Disclaimer: I own nothing...if I did, I'd be filthy rich and I would have created a machine to transport me to Tamriel!
Reviews are very welcome - I always want to know how to get better, let's face it, no one's perfect...unless you're Brynjolf.

Night was falling across Valenwood. As the ebony blanket fell on Tamriel, the shrouded figure began to move. It darted through the dimly lit passages, unsheathing as it went a wicked dagger, coated in a shining liquid. One drop...

The Dunmer maid turned to her Bosmer mistress, her eyes wide with horror. The nod of her head conveyed the message: it was time. The Bosmer got quickly to her feet, pulling the sleeping baby in her arms even closer to her chest. The dark elf moved towards the pile of rugs in a corner of the room and lifted them up, revealing the hidden trapdoor beneath it. As the Bosmer jumped down into the small hole below, footsteps outside grew louder.

Just as the trapdoor closed and the rugs fell over it, a dark figure appeared in the doorway. The wood elf watched through a crack in the bottom of the trapdoor, praying that the sleeping baby girl wouldn't wake and give them away. The individual entered the room, it raised its weapon. "Where is Nivera?" The man's voice was harsh and rasping.

"She's not here." The Dunmer maid replied, her voice trembling. The man drew closer to her.

"I asked: where is Nivera?"

"And I replied: she's not here."

With one swift motion, the dagger danced in the air and then sliced the Dunmer's body. As she fell, blood oozing from her chest, Nivera stifled a gasp.

The man kicked her body away and scanned the room. He thrust aside cupboards and drawers. Then, his eyes fell on the rugs. He stepped towards it.

The baby opened her eyes.

Her eyes darted about, scanning her surroundings for any sign of movement. Her elven feet were silent as she sprinted across the wild tundra of Eastmarch. The slightest sound – a twig snapping or snow crunching – made her stop, her pointed ears pricking up. Were they still following her?

Night had entwined its deathly hands around Skyrim, but it was no match for her skilled eyesight. A wolf on a mountainside a mile away would be prey to her vision.

The bitter chill began to lift slightly. The snow-strewn paths melted into grass and flowers. But she wasn't far away enough yet...

"Look at this dump." A Nord male said, slumping onto a seat next to a Breton. He picked up a flagon then grimaced and put it down as he saw a skeever dropping in it.

"There's nuffin' we can do, Brynjolf. I told ya, it's a curse." The Breton was counting out a few septims to hand to the barman, but it looked like he was having a hard time finding enough.

"It's not a curse. Just plain old bad luck." Said an Imperial female, tossing a handful of coins at the Breton.

"This place stinks of skeevers...and so do we." A Redguard female recoiled as the barman swept aside what looked like a rotting rat carcass.

"This can't last forever." The one called Brynjolf got to his feet.

Suddenly, the elf stopped. Distant, yet distinct, she could hear the sound of a horde on the hunt. They were getting closer...

She leapt up the nearest tree, a cornered creature seeking refuge in its dark branches. The wood barely even moved as she placed her feet against it. And she waited.

Waited...

Then she saw them. They moved as one, a great tsunami of hunters spewing across the land.

There was nothing left. She would have to run. Between the treetops she darted, her feet barely touching the branches before she leapt on. But then, she timed a jump wrong, and she landed dangerously near the edge of one of the branches, losing her foothold. Her ankle seared, but before she could do more than yelp in pain, she felt the twig snap. The ground flew towards her. Nimbly, she slid into a roll as she landed, but as she straightened up, listening, she heard it.

"SHE'S IN THE WOODS!"

The small figure sprinted away, wincing through the blinding pain in her foot. The darkness was consuming. It enveloped her in an impenetrable cover over her eyes. Suddenly, as she cast her terrified gaze over her shoulder, she felt herself collide with something hard. The force knocked the breath out of her, and the last thing she saw was a bright light over her, before the obsidian blackness devoured her.

The figure was moving towards the pile of rugs, and the hidden trapdoor. In its hand, the dagger was poised, ready to strike. A small sliver of wood stuck out between two pieces of fabric. Lazily, the man brushed aside the rugs. He bent down and lifted up the trapdoor.

"Hello, Nivera."

A scream rent the night. The elf's eyes flew open, her breath coming quick and jagged. She could hear the thunder of horse hooves...

She sat astride a saddle. Then she realised that she wasn't alone. Heavy breathing came from behind her, but the stranger said nothing. The elf sat motionless, fear creeping through her veins and entwining round her heart in a deathly grip. It must be the hunters.

But then...why was she still alive?

Something made no sense.

"Sleep." The voice was quiet.

Her eyelids began to close, and she felt herself sinking into Vaermina's seductive grasp...