here it is,” Andrel said when finally they had reached his home.

Neron looked up; a green plant was drawn on a weathered sign hanging above the door. Underneath the plant, painted in black letters, was the word ‘herbs’.

Great, Neron thought, now I’ll have a clumsy merchant getting in the way.

“I’ll just be a moment,” the Nord said.

Neron waited impatiently for several moments. He was going to give up on the merchant and walk away when the doorknob rattled and turned. Neron’s mouth dropped open. Andrel had gone inside a merchant and exited a warrior.

A chainmail shirt covered his barrel chest and wrapped his thick arms in clinking steel. Over the chainmail he wore a hardened leather cuirass. His wrists bore the weight of iron bracers and on his head rested an open faced steel helm. Around his waist was clasped a leather belt that held a hand axe and a sheathed steel longsword. A small loop on the back of the cuirass supported a great battleaxe and in the grip of his large powerful hands was a giant claymore that reflected the torchlight. Steel greaves encased his legs and iron boots sheltered his feet. The Nord’s eyes burned with a fierceness that would wither all but the most determined opponents.

Neron gathered up his jaw to speak. “Very impressive, Nord. Unfortunately you’ll have to do more than just impress the Dark Brotherhood if you want to live through this.”

Andrel found it amusing that he was getting battle tips from a small elf, “I may be an old merchant but I am still a Nord, we live for battle and never sleep more than two strides from instruments of war—lead on,” he said with a smile.

The Dark Elf headed towards the mages guild but stopped and looked back. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Andrel,” the merchant said as he followed Neron.

“I’m…”

“Neron?” Andrel asked. The baffled look spreading over the former assassins face told the story. “Your sister talked about you on occasion.”

Neron nodded and pondered silently before moving on.

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The Dark Brotherhood base was buzzing with activity, Dranas had arrived and delivered the news—Neron was coming. New assassins eagerly stocked weapons while more seasoned killers sat emotionlessly waiting for their prey. Guards were doubled or tripled around entrances and patrols went from a single assassin to two. Gravis, the Dark Brotherhood leader, took no chances this time, Neron would be killed and his threat to the organization ended.

Dranas sat nervously in Gravis' chambers.

“More patrols, you need to send out more patrols.” Dranas was almost begging the leader.

“Don’t try to tell me how to run my organization, elf.” The Imperial retorted. “Eight of my assassins are dead because of you. Just sit there and be silent, this is the safest place in all of Tamriel for someone such as you.”

Dranas scowled but remained silent. He could run this place better than this fool of an Imperial. The Dark Brotherhood was a Dark Elf group; they needed a Dark Elf leader. He knew it was foolish to try and take control by force; Gravis was as ruthless as he was cunning. A defector of the Imperial Legion, he was trained to kill by the Empire then lured away by an insatiable hunger for power. The Dark Brotherhood was thriving, new assassins joined almost daily, and it was all thanks to one man; one Imperial and his Legion training. Someday Dranas, he told himself, you will be in command of the Brotherhood.

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An hour after Dranas had left, Neron and Andrel smashed through the front door of his Pelagiad house. Neron descended the stairs cautiously, blade drawn, eyes searching every crevice, muscles tense ready to pounce. The elf relaxed, Dranas wasn’t here. Neron ascended the stairs as he sheathed his blade.

“He wasn’t down there,” he said to Andrel, a hint of disappointment weaving through his voice. “Looks like we’re going to Mournhold.”


High unscalable walls surrounded the city; in the center was the palace of Helseth, king of Morrowind. To the north, through a great arched doorway sat the temple, an impressive structure of curved architecture and impeccable landscaping. The holy structure was also the home of the god Almalexia. Fountains sprayed merrily into pools and intimidating temple guards patrolled marble walkways. East of the palace was Godsreach, the high-priced residential area of the city featuring towering houses and a presence of both palace and temple guards. The great bazaar was situated west of the palace and to the south was Plaza Brindisi Dorom, a park of sorts with a great statue of Almalexia towering in the center.

It was Neron’s first visit to the impressive city but he walked through it quickly, paying little attention to the beauty as if he’d lived there his whole life and grown accustomed to its charms. The Dark Elf and his Nord companion picked their way through the busy sidewalks of the Great Bazaar. A play was being performed on a small brick stage. Lines were spoken with a dramatic flair and what few spectators were there sat mesmerized by the actors. Some citizens bartered for overpriced goods while others simply walked around in a wide-eyed stupor—the city was too much for them to take in.

