By moonlight the paths were lit, an amber night splashed with the aura's of the northern sky. The old Khajiit smiled as his home peeked over the surrounding mountains. It was early Frostfall, and the already cold air of Skyrim was beginning to bite through his cloak as the harshness of winter approached. He stroked the fur on his muzzle and felt his lips part in a large grin. The dark fur had faded in old age, gathering white around his chin and whiskers. He closed his eyes and smelled the home cooked meal that would be waiting for him, his lovely wife welcoming him home after a month away with open arms and a warm kiss.

He was shaken from his fantasies by a chilling gust of wind that swept across the mountain top. He shivered and tightened his cloak, then followed the well-tread path down the rocky cliff side.

He approached the door to his manor and slid his key into the lock, but found it was already open.

That is odd, he thought. Aela is not one to leave the door open; not this late in the evening.

He pushed open the door and was immediately filled with dread. Instead of being met with an expected warm light, he found the usually-burning flames of the hearth were but gently glowing embers. The darkness in his home offered no warmth as he stepped in. Broken glass crunched under his boots. The cat turned his head to find the many display cases that lined the entrance hall had been shattered, and the trophies of past adventures were gone. The mounted heads of game had been thrown to the floor or violently mutilated with jagged cuts. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and they caught a red stain on the floor. He swallowed hard.

Aela.

He felt fear grow inside him. His cautious walk turned into a brisk stride as he moved to investigate.

"Aela? Rayya?"

He knew that his housecarl would protect their home with her life, but that gave him no comfort. If Rayya was successful in defending the manor, then there would still be a fire in the hearth; there would be the welcoming smell of soup and mead, and his wife would have met him at the door. No, something was wrong.

"...Rayya?" he called, following the blood trail. It took him up the stairs and toward the back of the house. As he pushed open the doors to his study, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

The sight before him was straight out of a nightmare: bloody entrails wrapped around the stake that impaled a barely recognizable Rayya. Her dark skin had been violently torn open, and the whole lower half of her body was missing. It looked as if her heart had been literally ripped from her chest, and gaping black holes substituted her eyes. The tip of the wooden pike exited from her throat, stretching her jaw and tearing the skin at her mouth.

The cat's eyes began to water and his mouth fell open. He collapsed to all-fours and felt his stomach heave as it emptied its contents. His throat burned as he garbled out a yell of despair, hot tears streaming down his fur-covered cheeks. He gagged again, but resisted the urge to vomit. He began to shake uncontrollably as his cries became louder. He pushed himself to his feet and approached his dead housecarl. He wrapped his shivering arms around her mangled, naked torso and sobbed. Why would someone do this?

He opened his eyes and wiped the tears from them. A folded slip of paper was pinned to the wall behind the gruesome scene by a dagger. He eased his embrace on Rayya and stepped away, attempting to avoid eye contact with her any more. He gave the dagger a tug and took the parchment, unfolding it.

Dar'Akia,

We have her. Come find us. Come find me.

With Love,

Molag Bal