The cavern was a desolate and foreboding scene with stalactites frosted over with ice and a chill mist hanging about in the air like a pale spectre waiting to grasp at the nearest source of life and drain it. It was a strange thing, then, that a finely-clothed and groomed Breton man sat upon a stool before a fire looking as if he would rather be anywhere in all of Nirn than this dim den, feverishly searching the shadows as if expecting something to jump out from them. Indeed, one would find his apparent fears justified with the addition of two heavily armored guards stationed on either side of him. Why these men were in this particular frost-ringed cave could be the subject of much scholarly debate alone had the Breton's presentiment suddenly come true with the waspish twang of a bowstring snapping home, the hiss of an arrow flying, and the wet thud of purchase as the dart struck home into the throat of a previously unseen man who materialized into existence as he began to choke and gargle on the blood now welling up in his throat.
There was the ringing of mail and the rasping of blades leaving scabbards as the two visible guards jostled into position, hefting their tower shields and forming a small phalanx just as another hiss was heard and yet another invisible man became suddenly discernable in the darkness as he fell to his knees clutching at the bolt protruding from his heart. An ethereal figure was outlined in the midst of them all as a ray of purple light was conjured into being before being immediately extinguished in a wisp of aural impotence by a sphere of fire sent toward the mage's face. The scent of burnt flesh, singed hair, and cauterizing blood rent the air as the caster's now headless body fell limp to the craggy surface.
One of the guards, having seen the direction the spell had come from, abandoned her post and charged toward the source of the incineration casting. She lifted her longsword high above her head, shield braced before herself, yelling with fearful abandon and ready to strike when a blur in the macrocosm leapt at her, meeting her in her charge with a thunderous clang. The charging woman was lifted from her feet and hurled backwards, being driven to the ground by the shade tackling her in a tumulting clash of armor and stone. In one swift movement the blearing figure slit the woman's throat before unceremoniously flinging the coalescing blade directly between the eyes of the last guard, leaving only the Breton and the phantom in the den. The apparition adopted a more casual stance, manifesting into a corporeal figure of indiscernible race in skin-tight black leather armor, a hood and mask adorning his features to give further anonymity. The Breton by this point had pissed his pants and was cowering against the far wall, eyes screwed shut and holding the stool before him as if to ward off any attacks.
"Emperor Titus Mede II is dead." the black-garbed man intoned gravely, his voice a harsh gravelly rasp that grated throughout the cavern.
At this the Breton's eyes opened. "Oh. It's you."
"You were expecting Sheogorath, maybe?" was the snarky response he received as the assassin strode forward to pluck his blade from Amaund Motierre's bodyguard's corpse's face with a wet squelch.
"With the way you entered… nevermind. He's dead, you say?" the noble asked, excitement creeping into his voice, the urine soaking his crotch and the brutalized bodies of his entourage forgotten for the moment.
"Like a goat roasting over a spit. I made sure the tale would be one for the ages. After all, it's not everyday one gets to assassinate their own emperor. I could hear the guards starting to vomit before I leapt from the ship. Now, this little adventure has cost me a lot of my time, a bit of my blood, and some very dear friends in pursuit of this vision of yours, Motierre." the brother growled menacingly. "Needless to say, I am not happy."
"You will be compensated, I can-" the Breton began.
"Oh no. Oh no no no no my dear councilman, this isn't just about money anymore. You see, I've had some time to think since this contract started." the man chuckled. It was a dark sounding thing, like a blade being sliced back and forth across someone's gullet. "A lot of time, actually. Events have been set in motion. Many events that I'm sure you're unaware of while you hid under this rock. And this does not even culminate it at all!" he cried out, his voice ringing throughout the cavern.
"Yes… yes, you assassins love your riddles. In any case, you won't have to go far for the-" Amaund began before being silenced by the blade in the man's hand suddenly being found next to his right ear.
"The Emperor asked me a favor before he died." the assassin growled. "Wanted me to kill you. Said you were the one who set the machine in motion. Well, contrary to what most would expect from a lowly assassin, I'm not going to do that. I have something more… subtle in mind. You see, I'm not stupid. I know there are underworkings here that go far beyond this Skyrim horseshit. And I want in. And you're going to help me. I've already started machinations of my own. I just need someone who already has their foot in the door." he calmly told the terrified Breton as he strode back to where he had been before he began his attack.
"What are you babbling about?! We had a deal! The Emperor is dead, you can collect your gold and be on about your way, we never have to see each other again!" Motierre exclaimed, fear creeping into his voice once more.
"Oh no my dear councilman. You and I are going to be seeing each other a lot." the man told the Breton as he hefted a bag out from the darkness, throwing it in front of the fire with a loud clanking to be heard from inside.
"What more do you want from me?! What is that thing?!" Amaund screamed, the purest pinnacle of panic by this point as the dark man began extricating a strange instrument from the haversack, a large metallic band that looked more suited to hold a wagon wheel than anything else. Runes dimly glowed a myriad of colors across the shimmering surface, the band made of a twisted ebony the likes of which those on Mundus should not possess.
"An insurance policy." the man calmly told Amaund as he unclasped the band, the Breton's eyes going even wider with the horror of realization at what it was: a giant manacle, large enough to fit around his midriff.
"Now get naked."