Neron reached the outskirts of the city; the high wall cast a long shadow over the elf as he bent down to heave open an iron gate built into the sidewalk. Andrel climbed down first into a torch-lit passage followed by the former assassin. They both let their eyes adjust to the lack of light and scanned their surroundings. Neron had never seen anything like it, Old Mournhold, as it was called, was a city that had been long forgotten and built over. The remnants of buildings and houses were scattered over what used to be wide roads and long sidewalks.

“There could be all manner of bandits, thieves, murderers, and ruffians down here.” Neron commented.

“Aye, I’ve heard many stories of this place. Tread lightly,” the Nord warned.

Neron led the way through twisting tunnels, past decrepit buildings, decaying houses, and crumbling brick. The duo reached a bend in the tunnel; Neron motioned for Andrel to stay quietly where he was. The Dark Elf, wrapped in black cloth, eased forward and shot a glance around the corner. They had come the right way; two assassins stood guard near an iron door leading into another part of the ‘city’.

Two fingers were held up to let Andrel know how many guards were around the bend. One guard would occupy the intruder while the other ran for help. Neron would have to move fast. The Dark Elf tore around the corner with gleaming blade drawn.

Both guards jumped at the sight of a shadow barreling around the bend but quickly settled themselves and followed procedure. One stepped forward, unsheathing a short blade with an arrogant smile creeping over his lips under the black cloth helm. The other spun on his heel and made for the door.

Neron engaged the first assassin in half a second, dodging the initial swing while bringing his elbow to the guards face. The Dark Brotherhood operative reeled; Neron sprinted past. One step through the door was all the second assassin managed before being grabbed from behind. As Neron pulled the assassin to him, he pushed his blade into the operatives back, through his heart, and out the front of his chest. The body crumbled to the ground as Neron spun, his blade parallel to the ground, and cleaved the head from the first assassin’s shoulders. The Dark Elf stepped aside as the momentum of the body carried it through the open doorway, landing awkwardly on a pile of loose bricks.

Too loud, Neron thought. He was right. Another assassin poked his black-clothed head around the corner to investigate the noise. The head retreated when it spotted the Dark Elf and shouted down a long corridor. Three seconds later the fluttering of cloth boots could be heard moving swiftly down the buried street. Neron took a battle stance, sword ready, muscles tense. Six assassins skidded around the corner and came to a halt when they saw Neron, the assassin hunter. Grins formed beneath black helms and mutterings could be heard escaping through the fabric. The cluster of assassins proceeded slowly, ready for anything the legend might try and growing more confident with each step.

Andrel stepped through the opening—the assassins hesitated. Covered eyes moved from Neron to the Nord then back again. Who was this newcomer? Another assassin? Neron’s apprentice? A grin cracked on Andrel’s face, he yelled and ran to the group with the enthusiasm of a child running to a river on a hot summer day. The first powerful overhead stroke from his giant claymore split one operative neatly in two. The Nord burst through the ensuing spray of blood to cleave two more assassins. One of the remaining three stabbed at the big target, Andrel sidestepped to the right and separated the arm from its owner’s body at the shoulder. The operative dropped to the ground, screaming. An iron boot to the face returned a sickening crunch—then silence. The Nord gripped the claymore in his powerful right hand and swung with an equally powerful left. He connected, his fist almost going through the assassin’s head. The body flew backwards as if it had been struck by a war hammer. Andrel wrapped a large hand around the neck of the last operative and pulled off the black mask. The assassin dropped his weapon.

Neron stood in slack-jawed amazement, never had he seen such fierceness, such precision, such an absolute perfection of the art of killing.

Andrel’s stare bored into the assassin’s eyes, “Where is your leader?” His voice was even, unwavering.

The assassin pointed then with a shaky voice said, “A-around this c-corner, down the hallway. T-take a left at the end, l-last door.”

Andrel released his grip and promptly removed the assassin’s head from his shoulders. The duo had given up on stealth and sprinted down the hall. Three more assassins charged, three more corpses were added to the depths of Mournhold. Swiftly navigating a corner, they slashed, dodged, and stabbed their way through four more assassins before finally reaching the rusted iron door leading to Gravis' chambers.

