Author's note: This is the beginning of a side project I'm working on, but this is only a prologue/introduction. It's yet to be completely edited and there are more chapters to come, so, if it grabs you, come back soon to check for changes. Even if it doesn't grab you, come back and read again once I've added something substantial. Y'know, just in case. :)
I remember being told by someone, I've long since forgotten who, to write as if you're speaking to someone. In that case, the first order of business is an introduction. My name is Tarafel, a Bosmer. I was born in Valenwood and, though I stopped counting long ago, I'd estimate I'm about 133 years old. I'm an assassin by trade, but I've had other occupations, none of which are very important. I've decided to write these memoirs as an experiment in introspection. Never in all my years have I met someone like me. I cannot relate to those who have emotions because I so rarely feel my own. I'm sure I have them, as I've experienced fear, excitement, happiness, satisfaction, even love. However, these sensations are few and far between, and when I do feel them I'm never able to express them as others do. I've often wondered what made me the way I am. Perhaps I'll find answers in these writings.
I fancy myself more than simply an assassin. From time to time, I've called myself many things, but assassin is the truest of titles. I harbor no feelings of romanticism toward my occupation. It is a primal, ugly, brutal thing I do, taking a man's life for no reason other than the fact someone is paying me to do so.
This is not to say I don't enjoy my work. In fact, I've made something of an art out of murder. The human body has myriad interesting responses to different substances, and with each contract I try something new. But, at the end of the day murder is only murder. A man dies, someone pays me, then I move on. I'm an avid reader, I'll admit, and every work I've ever read about spies or assassins tends to have the same characters. The dark, mysterious assassin who revels with the thrill of each life taken, who is object of affection of every doe-eyed male she comes into contact with. The brooding male, never allowing his enemies to see their death coming, always carrying a weight on their conscience over the lives they've taken, as if their remorse somehow negates their deeds. The dark, tragic, adventurous, romantic life of a hired killer. Either one is likely to, at one point or another, romp with their romantic interest before leaving them, either going off to die or never be seen again. This spares the innocent from being dragged into a horrid existence.
Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear. There is no romanticism in poisoning someone's wine. There is even less in watching the victim sputter, mouth frothing over with blood, while his wife and children watch in horror. The young ones scream, burying their faces in mommy's shoulder, while mother herself shrieks until her voice is strained. A funny thing I've noticed is that when mother-dearest is the one who hired me in the first place, she often feigns swooning when her beloved suddenly hemorrhages all over the dinner table and any nearby guests. I suppose she wouldn't want to be found out due to an unconvincing performance.
In my experience, there are only two types of assassin. There are those like me, who kill because it's the thing they know best. The other is the type who does it because they enjoy killing, be it because of the thrill of the hunt, some vaporous religious mission, or simply out of pure savagery. Unfortunately, the latter outweigh the former, and often die early in their career due to their zeal. They'll linger, wanting to draw out every moment of pain or attempt to see how long it takes for a victim to bleed out. I once met a Khajiit who would stare, unblinking, into the eyes of his dying victims, trying to witness the exact moment the spark faded from their eyes. He died due to his foolishness. Any alternate motives an assassin has quickly lose their importance when angry guards bearing sharp swords are breathing down your neck, but mistakes are often realized only when one is already facing the consequences.
I am one of the former, as are most who live to retire. I kill simply because I have a talent for doing so. My experiments are performed simply out of curiosity, and I'm never without a back-up plan should something get out of hand. Were I to be perfectly honest, there's another reason I'm a murderer rather than an archer in some country's legion or a hunter living in the woods and killing for sport. With as much honesty as I can muster, there is security in my occupation. For as long as our history is recorded, people have wanted other people to die. They'll pay for it to be done, and they'll pay well. But, I suppose I'm beginning to ramble. All of this is neither here nor there.
It's strange. Although I have many personal accounts with which to fill these pages, I find myself having trouble deciding where to start. Luckily, I have plenty of time to decide. For now, I think I shall set this project aside and enjoy the rest of my evening. The nights are quite pleasant during Mid Year, particularly in The Heartlands. I purchased a bottle of wine earlier this week, so perhaps I'll enjoy a glass or two before settling down for the evening. I'm eager to begin this experiment in earnest, but perhaps some forethought is necessary to decide exactly where to begin. I'll sleep on it, as they say, and allow myself to order my thoughts.