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Gravis sat casually behind a wooden desk nursing a half empty bottle of wine and listening to the slaughter of his assassins. There was nothing more he could do; he faced the bottomless rage of a brother with the skills of a master assassin. The combination made Neron neigh invincible.

The Imperial rubbed his face with rough hands; he should have known it would end this way. Standing, he palmed a short sword; he wasn’t one to take life sitting down—or without a fight. The locked iron door trembled from the pounding of a powerful foot—it wouldn’t be long now.

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Another kick and the door yielded to Andrel’s insistent knocking. The door swung wide open and the duo darted in, Andrel to the right, Neron to the left. Gravis was surprised at first to see two figures enter his chambers instead of the one he was expecting. It didn’t matter really, he would fight the entire Imperial Legion if it meant being slain in battle instead of wasting away from old age.

The Dark Brotherhood leader crouched slightly, lowering his center of gravity to better dodge the inevitable strikes that would come from the assailants moving effortlessly through his chambers.

Andrel reached him first and swung powerfully form the opposite side of the table. His strike split the table in two, spilling the wine and staining the carpeted floor. Gravis jumped back to avoid the blade then countered with a slash of his own. The steel sword glanced off the Nord’s armor and slammed onto the floor. Too fast, Gravis. Less power, more precision. Andrel blocked the second strike aimed at his exposed throat by grabbing the Imperial's wrist. Instead of a dead Nord the only thing Gravis received was a powerful blow to the face from a clenched Nordic fist. Stars exploded and danced in his vision, the room tilted and darkened, something warm flowed from above his right eye and down his cheek. Reaching his hand to his forehead, the Imperial staggered, took two steps forward, and then crashed to the floor.

Neron’s blade was drawn, eyes focused, ready to help his companion take down the leader. It was a wasted effort. Neron blinked once, then broke the awkward silence.

“Make sure he doesn’t get up.”

A nod.

Seems like Dranas would be around… there! A non-descript wooden door was open leading into a small study. Lamps burned on a book-infested table, he had to be in there somewhere.

Neron sprinted at the opening and dove through, parallel to the floor. He tucked his feet, landed, and rolled coming up in a crouch with blade drawn. A flash of steel, a clang of metal hitting metal, a short scuffle. Dranas had tried to get the drop on the former assassin but wound up with a powerful arm pining his head to the table and a short blade hovering dangerously close to his eye.

“Where is he, Dranas?” Neron asked without a hint of emotion.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” was the typical response.

Neron lifted Dranas’ head and slammed it to the table again. “The Khajiit, the assassin you sent to kill Madali, where is he?” The last three words were accompanied by a tightening of the hand around the Dark Elf’s neck.

“I don’t think I want to tell you.”

“Don’t try to be a hero Dranas, it doesn’t suit you.”

Dranas grunted, “Do your worst, Neron. You’ve gone soft, the assassin I knew wouldn’t hunt people for vengeance.”

Neron glanced quickly around the room. Perfect. He led Dranas by the hair to a mirror. Hefting his former employer, the enraged brother smashed the Dark Elf’s face into the smooth glass surface. It shattered, lacerating Dranas’ face. Neron dragged the bleeding elf back to the table and slammed him onto it again. Shards of glass were pushed deeper into already deep wounds. Dranas screamed.

“That’s only the beginning, you don’t want to know what comes next. Tell me where he is.”

“These wounds will heal, fool. Do you really think you can beat an answer out of me?”

Neron didn’t have time for the inane babblings of his former employer. He tossed the short blade aside and palmed Madali’s dagger. The former assassin held Dranas’ head down with one hand and plunged the dagger an inch deep into his eye with the other. The Dark Elf’s eyelid snapped shut around the blade, instinctively trying to blink the steel out of the collapsed eyeball. His arms flailed wildly and a scream that would wake the dead erupted from his lips. Neron held the blade steady despite the writhing and flailing of his victim. When finally the blade was removed a clear jelly-like liquid mixed with a trace of blood oozed from the eye. Each blink sent a nauseating wave of pain through Dranas’ body as salty, burning tears washed over the wound.

“That’s one eye, Dranas. If you value the other you will tell me what I want to know.” Neron’s voice was cold, calculating, and unsympathetic.

“H-he’s at your house, or your sisters house by now. I sent him there to finish the job.” Dranas said with rising panic in his voice.

With a lack of remorse Neron slammed the dagger through the elf’s temple, cracking his skull. The body went limp and lifeless. He removed the blade from the collapsed skull and wiped it clean on Dranas' shirt. Sheathing it, Neron took his short sword from the floor and walked out to join Andrel.

“The assassin is waiting for me at Madali's house, lets go.” Neron headed for the door.

“What about him?” Andrel asked motioning to the unconscious Imperial with his sword.

“Leave him, he's no longer a threat to us.”

Andrel nodded and followed Neron back through the iron door. A group of Dark Brotherhood assassins, having heard the screams of Dranas, met the duo in the hall. Neron assumed a battle stance, Andrel tightened his grip on the giant claymore—nobody moved.

Neron broke the silence, “Our battle is not with you, throw down your weapons and we will be merciful.”

The assassins eyed the Nord, then the Dark Elf, and finally dropped their collective gaze on the bodies of their comrades that littered the short hall. Vengeance for their fallen brothers gave way to reason. Reason wrapped its soothing fingers around their minds, they wouldn't have to die today. Blades and bows fell to the floor with metallic clangs and wooden thuds, the assassins stood aside to let Death and Destruction pass.

Neron and Andrel picked their way through the ruins back to the ladder. They climbed out of Old Mournhold just as the sun dipped below the great walls of the city. The Great Bazaar showed no signs of slowing for the night as the duo made their way through crowded streets to the palace. After conversing with an Argonian they were teleported to Ebonhart in Vvardenfell, from there they made their way by boat, silt strider, and mages guild to Caldera.

Neron had been awake for more than twenty-four hours by the time he set emotionless eyes on Madali's house. Fueled now only by vengeance, Neron closed his eyes as the battle of the previous night played in his mind. He remembered weaknesses, and recalled the mistakes of the Khajiit. His eyelids rose to reveal a determined set of red eyes—it was time. Neron threw the short sword down and procured Madali's dagger. Nine inches was plenty of steel to kill any living thing in the hands of an assassin hunter, but tonight Neron wasn't an assassin hunter, tonight he was something much more deadly—a vengeful brother.

“Stay here Andrel, this is my fight.” Madali's brother said as he headed for the front door.

Andrel understood and nodded his approval.

Neron casually turned the doorknob and stepped in as if he were returning home from a hard days work. He shut the door behind him but kept his unwavering eyes on the Khajiit sitting in the brown reading chair. The cat rose, short blade in clawed hand, and grinned.

“Neron. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show, how's the family?” His grin widened.

“They are in a better place than you will be when the sun rises to view your corpse,” the former assassin said almost in a growl.

The cat lunged, hissing and clawing at Neron’s face with his empty hand. Neron ducked the swipe and countered with a punch to the Khajiit's muscular abdomen. S'resh didn't even blink, the momentum from the initial lunge carried him into Neron, tackling him, then springing back onto his feet in one fluid, acrobatic movement.

The assassin brought the short blade down on Neron using his entire body to carry the thrust. Neron rolled, the strike smashed into floorboards. The Dark Elf spun on his back planting his foot on the Khajiit's face. Blood sprayed, S'resh growled. The combatants rose quickly, each trying to gain an advantage by pressing the attack. The Khajiit swung first, low and horizontal. Neron flipped backwards over the blade, bringing his foot to the Khajiit's jaw in the process.

The cat's head snapped back, his vision blurred. Before he had a chance to focus two strikes from iron fists sent him reeling, he had to regroup, recover. Instinctively S'resh fell backwards into a roll, distancing himself from the relentless Dark Elf. It wasn't going well, the Khajiit whispered a spell for strength.

Outside, Andrel couldn't just sit by and wait, he wanted to at least see Madali's killer die. The Nord crept up to the window and peered inside just as S'resh whispered his spell. Andrel saw the slight glow of the Khajiit then glanced at the charging Neron, the former assassin was oblivious to his opponents increased strength.

Neron was thinking three moves ahead, another kick to the face will make him more defensive which will open up an attack with the blade, it will be over soon... is he glowing?

The Dark Elf was halfway into his kick when he realized what happened, he quickly brought his foot down to brace for the blow.

S'resh smiled to himself, he had used Neron's rage to his advantage. He stepped forward and brought both fists to the former assassin's midsection. Neron's body flew across the large living room and slammed into the opposite wall. Madali's brother landed face first on the hard floorboards, a groan escaping his lips. He stood slowly, shakily. Don't get hit again, Neron, one more and you're done.

Neron glanced around the room looking for an advantage, his mind wouldn't focus, Madali's dagger felt heavy in his hand. Then he saw it, something moving outside. Andrel! His hands were weaving through the air, eyes closed and lips moving with the words of an incantation. The Nord's eyes snapped open and he threw his hands forward like a mage throwing a fireball. Strength ripped through every last fiber of Neron's body, the dagger felt light and powerful, his eyes focused.

Neron charged, dagger up, feet pounding over wooden floorboards, it would end now. The Dark Elf stepped left just in front of the Khajiit, S'resh stabbed. Neron moved back to the right with blinding speed and pushed the dagger at the Khajiit with newfound strength.

The blade parted flesh slightly to the right of the assassins breastbone, slipping between ribs and nicking the lung. The dagger continued deeper into the chest cavity, slicing arteries and spraying blood. The hilt of the dagger met the ribs, shattering them as it followed the blade into the Khajiit. Because of the strength spell, the hilt continued through, tearing and collapsing the lung, ripping and pulling already severed arteries, finally stopping only after getting caught on S'resh's spine but not before pulling it an inch from his body.

Neron felt the last beat of the Khajiit's heart on his hand—it was over. The Dark Elf pulled the blade from deep within the killer's chest, the body collapsed. He grabbed a handful of fur on the Khajiits head and dragged him from his sister's house. Andrel followed quietly as Neron took the body to the foot of the mountains that surrounded Caldera. With the last of the strength spell still lingering, Neron flung the body into a shallow ravine, it landed awkwardly face-up forever staring with unblinking eyes.

“Feast well my friends.” He said to any animal lucky enough to stumble upon the body. Neron took one last look at the body then turned and walked with the merchant back to Caldera, he had a new life waiting for him.

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Neron stepped into his favorite tavern six months later, scanned the room and spotted his friend sitting at their usual table.

The Redguard bartender spotted the Dark Elf, “The usual today, Neron?”

A nod.

Neron slid into a chair opposite Andrel and waited for his drink.

“So, hows merchant life treating you these days?” Andrel asked over a mug of ale.

“Honestly, “ Neron replied “I didn't think there would be this much demand for exotic weapons here. People are buying them faster than I can get them.”

Andrel smiled, “That's not a bad problem to have.”

The bell above the door rang as another patron entered, she glanced at the bartender, sizing him up, then scanned the room. There, at the table with the Nord. She walked to the table and sat beside Neron.

Neron looked at the visitor, his hand went instinctively to the dagger he always kept strapped to his side.

“Valyas? What are you...?”

She put her hand to his mouth to silence him.

“I heard what happened, Neron. I'm sorry.”

Neron nodded, his mouth still covered.

“The Emperor also heard that you dismantled the Dark Brotherhood, he's very impressed. We could use someone with your skill in The Blades, we want to start hunting and eliminating assassin's all over Tamriel. I'll be waiting in the mages guild, if you show up within ten minutes then I'll take you to the Emperor, if not, then you won't see me again.” Neron thought he heard a hint of sadness in her voice as she concluded.

Valyas took her hand from Neron's mouth, stood, and exited the tavern. Neron watched her go. The ale arrived a minute later, the former assassin sipped it in silence.

Andrel stared. “Well?”

Neron looked up, “Well.”

“Aren't you going to go?” Andrel asked.

“I have a shop to take care of, I can't just leave it. Plus I wanted to get out of fighting.”

“Get out of fighting, huh? Is that why you keep that dagger with you? Neron, you're looking at the best merchant in all of Tamriel, I can take care of your little weapons shop. Plus, I saw the way that elf looked at you, she's looking for something more than a new Blade.” Andrel winked. “It's time you had a job doing what you were obviously born to do, and an honest job at that. Go now, when you come to visit I will have turned your shop into a marvel of the business world.”

“Well then, I guess I'll see you around. Friend.” Neron shook the powerful Nord's hand, turned and walked toward the door.

“Neron, “ Andrel called from across the room, Neron turned. “Good hunting.” The Nord said, raising his mug into the air.

Neron nodded, and smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years. Stepping out into the bright Vvardenfell sun, the elf took a deep breath of fresh air and headed to the mages guild. He would make his family proud.

Wowzers, I find them to be pretty good ! :goobjob: